The Audrey of the Outback Collection (7 page)

‘And how have you been, Mr Akbar?’ Mrs Barlow sipped her tea while she waited for him to empty his mouth.

It took a while. He didn’t seem to understand that scones were supposed to be eaten a bite at a time. With him, it was all or nothing.

‘I am well, thanks God.’ He nodded. ‘Although, only some little time ago I almost died.’

Price and Audrey exchanged a look. If everything Mr Akbar said was true, then he’d had more adventures than you could shake a stick at. More than all the other men in Australia put together.

‘I made camp two days south,’ he said, ‘and woke in the night to a tickle on my face.’

He paused, waiting for them all to think about the horrors that lurked in the dark.

Audrey shivered, remembering the night she slept outside. Even Stumpy had been nervous.

Mr Akbar burped loudly. A morsel of scone flew from his mouth. Burping was a sign of enjoying food in the country where Mr Akbar grew up. Audrey imagined a large family, all burping at the same time. Instead of playing cards at night, they could have burp competitions.

‘I kept my body still, but carefully reached out to strike a match,’ continued Mr Akbar. ‘Then I saw what was tickling.’

Price sneaked a hand out towards the scone plate. He had eaten nearly as many as Mr Akbar. Audrey had lost count of the exact number, but it was a lot. She took another one herself, before they were all gone.

Douglas ran back from the chookyard to weave in and out between them.

Mr Akbar’s eyes popped wide open. ‘It was a death adder.’

‘Def!’ repeated Douglas.

‘If I had moved,’ explained Mr Akbar, ‘I would be in heaven before my time.’

‘But with a sore face,’ said Audrey. ‘Even if you wanted to go to heaven, it wouldn’t be worth getting bitten on the face by an adder.’

Mr Akbar leaned forward and stared fiercely at each of them in turn. ‘Death adders are devious.’

‘What’s deevis?’ asked Audrey.

‘Adders
trick
,’ he said. ‘They disguise their bodies in grasses and cross their tails in front of the mouth. If a small animal comes close, the adder wriggles its tail. The animal grabs at the tail. Suddenly the adder
strikes
with his fangs.’

Douglas squealed.

Audrey winced. ‘Our dog, Lightning, got bitten by a snake and he died.’

‘Peanuts,’ said Mr Akbar.

Mrs Barlow handed her cup of tea to Audrey and lifted Douglas onto her lap. He stuck his thumb in his mouth.

‘Snakes are deevis, all right,’ said Audrey. ‘Mr Akbar, do you reckon dogs go to heaven? How come we don’t see their legs hanging down?’

Twenty-two

‘Mr Akbar, have you found a wife yet?’ asked Mrs Barlow.

For as long as Audrey could remember, Mr Akbar had talked of his search for a wife. One time there actually was a woman that he liked, but on his next visit he had called her a ‘peanut’. So Audrey guessed it hadn’t worked out too well.

‘I am an intelligent man, clean, with a quick brain, yet I cannot find a wife.’

‘Maybe wives don’t like the smell of camels,’ said Audrey. She wanted to mention the spitting, too, but a warning glance from her mum suggested it was better not to say more.

Mr Akbar flicked scone crumbs from his long, thin beard. ‘Where is your husband, Mrs B?’

Mrs Barlow let Douglas wriggle off her lap. ‘Somewhere near Parachilna, I think.’

Mr Akbar said nothing. He began stroking his beard the way people petted their dogs.

The silence stretched.

Mr Akbar’s face had gone very still, and so had his tongue.

Audrey’s chest tightened. Was something wrong?

‘What is it, Mr Akbar?’ Although Mrs Barlow spoke gently, her face showed worry lines.

They all stared, waiting for him to say what was on his mind.

He looked towards the low hills on the horizon as though they held a secret that only he could see. Then he seemed to shake himself back to the present. ‘Oh, I am so humbly sorry that I forget. I have something for the young lady.’ He nodded to Audrey. ‘A gift.’

Audrey suspected he was changing the subject on purpose. But even so, a flash of excitement shot through her. ‘You’ve got a present, for me?’

Mr Akbar reached into a deep pocket in his baggy trousers and pulled out something wrapped in cloth. He rose and stepped towards Audrey. With both hands, he offered the gift.

‘I met a man on the road who asked me if I was travelling this way. I said, “Yes,” so he said, “There is a young lady with eyes green like winter grass, you must give this to her, to remember me by.”’

Audrey unwrapped the cloth. Inside was a sheep jawbone. It had a row of teeth, with one missing, right in the middle.

She grinned. ‘You met Toothless.’

‘Yes, I remember his name had something to do with faces. This man, he makes tea that tastes like tar.’

‘That’s him, all right.’

Audrey leaned forward to show her older brother the jawbone. ‘See, Price? I told you the swaggie had skulls and jaws in his bag.’

‘Mr Akbar.’ Mum’s voice cut sharply through their chatter. ‘Tell me about my husband.’

‘I have not seen your husband.’ He waved a hand towards the sky. ‘It is only … I heard news of a fire near Parachilna. My friend, Jamal, had to run for his life. There was not much time to let his camels go loose. It was a big fire. Much smoke and flames.’

The colour drained from Mum’s face, leaving it whiter than flour. ‘I am sorry to hear about the fire, Mr Akbar. But I am sure my husband will be fine. He’s a strong and clever man. He’s lived in the bush all his life. And, by now, he should be well on his way home. I expect him any day.’

Mr Akbar nodded. ‘Of course. Your husband will be safe.’

But the look in his eyes told Audrey that Mr Akbar was not sure about his own words.

‘That man flew from London on a moth.’

Twenty-three

The kerosene lantern spluttered. Shadow shapes leapt up the lounge-room walls as the flame flickered. Price turned the tiny wheel on the lantern to lengthen the wick, and the flame became strong and steady. He placed the lantern on the small wooden table beside his mother.

In the next room, Douglas muttered in his sleep.

Audrey flung herself down on the kangaroo-skin rug by the empty fireplace. She was excited about sharing the letters with Price and her mother. But not as much as usual. She couldn’t stop thinking about the bushfire. Her mum hadn’t said any more about it. But since they waved goodbye to Mr Akbar, she’d been jumpy and pale.

Besides that, there was a story in Jimmy’s letter that bothered Audrey. She turned the sheet of paper in her hands. There was a second page still in the envelope that she wasn’t going to share.

‘Who’s first?’ Mum rested her foot on an empty wooden crate. She sat on a small armchair with a straight back. It was covered with a blanket knitted in coloured squares. ‘Price?’

Jimmy had written a letter for each of them. Dougie had a drawing of a magpie and a feather. He had fallen asleep with the feather clutched in his hand.

Price sat back in Dad’s battered armchair. The upholstery was faded and worn thin in places. But Dad always reckoned it was the most comfortable chair he’d ever sat in. A second lamp sat on the mantelpiece above Price’s head.

He unfolded his letter. ‘Jimmy says the railway line between Alice Springs and Adelaide is finished.’

Mum draped Audrey’s blue smock-dress across her lap and opened the tin where she kept her mending cotton and needles. ‘Another reason, perhaps, that fewer camels are needed. That, and the trucks.’

Price tilted the letter so the lantern shone more brightly on the page. ‘They have a thing in Adelaide called
air-conditioning
. It’s a machine that blows cold air.’

‘Don’t the houses have windows?’

Price ignored Audrey and kept reading, ‘Don Bradman got 452 runs, not out, in a cricket match in Sydney. That’s the highest score anyone has ever made, in the whole world.’ He refolded his letter. ‘What about your letter, Mum?’

‘There’s a nice song that’s popular at the moment called
Tip-toe thru’ the tulips
. There was an orchestral concert on the radio. And Jimmy’s dad is doing well in his new job.’ Mrs Barlow rubbed her leg. It ached more at night. ‘Anything interesting in your letter, Audrey?’

Audrey took a small white shell out of her envelope and held it out. ‘It’s from the beach and it smells like salt. Price, you want to smell it too?’

Price pressed his lips together. He did that when he was trying to look like a grown-up man. But Audrey thought he looked more like a boy with wind.

Mum held up a needle, squinting as she fed blue cotton through its eye.

‘This is the best bit,’ said Audrey. ‘A man in Yass had an operation on his foot because he got a horrible weeping sore …’

‘No need to describe it,’ said her mother. ‘Just tell us what happened.’

‘The doctor found a bullet that had been stuck in his foot for thirteen years. That bullet is older than you, Price.’ Audrey looked down at Jimmy’s letter again. ‘A man called Francis … C … Ch.’ She held out the first page of the letter for her mother to read.

‘Chichester,’ said Mum.

‘That man flew from London on a moth.’

‘I think Gipsy Moth might be the name of the man’s plane.’

‘Oh. A real moth would be better.’ Audrey refolded her letter and said nothing about the second, hidden, page. She didn’t want anyone else to see it.

Twenty-four

Price flung down the shovel and wiped one hand across his forehead. ‘Your turn, Audrey.’

Audrey looked down at the shallow dent in the sand that was supposed to become their new dunny hole.

Price had grunted a lot and the shovel had scraped on the hard-baked sand. But the size of the hole was disappointing.

‘We’re not going to finish this till Christmas.’ Audrey twanged the straps of the braces which held up her loose trousers and spat on her hands, then bent to pick up the shovel. She wasn’t sure why you had to spit on your hands. But Dad always did it before picking up the axe to chop wood.

Usually, Audrey liked spitting. It was fun aiming at targets. She and Stumpy sometimes had spitting competitions out in the scrub. Stumpy usually won because he had a longer neck. But spitting on her hands wasn’t so much fun. Her spittle was warm and slimy.

She rested one foot on the shovel blade and leaned her weight on it. It didn’t go down far.

Price flumped onto the red sand and wrapped his arms around his knees.

From inside the house came the sound of a magpie. Its name was Douglas.

‘I’ve got a question,’ said Audrey.

‘I know.’

Audrey stopped digging. ‘How do you know? I haven’t asked it yet.’

‘You’ve always got a question.’ Price opened the water canteen and took a deep swig. A trickle ran down his chin.

‘Do you think Dad’s all right?’ She hadn’t been able to ask Mum because the look on her face was like a shut door.

‘’Course I do,’ said Price. But his voice was too cheerful, too loud. ‘He can look after himself.’

‘But if the fire was that big …’

‘There’s always fires when it’s dry.’

‘But Mr Akbar …’

‘Peanuts,’ said Price.

Despite her worry about Dad, Audrey giggled. ‘Can I ask you one more question?’

‘If you keep digging.’

Audrey scraped half-heartedly at the sandy soil with the shovel. ‘What will happen if Dad … if he doesn’t come home?’

Price’s bottom lip seemed to quiver. Just for a second. Then it stopped. ‘I guess we’d have to grow up in a hurry.’

‘Can we do that? Being a grown-up is hard. And I’ve still got girl things to do.’

Price shrugged. He didn’t know what else to say.

Neither did Audrey.

‘I’ve got a story to tell you.’

Twenty-five

Audrey placed both hands on the trunk of a gum tree. She put her face close to the bark and blew gently. No possum hair floated up.

‘This tree is empty, Stumpy,’ she said.

Months ago, an old Aboriginal woman had shown Audrey how to find possums this way. She’d shown her other things, too. But the old woman had only stayed for a few days. Visitors were like that. They popped up, then vanished. Except for Jimmy. He had stayed for a whole year. But then, he too had gone away, back to the city and his dad.