Flight to Coorah Creek by Janet Gover

wide bare patch of hard packed dirt where the customers could park. Down the side of the pub she could see a pile of metal kegs, and a forty-four gallon drum overflowing with empty bottles.
    It took every ounce of her courage – and her desperation – to cross the road and walk into the bar.
    Her eyes needed a few seconds to adjust to the dim light after the brightness outside. Slowly she became aware of her surroundings. A long wooden bar ran the length of the room. The top of the bar was pitted and stained. Despite the laws against smoking inside buildings, the whole place reeked of cigarettes and stale beer. The floor was bare timber … not polished, but rather blackened by many years of grime. Rows of upturned beer glasses covered a bar towel. There were beer taps on the bar, and on a shelf behind it, bottles of cheap whisky and Bundaberg rum. Despite the fact that it was barely lunchtime, there were several men on bar stools, looking like they’d been there for some time. They were all staring at her.
    â€˜Hey, Pete. Get out here,’ one of them yelled in the direction of the open door of the big cold room behind the bar.
    â€˜Just hold your horses. The beer ain’t going nowhere,’ a disembodied voice answered.
    â€˜There’s someone here I think wants to see you,’ said the speaker. ‘I don’t think she’s looking for me, more’s the pity.’
    â€˜What are you on about …?’ The man who emerged from the cold room was surprisingly young. Early thirties, Ellen guessed. He was very thin, his skin pale among the tanned faces of the men around him. He had pale grey eyes and a voice as reed thin as his body.
    â€˜Can I help you?’ he asked Ellen.
    â€˜Are you the owner?’
    â€˜The manager. Name’s Pete. The owner would never set foot in here. All he does is take the money each month.’
    â€˜I’m looking for work,’ Ellen said, thinking that this time she would welcome the refusal.
    â€˜Work? Not much work around this town, unless you’re a miner,’ one of the men at the bar suggested.
    Ellen wanted to just curl up and die. She started to turn towards the door, knowing that at least she could say she’d tried every possibility.
    â€˜Can you cook?’
    She turned back to face Pete. ‘Well, yes. I’m not a chef, but I can cook.’
    â€˜We don’t need a chef,’ he said. ‘We need someone on Friday and Saturday nights who can burn a steak and mash potatoes. Can you do that?’
    â€˜Yes. Yes. I can.’ Ellen tried not to sound too eager.
    â€˜And you might need to pour a beer or two. It gets pretty busy in here on Friday and Saturday nights.’
    â€˜I can do that too.’
    â€˜And you’ll have to clean the kitchen. At least well enough to keep the health inspector off my back.’
    â€˜That’s no problem.’
    â€˜All right.’ Pete glanced about at the interested faces of the men at the bar. ‘You should look at the kitchen before you agree to anything.’
    It wasn’t the nightmare Ellen had feared. But it wasn’t good either. The kitchen boasted a huge hotplate, an equally large oven on one wall and a big sink under the window on another. There was a large refrigerator and an even larger freezer, and a big wooden table sat in the centre of the room. It would all benefit from a good clean, but Ellen knew how to clean. It wasn’t ideal, but it was the best – the only – offer she’d had all day.
    â€˜All right,’ she said. ‘Let’s talk about money.’
    Jack saw Ellen the minute he pulled up in front of the pub. She was walking up the street from the direction of the railway station. For a minute he wondered if she had just booked her journey home. That thought was strangely disappointing.
    â€˜Hello,’ he said, as she approached.
    â€˜Hi Jack,’ she replied, with a slow smile.
    â€˜How