Siddon Rock (28 page)

But apart from snippets and fractured memories passed from those who were there to their children, there
is little in the town to remind of Robert Crush, known as Kelpie, who was the barman at the Railway and Traveller's Hotel during and after the war.

Marge Redall packed up the collection of moths and insects, and took it to Gawain Evans at the Council Offices where she said,
I reckon these should be kept, but not at the pub.
Gawain put the boxes in an unused cupboard in the boardroom where they were promptly forgotten, except maybe by Granna.

Macha, on her way to patrol the town, stopped at Nell's hut. Nell touched her on the arm.
Not one of mine
, she said.

At least we know where David is
, Young George said to Hettie as she prepared the evening meal.
At least we know.

Mach might have come home not speaking
, Brigid said to Granna.
But at least she's home.

To the town, Catalin appeared calm and controlled, so much so that the whispers that had started the day Jos disappeared became louder and more overt; sibilant, like bees swarming around something sweet and irresistible. When she walked down Wickton Street the women would give a small half-smile that carried the shape of thin-lipped
disapproval, and glance away. The men still doffed their hats, but the desire lurking at the back of their eyes became less obvious, and thoughts of their uncomplicated wives rose unbidden to mind.

Every night Catalin sat in the room where Jos had slept. She could not sleep, but refused to take Matron's offer of time off.
Where would I go
? she said.
At least here I can do something.
But she floated around the hospital like a ghost, so that Matron hired Martha Hinks' daughter to help out for a while.

I've never heard her cry
, Matron said to Nell.
It's not healthy to bottle it all up inside. It's like an abscess, the bad has to come out to be healed.

 

EARLY MORNING ON THE ROCK
is as profound as the grave, as if time itself is suspended. The grey time before dawn holds remnants of the night and the first signs of the coming light.

There she is, Catalin, as high as she can get on the rock. Not as high as the flight of cockatoos that rises up from the station-yard, spiralling over the town towards the light. Not nearly as high as she would like to be, flying over the inland until she finds Jos and brings him home. All she can do is sit here watching so that she will see him immediately he appears. There have been no tears. There is no reason for tears.
Save your tears for things that need them
, her mother had always told her.
There are always those worse off than yourself.
So Catalin cannot cry for something that will soon be righted when Jos comes home.

There, too, is Macha Connor. She has finished her patrol around the town and is but a few steps away from where Catalin sits. This is the morning ritual now: the
patrol, the climb, and sitting here with Catalin until she has to start at the hospital.

This morning there are others on the rock. On the west side Nell is climbing easily, the dingoes running ahead and behind, shepherding her up the steep slope. She arrives a moment or two after Macha, at the same time as Sybil Barber.

Nell knows what she must say to Catalin.
Gotta do something
, she had said to Sybil the day before.
Gotta make her see that the kid's gone; not comin' back. All that salt she's hangin' on to gotta come out before it makes her die inside.
But to herself she said,
Can't tell her it all. No need to tell it all.

The women sit with Catalin, gazing out across the bush of the Yackoo.
Look at the railway track,
Catalin says.
I wonder where it ends. I wonder if Jos will be able to get a train back.

Sybil, too, looks to the inland.
Ends up at a siding about fifty miles out
, she says.
You know, when I was a kid I'd sit up here every Christmas morning. There was this song, see, that we'd sing at school.
And she sings:

And I'd come here and wait for the three ships to come in across the salt lake – which wasn't nearly as big as it is now, but seemed pretty huge to a kid.

Well, one year – I was seven or eight – I was here real early, like now. It was light, but before the sun came up. Alf had belted Mum during the night, knocked her out so that she wouldn't know what he did to me, I think. He used to treat me like … like his wife. So I climbed out the window and came up here. There I was, feeling pretty miserable and hating the world. Then a train went flying past, just a rattly old wheat-truck thing. It missed the branch-line to the silo, and it stopped suddenly, all shaking and noise, and backed up. But as it did I could hear the driver and the stoker laughing, and they started pulling the whistle. Cockadoodledoo, it went. Cockadoodledoo, as if there was something to be happy about.

Then the sun started to come up, and I'd never seen anything like it, probably because I'd not got up that early before. Just a pink smudge it was, sitting on the edge of the inland for ages. All of a sudden it rushed up, as if it was pulled by a string, this huge reddy-gold ball. Straight up into the sky, and for a few minutes the salt was pink. There was a gorgeous sparkly pink salt lake and the plains were bright red
. Sybil swept her arm in an arc, indicating the vastness of the country at their feet.

But the thing is, way out there at the edge of the world I could see three shapes sailing out of the pink haze. All shimmery they were, and kept changing shape. But I knew they were three ships come sailing in. I could see the sails, and how they rocked up and down the waves. And when I squinted my eyes against the sun, I could see people on the decks, all dressed in caftans and turbans,
just like the pictures in the books at school. And I knew, I just knew, that these were my ships, coming to take me away from here. I don't know how you did it, Catalin. Coming to a place like this, from Europe. It must have been hell.

No
, Catalin says,
there was hell. Here is limbo. This is worse.

Nell signals the dingoes to stay away, and walks up to Catalin.
You trust me, eh, Cat? You know that I'd not tell you wrong?

Catalin nods.

Gotta say this, Cat. I gotta say this. You listen and gotta believe me. He's not coming back, you know.

How can you know that?
Catalin picks up a stone and hurls it out. It twists in the air and flecks of fool's gold flash in the first rays of the sun.
How can you know?

Remember the Yackoo
, Sybil says.
Nell knows.

I know
, Nell says.
I read it on the land.
She glances at Macha.
And that Kelpie Crush. Well, he's not comin' back either. Macha fixed him.

Catalin stands there on the topmost point of the rock, and the sound she makes is not a scream, not a cry, but rather a howl of primal emotion for the lost child.

Nell gathers Catalin to her, rocking and crooning until the sound becomes tears.
We don't know, Cat, why he left the pub, eh. Never know. You gotta let it go, just a little bit. Not try to know things we can't know.

Sybil walks away a few steps, her face tight as she stops her own tears.

It's good to cry
, Nell murmurs to Catalin.
Bad salt inside, good salt out, eh. You cry, Cat.

I'm so tired
, Catalin says.
Bone-weary.
She leans against Nell.
It's my fault, for coming here. My fault for leaving him alone. I promised he'd be safe there.

Macha takes Catalin's hands, looking intently into her face. She shakes her head and taps herself on the chest.
Not your fault
, says the gesture.
My fault.

No
, Catalin says.
No. You try to guard the town – everyone in the town. You can't watch everyone, Mach. Not all the time.

I told Jossie I would always come to get him, so I must always be here. Just in case. But I will never stop crying, here inside. Never.