Out of Alice

This one is for my brothers
and for Judith

Sara Blake settled back in to her bus seat with a thankful sigh as the big vehicle slid smoothly through the streets of Alice Springs. Her muscles, which seemed to have been tensed ever since she had fled Mildura, relaxed, along with the nagging impulse to look behind her.

Safe at last.

But she wouldn't think of that now. It would be better to concentrate instead on her new job. To work out how she was going to justify her lack of teaching experience to the mother of her young charges.
Governessing and some housework
, the ad had read. Surely any reasonably intelligent person could manage that? It was just a matter of working out the right approach to her new employer – show that she was willing and adaptable, and hope it would be enough.

Sara found herself watching the passing scenery, which had the glamour of difference. She had spent her life in the city of Adelaide and this was her first visit to the Alice, as the locals called it, the isolated little town set in the bowl of the Macdonnell Ranges. It was only early September but she still found herself unused to the heat, and the vivid light. The pace was slower too, in everything, as she had learned on Monday. Arriving from the airport, she had taken the taxi driver's advice on a budget hotel on the riverbank, and had then tried to book her onward journey.

‘Not till Wednesdee, love,' the snaggle-toothed owner advised her, a practised hand reaching for the stack of sun-faded brochures on the desk. ‘On'y three buses a week – on Mondees, Wednesdees and Fridees. Not to worry, but. Plenty to see in the Alice.'

‘But I was told there was a bus every day.' Sara suspected he simply wanted an extra night's booking.

‘So there is. The dog runs up three days an' back two.'

‘Dog?' she repeated, wondering about his sanity.

‘Greyhound,' he said patiently. ‘Like I said, she runs to Darwin Mondee, Wednesdee, Fridee, an' comes back Tuesdee and Thursdee. So you can book your seat tomorrow and be off at the crack of dawn Wednesdee. Which gives you a full day to see the sights.' He beamed and waggled the leaflets at her.

He had spoken the truth – except about the early start. A mechanical fault had delayed them for several hours, during which Sara's anxiety levels had steadily risen. It did no good to tell herself she was being absurd, and that nobody but her new employer knew where she was. It wasn't until the diesel motor turned over and the door sighed shut that she finally relaxed and could gaze out upon the scenery that so exactly resembled the paintings of Albert Namatjira – copies or prints of which could seemingly be found in every shop in Alice Springs.

Perched high above the bitumen, cocooned within the shaded windows and air-conditioned comfort, Sara watched the scenery pass: low, rugged ranges tinted purple and ochre, red soil, white gums, an untidy scribble of olive-green scrub and the odd taller tree whose dusty grey leaves gave off glints of silver in the vivid light. The sky was cloudless, a pale enervating blue with edgings of pink that may, she decided, have something to do with the window colouring. There was nothing to see – the occasional car roof passing below her, dark clouds of birds that periodically took wing from the road's verge, and endless vistas of scrub and rocky ridge, and red desert. The other passengers were mostly silent, wrapped in their own thoughts, only the infrequent murmur, too indistinct to decipher, breaking through the hum of the diesel motor.

Sara wondered where the stations were. She couldn't even see any cattle and yet she understood that the land north of Alice Springs was all divided up into properties. Sometimes a windmill showed on the skyline to support this theory but her eye wasn't quick enough to discern the dark shapes of cattle standing among the thin scattering of scrub. The visible landscape was dreary beyond belief and as the first couple of hours passed without change to the view from her window she started to wonder if she hadn't made a hideous mistake.

Then the bus began to slow, the passengers all stirring in their seats to crane ahead. Sara saw that they were entering a town – well, scarcely that. A collection of shabby buildings scattered across an open flat, a dusty racecourse with a crooked stand, a black tank and mill set beside a shallow creek, and up ahead a roadhouse with a further scatter of buildings at its back. There were no shops, no paved streets, just dirt tracks between the houses. A sign, pockmarked with bullet holes, announced that this was Charlotte Creek. Sara had reached her destination.

The bus driver, a short-tempered man in his forties with a paunch and thinning hair, unhooked the microphone and addressed his passengers.

‘Right, folks. This here's Charlotte Creek. The only reason I'm stopping is to let one of yous off. That'll take five minutes. Now, you might reckon that's time enough to have a smoke or grab something from the roadhouse. But you won't be eating it on the bus and if you ain't back on board when I am, yous'll stay here.'

‘When do we get to eat, then?' a man from the front seats queried, his tone petulant.

‘Ti-Tree Roadhouse, sunshine. Same as it says in the bus schedule.' He pressed the door release and Sara hauled her smaller bag down from the overhead rack and exited the bus into a blast of heat and brilliant light that the coach's tinted windows had diffused. Her other bag was unceremoniously dragged out from the compartment beneath the passengers' seats and dumped on the dusty ground. She thanked the man, who ignored the courtesy as he rearranged the remaining luggage. A few moments later the driver's door clunked shut, the passenger door followed and the big vehicle moved off, blurring the incurious faces gazing down at her from the windows as they pulled away.

Sara stared after it, momentarily wishing she was still aboard. The Stuart Highway, and the bus, ran all the way to Darwin, which was at least a city, with streets and shops and proper houses – not this godforsaken-looking dump. What to do now?

She recalled her new employer's voice on the phone:
The bus stops at Charlotte Creek. That's as close as you can get to us on public transport, but the mail comes through Fridays so you'll be right. When you get to the roadhouse, ask for Harry. Sometimes he runs a bit late, but he'll bring you out.

First things first, then. Sara donned her sunglasses, then towed her dusty case into the shade of the building. The roadhouse had fuel bowsers out the front, and the building sat back behind a post and rail fence that enclosed a scrap of green lawn. Metal steps that winked in the light led onto a long, shaded verandah and a door veiled by coloured plastic strips. A couple of native trees completed the attempts at a garden, but at that it was the best on view. The rest of the houses – shanties? – sat behind sagging enclosures containing perhaps a tree or a collection of tired-looking pot plants, and vehicles of various ages and decrepitude.

Immediately next to the roadhouse was another huge tank and a great slab of concrete flooring beneath a roof, as if the builder had got that far and given up; or perhaps, Sara thought, wiping her sweaty face, he had thought better of walls. This certainly wasn't the climate for them and it was still early in September. She wondered with some trepidation what December would be like.

There was nobody about. Presumably the inhabitants of Charlotte Creek had learned to ignore the traffic along the bitumen. Sara could see a battered-looking Toyota LandCruiser parked at the shady end of the roadhouse. Harry's, perhaps? Deserting her luggage, she went to find out.

The public room was dim and blessedly cool; banks of louvres front and back allowed for a cross flow of air and showed up the framed photographs on the wall. There were pictures of rodeo action, of huge road trains, one of two kangaroos boxing against a rising sun. Above them was a heavy timber rail with collections of numbers, symbols and letters burned into them like strange arcana from a foreign land. There were tables and chairs, a wide bar, the glass face of a huge, humming refrigerator, shelves and display cabinets – and then suddenly a male figure shooting to his feet exclaiming, ‘Shit! Of all the friggin' mismatched junk I've ever seen —' He wrung his right hand, then sucked at the knuckles, catching sight of Sara hovering just within the door as he did so.

‘G'day.' His gaze took in the slim figure in jeans and shirt and he jabbed a finger at his hat brim, lifting it slightly. ‘Sorry for the language. Didn't know you were there.'

‘I came on the bus,' she said. ‘Are you Harry?'

‘Nope. Jack Ketch. Which Harry did you want?'

‘I don't know,' Sara confessed, flushing a little as she saw his brow rise. He was tall, lean looking and long faced; he was about thirty, she judged. He wore a khaki shirt, rumpled and stained, and the rest of him was below the level of the bar. ‘I didn't ask,' she said. ‘I'm going to a property called Redhill and I was told to get off the bus here and Harry would pick me up. Only he might be late so – well, I'm wondering, how late exactly?'

‘Coupla days,' Jack Ketch replied. ‘Mail comes Friday. Didn't Beth say?'

Sara closed her eyes in vexation. ‘Oh, God! He's the
mailman.
I didn't realise. Yes, she did say, only I – well.' She glanced around. ‘I suppose I'll just have to stay here till then. They do have accommodation?'

‘Nope.' The man cheerfully contradicted her. ‘Hang on.' He went to a door at the back and bellowed, ‘Mavis! Customer.'

Somewhere a door slammed and shortly a plump, white-haired woman clad in a skirt and scoop-necked blouse entered the room. Her hair colour belied her age. She had an ample body with firm upper arms, and an unlined face save for the deep squint lines about her hazel eyes, which embraced Sara with a welcoming smile.

‘G'day, love. What can I do for you?'

‘She's got herself stranded,' Ketch answered before Sara could speak. ‘Waiting on the mail to get out to Redhill. She's Beth's new governess.'

Sara closed her mouth and frowned at him, her stomach twisting nervously. ‘How do you know that?'

‘You told me.' He glanced at Mavis. ‘By the way, that fridge of yours is cactus. Made of tin and glue. I cracked the bloody pipe and I'll need an oxy torch to fix it. Then it'll want re-gassing. So I'll run her out and bring the oxy gear back, but you'll have to get the gas out from the Alice. Harry might fit it on if you catch him in time.'

‘Right, well, that's no drama.' The woman called Mavis smiled at Sara. ‘Not to worry, it's all sorted. What's your name, love?'

‘Sara Blake.' She eyed the rough-looking man. ‘Did he – is he offering to drive me?'

‘Yeah, Jack'll see you right. What about a cuppa before you leave?' Her eyes twinkled. ‘You must be peckish. I know that cranky sod of a driver, all rules and schedules. If he had his way, his passengers wouldn't even breathe.'

Sara glanced at her watch, realising that she was hungry. It was after two. ‘Thanks very much,' she said gratefully to Mavis. ‘If we've time?' She looked at the man. ‘How far is it?'

‘Plenty of time,' he assured her. He reached to shake hands, his own none too clean, the nails rimmed with grease. ‘Only a coupla hours, but a cuppa's a good idea. So, Sara . . .' His gaze swept over her from head to foot. ‘What brings you out here?'

Nettled by his inspection, she said primly, ‘The job, Mr Ketch.'

He grinned, seemingly amused. ‘Jack'll do. We're not big on formality in the mulga.'

‘No? So how far is it to Redhill, Jack?'

‘I just told you, a coupla hours.'

‘Oh.' It seemed an odd way to measure distance, but Mavis was returning with the tea and a substantial plate of sandwiches so she asked for the bathroom, then settled down to satisfy her hunger before they left.

It turned out that the battered Toyota Sara had seen was Jack's. He brought it round to the front of the roadhouse, loaded her luggage, then pulled the passenger door open to sweep away the clutter on the seat.

‘You'll have to get your feet round the water bottle,' he said. ‘Hop in and we'll be off.'

‘Thank you.' Sara had taken the opportunity while being conducted to the bathroom to ask Mavis about Jack. She didn't intend getting into a vehicle with a stranger whom she knew nothing about, but the woman had laughed at her fears. ‘Lord, you're not in the city now, love. Everybody knows Jack. He's fine.' It was reassurance of a sort, she supposed, though the state of his vehicle came as a shock. The cab was coated with dust and a large rifle was secured in a rack across the back, above the seats, the covers of which looked as if they had never been washed. Her thoughts must have been plain to read.

‘Sorry about the mess,' Jack said. ‘She's a working vehicle.' Three flies had entered with them and buzzed noisily about the window. His hand shot out to slap them against the glass, the sound and sudden movement making her jump. ‘Curse of Oz,' he commented, wiping the mess off on his jeans. ‘Now you've seen this,' the wave of a hand indicated the dusty nothingness beyond the bitumen, ‘how long d'you reckon you'll stay?'

‘Till the job's over, I expect,' Sara responded tartly. ‘Why would you even ask?'

‘Hard to get good help in the mulga. It's not everybody's cup of tea. The last girl quit after a fortnight.' They crossed the bitumen and shot off down a narrow track between the grey scrub at which Jack jerked his thumb. ‘That's mulga, by the way.'

Sara stared at its unvarying sameness and the barren-looking red soil beneath. ‘It all looks very – very parched.'

‘Yeah, well, there's a drought on. Has been for a coupla years,' he said dryly. ‘That's why.'

She immediately felt guilty for not knowing. Seeking to change the topic, she asked, ‘Are you employed by the roadhouse? And if you are – don't get me wrong, I'm not complaining – but why are you driving me to Redhill?'

‘Why not? I'm going there anyway. And no, I don't work for Mavis. I'm a fencing contractor and, for my sins, the district's Mr Fix-it. She's got a problem with her fridge.' He shrugged. ‘I'm helping her out.'

Sara was aware of his gaze upon her, taking in the straw beach hat, and the undisciplined riot of red curls about her sweaty face. He sniffed discreetly and she hoped it was perfume he could smell and not the perspiration on her body; she folded her hands to hide the pink sheen of her nails that all at once seemed frivolous and rather silly in this barren setting – as if they might reflect poorly upon her capabilities.

She studied him in turn, noting the dark hair under his grease-stained hat, the glimpse of grey eyes when his head turned towards her. He had high cheekbones and a couple of days' dark stubble on his jaw. She said lightly, ‘And this includes knowing everyone's business? Even strangers who have just arrived?'

He laughed. ‘Got you going, did it? Beth Calshot's my sister, so when you said you were headed for Redhill . . .'

‘I see. Not hard to work out, then. This other girl, why did she leave?'

‘Because of who she was, I suppose. A European backpacker. Danish, or German, something like that. Said she'd worked on
foms
before. But our “farms” are a bit bigger and further apart than anything she knew. The isolation got to her, I guess.'

‘That's understandable.' Sara gazed around at the landscape, at the dull red soil and grey scrub with the narrow ribbon of bumpy road unspooling through it. She could see no living thing; even the stray tufts of grass looked dead, and much of the timber – the mulga, Jack had called it – was broken off in swathes as though a giant windstorm had blasted through, flattening the trees as it went.

‘What happened here?'

He twisted the wheel to avoid a hole. ‘Bungy's been pushing scrub. We all do it.' Reading her incomprehension, he explained. ‘Stock can eat mulga, but you have to push it for them. Cattle aren't giraffes.'

‘I see. Would this Bungy be Mr Calshot?'

‘Nope. Bungy Morgan. He owns Wintergreen, which we're currently driving through. He's Redhill's western neighbour. North and east is national park and south is Munaroo. So you've got two neighbours, and the rangers at Walkervale, in something like,' he squinted, doing sums in his head, ‘say, six and a half thousand square miles of country.' He glanced at her with a humorous lift of his brow. ‘You want it in kilometres, you'll have to convert it yourself.'

The areas were staggering. Sara blinked. ‘I see then why that poor girl found it hard.'

‘Ah, well,' Jack said. ‘It's desert, you need big areas.' They rattled across another grid and a half-dozen crows rose cawing from a carcass beside it. Sara glimpsed the desiccated frame of a cow, its horns and jaw and empty eye socket. A brief whiff of corruption overlaid by the smell of dust and they were past. He nodded at the windscreen. ‘Right, here we are. Welcome to Redhill.'

Sara gazed about her, saying doubtfully, ‘I don't see a home­-stead?'

‘That's miles away yet. I meant, we've crossed the boundary and we're now driving on Redhill land.'

‘Oh.' Feeling foolish, she fell silent again.