The following week saw more visitors turn up than at any other time since Sara’s arrival. The fuel tanker came first, diesel engine roaring as it powered through the horse paddock, throwing a plume of dust that must almost have been visible from the roadhouse. The rising red column was just settling behind the huge truck when a willy-wind tore out of the scrub, crossed its path and shot straight towards the homestead. Sara, watching from the verandah, gave a squawk of dismay and fled indoors, hearing the harsh rattle of the wind battering through the garden as she did so. The open louvres and latticework of the schoolroom were no barrier to the mini cyclone of dust and dead leaves contained within it. Becky’s precious collage went flying and papers fluttered like bats until the centre abruptly collapsed, raining dust over everything.
Becky, bright-eyed, followed Sara in to survey the damage. ‘It’s a devil chasing you. That’s what Uncle Jack says. An old blackfella told him that – willy-winds are devil men.’
‘And the moon’s made of green cheese,’ Sara said affably, but the child’s words had produced an instant picture of her stalker and her nape prickled. ‘What a mess! Do you want to get the broom for me? Yuck!’ She had touched her sweaty face and felt the grit transfer from her fingers. Her hair must be full of it too. Sweat beaded on her cheeks, itching its way downward to the point of her chin. It was so hot it had to rain, she thought, but when she looked hopefully across the paddock, the grey leaves of the mulga hung listlessly under the cloudless, dust-stained sky. Down near the sheds a motor was running – the pump on the truck, transferring fuel – and from the kitchen came the bump of the oven closing and Helen’s tuneful humming. Just another day at Redhill.
Their second visitor was also a semitrailer, this one loaded with tonnes of cattle lick in white nylon bags. Sara added another mug to those on the table, next to Helen’s date cake. Afterwards she went down to the sheds with Becky to watch Jack spin the forklift back and forth between truck and shed, unloading the heavy pallets. Frank was out on the bulldozer that day, pushing scrub. Helen later confided that it was a task she hated him doing.
‘He’s as stubborn as a donkey,’ she said. ‘He knows he should be taking it easy but men never really accept that they’re mortal. Well, his heart is, and the doctor has told him so.’
True to her promise, Helen was giving Sara baking lessons and her pupil was rolling then folding dough into a long plaited loaf.
‘Is there a history of heart disease in the family?’
‘Not that I’m aware of. He’s just worn his out with a lifetime’s hard work, but he’s too damn pigheaded to admit it. All he needs is long ears and a tail and you’d know him for an ass.’
Sara smiled at that. ‘Are donkeys so stubborn, then?’
‘Very. When the kids were young they had one for a pet. Nothing much under a tractor could shift it, unless it wanted to move, but they loved him anyway, stubborn old brute that he was.’ She smiled faintly, remembering. ‘I think both my kids were born with a death wish. They used to race him at the creek bank and then jump him over it, to see how long they could stay on. Bareback, of course – a recipe for a broken neck.’
Sara laughed. ‘I can believe it. Beth told me about them catching snakes. Snakes! What else did they get up to?’
‘Climbing the mill,’ Helen said promptly. ‘Jack was just six the first time Frank hauled him down from the homestead mill. It had a thirty-foot tower.’ She shook her head. ‘They were so naughty. I couldn’t take my eyes off them. They both got into the stock tank one summer – to cool off, Beth said. If the station hand we had working for us hadn’t heard them, they’d have drowned. There was no way they could have got themselves out again. And they were forever wandering off, following the goats.’
‘Getting lost, you mean? Should I tuck the ends under or press them into the loaf?’
‘Tuck them under. Luckily they never did – get lost, that is. We told them to always look for the mill head to find their way home, but people have died in the bush, even with roads to follow. Did you ever hear of Elizabeth Darcy and her son?’
‘What about them?’
‘They vanished from Malapunyah Station, oh, years back. In the forties, it would’ve been. Bred to the bush, but they just disappeared one day and were never seen again. Elizabeth’s husband searched for them for over a month with every man he could raise, including trackers. It’s a puzzle that’s never been solved.’
Sara paused, fingers poised over the beaten egg. ‘But – what – how?’
‘Nobody knows. It’s not the only mystery, though. The bush holds many secrets. People vanish, perish, are murdered – like the Bowman family. They were travelling down to Adelaide. They camped by the side of the road one night and some nutter shot them. Back in the fifties, that was. Or those kids who disappeared from Kings Canyon a dozen or more years later. Their parents were station folk but it didn’t help. They found one boy dead, the other was never seen again.’
Sara was thoughtful as she spread the glaze over her loaf. ‘I suppose that sort of thing happens more often these days. People killed or taken, I mean, but in the forties? Could somebody really have spirited the Darcys away? The country seems awfully empty to me now, so what must it have been like back then when travel was so much slower and more difficult?’
‘I don’t believe anyone else was involved,’ Helen agreed. ‘Something happened to them – snakebite, an injury, perhaps, and somehow the search missed them. It’s rough country up there and there’s plenty of it.’
‘And the children at . . . Where did you say it was?’
‘Kings Canyon. It’s a holiday spot the tourists visit. The children were quite young and at first they were thought to have drowned. It was only later that they widened the search to beyond the canyon, but it was far too late by then to recover them alive and everyone knew it. A child can perish in a day out here, even in early summer, which at the time, it was. The media blamed the parents for the children’s disappearance, which was unfair. I’d like to have seen those journalists keep up with my two! There was a huge turnout of searchers – police, army, station people. Months later, it might even have been a year or more, they found the boy’s body, then the mother took her own life. It was all very sad, but it can happen. It pays to remember that.’
‘But that’s so awful! The poor parents,’ Sara exclaimed.
‘Yes, dreadful.’ Helen went to the window. ‘I wonder where that child is?’
‘I sent her to the chook pen,’ Sara offered. ‘We’ve been experimenting with dyes made from grass and stuff. I thought we’d hard-boil an egg and paint it.’
Helen’s face softened. ‘You’re good for Becky, Sara. Beth said you were and I’ve seen for myself how much time and thought you put into her day. A nice change, I must say, from some of the young women who come out to the stations. Come out here to work, they claim, but they’re just looking for husbands.’
Sara rinsed her hands, then whisked the bread bowl under the tap, hardly knowing how to answer.
‘Well,’ she said, ‘I’ve had one husband and I’m not in a hurry to find another.’ A burr of sound beat against her eardrum, growing rapidly louder, and she raised her brows at the older woman. ‘It’s not Friday, is it? No, of course not. Then I wonder who that could be?’
It was Clemmy Marshall driving a green Land Rover with a canvas back. The canvas was red with dust, but Clemmy looked fresh and attractive in short blue shorts and a patterned top. She waved from the gate, then looked down to unlatch it. A baseball cap covered her hair and wraparound sunglasses obscured her eyes, but neither concealed her wide smile.
‘Hello, Helen. Hi, Sara. I’m heading into the Alice. Thought I’d stop by and see if there’s something I can take in for Beth, or if there’s anything you need brought out?’
‘That’s good of you,’ Helen said. ‘We’ll think about it. Come in and have a cuppa while we do.’
‘Love to.’ Clemmy negotiated the steps, fluttering her fingers at Becky who had popped her head out to see who the visitor was. ‘Hello, ducky. How’s your brother doing?’
‘Getting better, Mum says.’ The girl stared curiously. ‘What’s a ducky?’
‘Just a name. Like pinhead, only nicer. It means you’re sort of cute.’ Clemmy wrinkled her nose at her.
‘Sara calls me chicken,’ Becky revealed.
‘Does she? Do you like it?’
Becky thought about it. ‘It’s okay. We’re gonna paint an egg.’
‘After we’ve had some tea,’ Sara said. ‘You want to wash your hands, and maybe ask your nan if you can put a pretty cloth on the table for our visitor?’
Becky shot off as though galvanised.
‘I’ll put the kettle on,’ Helen said to the young women. ‘Sara will show you the loo if you need it.’
Clemmy grinned. ‘I do, thanks.’
Sara meanwhile was working out distances. ‘You didn’t drive all the way in here from the bitumen?’
‘No, I came the back route. Rougher but miles shorter. The road comes due south from Walkervale to Kileys bore. Used to be the main track, about a hundred years back. So, how are you passing the holidays?’
‘I hardly know. Here you are.’ There was a pause but when Clemmy emerged to wash her hands, Sara continued, ‘The time’s gone by so fast. Helen’s teaching me to bake all sorts of fancy bread, she’s a real master at it. There’s the garden, I just hose things but it’s not quick, and there’re little jobs about the place I do. Becky and I have a project going too. The drillers are coming in next week. Did you hear that they found good water for Bu– Mr Morgan?’
Clemmy was smiling and nodding. ‘I’ll bet you never knew so much went on out in the backblocks.’
‘I didn’t. Nor that it led to gossip! Here’s a man I barely know and I’m tattling his news as if I had a back fence to lean over.’
‘Don’t worry about it. News is currency out here. There’s poor value in people who don’t listen and pass on what they hear.’
When they reached the kitchen the table had been spread with an embroidered cloth and Becky was carefully creasing paper napkins. Helen had put down cups and saucers in place of the regular mugs, and had found something better than the breadboard to hold the slices of fruit cake.
‘Wow!’ Sara surveyed the table. ‘The napkins are a great touch, Becky. Do you remember the pretty table you made for me on my first night? It was so nice. It made me feel special, like you really wanted me here.’
Clemmy stroked the cloth. ‘I know what you mean. I feel special now too. How long is it since you’ve seen your mum, Becky?’
‘I dunno.’ Becky wriggled, looking to Sara for the answer. ‘Ages an’ ages. She’s not coming home when Sam gets out of hospital neither ’cause they’re gonna stay at Nan’s house.’
‘Well, what if I was to take you into town to see her, and bring you back Sunday? Would that be all right, Helen?’
The child’s face lit up as she swung to face her grandmother. ‘Could I, Nan? That would be so cool! Oh, please say yes. Please!’
Too late, Clemmy realised the quandary she had placed the older woman in. She bit her lip. ‘I should’ve rung you, given you time to – but I just thought of it. She would be safe with me but of course it’s for you to decide.’
‘I don’t know.’ Helen hesitated. Len was out for the day and in his absence responsibility devolved upon her. ‘It’s been almost a month but what would Beth . . . I mean, she spends all her time at the hospital.’
‘Why not ring her and ask?’ Sara interposed.
She nodded decisively. ‘We’ll ask your mum, pet, and if she says you can, then you may.’ She looked at Clemmy. ‘I’m sorry, what’s your surname again? And it’s in today and back Sunday?’
‘Yes, and it’s Marshall, Clemmy Marshall. Beth and I are old friends.’
When Helen went to make the phone call Sara pointed Clemmy to a chair. ‘Have a seat. I’d pour but —’
‘Let’s wait.’ Clemmy agreed, biting her lip. ‘I hope I haven’t offended her, only it’s such a long time to be away from your child.’
‘It’s a kind thought.’ Sara’s own thoughts were on clothes for Becky. She could go in what she had on, but would need better outfits for Friday and Saturday, as well as a toilet bag, pyjamas, hair clips . . . She glanced down at the familiar, daggy trainers dangling from the child’s chair. Something more respectable for her feet too, and a hat? Did her wardrobe run to a town hat at all? Then Helen was back, smiling. Becky’s eyes flew straight to her face.
‘Mum said yes?’
‘Better than that! Sam’s going home today. She was getting him ready when they called her to the phone.’ She beamed at Clemmy. ‘She said to thank you, she’d love to have a visit from Becky and you. I’ll give you the address – oh, haven’t you started yet? Let’s have a cuppa first, then I’ll write it down for you.’
‘I could find your house, Nan,’ Becky burst out.
‘I’m sure you could, pet,’ Helen said tactfully. ‘But Mrs Marshall might forget how to get back to pick you up. So I’ll write it out anyway.’
‘And I’ll pack her clothes,’ Sara volunteered. ‘If there’s anything special you want to take, run and get it out, chicken. We mustn’t hold Mrs Marshall up too long.’
A bag was soon packed, Sara sorting quickly through the clothes Becky pulled from the drawers in her room. There was a cloth hat, and an almost new pair of red sneakers. Sara tucked a hairbrush into the bag and said, ‘Run and wash your face. Oops, nearly forgot your PJs. Tell Sam hello from me, won’t you? And have a great time with your mum.’
‘I will. I wish you were coming too.’ Becky danced from the room to hug her grandmother, the dog and, at the last moment, to rush back and enfold Sara’s waist in a bony embrace. ‘Bye, Sara.’
‘Bye, chicken.’
Clemmy climbed behind the wheel and waved. ‘See you Sunday,’ she called as the vehicle drove off.
‘Well.’ Helen dropped her hand. ‘Two days isn’t much of a holiday, but they’ll all enjoy it.’
Sara didn’t reply. It was the word holiday that did it. It had flashed fully formed into her head, the picture of herself and Ben with buckets and spades at the beach. They wore bathers and were building a sandcastle in the shade of a huge umbrella, digging at the sand with more enthusiasm than skill. Their father was helping them. On the edge of her vision were big shoulders and hairy forearms that steadied the buckets – bright red and yellow to match their spades – and somewhere, she knew, was the caravan with the striped awning. They were on holiday, she and her parents and Ben, and his cloth hat fell back on its string from his ginger hair.
Here was another piece of the puzzle. Sara had no idea where it fitted but hugged to herself the happy feeling that the memory imparted. She was smiling when she went back into the house.