here.’
‘Have you got a better idea, then?’ Linda growled. Peter shrank back into his seat, praying that they wouldn’t start to argue – it would only make things worse in that cramped little car. Rose said: ‘Mummy.’
Peter tapped her arm and gave her a frown of warning. Even Louise was now alert to the drama. She had closed her sketch book and was chewing on the end of a perfumed pencil, eyeing the back of her mother’s head.
‘Nothing,’ Linda fretted, after pushing a few buttons on her mobile, pressing it to her ear, giving it a shake and repeating the process all over again. ‘Not a thing.’
Noel made no comment, but the words ‘I told you so’ seemed to hang heavy in the air.
‘What happens if we do run out?’ Linda wanted to know. ‘Will our insurance cover a tow truck? I can’t see the NRMA in Broken Hill sending a motor mechanic all the way out here with a can of petrol.’
‘We won’t need a tow truck or a motor mechanic,’ Noel replied reassuringly. ‘There’s bound to be a farm along here somewhere. We’ll just knock on the door and ask them if they have a bit of spare petrol that we could buy. These places generally do. Lots of people must run low along this highway.’
‘Did you fill it up before we left?’ Linda demanded.
‘You know I did.’
‘Then what the hell’s going on?’
‘I‘m not sure.’
‘Kids!’ Linda raised her voice. She craned around, struggling to look her children in the eye. ‘Has anyone seen a mailbox or anything, recently? Maybe the name of a farm or a family painted on a sign – something like that? I know I haven’t.’
Peter tried to think. He hadn’t been looking for mailboxes. He had been looking for distance markers, because there didn’t seem to be a single one on that particular stretch of highway that wasn’t bent or peppered with shot or wind-scoured into incomprehensibility. He had a vague recollection of a dirt road, winding off in the direction of the creek – maybe even two dirt roads – but not of any mailbox or name on a board.
He surely would have remembered, if he had seen such a thing. Mailboxes out here were often interesting creations, made of oil drums and microwave ovens and other diverse objects, and signage was so rare that any words written along the highway would have lingered in his mind, leaving a sort of echo, like a catchy tune.
‘I didn’t see anything,’ he confessed at last.
‘I did,’ said Louise, and everyone – except Noel – looked at her.
‘You did?’ Linda sounded sceptical. ‘Where?’
‘Back there. It was a mailbox, painted white. Beside a road.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘How far back was it?’ asked Peter, before his mother could. Louise screwed up her face, which was olive skinned, like Linda’s.
‘I don’t remember,’ she said. ‘Quite a long way.’
‘Stop the car.’
Linda’s tone was calm, but Noel was startled nonetheless. There was a minimal slackening of speed as he adjusted the weight of his foot on the accelerator.
‘What’s that?’ he asked.
‘Stop the car. Please.’
‘Why? What’s wrong?’
‘Just stop it. Please .’
Noel made a long-suffering noise. He flicked the indicator (though there was no one behind him for as far as the eye could see) and pulled over to the side of the road. Then he turned off the engine.
‘Okay,’ he said. ‘What is it?’
‘Mum? Can I go to the toilet?’
‘In a minute, Rosie.’ Noel was looking at his wife, who sat with her elbow resting on the windowsill, and her forehead resting on her hand. ‘Are you feeling sick?’
‘No.’
‘Then –’
‘Louise,’ Linda interrupted, ‘will you please get out and help Rose go to the toilet? Put your shoes on first. And take this tissue.’
‘Oh, but Mum ...’
‘ Now . You too, Peter. You can get out and stretch your legs. You’ve been sitting down for too long.’
Peter didn’t argue. It would have been unwise to do so; his mother was
‘Have you got a better idea, then?’ Linda growled. Peter shrank back into his seat, praying that they wouldn’t start to argue – it would only make things worse in that cramped little car. Rose said: ‘Mummy.’
Peter tapped her arm and gave her a frown of warning. Even Louise was now alert to the drama. She had closed her sketch book and was chewing on the end of a perfumed pencil, eyeing the back of her mother’s head.
‘Nothing,’ Linda fretted, after pushing a few buttons on her mobile, pressing it to her ear, giving it a shake and repeating the process all over again. ‘Not a thing.’
Noel made no comment, but the words ‘I told you so’ seemed to hang heavy in the air.
‘What happens if we do run out?’ Linda wanted to know. ‘Will our insurance cover a tow truck? I can’t see the NRMA in Broken Hill sending a motor mechanic all the way out here with a can of petrol.’
‘We won’t need a tow truck or a motor mechanic,’ Noel replied reassuringly. ‘There’s bound to be a farm along here somewhere. We’ll just knock on the door and ask them if they have a bit of spare petrol that we could buy. These places generally do. Lots of people must run low along this highway.’
‘Did you fill it up before we left?’ Linda demanded.
‘You know I did.’
‘Then what the hell’s going on?’
‘I‘m not sure.’
‘Kids!’ Linda raised her voice. She craned around, struggling to look her children in the eye. ‘Has anyone seen a mailbox or anything, recently? Maybe the name of a farm or a family painted on a sign – something like that? I know I haven’t.’
Peter tried to think. He hadn’t been looking for mailboxes. He had been looking for distance markers, because there didn’t seem to be a single one on that particular stretch of highway that wasn’t bent or peppered with shot or wind-scoured into incomprehensibility. He had a vague recollection of a dirt road, winding off in the direction of the creek – maybe even two dirt roads – but not of any mailbox or name on a board.
He surely would have remembered, if he had seen such a thing. Mailboxes out here were often interesting creations, made of oil drums and microwave ovens and other diverse objects, and signage was so rare that any words written along the highway would have lingered in his mind, leaving a sort of echo, like a catchy tune.
‘I didn’t see anything,’ he confessed at last.
‘I did,’ said Louise, and everyone – except Noel – looked at her.
‘You did?’ Linda sounded sceptical. ‘Where?’
‘Back there. It was a mailbox, painted white. Beside a road.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘How far back was it?’ asked Peter, before his mother could. Louise screwed up her face, which was olive skinned, like Linda’s.
‘I don’t remember,’ she said. ‘Quite a long way.’
‘Stop the car.’
Linda’s tone was calm, but Noel was startled nonetheless. There was a minimal slackening of speed as he adjusted the weight of his foot on the accelerator.
‘What’s that?’ he asked.
‘Stop the car. Please.’
‘Why? What’s wrong?’
‘Just stop it. Please .’
Noel made a long-suffering noise. He flicked the indicator (though there was no one behind him for as far as the eye could see) and pulled over to the side of the road. Then he turned off the engine.
‘Okay,’ he said. ‘What is it?’
‘Mum? Can I go to the toilet?’
‘In a minute, Rosie.’ Noel was looking at his wife, who sat with her elbow resting on the windowsill, and her forehead resting on her hand. ‘Are you feeling sick?’
‘No.’
‘Then –’
‘Louise,’ Linda interrupted, ‘will you please get out and help Rose go to the toilet? Put your shoes on first. And take this tissue.’
‘Oh, but Mum ...’
‘ Now . You too, Peter. You can get out and stretch your legs. You’ve been sitting down for too long.’
Peter didn’t argue. It would have been unwise to do so; his mother was
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