JOHN MONROE CLOSED HIS diary and flung it back on the shelf in the small area that served as his library and office. He then went out on the verandah, lit a cigarette and stared across the garden. How different it looked from when he and Lorna had moved here. She’d done a wonderful job trying to make this Godforsaken place look like a suburban garden. If he was honest with himself, he’d never thought she’d stick it out. Christ, they had had their ups and downs, and more than their fair share of bloody tragedy. What had he done to get kicked in the guts so often, he wondered. And now, when he should be sitting back enjoying life, taking it a bit easy, he had this constant friction with Ian. It had been building for years, he could see that now. He could understand some of the reasons why Ian blamed him for what had gone wrong in their lives. Maybe that was why he’d taken his hand off the wheel, looked away, and Ian had got the better of him. He was facing a situation of either giving up running the property and letting Ian do things his way, or having an all-out blue and taking control again.
He’d stepped back a little and let Ian try out some ideas, but they had only cost them money. Prices were not what they used to be, costs were high and labour was expensive. Tommy was no help, he’d pissed off to England and would never come back. The future of Barra Creek had to stay with Ian whether Monroe liked it or not. The problem was in standing back; it was infuriating to see how cocky Ian was. He was going to come a cropper for sure, but it would be hard to stand aside and watch him ruin years of hard work. Maybe he and Lorna should take off and leave Ian to it, but he was buggered if he’d do that, this place was his life. Lorna would probably like to travel, go and see Tommy. He hated hotels and travelling to strange places. Aw, shit. It was all too damned hard.
He stubbed out his cigarette against the post and flipped the butt into the bushes.
‘Lorna! You there?’ he bellowed, stepping inside.
‘Please, John. I don’t feel well.’ Lorna’s reply was feeble and she sounded cross. ‘What is it?’
He glanced into the room where Lorna was lying on her bed under the mosquito net, a damp cloth on her forehead. ‘What’s up now?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know. What do you want?’ Her eyes were closed and he could tell she didn’t want to talk.
‘Nothing. I’ve got some things to see to before Sally gets back. I’m taking the old ute, I’ll be back in a day, I guess.’
‘Please be here when they get back,’ she sighed. While she loved having Sally and the children visit, it was draining her energy. John had promised them a big barbecue when they came in from the stock camp. It would be a relief if he went out checking, bores, horses, cattle, or whatever. A day or so on her own was just what she needed. She pressed the cool towel closer.
Monroe put his .303 rifle on the dash of the ute, threw his gear in the back and drove away without anyone paying any attention. He’d kept quiet, not wanting to scare Sally and her kids, but there’d been reports of another huge croc up river, a real big bastard. It had grabbed a calf and there’d been talk of it getting a dog. Snowy had set a snare for it and John had checked it a few times with no luck. The big old croc had outsmarted them so far.
Snowy had placed a chunk of wild pig across the steep mud slide where the croc went up the bank from the river. Around the bait was a thin metal cable forming a noose. Strong rope cord with a five-hundred pound breaking strain ran from the noose, hanging loose above the snare, up a tree, over a branch and was weighted at the end by a heavy log as a counterbalance. It had proved to be an effective snare in the past. A crocodile had to put its head through the loop to get to the bait and when it moved backwards it tripped the wire, which sprang and tightened around its head. It was stopped from going back into the river by the weight of the log that swung up to the branch.
Monroe planned to check the snare on his way to the bore in the western paddock, but he knew it was simply an excuse to be on his own. Time to think about Ian and the increasing tension between them both. Several times recently they had almost come to blows. The language of dissent and conflicting opinions had given way on many occasions to language of abuse. Even hatred. John fought hard to keep his emotions under control, but he knew things could not go on like this much longer. Something, someone, had to give. They’d both been drinking more heavily than usual, despite the presence of the visitors. Poor Sally, he thought. I wonder what she’s making of all this. She must see what’s happening. Too polite to say anything, that’s Sal.
He parked the ute by the tree line of the creek. He didn’t pick up the rifle, figuring that, like so many times before, there’d be no need for it. The dry grass crumpled under his feet as he walked quietly towards the snare. The tree was soon in sight and at once he could see that the log had been moved, and the rope cord was hanging slack. ‘Well, well,’ he muttered. ‘Whaddya know.’
He walked cautiously up to the tree and peered around the trunk. Sure enough the croc, all fifteen feet of it, was lying on the steep mud slide, its head caught in the steel noose. It had been fighting to break free, was covered in mud, and the whole area had been churned up from a long struggle. Even though the croc had eventually crawled towards the tree and lowered the imprisoning log, the noose held tight. The slack line was buried in mud. ‘You bloody beauty,’ hissed Monroe. ‘Gotcha! Not so fuckin’ smart after all.’
The croc was still and Monroe, with a feeling of triumph dulling his better judgement, stepped from behind the tree and walked towards the croc, raising his hands and clapping them hard to startle the creature. It thrashed viciously and slid back towards the water. In the same instant Monroe fell backwards, slipping on the muddy bank.
The crocodile’s panicked dash tightened the long line, whipping loops of it out of the mud. At the same time, Monroe was thrown off balance again and screamed in fear. His left leg caught in several loops of the rope line running between the croc and the log. The line tightened, cutting into his leg. The croc was half in the water, the log rose and jammed up against the high tree branch. Monroe blacked out in shock and pain.
When he came around minutes later, the world seemed upside down. He was hanging in the air, dangling from the taut line, his head and shoulders in the mud. He slowly took stock and turned his head to look down the bank and found himself staring into the eyes of the half-submerged croc several yards away. It again shook its head and clawed the mud, but nothing happened. It was a bizarre tableau of man and beast. Each counterbalancing the other until one gave way.
Monroe desperately tried to devise a way out of his predicament, but stayed very still. He figured if he didn’t move, the croc wouldn’t. Even if he could reach up to his trapped leg, there was little chance of being able to undo the tangled line. He wasn’t carrying a knife, either. If he did free himself he’d slide down the steep slope towards the croc. And if the croc decided to race up the bank towards him, then what? Sunset was hours away. That’s when the croc would be likely to make a move. They came up onto river banks at sunset. Maybe Snowy would come by. No, he wouldn’t be in from the stock camp for another day or so. Ian? He knew the snare was set but wasn’t sure where, and John hadn’t told anyone he was going to check out the scene.
‘Oh, Jesus,’ he exclaimed softly. For the first time in a long while, John Monroe started to pray.
Years afterwards Ian still wondered, when unbidden thoughts of that day came to him, what had led him along the path he followed to its swift, unplanned conclusion. Fate? Coincidence? The subconscious fulfilment of a long-held idea? Or was it the voices he sometimes heard in his head telling him what to do?
He had set out on horseback late in the afternoon and seeing the tyre tracks heading towards the river, he followed on an impulse. Two hours later he knew where his father had gone – to check the croc snare. His horse walked slowly. To his left was the broad creek where barramundi lived and the saurians came to feed, make their nests and stake their territory. The tangle of river growth smothered by the Madagascan Rubber vine stopped where a bushfire had ripped through. An occasional melaleuca tree dotted the bank amidst all the grass. He stopped the horse, took a swig of rum from his water bottle and gazed as the last of the sunlight spread like butter on black bread.
He’d had a fear of the river ever since the bore runners’ woman had been taken. He and his brothers had sneaked away from Sally and seen the bloody body lying on the grass. The times he’d been swimming he’d made sure the others were ahead of and behind him, and they all made lots of noise.
He felt again the deep disquiet that he lived with – a feeling of frustration, of smothered anger, of loneliness and the fear that he’d always feel this way. When could he step from the shadow of his father, be his own man? He’d have to move, make a break. But he couldn’t bring himself to do that. He was afraid, even though Rob had said he could work with him any time he wanted a breather. Ian had always felt a very strong attachment to his home. Unlike Tommy he hated going away and he couldn’t wait to come back on school holidays. Once Sally had asked why he loved being here so much, and he couldn’t answer. He’d always felt this way, and in one respect he believed he owed it to little Marty to carry on. Marty should be here with him. His death should never have happened. So many things had gone wrong. He took another gulp of the rum, feeling it warm his gut, then he moved the horse forward. He wasn’t sure where the snare was set so he went on until he spotted the ute parked in open country. He tethered the horse to the bumper, glanced into the cabin, surprised to see his father’s rifle, picked it up and walked towards the river following the trodden grass that marked the path to the bank.
In the fading light he thought it was an apparition, a grotesque illustration from some horror comic. He stopped, his breath catching as the full impact of what he saw hit him – his father caught in a trap, suspended and helpless half way down the bank. It was a bizarre, unexpected and frightening scene. He blinked then shut his eyes for a moment, but when he opened them nothing had changed. Ian was as still as the scene before him, but his mind was in turmoil.
Was his father alive? He felt a rush of emotion and a surge of sudden elation that shocked him. The idea that his father was dead pleased him. He shuddered slightly, and cautiously stepped a little closer. He started to shake and was forced to stop. Looking around carefully, he saw for the first time the massive croc with its head in the steel noose, just clear of the rising tidal water. Man and beast both trapped and both still alive.
His head cleared a little and one of the voices he heard so often whispered, ‘Save him. Shoot that bloody thing. A dead easy shot.’
But another louder voice echoed from the distant past and stopped any hint of action. ‘Remember all those times, you know, those times when you wished he was dead.’ And with it came a flood of pictures, like flashes from horror movies – a flood of memories of hurts and threats. Images that had brought pain, anger and promises of retribution. The world around him became a blur.
The man in the wire trap was no longer his father. It was just a figure, a shape, an empty shell as if blood, life and everything that made him live had been drained away like a butchered killer beast.
The real world came back into focus. Ian saw the scene again so clearly and knew what would be inevitable unless he made a move. But he couldn’t. He opened his mouth, it was dry, his tongue thick, he couldn’t make a sound. He dropped his head and closed his eyes to again erase the scene, and then a feeling of great calm came over him. ‘It is so easy, so simple,’ whispered a voice within him.
The solution to all his anguish. He didn’t have to do anything. ‘Do nothing,’ the voice in his head screamed. ‘Walk away. Turn and walk away. You did not cause this to happen. John Monroe, fate, God, had brought this to pass. Do not interfere.’
After half a day here Monroe had little strength left. He felt dizzy and knew he would pass out again. He lifted his head, and saw, standing in the shadow of the trees, his eldest son.
‘Thank God you’re here! Shoot the bloody thing. Quick!’
Ian didn’t answer. He couldn’t look at the figure of his father again. Deliberately he turned his back and slowly put one foot in front of the other, with each step walking towards a future free of John Monroe.
In many nights to come, he would hear again the hoarse scream echoing over the silent river . . .
‘You baaastaaard!’
He did not see the old beast lift its jaws, dig in its claws and make one last effort to drag its massive body up through the mud. With each patch of muddy ground gained, the slackening rope slowly lowered the weight of John Monroe’s head and shoulders towards where the dead pig meat had rested.
Sally and the children were grateful Fitzi had been with them on the stock camp. Sally felt safe and Fitzi had entertained the two city kids by taking them out to find bush tucker, hunt a goanna, watch brolgas dance and learn about surviving in the seemingly empty terrain. Around the campfire he told them stories about the area and Snowy had surprised Sally by recounting some exciting adventures that were, thankfully, relatively wholesome. The children enjoyed the novelty of eating their dinner off a tin plate from the camp oven, and rolling into their swags and looking at the night sky, watching for shooting stars to make a wish. Driving back, Trisha and Jeremy said they’d had a good time but wouldn’t want to do it for too long.
‘Snowy said they sometimes stay out at those camps for weeks and weeks,’ said Jeremy. ‘That’d be awful.’
For a moment Sally thought back to her time out in the stock camp with the boys and Rob. How precious and romantic it had been with him. Maybe what she and Rob had shared was only meant to be for a short while in this unreal country of campfires, stars, horses, cattle and the vastness encircling them.
‘There was plenty to do, you were on the go from sunrise to sundown. Time for a bit of a yarn after dinner and then into your swag, you were so tired,’ she said.
‘You really liked it out here, didn’t you, Mum?’ said Jeremy softly.
‘I did. But I ended up in the city with your dad and made a different life from maybe what I’d planned. Never plan your life, kids, things have a habit of turning out quite differently.’
‘Well, I’m going to uni and staying in the city,’ Jeremy said.
‘But we’re glad we came. Thanks, Mum,’ said Trisha, ever the sensitive little girl.
It was lunchtime and Lorna had the table set by the time the children had cleaned up and come in to eat. Sally was surprised that Lorna was the only one joining them.
‘Where is everyone?’
‘John has gone out to check on a bore or something. He went yesterday, he’ll be back in time to cook the barbecue he promised. Ian is with Snowy, Fitzi and the men outside, working out about moving some cattle. So that leaves us and I want to hear how you enjoyed yourselves.’
In the afternoon, while Lorna had a rest and the children played in the goat cart, Sally went for a ride. She came back past the blacks’ camp, now one of more permanent-looking gundies and basic one-room houses, though it was a much smaller settlement than the sprawling community she had known. She slowed Dancer as she came across two old women, Lizzie and young Daisy walking back from the river carrying tubers of waterlilies, a coolamon with seed pods and a couple of fish.
‘Got your dinner, eh, Lizzie?’
‘Bush tucker, good grub. No more chop, for buy ’em baccy, and new dress, eh. All pinish.’
‘No more shop? You get rations though, from Mister and Missus?’
Lizzie shrugged. ‘Beef, chooga, tea. No more pretty tings.’
‘Mista Ian, close ’em up,’ said one of the women. ‘We gotta buy tings and order ’em. No more sit down rations.’
Sally dismounted and walked with them, leading Dancer. ‘What else has changed, Lizzie?’
The woman shrugged and looked a little po-faced. ‘Ever ’ting. No more allsame.’
Sally nodded and as they got closer to the camp she pointed to a tree. ‘Daisy, see that tree? That’s where you were born. I was there.’
Daisy’s face lit up. ‘You see me born in dis country? Me proper Barra Creek baby. My mutta want me go ’way, learn up proper white school.’ She shook her head. ‘Daisy work, lotta work here. Me good with cattle, horses, muster.’
‘Daisy good ringer,’ said Lizzie.
Sally felt a stab of pain. Just like her father. She wondered if Daisy knew Rob was her dad. Had Betsy ever told her? Then she pushed the thought away. It wouldn’t have meant much to her anyway, white fathers weren’t part of their lives. Daisy was lucky to have her extended Aboriginal family. Betsy’s mob had nurtured her and all she cared about was her home country. Rob, it seemed, cared little for the child he’d fathered.
By evening, with no sign of John Monroe, Lorna became annoyed then agitated, then worried. Snowy and Ian cooked the meal outdoors in the garden. John Monroe was loud and sometimes brash but he was also entertaining. It was a lacklustre gathering without him.
Sally put her children to bed then settled in the living room with Lorna. Ian had disappeared with Snowy. No one was unduly worried that Monroe hadn’t returned, though Sally thought it odd. But then, she knew how circumstances out here could hinder the best laid plans. She was tired but she relished the private time with Lorna. The two of them sitting together rehashing events around the station, browsing through catalogues, talking about kids, except this time it was Sally’s children. For Sally it was like coming home. She could tell Lorna things she couldn’t tell her mother.
‘Do you miss Hal?’ Lorna asked.
‘He hasn’t dropped out of my life, because of the children. I don’t miss the social whirl he’s into. But yes, I miss someone around the house. Reading the newspapers together at breakfast, waiting for him to come home, the evening cocktail, and knowing there’s a warm body in the bed.’ Sally sighed. ‘Our interests are so different, though.’
Lorna nodded and didn’t have to say anything. Sally had known, better than anyone, Lorna’s relationship with John. Lorna looked thoughtful then said, ‘The physical side seems so important in the beginning. But really, what lasts, what you want most, are those other things. Someone to talk to, laugh with, who’s interested in the same things.’
The two women sat in silence, each lamenting a mistaken marriage, one feeling there would be no changes in her life, she’d hung on so long, the younger woman fretful she’d make the same mistake again. If indeed she found another partner. Sally, at least, was glad that for the moment she was happy sharing her children, building a new life and maybe, hopefully, she’d find someone to share her life with equally rather than her sharing his.
She changed the subject. ‘Fitzi was terrific, but I’m afraid I’ve raised a pair of city slickers.’
‘Why would they be otherwise? Still, it’s good they’ve seen the other side of the coin,’ said Lorna.
‘I saw Lizzie, the old girls and Daisy this afternoon,’ said Sally cautiously. ‘You said Daisy was out of control. She does seem bright, she said she was keen on working with the cattle and horses.’
‘Mmm. She’s a bit of a lad. I think it best she stays away from the house. I don’t want her getting any big ideas,’ said Lorna nervously.
‘She doesn’t know about her father?’ Sally felt her throat tighten.
‘What’s to know? He’s not around. Leave it, Sally.’ Lorna stood up. ‘I’m going to bed. I’m sure you must be tired too. Hopefully John will be back in the morning. Goodnight. It’s lovely to have you here again.’
‘It was a really special time of my life.’
‘I know,’ said Lorna with a sad note in her voice. She rested her hand on Sally’s shoulder for a moment before leaving the room.
Sally went into the kitchen and found Snowy sitting alone at the long table smoking a cigarette. His stubble was grey, his beer belly sagged over his belt.
‘Thanks for cooking dinner, Snow. Has Ian gone to bed?’
‘Probably. He’s been on the grog. Doesn’t happen too often but. Well, I’ll be hitting the sack.’
‘Thanks again for letting me bring the kids along. Do you still do big trips or get in contractors?’
‘Ian gets the casual ringers in.’ He gave a grin. ‘I’m getting a bit old for this caper, Sally. Might throw it in soon.’
‘And do what?’ She knew nothing about Snowy’s personal history.
‘I’ve got a sister over in Townsville. My ex is in Cairns and our kids are around the place. Time to do a bit of serious fishing.’
‘Still lots of barra around?’
‘Fer sure, but I wouldn’t get out on the river with the kids. Been a big bugger of a croc around.’
‘Really? John didn’t say anything.’
‘He didn’t want to worry you.’ Snowy suddenly looked thoughtful. ‘I wonder . . . might check that snare we set. Well, g’night, Sally. Good to have you round the place again. Only seems like yesterday you were racing round with the kids.’
‘It was thirteen years ago since I first came here, Snow.’
‘Struth, time gets away.’
The screen door banged behind him.
At breakfast as her sleepy children struggled with their plates of chops, sausages and fried eggs, Sally watched Ian eat in sullen silence. A hangover, she presumed. What had happened to him, she wondered. She thought back to the three neat little boys who ate at the small table in the dining room. Jeremy and Trisha were sitting at the dining table and would have been horrified at being put at a ‘kids’ table’. They moaned enough at their mother’s ‘nagging’ about table manners. Boarding schools had changed since Sally’s day, although Trisha was doing cookery and etiquette classes.
Lorna, at least, stuck to tradition, remaining in bed until breakfast was over and the ringers and stockmen had left the kitchen.
It was after lunch that the world of Barra Creek changed.
Snowy’s Land Rover belted towards the homestead with him firing his rifle from the driver’s seat into the air. Everyone came running. A stockman, a ringer and one of the jackeroos reached him and he began gesticulating, waving towards the house. Sally rushed through the garden, knowing something was dreadfully wrong by the expression on Snowy’s face.
‘What is it?’
‘Oh Christ, Sally, get to Lorna. You tell her, I can’t. Oh Christ almighty,’ he put his head in his hands.
An ashen-faced jackeroo looked at Sally. ‘It’s the boss, Mr Monroe . . . Snowy found him. Dead.’
‘What! Are you sure? Snowy, where is he, what’s happened? Quick, call the doctor . . .’
Snowy held up a hand, waving vaguely. ‘Nah. No good. It’s bloody horrible. A croc. Sally . . .’
She gasped. Not again, not another death. Not John, nothing could get him. He was too big, too loud, too much of a bully. ‘Quick, find Ian. We’ll have to tell Lorna.’
‘You do it, Sally.’
Jeremy and Trisha raced up. ‘What’s going on, Mum?’
Sally tried to take a deep breath and stop herself shaking. ‘There’s been an accident. I want you both to keep out of the way and be quiet. Please.’
She began to walk towards the house. Why had this happened when she was here? Was she the one to jinx Barra Creek? Along with the joy and light she felt here, darkness had again fallen on the property.
Lorna stood on the front steps watching Sally. She looked composed, her hands folded as if waiting for the inevitable. For Sally everything was happening in slow motion.
She stood at the bottom of the steps and stared up at Lorna. ‘It’s John. An accident . . . he’s dead, Lorna.’ Sally wanted to spare her the details, though God knew what the full story was.
Lorna closed her eyes, seemed to sway slightly, compressed her lips then turned away, saying quietly, ‘Please find Ian,’ before she went inside.
The police and air ambulance had been notified and people were beginning to appear from everywhere. The wailing from the blacks’ camp had started.
‘We have to get him,’ said Ian, but Snowy put a restraining hand on his arm.
‘The cops don’t want anyone to go there. I just took one look and left. Believe me, son, you don’t want to see it.’
Already the ringers and jackeroos were sitting around whispering about the gruesome details.
‘Musta got caught in the snare and got strung up. Caught the croc but it came up the bank and reached him.’
‘Ate his bloody head and shoulders, they reckon.’
‘The boss is still hanging in the tree with half his top missing.’
No one noticed Fitzi ride quietly away.
Later, after the planes had arrived, the neighbours had driven in, the police had taken photos, shot the croc, cut down John Monroe’s body and wrapped it up, ready to take it to the morgue in Normanton. Sally and the women began preparing food. As gently as possible the police sergeant took a statement from Lorna.
Automatically now everyone turned to Ian, who, looking grim and pained, answered questions, signed documents and phoned Tommy in England. The conversation was brief but he came to Sally. ‘Tommy would like to speak to you.’
‘Tommy, yes it’s me. I’m so terribly sorry this has happened.’
‘How is my mother?’
‘Shocked, very calm, though she’s got medication. I don’t think it’s sunk in for any of us.’
‘How long have you been there, Sal?’
‘I brought my kids up for a visit.’
‘You know what, Sally, I’m planning on getting married, to an English girl. I wish I’d told Dad. Do they need me there? Should I come home?’
‘Do you want to, Tommy?’
There was a pause. ‘If Mum needs me. But truthfully, I’d rather remember things as they used to be. I’m sure Ian will run everything okay. I mean the funeral . . .’
‘There’re a lot of hands around the place at the moment. You know how it is. I’ll get your mum.’
‘Sally, wait, if I don’t come will people think badly of me?’
‘It’s up to you and your mother. It’s no one else’s business.’
‘Was it quick, do you think? I hate to think of him suffering. How’s Ian coping? He’s probably feeling bad ’cause he was so shitty to Dad.’
‘He’s being kept busy. He’ll have to deal with his own demons later, I suppose.’
‘I’m glad you’re there, Sal. Say hello to anyone who’s still around.’
‘Some of the old mob are here, Tommy. I’ll put you onto your mother now.’
After the call Sally tapped at the doorway and found Lorna sitting on the little cane chair next to the baby’s cot that had held her four children.
‘Tommy told me that he is wondering about . . . arrangements, about coming home.’
Lorna’s shoulders lifted. ‘Yes. I told him it doesn’t matter if he doesn’t come. Let him do what he wants. I don’t blame him.’
‘Are you going to come and have something to eat? The police and the doctor will be leaving soon.’
‘I don’t want to eat. Tell me when they’re leaving.’ She paused. ‘They’re taking him away, aren’t they?’
‘They have to, Lorna.’
‘He has to be buried here. He never wanted to leave Barra Creek, that was the trouble.’
When the vehicles were ready to set off to the airstrip, Lorna walked onto the verandah. Holding his hat, the police sergeant shook her hand as his assistant and the medical examiner mumbled condolences. A tight knot of the blacks, Fitzi, Lizzie, Betsy and Daisy, hovered by the gate, watching them drive the Land Rover that held John Monroe’s body. Young Daisy ran forward and touched the side of the vehicle as the black women hid their faces and moaned loudly.
‘Get away!’ Lorna’s sharp retort shocked those watching. ‘Get her away!’ She flung out her arm, pointing at Daisy.
Fitzi and Lizzie rushed forward and took the girl away.
‘Lorna, what is it?’ Sally put her arm around Lorna who was rigid, glaring at the child.
Lorna turned on Sally, hissing furiously, ‘As if you, of all people had to ask. She’s the jinx, she’s the one who’s broken up our lives.’ She marched into the house leaving the nervous flurry of conversation and movement among everyone watching.
Sally caught Fitzi looking at her and wondered at the expression on his face. Poor bugger, she thought. What was going to happen to them all, and to Barra Creek?
The family decided against a big memorial service, the circumstances of John’s death were too harrowing. There was an official announcement that he would be buried beside his son and daughter in a private family service.
Once again Sally was leaving under painful circumstances. She hugged Lorna, who straightened and dabbed her eyes before saying quietly, ‘Don’t come back again, Sally. There is no peace here.’
A week later John Monroe was buried. After the short service and everyone had gone, Lorna walked around the homestead, through the gardens and down to the stables. Ian and Snowy were keeping busy, station life went on, but Lorna was making her own plans.
It was here that Fitzi came to her, holding his big Akubra hat, shuffling his feet and with eyes downcast, told her he was going on a long walkabout. ‘Long time, go way.’
And told her why.