1915 by Roger McDonald Page B

country at all — he spat.”
    â€œAustralia wouldn’t be in it,” said Walter. “Never,” he repeated firmly, because he was suddenly nervous. Though the peaceable bush nearby had hushed, the curlew faintly cried away to the west, where the stars, streaks of ash, burnt themselves out.
    Billy urged Ginger alongside. Spittle and iron, clanked teeth, and the kick of boot-leather on horsehide held him there.
    â€œWe’re too far from anywhere,” Walter concluded.
    â€œYou could be right.”
    Now they were at the crossroads, and Billy worked hard to hold in Ginger, who sensed the coming gallop along the sandy track. Walter said:
    â€œThere was nothing in what Blacky said about the Reilly girl, you know.”
    â€œGood-oh.”
    Though darkness was between them, and only the scrape of hoofs gave them away, Walter felt they saw each other clearly. And it wasn’t friendship, nor was it shared interest that caused this peculiar flow of recognition. It was as though different nationalities had been declared. When had the declaration been made? The more Walter claimed to himself their differences didn’t matter, the greater they loomed.
    â€œThe barmaid’s just a trouble-maker.”
    â€œShe’s that all right.”
    Then they talked about Billy’s mother — just a couple of words. Finally they agreed that hard work could kill a man, and they were dog tired. At last, each one echoing the sentiments of the other, they parted.
    Â 
    Both were home and asleep before the storm struck, though their parents saw everything. At the Gilchrists’ the wind poured from the hills with the grinding sound of a huge axle. Over at the Mackenzies’, Billy’s father slammed doors and witnessed in a triple succession of lightning flashes the curtain of rain as it swayed just beyond the edge of the veranda.
    That night in Parkes hospital Billy’s mother died.

8
The Uninvited Guest
    â€œFranny, this admirer of yours —”
    â€œAdmirer!”
    â€œWalter whoever-he-is.”
    â€œGilchrist,” mouthed Frances, speaking at Walter’s letter, which under its own power had raised two thick folds to form a triangle. Until this moment it had been paper alone. Now her mother was giving it importance. “He wrote, I didn’t.”
    Mrs Reilly sat erect and prim, not at all herself. “I can see this Walter in a couple of years. He’s ghastly enough now with his loathsome New Year dances and funerals and mud — heavens, he’s trying so hard and all he can rise to is crudeness.”
    Frances saw the letter as inoffensive, even dull, compared with her mother’s own quick-tongued picture of things on other occasions. What about the “full story” of her marriage, which she’d revealed over the queer week following New Year when Pat Reilly had again left for Forbes? There had been moments then, many of them, when Frances had wanted to cry Stop , either because she couldn’t bear to see her father so unfairly investigated, or because she was in stitches. But she said nothing now, not because of this shared “cruel streak”, but because staring at the letter she felt a need to rouse opposition, and form from the swirling nothingness of her emotions a definite attitude.
    â€œWide hat, red face, arms like sides of beef, thick shoes. Boots! Spilling tea all over the carpet,” Mrs Reilly paused — having splashed a drop herself.
    â€œHere?”
    â€œNothing to talk about but the price of wool, or cattle, or rabbits or whatever it is they kill and sell off. Asking about your music, as if he cared, producing a couple of tickets for the theatre — something awful, you can be sure — and clod-hopping with you down Pitt Street. And then, like a bull at a gate, producing a ring and asking you to cook hot dinners for ever in a tin shed.”
    â€œHe’s not like that,” said Frances, at