Out of Alice (10 page)

There was no set date for Sam's return, Len told them that evening. He was very weak and would be in hospital for a while yet.

‘How long for?' Becky demanded. ‘He's been gone for
ever.'

‘Maybe a week or so,' Len said. ‘Then he and Mum are going to stay at Nan and Pop's place for a while. When he's quite strong again,
that's
when he'll come home.'

‘Good idea,' Jack agreed. ‘He's had a bad time of it, poor kid. How're the old folks going?'

‘They're coming out – tomorrow, actually.' Len grimaced. ‘I wish he wouldn't but you know your father. Can't wait to make himself useful. 'Course he's only got that little car of his now, so I was wondering if you'd meet them at the roadhouse and bring them out?'

‘You're not going in yourself?'

Len shook his head. ‘I'd rather get round the run, see how the stock are holding up. There'll be a load of lick coming out in a bit. I talked to a cattle husbandry bloke in the DPI. He's advised upping the urea content from what we're currently feeding, so we'll try it. Which reminds me – the fuel truck's also due anytime soon. Have you heard anything from the drilling crew yet?'

‘No. But I'll find out tomorrow. Bungy ought to be there.' Jack looked across at Sara. ‘It's the flying doctor benefit tomorrow; the locals will all turn up for it. It's just smoko, and lunch, a few fundraisers and a chance to meet the neighbours. What d'you say to coming along?'

‘Oh, yes, Uncle Jack!' Becky answered for her. ‘We can go, can't we, Sara?'

‘It sounds interesting,' Sara admitted cautiously. ‘How does the catering work? Would Beth normally take a plate along for the lunch?'

‘Nope. It's catered for. We pay for it, and the proceeds go to the doctors' fund. She'd take a cake along for smoko, but don't feel obliged. They won't expect it of you.'

‘It'll be no trouble to make something,' Sara assured him. ‘We'll do it for your mum, hey, Becky? Wouldn't want to let the side down. What time would you want to leave?'

‘Say ten? That okay with you? It'll get us there in good time for lunch, and we can leave after the auction. That's always last on the agenda.'

‘Casual dress?' Sara prodded. ‘Will jeans and a shirt do?'

‘Anything that keeps you cool and shaded.' He glanced at the hat pegs. ‘That straw thingy of yours will be just fine. We eat in the hall so there's some shade, but you'll still need a hat.'

Sara wrinkled her brow. ‘I don't remember a hall.'

He grinned. ‘The concrete slab with the roof over it? The committee hasn't got round to the walls yet. Mind you, come winter and the race ball they'll all get keen again – except, of course, there
wasn't
a ball this year, or races either.'

‘I see.' Sara wondered if there was time to put a load of washing through. She wanted to have the place spotless for Mrs Ketch's arrival, all chores done and the cake tins full. Well, she'd just have to fit in what she could. Perhaps a sultana cake would be the best one to take. Being solid, it would travel well. She could cream some rice in the bottom of the oven while it baked, which would take care of tomorrow night's sweets, and if she were to cook a shoulder of mutton – or better still, make a curry – it would be a quick and easy meal. Harry had brought out the usual bread order and there were plenty of eggs. She had better check the bedroom again and run the vacuum cleaner over the verandahs, which tended to get the most dust . . .

‘You aren't listening,' Becky complained. ‘I
said
can I take my collage with me to show to Nan?'

‘Oh, sorry, chicken. I was thinking about tea for tomorrow night. It might be too crowded in the car with five of us, don't you think? Why not wait and surprise her with it when she gets here?'

‘You're fussing,' Jack observed. ‘I know the signs. Is there dust on the cupboard top? Is the sink clean enough? My mum's not a Tartar, you know. She'll be damn glad you're here. Just like we are, eh, Squirt?'

Becky nodded vigorously. ‘Sara's my most fav'rite friend.'

Jack looked wounded. ‘Hey! I thought that was me.'

‘Both of you,' Becky amended and Len laughed.

‘Very diplomatic. And Jack's right, Sara. You've been tremendous. With both of us away, I don't know how we'd have managed if you hadn't been here.'

‘Thank you. I'm just glad I could help,' Sara said, but she was touched by his gratitude. It was nice to be appreciated even if none of what she was being thanked for had been a chore. It might be an alien world out there beyond the garden fence, but it was one she was coming to like.

The following day the three of them set off for the roadhouse in Len's station wagon. ‘More room, more comfort,' Jack explained. ‘Dad's little town job would never make it over this road.'

‘Does it ever get graded?' Sara braced herself against the bumps as they hit a badly corrugated patch, noting how the red dust billowing behind them had completely obscured the back windows.

‘Not as often as we'd like.'

‘And what's that for you stoic mulga men, once a year?'

He snorted. ‘Twice would be good, but the money'd be too short for that. With the drought there'll be a few places unable to cough up for their rates, and that's what pays for things like roadworks.' Then without pause he asked, ‘How's the memory coming on?'

‘Slowly.' She told him what she had recalled collecting eggs, adding, ‘It's strange that all the things I remember are country things, though Stella swore she'd spent her life in the city.'

‘A country holiday?' Jack suggested. ‘One of those rural shacks with a beach within coo-ee, and a grocery shop a coupla k away?'

‘It's possible.' Sara frowned. ‘You know what bugs me most about it? The dog. Stella wasn't one for pets, but I'm positive it was
our
dog – Ben's and mine. She went everywhere with us.'

Jack had caught her use of the pronoun too. ‘So, a bitch.' He winked at her. ‘Careful, you'll be remembering her name next.'

Sara smiled at him, thinking he looked quite handsome with his hair neatly combed, and the light bouncing off the plane of his closely shaven cheeks. She felt elated at having found another infinitesimal piece of the puzzle. ‘I just might, too.'

When they pulled in at the roadhouse Jack was forced to park at the end of a long line of cars.

‘Heavens!' Sara eyed them. ‘Where did they all come from? I thought nobody much lived out here.' She felt suddenly shy, which was ridiculous, but it was weeks since she had seen anyone outside of Redhill other than Harry the mailman. The isolation of the mulga was already changing her views, she thought. Since when had twenty people been a crowd? Why, she had worked with more than that in the office in Adelaide, and the queues of the unemployed and those on benefits must have been triple that. How distant and alien those days now seemed, a glaze of
Next please
and
If you could just fill out the form?
And at the other desks the faces of acquaintances that had somehow never become anything more than that. How could she ever have settled for so little? Donning her hat, Sara lifted the cake tin and glanced across at Jack, who was pushing his door open. Becky was already out.

‘To whom should I give this?'

‘Come on.' He settled his own hat. ‘We'll locate Mavis in the mob, then I'll introduce you round. With that head gear you'll be easy to find again.'

‘Will you please lay off my hat!' She touched it self-consciously, horribly aware that of the three closest women she could see, two wore standard felt hats and the third had a baseball cap with a flap sewn onto the back to cover her neck. The skin of their arms and faces was tanned, the oldest woman's badly sun damaged. They would probably despise her, she thought, her own pale epidermis evidence enough of the sheltered existence she had lived. At the very least they would find her attempts to fit into their lifestyle laughable.

But Mavis, serving at the bar, greeted her warmly. ‘Sara! Hello – how are you finding things? Oh, and you've brought a cake. That was good of you. Thanks a lot! Harry tells me you're doing the cooking as well out at Redhill? Talk about being thrown in at the deep end.'

‘Just while Beth's away,' she agreed.

‘And how's young Sam today? I've been praying for him.' She seemed to mean it too. ‘What's the news there?'

‘Improving slowly,' Jack said. ‘I dare say you saw Len yesterday? By the way, she's a fair cook, Mavis. That cake'll be worth a second look. Can I get you a drink, Sara?'

‘Why, thank you, Jack. Something soft, please.' Sara was a little flustered by his praise of her cooking. What did that mean? She looked around for her charge. ‘Where did Becky go?'

‘Ah, don't worry. She'll be with the other kids.' Mavis put two cans on the bar and took Jack's money. ‘You can pay for a lemonade for her too and I'll see she gets it. So, how do you like station living, Sara? Different to what you expected?'

‘It's fascinating,' Sara said promptly. ‘The homestead is comfortable, the children are great and I love the – the bigness of it all. I'm just sorry I didn't know about it years ago.'

‘Sounds like you've found your calling.' Mavis moved to serve another customer. ‘What'll it be, Reg?'

‘Reg,' Jack interrupted. ‘I'd like you to meet Sara Blake. She's new to the mulga, been helping Beth out with the kids.'

They shook hands, the first of many introductions, names and faces blurring into an overall impression – as far as the men went – of big hats, pale, squinty eyes and ropey, muscled arms burned by wind and sun. Most of them were middle-aged and awkward in their greetings, as if Sara were a new, little-known species, paler of skin and younger than their wives, her brilliant hair singling her out for notice.

The women seemed more individual, similar only in their frank curiosity about her. Clemmy Marshall from the national park was, Sara thought, closest to her own age. She was trim and blonde with soft wavy hair beneath a nylon hat shaped like the men's felts. She wore khaki shorts, a clingy blue polo shirt, and trainers streaked with red dust.

‘Oh, yes,' Sara said, shaking hands. ‘Harry mentioned you. From the park – Walkerville, is it? The ranger's wife.'

‘Walkervale,' Clemmy corrected. ‘And I'm a ranger too. Colin and I have worked there since the park was gazetted.'

‘Sorry, my mistake. You have an unusual name – pretty, though,' Sara added. ‘Is it short for Clementine?'

‘I wish.' Clemmy's blue eyes lit with rueful laughter. ‘It was my Dad. Not Clementine, but Clemency, would you believe? I have two sisters, Hope and Faith. Can you imagine a fourth? Mercy, Justice – the mind boggles.'

‘Charity,' Sara suggested, smiling. ‘Duty . . . I think you got off lightly, considering.'

‘You're right. So what brings you out here, Sara?'

‘Oh.' She hadn't expected to be asked straight out. ‘I was looking for a change, I suppose.'

‘What from?'

‘An office job with the Commonwealth Employment Agency. Very boring.' It was a fair description, she realised suddenly. Life might be harder out here but no two days were the same. ‘Also I've never been outside my comfort zone, or tried anything new.' She shrugged. ‘I saw Beth's ad and contacted her, and here I am. So you must know everyone,' she said to forestall further questions. ‘Tell me who they all are, and how they fit into the country.'

‘Of course. You met Flo, didn't you? Flo Morgan, the big woman in pink? She's Bungy Morgan's sister; she never married.'

‘Bungy from Wintergreen?'

‘That's right. She's talking to her sister there, Rinky Hazlitt, from Munaroo, which is south of Redhill. There's another sister too, Maureen, but I haven't met her. She's up north somewhere on a property her husband manages. I hear her on the radio now and then.'

‘Sounds like a real family affair,' Sara murmured. ‘Does everybody out here marry onto the land?'

‘This lot, pretty much,' Clemmy nodded. ‘The Morgans are an old grazing family, been in the Territory forever. There're others the same. The Garritys, for instance – they're on Drumben Downs. And there're the Pinchens from Alanada. In the early days they had to marry each other because there was no one else much. Rinky's husband, Jim, is actually a Pinchen. He took the Hazlitt name when his mother married Sam Hazlitt after Harry Pinchen was killed. And going way back from that, one of the Pinchen wives was a Morgan.' Catching sight of Sara's face, she laughed. ‘It doesn't matter. They were all just names to me at first, too. You'll like Rinky. Let's shift over there. Flo's nice too. Bossy, but she can't do enough for you.' Her eyes twinkled. ‘They're all a bit shy, you know, but dying to talk to you. It's always lovely to have someone new in the district.'

Suddenly neither her hat nor her skin tone seemed to matter. If the women were so ready to accept her, Sara was eager to speak with them and learn what she could about their very different lives. ‘Lead the way,' she told Clemmy. ‘I'll try not to disappoint.'

The senior Ketches arrived, unnoticed by Sara, midway through the barbecue lunch. Jack brought them over to where she was sitting and she immediately rose to greet them, shake hands and enquire after their trip.

Frank Ketch was as tall as his son but shared his daughter's wiry build. He was dressed like the other men in worn but polished boots, now smudged with red dirt, cotton pants and shirt, and a wide-brimmed felt hat that covered silver hair. His face was splotched and scarred with past and present skin cancers, and the knuckles of his big hands were sharp and bony. The look of them denied the vigour of his grip. He had brown eyes, webbed in a mesh of fine wrinkles.

Helen, who only came to his shoulder, was plainly the younger of the pair. She had a brisk manner, iron-grey hair cut into a practical bob and her arms were tanned, their upper parts still firm. Her gaze was shrewd and assessing as Sara greeted her and asked about Sam, adding, ‘I can see that Becky takes after you.'

‘She's got the Ketch bones,' Helen agreed. ‘Where is she?'

‘Having her lunch with the other kids. Shall I fetch her?' Sara offered.

‘No, they have little enough time together. I'll see her later. Now, Sam, he's all Calshot – and a bonny little fighter to boot. He's pulling round but he'll not be home for a bit. We've told Len to feel free to head back to town anytime he's worried. God knows Beth could use the support.'

‘It must be hard for her.' Sara heard the criticism in Helen's voice and avoided outright agreement. ‘What about some lunch? I could see if there're more chairs.' But Jack had anticipated the need and was already there, carrying two from the container behind the roadhouse, from which the tables, tea urns and cutlery had also come.

Helen, surveying the diners spread out beneath the roof, chairs crammed together to fit under the shade, shook her head and tutted. ‘This place doesn't change. But I'm interrupting your lunch. You go. I'll sort something out for us. No, go on, I insist.'

Sara obeyed. She had been sitting with Clemmy and her husband. Colin's most striking aspect was the bushy black beard that covered half his face. Bungy Morgan, a big man who shared his elder sister's fleshiness, was seated beside Jack's now vacant place, alongside Rinky's husband, whose name Sara had forgotten. Everyone was talking, as though making up for weeks, or possibly months, of silence. The women's higher voices cut through the slow burr of the men's – save for Bungy's bull roar, which could be heard from one end of the table to the other. The abandoned barbecue smelled of onions and grease, and packets of salty chips littered the table. Sara took a handful and relaxed into the moment, lifting her hat to fan her sweating face. It was very warm. Everyone was as friendly as Jack had foretold, so she needn't have worried, she thought, listening to the talk, which was of drought and school and recipes. Rinky was poddying calves on the goats – poddying? She would have to ask Jack what it meant.

Lunch was a leisurely affair. When it was over they cleared the table and shifted their chairs around as the sun moved. The men formed themselves into teams for games of darts and horseshoes, with a cash forfeit for the worst effort in each round. For the women Mavis introduced an involved game of mnemonics where the players had to remember and repeat ever-lengthening descriptive passages to do with each other's appearance.

‘You'd
think
it would be easy,' Clemmy said. ‘I mean, it's not as if we can't all see each other.' The forfeits for forgetting were small but at the end of the day, and added to the funds taken for the food, they would produce a respectable sum.

‘I know,' Sara agreed. ‘But I've never actually thought of myself as either foxy or cucumberish.'

‘You're right.' Clemmy eyed her critically. ‘
Fox red
is quite wrong. It should be, oh,
copper bright –
something like that. Your hair is lovely though, however you describe it.'

‘Thank you,' Sara said. ‘Still it's a pain being so thick. I'm sure yours is easier to manage. What about Mavis? Four words, remember?'

‘Umm,
cushion soft
and . . . 
cloud white
?'

It was a perfect description of their bosomy hostess with her white hair. ‘Very good. Some are easier to see than others. Your husband?'

‘Easy.
Earth brown, velvet black
. Your turn to try. So, let's see – Jack, then. What's he?'

Sara wrinkled her brow, thinking it would be less difficult if a list of the man's attributes were called for, rather than his appearance. He was patient, capable, tolerant, kind to children, protective of his sister. But how did he look?

‘Well,' she said hesitantly, then laughed. ‘Bother! It's harder than I thought. What about
mulga strong
?
Is
mulga noted for its strength? And – and
sharp-eyed
.'

‘It'll do. You know he's married, don't you? Well, he was. I don't know where they're at now. Marilyn, I think her name was. Beth couldn't stand her; reckoned she was counting the cash from the moment she saw his land. Never occurred to her that she wouldn't get him to sell up.'

‘I can't imagine him doing so.' Sara said, uncomfortable with the subject. ‘Uh-oh, it's your turn again. I think we're both due for another forfeit.'

They paid up, after adding Clemmy's description of Mavis to the list.

‘It's all for the doctor.' Clemmy was philosophical. ‘And believe me there's no better cause.'

Sara nodded. ‘I've already learned that.' She thought of the night he had come for Sam, of the tension and quiet desperation of his parents as they waited for the plane. ‘I shall
never
forget the relief of hearing that engine in the sky.'

‘Engines,' Clemmy corrected. ‘The RFDS flies King Airs now, and they have two. Can you imagine what it must have been like for the women out here before the pedal radio and the first flying doctor? The children they lost! You see the little graves – nearly every station has at least one. There are three at Wintergreen, a set of twins and a third child. All Morgans.' She shivered. ‘Much as I love the bush I don't think I could live out here without the mantle of safety – that's what they call it, you know, the flying doctor service. It's not just the children, though. The men have accidents too, get sick. Jim Hazlitt's appendix burst on him last year, nearly killed him. It's why everyone comes to these affairs and gives, despite the drought. There's hardly a soul here who hasn't at some stage had reason to call on the doctor.'

When the games were over, Flo Morgan went off with Mavis to organise afternoon tea. Sara was surprised at how quickly the time had flown. There was more shade beyond the concrete slab than on it.

Jack appeared suddenly at her shoulder. ‘How's it going? You're looking blooming, Clemmy. They're laying on a cuppa, Sara, then they'll run the auction. Mum's getting a bit restive so I thought we'd push off straight after that.'

‘Yes, of course. Whenever you're ready.' He left and she turned to her companion. ‘What auction? What are they selling?'

‘Cakes. Mavis keeps the best ones from those brought for smoko and the men bid on them.' She grinned. ‘It's a good fundraiser. The wives naturally expect their husbands to buy theirs. Some of 'em'll have a bit to say on the trip home if they don't.'

Sara smiled. ‘So will Colin buy yours?'

Clemmy's delightful laugh bubbled out of her. ‘God, no! Nothing of mine's ever made the auction. Mavis used to judge the cakes at the Alice show so she knows her stuff. Bungy will be out of pocket again, though. Flo makes a fabulous sponge, and he'll get the rounds of the kitchen if he doesn't get to take it home.'

The auction, conducted by Mavis's husband, Alec, a short, heavily moustachioed man who was going bald but had a good line in blarney, was a lively affair. He named the provenance of each cake as he held it aloft, describing them in flamboyant terms.

‘Yer sound like a flamin' cooking show,' somebody yelled from the back, occasioning a ripple of laughter.

‘And some of our ladies could show 'em a thing or two,' Alec retorted, round face red from yelling. ‘Here's a tea cake, gents, dusted with cinnamon, just cryin' out to be buttered. Soft, fragrant . . .' He sniffed appreciatively. ‘Jim Hazlitt's a lucky man to be living with such talent. Now, if you can't get a slice of Flo's sponge, who wouldn't go for this? Somebody start me at twenty.'

The bidding ran up to thirty-five before Jim Hazlitt, mopping his brow in exaggerated relief, secured the cake. Sara, clapping along with the rest, leaned over to say something to Clemmy and was stunned to see her own sultana cake being displayed next.

‘And here, last, but not least, baked by our newest import to the district, Miss Sara –' Mavis stretched up into Alec's hesitation and he bobbed his head in acknowledgement – ‘Blake. It's a beauty, something different – a golden sultana cake, moist and scrumptious. And a big thank you, Sara, from all of us here today. We all heard about young Sam being taken crook and appreciate you pitching in to help the doctor's fund. Don't let her work be wasted, fellas. Bid 'er up.'

‘Wow!' Clemmy looked impressed. ‘You didn't say you were a cook. It's quite an honour, you know, to make the grade for the cake auction.'

Sara was embarrassed. ‘It's a foolproof recipe. Anybody could make it. I enjoy cooking but it's not like I ever trained for it. Maybe I should've done a course, but I don't think I'd care for the pressure of restaurant work.'

‘So what was it you said you did again before taking up governessing?'

‘I was a clerk in a government office. A civil servant, I suppose.'

Clemmy wrinkled her nose. ‘I trained as a hairdresser, then I met Colin. I couldn't go back to town life now. Oh, look – Jack's scored your cake. Forty dollars! That'll be top price for the day. You'll have Flo's nose out of joint, she usually gets it.' Everyone clapped and Clemmy raised her voice to speak over the applause. ‘What d'you think? More fun than just handing over a cheque?'

‘Definitely. It's been a great day. I hope we get to meet again soon.'

‘I want to sit with Nan and Pop,' Becky announced as they all reached the station wagon, where Jack and his father were busy transferring the luggage and pulling a plastic tarp over Frank's little car.

‘It'll cook under it,' Jack said critically, ‘but it's some protection.'

‘Alec needs a shed,' Frank agreed.

Helen made a sound like a snort. ‘The whole place needs more than a shed. When are they going to finish that hall? And what happened to the tennis court they were talking about four years ago?'

‘The drought, Mum,' Jack said mildly. ‘Hop in, Squirt. You get the middle seat.'

Helen, however, was not to be gainsaid. ‘You could make an antbed court for nothing. All it takes is the labour to gather the termite mounds and flatten them. And there're grants to be had – the Gaming Committee, for one. They'd fund the netting and equipment if you applied. You could cite isolation and the drought, the smallness of the local population, the need to have a communal focus with health benefits. Good God, the application practically writes itself . . .'

Jack grinned fondly at her. ‘Always said your talents were wasted in the CWA. You ought to be in Canberra, Mum. Hop in, Sara.'

Sara, who had been holding back, said, ‘I'll ride in the back. I thought Mr Ketch might like the front seat.'

Frank looked behind him. ‘I dunno that fellow, but I'm riding in the back. I'll get the gates.'

‘Indeed you won't, Mr Ketch. I'll open them.'

‘Righto.' He gave in easily. ‘And my name's Frank.'

‘Your first station job, Sara?' Helen asked.

‘Yes, it is.' To forestall the next question she added, ‘I'm really enjoying it. I wish I'd tried it before.'

‘Don't be too sure.' Helen's tone was dry. ‘City bred, aren't you? It can pall very quickly once the novelty's worn off. You wouldn't be the first to learn that.'

Unsure how to respond, wondering if the woman was referring to her daughter-in-law, Sara held silent, but Jack spoke for her. ‘Don't discourage the help, Mum. She's been doing a great job, despite her silly hat.' His closest eyelid dropped in a wink and, unaware that the curve of her face was visible to Helen, Sara smiled back, hoping her employer's mother wasn't going to take against her. It would make things uncomfortable if she did, but if that was to be the case, it was comforting to know that Jack at least was on her side.