Following a week of strong westerly winter winds, Redstone was visited by a severe dust storm. Fine particles of desert soil from the west were suspended in the air like brown fog for two days. From the homestead, the shed and yards were only just visible. Outside it appeared overcast but rather than grey the predominant colour was a dull beige and the sun looked like a distant, pinky-orange burning ball peering down through the gloom.
‘Haven’t had a dust storm this thick in years,’ observed Sam. ‘Always reminds me of Judgement Day. This is what it’ll be like for the ones who get left behind.’
Jeremy made an expression of exaggerated panic at Alice. ‘Struth, that’ll be me!’ he said.
The dusty air did nothing to help Sam’s chesty cough. As always he didn’t complain, but his quiet listlessness worried Alice. He seemed dull and distant, and Alice knew that during his waking hours he never stopped thinking about her grandmother. They shut up the house as much as possible and Sam stayed inside. The taste of dust was in everyone’s mouth and they had the constant sensation of grit between their teeth. Jeremy and Alice blew brown smudges onto their handkerchiefs and their eyes were red and irritated. Every surface was blanketed with a thin layer of fine chalky dirt.
On the third day the wind changed and the air gradually became clearer. Alice wiped down all the surfaces inside the house and Jeremy did a hurried job of his cottage. The vehicles, saddles and tools in the shed were all covered in a thick pale layer, which was removed in stages as each item was used over the weeks that followed.
Then, in late August, winter inflicted its last bitterly cold spell for the year on Redstone. Making the most of the lingering coolness, Alice and Jeremy decided to spend the day fencing. Sam, under the weather again, had agreed to stay home and do some odd jobs around the house. Alice knew he was also planning to duck out and check the calves in Windlass Gully from yesterday’s branding, to make sure they had all made it through the chilly night. Out-of-season calves always did it tough, and the old man had admitted to Alice at breakfast that he was beginning to see the logic of seasonal mating.
When Alice and Jeremy arrived home late in the afternoon, Alice was quietly concerned to see an empty spot in the shed where her grandfather’s paddock ute should have been parked. While she yarded the weaners, she anxiously listened for the sound of the vehicle returning. It was after five when she finished and checked the clock. Her grandfather never stayed out so late anymore, especially when he was crook. She took the motorbike and let her dogs off the chains again to follow her.
She found two sets of tracks at the gate into Windlass Gully paddock. Her grandfather had been and gone. From where she’d pulled up at the gate, Alice could see the cattle huddled in the gidgee camp for the night; everything looked in order. On closer inspection, the treadmarks in the dust revealed that instead of going home, he’d headed west, away from the house. She rode in that direction but soon lost his tracks on the hard-packed dirt of the road. As she checked one paddock after another, Alice fought to control her rising panic. By now she’d left the dogs far behind and the sun was going down.
Finally she spotted the ute, its silver roll bar catching the rays of the setting sun. She’d ridden up to Eagle Tor to get a better vantage point. The ute was parked alongside a stretch of barely stock-proof fence line that her grandfather had been worrying over. While she squinted towards the distant vehicle, the idling motorbike engine spluttered and died. Out of fuel. She threw the bike down in disgust and started to run, her feet pounding the rocky slope as she descended towards where her pa must be.
She jogged until the ute came into view again and then slowed for a moment to a walk, trying to see her grandfather. In the dying light she spotted a sitting figure, slumped sideways onto a post further along the fence. With a strangled cry she broke back into a run. Well before she reached him, she could see that the life had departed from his worn old body. He looked so small and grey, like a withered scarecrow. His frail arm hung from the fence, hand still grasping the pliers that were partway through a figure-eight tie in the wires. Alice unclenched the pliers and gently prised his cold knobbly fingers from the steel handles. She folded his arms and, kneeling beside him, half lifted his body onto her lap. Then she cradled him like a big rag doll, rocking him and humming a soft croon of agony.
Jeremy found them there like that an hour later, the headlights from the old ute illuminating the scene with shocking brilliance. He dimmed the lights, left the engine running and walked over slowly.
‘C’mon, mate, let’s get you in out of the cold.’
He gently disentangled the two, then lifted Sam’s limp form and carried it to the ute, placing it carefully into the tray. He took off his own oilskin coat and laid it over the old man’s body. Such a small crumpled heap. Was such a man.
He walked back to Alice who was still sitting in the same spot, bowed over. He stooped and picked her up as though she were a child, then carried her to the ute. She grasped his shoulders with frozen fingers and buried her face in his neck. He held her for a while, just like that, before lifting her into the passenger seat.
‘Where’s Pa?’ It came out as a sob.
‘He’s in the tray. You know him, always happy to ride in the back if a lady needs a seat.’
She nodded. Her face in the darkness frightened him. Her eyes so stricken and huge. He reached over and pulled her close to him as they drove away.
‘Poor old bugger.’ Jeremy’s voice was husky. ‘Just like him to pop off without causing anyone any hassle.’