shaking her head.
They stared at the tabletop, too
settled to move. Their father snored gently. Soon they would put him to bed,
Meg would go home, and Challis would toss sleeplessly on his childhood
mattress.
* * * *
14
Bucketing
rains came through overnight, preceded by thunder and lightning that seemed to
mutter around the fringes of the horizon, then approach and encircle the house
where Ellen Destry slept, and retreat again. Dawn broke still and balmy, the
skies clear, as though nothing had happened. Spring in southeastern Australia,
Ellen thought, glancing out of Challiss bedroom window. The bedside clock was
flashing, indicating that the power had gone off during the night. She glanced
at her watch6 amand went around the house, resetting the digital clocks on
the microwave, the oven, the DVD player. Then, pulling on a tracksuit and old
pair of Reeboks, she set out for her morning walk.
And immediately returned. Rainwater
had come storming down the dirt road and roadside ditches outside Challiss
front gate, carrying pine needles, bark, gravel and sand, which had formed a
plug in the concrete stormwater pipe that ran under his gateway. The ditch had
overflowed, scoring a ragged channel across the entrance. She should do
something about it before the channel got too deep.
Hal had told her the grass would
need mowing regularly. He hadnt told her what a storm could do.
In his garden shed she found a fork,
a five-metre length of stiff, black poly agricultural pipe, and a long-handled
shovel. She hoisted them over one shoulder and returned to the front gate.
There were signs of the overnight storm all about her: twigs, branches, ribbons
of bark and birds nests littered the road; water-laden foliage bent to the
ground; the air seemed to zing with promise.
Ellen forked and poked at the
blocked pipe, shovelled and prodded. Suddenly, with a great, gurgling rush, the
stopper of matted leaves and mud washed free and drain water flowed unchecked
toward the...
Toward the sea? Ellen realised that
she knew very little about life out here on the back roads.
Finally she walked. She passed a
little apple orchard, the trees heavy with blossom despite the storm. Onion
weed, limp and yellowing at the end of its short life, lay densely on both
sides of the road, and choking the fences was chest-high grass, going to seed.
Sometimes her feet slipped treacherously where the dusty road had turned to
mud. The blackberry bushes were sending out wicked new canes and the bracken
was flourishing. Now and then she passed through air currents that didnt smell
clean and new but heavy with the odours of rotting vegetation and stale mud
revitalised by the rain. Everything;the sounds, the smells, the texturesserved
to remind her of Katie Blasko, abandoned, buried, merging with the soil.
She walked slowly up the hill,
stunned to see huge cylinders of hay in one of the paddocks, freshly mown and
wrapped in pale green polythene. When had that happened? She rarely saw or
heard vehicles, and yet here was evidence of the world going on without her.
Without warning she heard a sharp
snap and felt a stunning pain in her scalp. Her heart jumped and she cried out
in terror. Only a magpie, she realised soon afterwards, swooping her because it
had a nest nearbybut shed hated and feared magpies ever since a long-ago
spring day when shed been pecked and harried across a football field as shed
taken a short cut home from school on her bicycle. Magpies sang like angels but
were the devil.
Windmilling her arms wildly about
her head, and trying to make eye contact with her tormentor, Ellen trotted
home. She missed her morning walks on Penzance Beach with Pam Murphy, where the
world was reduced to the sand, the sea, the sky and a few gulls. Out here on
the back roads there was too much nature. All around her ducks sat like knuckly
growths on the bare branches of dead gums, and other birds were busy, calling
out, making nests, protecting their young,
They stared at the tabletop, too
settled to move. Their father snored gently. Soon they would put him to bed,
Meg would go home, and Challis would toss sleeplessly on his childhood
mattress.
* * * *
14
Bucketing
rains came through overnight, preceded by thunder and lightning that seemed to
mutter around the fringes of the horizon, then approach and encircle the house
where Ellen Destry slept, and retreat again. Dawn broke still and balmy, the
skies clear, as though nothing had happened. Spring in southeastern Australia,
Ellen thought, glancing out of Challiss bedroom window. The bedside clock was
flashing, indicating that the power had gone off during the night. She glanced
at her watch6 amand went around the house, resetting the digital clocks on
the microwave, the oven, the DVD player. Then, pulling on a tracksuit and old
pair of Reeboks, she set out for her morning walk.
And immediately returned. Rainwater
had come storming down the dirt road and roadside ditches outside Challiss
front gate, carrying pine needles, bark, gravel and sand, which had formed a
plug in the concrete stormwater pipe that ran under his gateway. The ditch had
overflowed, scoring a ragged channel across the entrance. She should do
something about it before the channel got too deep.
Hal had told her the grass would
need mowing regularly. He hadnt told her what a storm could do.
In his garden shed she found a fork,
a five-metre length of stiff, black poly agricultural pipe, and a long-handled
shovel. She hoisted them over one shoulder and returned to the front gate.
There were signs of the overnight storm all about her: twigs, branches, ribbons
of bark and birds nests littered the road; water-laden foliage bent to the
ground; the air seemed to zing with promise.
Ellen forked and poked at the
blocked pipe, shovelled and prodded. Suddenly, with a great, gurgling rush, the
stopper of matted leaves and mud washed free and drain water flowed unchecked
toward the...
Toward the sea? Ellen realised that
she knew very little about life out here on the back roads.
Finally she walked. She passed a
little apple orchard, the trees heavy with blossom despite the storm. Onion
weed, limp and yellowing at the end of its short life, lay densely on both
sides of the road, and choking the fences was chest-high grass, going to seed.
Sometimes her feet slipped treacherously where the dusty road had turned to
mud. The blackberry bushes were sending out wicked new canes and the bracken
was flourishing. Now and then she passed through air currents that didnt smell
clean and new but heavy with the odours of rotting vegetation and stale mud
revitalised by the rain. Everything;the sounds, the smells, the texturesserved
to remind her of Katie Blasko, abandoned, buried, merging with the soil.
She walked slowly up the hill,
stunned to see huge cylinders of hay in one of the paddocks, freshly mown and
wrapped in pale green polythene. When had that happened? She rarely saw or
heard vehicles, and yet here was evidence of the world going on without her.
Without warning she heard a sharp
snap and felt a stunning pain in her scalp. Her heart jumped and she cried out
in terror. Only a magpie, she realised soon afterwards, swooping her because it
had a nest nearbybut shed hated and feared magpies ever since a long-ago
spring day when shed been pecked and harried across a football field as shed
taken a short cut home from school on her bicycle. Magpies sang like angels but
were the devil.
Windmilling her arms wildly about
her head, and trying to make eye contact with her tormentor, Ellen trotted
home. She missed her morning walks on Penzance Beach with Pam Murphy, where the
world was reduced to the sand, the sea, the sky and a few gulls. Out here on
the back roads there was too much nature. All around her ducks sat like knuckly
growths on the bare branches of dead gums, and other birds were busy, calling
out, making nests, protecting their young,
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