Absolution Creek (55 page)

James shook his head. ‘You’re a worry, mate. She’s going to drive you to drink.’ Adjusting the kerosene lamp, he flicked absently through the pages of the
Stringybark Point Gazette
before dropping it on the floor. Now he had another problem: having given her an ultimatum, the woman was so stubborn that he could be assured Cora wouldn’t be picking up the telephone any time soon. James turned on the radio. He’d missed the district’s forecast so he listened to the announcer as rainfall totals for the catchment area east of them were read out. There had been substantial falls along a good forty-mile stretch of the river and the storm cell was heading west.

‘West,’ James repeated, his large fingers twiddling with the tuning dial. Static drowned out the announcer’s voice. Outside, cloud was mounting in the west heading east towards Campbell station. James didn’t like the look of it. The telephone gave a brief ring and he was up and out of his chair, walking through the sitting rooms to the kitchen.

‘Yeah, James here.’

‘James, gidday. Pat here from Wells Farm, east of Stringybark Point.’

‘Yeah, Pat, how you going up there? I’ve just heard the weather report.’

‘Average, real average. WellsTown was evacuated yesterday due to flash flooding and it’s heading your way.’

James bit his lip. ‘How bad?’

‘Well, no one can get down to the river to check heights. I’d say the water would have to be in the top end of the Stringybark Point Creek by now. Listen, I’ve tried to let a few people know downstream of here, mate, but my missus is already up on the roof. I’ve gotta go.’

‘You got help coming, Pat?’

‘We’ll be right. You’re gonna have to try and get onto some of your neighbours –’

The line dropped out. James gave three short rings and waited, tried again and waited. No one was answering at Absolution, and James doubted Cora would even be back at the homestead yet. Now what was he going to do? He didn’t particularly relish leaving his own place at this time, however a horse needed to be trucked back to the owner and that job had to come first. He could only hope that everyone was on the ball at Absolution Creek and knew what was coming their way.

The whir of an engine was soon followed by the appearance of the work truck and a Massey Ferguson tractor. The vehicles trailed through the house paddock gate to stop outside the machinery shed. Leaving the laundry and the partially hung basket of washing, Meg walked down to the shed, the lambs in pursuit. With the previous afternoon taken up with hand-filling sacks of grain to finish feeding, the repairing of the feeder was the first job of the morning. The vehicles were parked in a row outside the shed. A chain hanging from a stoutly limbed tree lifted the feeder into the air, where it dangled momentarily before being lowered to the ground and into the work shed.

The work truck appeared relatively unscathed to Meg, apart from a dent on the driver’s side door. However, the feeder was a twisted mess of steel. She was listening to Sam and Kendal arguing about the damage to it when Cora appeared on Horse, riding in from the west. Emerging near the stables she was greeted by Curly and Tripod, a welcoming party of excited barking and mad circling that failed to bring a smile. One look at her face and Meg knew that this was a woman you wouldn’t want to get on the wrong side of. Sam and Kendal stood back as Cora dismounted, squatting to inspect a long tear in the metal side.

‘You always have to check to make sure it’s real secure,’ Kendal stated.

Cora gave Kendal a thousand-yard stare and circumnavigated the damaged feeder once more.

‘Well, you were the one that checked it before we went into the blasted paddock,’ Sam retaliated.

‘This isn’t about apportioning blame.’ Having satisfied herself with her inspection, Cora dug her hands into the pockets of her jacket. ‘Accidents happen.’

‘Yeah right,’ Kendal scowled. ‘Anyway, it’s buggered now. We’ll need a new one. Reckon the cost of it should come out of your wages.’

Sam kept his eyes on Cora.

‘Well, Sam’s a mechanic by trade, so he’s going to have a try at fixing it.’

‘It’s really a boilermaker and welder’s job,’ Sam explained, ‘but I’ve done a bit of both.’

Meg gave him an encouraging wink.

‘You’ll fix it,’ Cora replied. She turned to walk away.

‘Hey, Miss Hamilton,’ Kendal called after her. ‘What’s on job-wise?’

‘Leave her,’ Meg suggested, her fingers pulling on his oilskin jacket.

Kendal’s cheeks pinked up instantly at her touch. ‘Trying to figure that woman out is like trying to pick at a broken nose.’

‘Well, something’s riled her.’ Sam squatted down, ran his fingers over the buckled feeder.

Cora stared above and beyond them, turning in a tight circle as she surveyed her holding, hands on hips, hair whipping about her face. A couple of hundred yards away a brown snake slithered across the dirt to where her two dogs lolled in the grass. Cora rushed for a shovel that was leaning against the shed and raced to where Curly was barking. Tripod emerged with the snake partially twisted about his front leg. He barked and whined, finally jumping clear of the slithering reptile.

‘That’s a bit unseasonal,’ Kendal commented as Cora jabbed the sharp edge of the shovel into the brown snake until only nerves kept it writhing in the dirt.

‘Damn it.’ A few feet away Tripod was walking very slowly, almost dazed. Cora handed Kendal the shovel and moved quickly to his side. ‘You’ll be right, little mate.’ Flicking open her pocketknife she took hold of his ear and cut the top off it. Blood gushed freely from the wound. Kendal speared the shovel through the air. It landed a few feet from the shed, clattering to earth on a piece of tin.

‘Will that save him?’ Meg asked, incredulous.

Cora enticed Tripod to walk around a little, his back leg shuffling in the dirt, his muscles spasming. ‘Maybe. Bleeding him is about the only way to get the venom out that I know of.’ When he fell over she lifted him into her arms, whispering words of endearment and petting him.

Meg kept a discreet distance behind her aunt as they walked back along the one-sided avenue of trees. ‘Cora.’ Meg finally increased her stride to match her aunt’s.

‘I don’t have time for anything at the moment, Meg.’ Cora looked out towards the west where a thick line of purple clouds was moving steadily towards them.

‘Is everything all right?’

‘Apart from Tripod?’ She patted the dog’s soft hair. ‘No. I’m expecting big rain. Not that it probably matters anymore.’

‘I don’t understand.’

Cora gave a condescending smile. ‘I know you don’t. Anyway, it appears personal agendas have lost their importance. I think time’s finally run out for me.’

Chapter 43

R
ain wasn’t something Scrubber calculated into this trip. Of course the inevitable happened when a fella strayed from his plans. The extra day at the hotel meant he’d woken to a cloudburst that would have made a man in his grave sit up at the noise of it. He leant over the balcony railings, half-expecting to see the prone body from a few nights prior squashed on the road like a pegged-out fox pelt. The main street was empty; the pub below was quiet. Everyone had retreated to the holes they’d climbed out of. He thought of his girls, cold and wet in the paddock, as the rain bounced off the bitumen and pooled on the dirt verge along the kerb. They’d seen worse.

He took up position in the cane-bottom chair, Dog asleep beside him, the animal’s four legs tilted skywards. Damned if that animal couldn’t sleep standing up. Even now the collie was oblivious to the drops of rain dripping on his nose from above.
Well, maybe not
, Scrubber mumbled, as Dog opened his near-toothless mouth so that the rain settled on his tongue. Wherever they went it had always been five star for Dog. The mutt just had that ability of getting the best out of every situation. Scrubber hoped Cora would take the dog on after he was gone. Not as a favour, for he’d no right to ask anybody for such a thing, but maybe because he was an old dog who’d done good and was in need of a home. Veronica would have liked that.

Scrubber stretched back, patting the tobacco pouch at his waist. His money was near gone and with no banks about it was back to bush tucker and the stars for a roof. It was the way things should be, he reconciled. A bushman didn’t spend his last days holed up inside waiting for that thing to whisk him off to the nether world. No, a man wanted to suck up the tangy scent of the scrub, to sniff at the blue haze of summer, to curse at the September winds and growl as cold froze his fingers in the saddle. He wanted to go surrounded by what he loved more than anything: the bush. She was a hard woman: contrary, stubborn, frightening and sometimes downright petulant. Yet in spite of his own demons, the bush had given him a home of sorts and in return he loved her.

The publican told him it was around one hundred miles to Absolution Creek, but a cross-country shortcut would have him there in under two days. The travelling would be easier too if he stayed off the puggy wet roads.

‘Well, Dog, we’re off.’

Dog stretched, yawned and slowly made it into a sitting position.

‘I think you’ll have to ride with Samsara again on account of your age and the weather.’ The dog cocked his head to one side, gave a single bark. ‘Shush,’ Scrubber reprimanded, ‘you’re not even meant to be here.’

Dog gave a low whine and sauntered away.

‘No need to get your knickers twisted. Always did have an attitude,’ he mumbled. Scrubber patted the tobacco pouch. ‘Well, old mate, we’re off again. Hope you’re well rested cause this last trek will be the best and the worst of it.’ He looked across the street to where Green’s Hotel and Board once stood. Beginnings and endings were always difficult to forget.

If it weren’t for the fact he didn’t mind the old gal, Scrubber would have left Veronica on the roadside some hundred miles back. There was also the niggling doubt that he’d ever find another woman, so he suffered her complaints about the horse, the saddle, the state of the roads, the weather too cold and too hot, camping rough, sleeping little and eating poor. Whew, it was some journey. How a woman could squander her energy on such things he’d never understand.

On approach, Stringybark Point looked like any other bush village: a mangle of low-slung houses, three hotels staring each other off across the dusty main street, a couple of stores and the usual post office and police station. The buildings resembled a skew-whiff set of stairs, worn and uneven against a pale blue sky. Scrubber flicked the reins on his horse, and whistled to Veronica to get a move on. They clip-clopped into a town dozing quietly beneath gums and box trees. A dusty road was interspersed with hitching rails, horse troughs and a single gas lamp. A couple of mangy dogs, half-breeds, wandered ahead of them. A child balled somewhere down the street to the right. At the hitching rail outside Green’s Hotel and Board, Scrubber left a complaining Veronica under the shade of a tree while he went about the business of stabling the horses. A gush of smelly water drained down from a pipe into the open gutter. Scrubber sniffed manure, dirt and soap; someone’s bath water.

‘Stay out of trouble,’ he advised her as Veronica practically fell from her ride.