Catherine Jinks TheRoad (13 page)

They all gazed at the road before them, which shot southwards in a dead straight line. It gleamed a little in the sun. Their car seemed to be eating it up; the tarred surface disappeared under the wheels beneath them as if it was being sucked into a great hollow stomach attached to the rear axle.

Yet on either side of this endless grey ribbon the countryside remained strangely static. Everywhere you looked there were the same grey-green daubs of vegetation, yellow grass and sandy salt pans; the same patches of dark green scrub; the same creek on the right, in the distance; the same faraway power pylons flickering on the left, like a mirage.

A red Land Rover barrelled towards them and flashed past, heading north. The sight of it comforted Peter, for some reason. He realised that they hadn’t passed anyone for ages.

‘Maybe we should have waved them down,’ Linda suddenly remarked. ‘Asked them how long they’ve been driving for.’

‘Dad.’ Peter was peering through the gap between his parents’ seats. His eyes had strayed from the speedometer to the fuel gauge. Beside the bobbing red indicator (which was poised just above the line marked “E”) a little electronic light was glowing. Superimposed on this luminous disk was a simplified picture of a petrol pump. ‘Are we – are we going to run out of petrol?’

Linda gasped as Noel sighed.

‘Actually, Peter, I wasn’t going to comment on that for a little while,’ he said.

‘Noel!’ Linda spoke very clearly and urgently. ‘The tank’s almost empty, in case you haven’t noticed!’

‘It’s not as bad as you think.’

‘Noel –’

‘It always looks worse than it is. You know that. There’s always a bit in reserve when the needle strikes “E”.’

‘Which means we’ve got what? Ten minutes?’

‘I’m not sure . . .’

Linda tackled the bag at her feet again. She searched through it until she found her mobile phone.

‘That’s not going to work,’ said Noel.

‘There’s no harm in trying.’

‘It won’t work, out here.’

‘Have you got a
better
idea, then?’ Linda growled. Peter shrank back into his seat, praying that they wouldn’t start to argue – it would only make things worse in that cramped little car. Rose said: ‘Mummy.’

Peter tapped her arm and gave her a frown of warning. Even Louise was now alert to the drama. She had closed her sketch book and was chewing on the end of a perfumed pencil, eyeing the back of her mother’s head.

‘Nothing,’ Linda fretted, after pushing a few buttons on her mobile, pressing it to her ear, giving it a shake and repeating the process all over again. ‘Not a thing.’

Noel made no comment, but the words ‘I told you so’ seemed to hang heavy in the air.

‘What happens if we do run out?’ Linda wanted to know. ‘Will our insurance cover a tow truck? I can’t see the NRMA in Broken Hill sending a motor mechanic all the way out here with a can of petrol.’

‘We won’t need a tow truck
or
a motor mechanic,’ Noel replied reassuringly. ‘There’s bound to be a farm along here somewhere. We’ll just knock on the door and ask them if they have a bit of spare petrol that we could buy. These places generally do. Lots of people must run low along this highway.’

‘Did you fill it up before we left?’ Linda demanded.

‘You know I did.’

‘Then what the hell’s going on?’

‘I‘m not sure.’

‘Kids!’ Linda raised her voice. She craned around, struggling to look her children in the eye. ‘Has anyone seen a mailbox or anything, recently? Maybe the name of a farm or a family painted on a sign – something like that? I know
I
haven’t.’

Peter tried to think. He hadn’t been looking for mailboxes. He had been looking for distance markers, because there didn’t seem to be a single one on that particular stretch of highway that wasn’t bent or peppered with shot or wind-scoured into incomprehensibility. He had a vague recollection of a dirt road, winding off in the direction of the creek – maybe even two dirt roads – but not of any mailbox or name on a board.

He surely would have remembered, if he had seen such a thing. Mailboxes out here were often interesting creations, made of oil drums and microwave ovens and other diverse objects, and signage was so rare that any words written along the highway would have lingered in his mind, leaving a sort of echo, like a catchy tune.