The Vintage and the Gleaning (29 page)

And the wife of the Protector of Aboriginals took her hands from my face and she moved back into the dim of the car, the driver saying, We need to get into town before it hits or we're stuck here until it passes. They can last for days, ma'am. I've seen it before. And as the driver leaned over to wind up the window I looked at the woman one last time, the car starting with a roar and a belch of dark smoke, the wheels kicking up a hail of sand over the line of black children who coughed and rubbed their eyes and they waved their Empire Flags as the car jerked forward and onto the road. And they waved their flags as the car sped into the distance and they kept waving their flags until long after it was gone.

The sand coiling, the nuns moving frantically as the dust storm drew nearer, marching the piccanins off in double time, bolting the doors and closing the shutters and I felt a pull at my arm, the sister saying, The cow, bring in the cow. And I walked out towards the paddock and as the wind roared and as the dust swirled thick around me I was struck by sand and twigs and stones, stinging my face and my bare skin and eyes. And as I wandered blind in the angry ruddy gloom, the cow bell sounding its low and hollow noise somewhere in the raging distance, I could think only of the woman, only of her, and of her clothes and finery, her hair soft and gold in the sun, the fan and hat beside her and the feel of lace on my cheeks, the touch of her lips and her eyes looking into mine and her beauty, and at that moment I did not care, I did not care whether I lived or died.

And what I want to know is, was that wrong? Was it all wrong? Has it all been wrong from the start?