Out of Alice (19 page)

‘That's hard to imagine.' The fire had died to embers and the night was very still. If she listened hard, Sara could just hear the cattle in the darkness: the occasional gusty sigh, the creak of trodden branches and once a low sound, more like a murmur than a bellow, that seemed to hang in the air before fading to silence. Frank cocked his head, listening too.

‘Old girls are getting their bellies full.' He glanced at the stars. ‘Be time to get 'em moving again soon.'

‘When do you think you'll get there?'

‘After sunrise, I'd reckon. We'll all be tired tomorrow.'

Frank's estimate proved accurate. It was an hour after sun-up when Sara blinked awake from a doze behind the wheel to see the cattle stringing onto the trough at the new bore. They came in long, dusty files, trotting the last few paces to jostle for space along the trough's length. She yawned and got out to stir up the fire on which the billy already simmered and wedge the saucepan of baked beans onto the coals. Becky, one plait undone, came to join her.

‘I've been up
all
night,' she announced. ‘I bet Sam never has.'

‘Except for a bit of a sleep in the middle.'

‘It was only a
little
sleep, and Dad had one too. It was nearly all night.'

‘Nearly,' Sara said diplomatically. In the dust behind the last of the mob she could see the two riders peeling off and puttering towards them. She stooped to stir the pot. ‘I hope you like baked beans. We seem to have plenty.'

They met up with Jack on the road home. Frank was driving, Len having stayed behind at the bore with his bike and the remaining tucker to patrol the fence again that afternoon, turning any cattle with a penchant for straying back onto their new water. Becky, bouncing between the adults, was the first to spot the glint of sunlight on chrome.

‘There's a car coming. It's Uncle Jack.' Frank stopped, letting the other Toyota pull level. ‘Know what, Uncle Jack? I stayed up all night,' Becky shouted.

He grinned. ‘Hi, Becs. Did you? Hello, Sara. How'd it go, Dad?'

‘Good. Wound up with about two hundred and seventy head. They poked along easy enough. Len's gonna turn 'em back onto the water this arvo before coming home. Where're you heading?'

‘The roadhouse. Miracle really. The electrical mob flew the part up from Adelaide and the bloke in Alice managed to get it onto the bus this morning. Fingers crossed we should have the power back on sometime this arvo. Enjoy yourself, Sara?'

‘Very educational.' She gave him a wink. ‘Can't wait for a sho­wer though.'

‘Right, I'll let you get on, then.' He drove off, sending a gust of red dirt all over them before Frank could get his window up.

Back at the homestead Sara shampooed her hair, revelling in the sluice of cool water on her skin. She kept forgetting about the lack of power, her fingers automatically pressing the light switch, or reaching for the fridge door. It stood open now, and a large lidded tin, swathed in wet flannelette, rested on the sink in front of the louvres where it could catch the breeze.

‘Butter,' Helen said. ‘Wet it anytime it's dry.'

‘And that stops it melting?'

‘Stops it turning to oil anyhow,' Helen assured her. ‘There was life before refrigeration, you know.'

‘Yes. Frank was telling me last night about the early days on Arkeela, how your first house had dirt floors and no window glass.'

‘Ant bed, not dirt,' Helen corrected. ‘It's like cement. Made of pounded up termite mounds. All the bush tennis courts were built from ant bed. Damp it down before you sweep and it lasts for years, just like the mounds do. It's one thing we had plenty of on Arkeela.' Her gaze drifted to the window and she smiled reminiscently. ‘Yes, it was hard, but those were good years. If I'd known how hard it would all get . . . but that's the thing about life. You can never see what's ahead. And a good thing, I dare say, otherwise this country would never have been settled. So, what are your plans for today?'

‘Oh, excuse me.' Sara covered her mouth, yawning until her eyes watered. ‘I think we should do a little school after lunch, and the rest tomorrow. That way we'll be caught up for next week. Have you heard from Beth about her travel plans?'

‘They're catching Monday's bus.'

Sara rubbed her hands. ‘Great! Just the incentive I need. Now all I have to do is convince Becky.'

On Monday morning Len left straight after breakfast to meet the bus. Becky was in the schoolroom, only half her attention on her lessons as she wriggled on her chair, sighing over sums.

‘Guess what, Mrs Murray?' she blurted, when her on-air lesson began. ‘Mum and Sam're coming home today. And last week I stayed up all night!'

‘That must have been exciting, Rebecca, and it's wonderful about Sam. We'll hope to hear him back on school soon. Now, write down these words, please . . .'

When the lesson was over Becky pouted. ‘I wanted to tell her about the map, but there wasn't time.'

‘Never mind.' Sara lifted her face to the blessed coolness of the fan whirring above the desk. She vowed to never take electricity for granted again.

Thanks to a Herculean effort on Sunday, Sam's welcome home gift from his sister was finished, the framed article wrapped and waiting for him. Some of the inscribed fences were less than straight, but Becky had printed the names of the various bores and paddocks in her best handwriting, and the pictures, tedious as they had been to gather, enlivened the plain background. There was a photo of Jess to mark the homestead and a compass rose in one corner that Sara herself had constructed from photocopied mulga leaves. Jack had been impressed with that touch.

‘Nice,' he'd said. ‘You're quite the artist.' Sara had blushed and immediately praised his father's work, pointing to the pine frame that Frank had made from an old packing case, sanding the timber smooth and staining it with wood oil. Now they had only to wait for the travellers' arrival. The house positively shone, Jack had cut the lawn, and the buds on the lemon tree had burst into tiny leaves. Helen, who had filled every biscuit and cake tin in the house and had a week's supply of bread in the freezer, was making plans to leave, though Frank was more reluctant.

‘What's the hurry, love?' he had protested.

‘I don't want our house standing empty,' she had said. ‘A fine thing to get home and find we've been burgled. Besides, the garden will need work. I doubt Beth's had much time for it. And have you forgotten you've an appointment with your specialist this week?'

He had grimaced and sighed, plainly preferring the station to suburbia. She would miss him, Sara realised, as she corrected her inattentive charge's work, and found herself wondering how different her life might have been with someone like Frank for a father. Then Becky, who had momentarily escaped to the kitchen on the pretext of being thirsty, gave a sudden yell.

‘They're coming!'

Something clanged into the sink, footsteps raced through the house and Sara heard the front door bang. She switched off the fan and now she could hear it too, the low growl of an engine coming up the paddock. That night, filled with Beth's palpable terror and the agonising wait for the doctor's plane, seemed something that had happened six months rather than six weeks ago. But Sam was finally coming home. Well, it was for his family to greet him first. She lingered in the schoolroom, tidying papers and looking at the afternoon's work, doubting that much more would get done today. When it seemed unreasonable to wait any longer, she went out to join the family at the gate.

Becky was with Jess in the forefront, with Frank and Helen expectant behind and Jack propped against the gate post. Len slowed to let the dust drift away, then came to a stop and Sara saw Sam's face grinning through the shaded glass from the back seat. He was pale and as bald as ever. Beth, unbuckling herself in the front, was less brown than she had been. Jess was barking madly, then her hackles rose just as Jack spoke.

‘Who's the bloke?'

There was a fourth person in the vehicle, a man. Sam's door opened and he tumbled out to grab Jess, who licked him, her whole body wriggling with excitement though her hackles stayed up and she growled low in her throat.

‘Knock it off, girl,' Sam commanded, himself almost flattened by her exuberant welcome. ‘Hi, Nan, and Pops. Hello, Uncle Jack. We brought a friend to see you, Sara. He was on the bus too.'

All three adults were getting out. Beth said something but the words were lost on Sara, whose whole attention was riveted on the man levering himself out the far door. She saw his face first, the dark head covered with a cloth hat, and then, as he turned towards her, the olive skin and brown eyes.

‘Hello, Sara,' he said, the dark hairs along his arm glinting as he raised it to the vehicle's roof. ‘You've certainly taken some finding.'

The day seemed to freeze as the blood left her face. Sara stepped backwards on shaking legs until she came up against the gate and cowered there, her arms lifting to shield her face. She cried, ‘No!' Her voice a strangled gasp of horror.

Becky's voice piped, ‘What's wrong, Sara?' Her mouth had opened in surprise; everybody's head swung about, as if pulled by a single string, to stare.

All but one.

‘Hold it!' Jack stepped into the stranger's path as he came round behind the vehicle, and glanced quickly back at her. ‘Who is he, Sara? What's up?'

‘It's him.' She was utterly terrified. ‘The one who stalked me.'

‘Hey, hey! I wasn't —' The man got no further. Jack shoved him hard in the chest, sending him stumbling away. ‘Clear off.' He bit the words short, voice flat and hard. ‘And don't bother coming back. Got that?'

‘Who the hell do you think you are, you big ox?' the stranger snarled. ‘It's nothing to do with you.' He tried to sidestep his challenger and Jack said grimly, ‘I warned you,' and socked him in the jaw. The man staggered again and sat down in the dirt, and Jess lunged at him.

‘Jess!' Jack's voice stopped her. Len shook his head. ‘Does somebody want to tell me what's going on?' And Becky, eyes like saucers, shut her mouth, then opened it again to state the obvious.

‘You hit him, Uncle Jack!'

Sara remembered suddenly and grabbed his arm. ‘He's a copper, Jack.'

‘Funny bloody copper that goes in for breaking and entering.'

Half the stranger's face was hidden by a hand pressed to his jaw, but the skin around it flushed. He glared murderously at Jack. ‘I wasn't,' he protested, his eyes on Sara. ‘I went inside your place but I had my reasons, which, if you'll call off this bloody nutcase I'll explain. God almighty!' His anger suddenly broke through. ‘I've chased you all over Australia – surely you can spare me five minutes to tell you why?'

‘Why would she?' Jack demanded. ‘You stalk her, you break into her home, you frighten Christ out of her – cop or not, you oughta be locked up. And if you come near her again, you will be. I'll see to that.'

‘All right, all right.' His hat had come off when he fell. He looked about for it and stood up, a red splotch on his jaw where Jack's fist had landed. He rubbed it, scowling. ‘I owe you one for that, you bastard! And I'm not actually a cop. I said that because – look, can we talk about this somewhere out of the sun? I never meant to alarm you, Miss Blake. And I certainly wasn't stalking you. If you would just give me a chance to explain.' He glared at Jack. ‘I'll settle with you later.'

‘Anytime.' Jack rubbed his knuckles. ‘You want me to chuck him off the place, Sara?'

Before she could answer Beth spoke, her eyes narrowing. ‘Did he really stalk you, Sara? He said he knew you – that he'd come a long way to see you. Do you want to speak with him? If so we should go inside, or out of the sun at least. But only if that's what you want,' she added. ‘Otherwise he leaves.'

Jack turned an enquiring glance on her. ‘Your decision, Sara. He might know something.'

‘All right.' Her breathing had steadied and her fear was subsiding. Nothing could happen to her while Jack was near. The knowledge emboldened her and her composure returned. She studied the man – he was ordinary-looking enough – then frowned in recollection, addressing him directly for the first time. ‘You said, that time on the beach, that your name was Mike.'

‘It is. I'm Michael Paul Markham, but I use Paul professionally because my father was Mike too. I'm a journalist.
He
was the cop.'

‘So why tell lies, and pretend to be him?' she demanded, green eyes stony.

The stranger said ruefully, ‘Okay, I admit that was dumb but I thought you might be more amenable if I called myself a cop, that you might talk to me, answer a few questions. So I could find out what I needed, without revealing who I was. Not everybody's happy to talk to a journalist.'

They had negotiated the steps by then and she turned at the top, nostrils flaring. ‘So, the gutter press, then. You must have been desperate if you really thought there was anything to write about me.'

He was stung on the raw. ‘Nothing of the sort. I'm an investigative journalist. I don't do tits and bums and sex scandals.'

‘What's that mean?' Becky asked interestedly, and was ignored by all.

‘So what, then? You deliberately knocked me down!'

‘No – yes – well, it wasn't – I meant to bump you, that's all, not knock you over. Look, I just wanted a chance to speak to you. I thought I could apologise, introduce myself. But you shrieked your head off and I knew I'd blown it. Then afterwards you wouldn't let me near you . . .'

Jack took a step towards him. ‘Give me one good reason why she should.' He looked furious, his protective instincts obviously roused. His hands had hardened into fists, which he clearly yearned to bury in Markham's face.

The journalist saw it too and took a prudent step backwards, which brought him up against the verandah railing. ‘Because,' he said rapidly, ‘I know who she is. I wasn't sure then but I suspected, and I was trying to learn what
she
knew first to put it all together. It's my job, for God's sake.' Sara stared, incomprehension and amazement warring on her face. ‘Interviewing people, following leads, that's what I do —'

‘Wha—' Her voice failed. She swallowed and tried again. ‘What do you mean, who I am? I'm Sara Blake.'

‘No,' Markham said, ‘you're not. That's why I've been chasing you all round the country. If I'm right, and I'm about 98 per cent certain of it, your real name is Christine Randall. Now, Miss Blake, Miss Randall, will you
please
talk to me?'