Yeovil Literary Prize
2008

Final Judging - Novel Category
Title: Standing Water
Reference: 10/EC01896/C001417/Z011
Decision:

  
  
Comments:

 

      

Standing Water

Synopsis

After eight years in London, thirty three year old Dan Connor returns to the family farm, on the fringe of the Western Australian Wheatbelt, for his Mothers funeral.  He finds a region on the verge of collapse, devastated by drought and salinity, the farm his stoical brother Neal has run all his life close to ruin.  NealҒs wife, Hester, tries to make Dan welcome, but she is struggling to protect herself and her two young children from her husbands increasingly unpredictable and violent behaviour. When Andy Җ Dans closest childhood friend and, unbeknown to Dan, HesterҒs partner before Neal  turns up, his arrival threatens to explode an already highly-charged situation.  Newly sober and drug-free, Andy is desperate to make peace with his past.
	Within this bleak landscape, Dan, Hester and Andy are forced to confront their pasts; long-held secrets are exposed, buried emotions are drawn to the surface. All three ultimately make choices which allow them hope for the future.  But Neal is far beyond hope; he is a broken man.  Dan is miles away, leaving, when he sees the fire.  He knows he must go back.

* 	*	*	*	*	*	*	

The novel is approximately 80,000 words long.

STANDING 
WATER

֑The man who never alters his opinion is like standing water, and breeds reptiles of the mindŒ

William Blake  
The Marriage of Heaven and Hell

1	 Mourning

On the way to the funeral Hester started to cry.  Neal, driving the ute, glanced across at her.  He reached over and squeezed her hand, too tightly, but the tears wouldnt stop.  She pulled in jagged breaths and held a tissue to her face.  Without warning, Neal swerved the ute into a gravel siding, throwing her against the door.  He kept the engine idling.
	ґFor Christs sake, Hester.  WeҒll be there in five minutes.
	ґI know.  Sorry.  
She had to pull herself together.  She turned her head to look at the roadside scrub, focused on the pale, thin limbs of a top-heavy mallee tree.  
	ґWasnt even your bloody mother,Ғ Neal muttered.
	Further up, a branch drooped with the weight of clustered pink and grey cockies. It would be a good idea for the boys to draw, she thought  they could spend a day or two on their favourite birds, talk about colours. They were at the General Store, today.  It was good of Graham and Lou to pick them up.
	The cockies launched from the tree in a noisy squabble, spraying across the blaze of blue sky.  The branch they֒d left juddered and bounced before it settled.
Neal pulled the ute back onto the road.  His hand was not steady on the gear stick.  Hester dabbed water from a plastic bottle used to fill the radiator onto her puffy eyes and rested her hands next to the straw hat on her lap.   

Neal?ђ  Hester shuffled closer to her husband, stirring up a puff of dust with the borrowed black shoes that squeezed her sweating feet.  She brushed his arm with her fingers.  Squinting into the excruciating November light, he did not seem to have noticed Bill OBrien and his wife right there in front of them.
ґA good un, your mum was. Bill leaned forward and cuffed Neal once, firmly, on the upper arm.  ґA real good un.  
ґLeast she had you, eh?  Jean OҒBrien put in.  Knew sheђd left the farm in good hands.
ґHmmm. Neal lifted his chin and gazed over their heads towards the cluster of mourners milling nearby, digging car keys out of pockets and trading news in the shade of straggly gums. He had decided there would be no get-together after the funeral, no wake for Marjorie. HeҒd been irritated when Hester had suggested it, told her that no-one had time for bloody shindigs these days.
Hester gave the farmer and his wife an awkward smile.  A black ribbon circled the crown of Jean OBrienҒs hat, crammed onto her grey curls.  The men were bare-headed for the occasion.  They looked startled and wary, Hester thought, without their wide-brimmed cover, like chooks due for the chop. 
 Hard, these days,ђ Neal said, eventually.
	Too right,ђ Bill OBrien agreed. ґHard times.  Bloody hard times.  He paused and shifted his shoulders in his too-tight button-up shirt. ґSalt in my top paddock, now, did you know? Poor damn sheepll have nowhere to go, soon.  Reckon you could come out and have a look one day?  When you got time.Ғ

Course. Iђll have a look.
	ґTa, mate.

Lizzie and Colin Bohan were the last to go.  Tears had riven gullies through the powder on LizzieҒs sun-ravaged face.  It was the first time in six years Hester had seen her wear make-up.
	If thereђs anything we can do to help.  Anything at all.  Lizzie took both of HesterҒs hands in hers for a moment, then pulled Neals lanky frame towards her to kiss him on the cheek.  
	Colin shoved his hands into his pockets. ґGood turnout, eh?  Shame Dan didnt make it.Ғ  Hester noticed Neal tense beside her at the mention of his brother.  

He went out early, as usual, the next day, as if nothing had happened, as if Marjorie was still down the track in the kitchen of the Big House, making the scones he sat down to every afternoon. Hed lived there, at the Big House, before they were married; heҒd seen his mum just about every day since. 
The morning jabber of birds had barely begun.  Propped up in bed, watching the figure of him move in the early light as he pulled on his work pants and buttoned the shirt she had washed and ironed, she had asked if he was alright.  
	Yep,ђ hed said.  Nothing else.  Just yep, as though sheҒd had no reason to ask.
Shed heard the blur of the uteҒs engine as he drove off.  He would spend the day somewhere on the farm, with the dog and the gun. 

The boys were grizzly and tired.  For once, she didnt take them swimming in the dam.  Instead, she tried to keep them busy at home, stood them on steady chairs at the kitchen table with a mixing bowl each.  They made biscuits, stirred butter, sugar, flour and eggs.  She let them make a mess. They cut out shapes Җ a heart, a star, a plain circle, an animal that might have been a pig - with tin cutters that Marjorie had given her, years ago, and laid the biscuits on a tray.  She used a tea-towel to flick open the hot catch of the oven and slid the tray in, feeling the blast of heat on her face.  Shed loved the wood stove when she first came, revelled in the constant rituals of chopping, lighting and stoking.  Now, she was tired; it just felt like work.  SheҒd suggested a change, gas, electric, even oil, but Neal would not hear of using anything else.  Still works, doesnђt it?  heҒd said.  And that was the end of it.
	She tidied up, then made icing with the boys, two colours, yellow and red, as 
well as the plain white, while the biscuits were cooling.  She found an old jar of 
hundreds and thousands in the cupboard.   The boys decorated the biscuits, spreading 
and dripping the icing, scattering the hundreds and thousands.  She sat at the table 
across from them, watching the movement of  their small, clumsy hands, their 
bobbing mops of dark hair, thick and needing to be cut.  With a frown and purse of his 
lips, Billy, almost five, worked to create a face on a round biscuit. When he was 
concentrating he looked so much like his father. They both seemed more like Neal 
than her.  Alex, a year younger than his brother, copied Neals slight limp sometimes 
Җ she wasnt sure if he was deliberately trying to be like his dad, or if it was some 
unconscious thing. She was glad, at least, they had not inherited her pale skin.
	Billy stopped and looked up at her, his face becoming clear and open.
ґIm making you, Mummy.Ғ  
She smiled and told him that was nice, but she had no energy to do more, to get involved. She could not seem to rouse herself.  For the first time in years she craved a cigarette.  She picked a splinter out of her finger, then got up to open the louvre windows above the sink, even though she knew it would let in the fine red dust that settled on every surface and would hardly make a difference to the temperature.  It was a big room  the wall between the kitchen and the dining room had been taken out - but always hot. So damn hot.   
She leaned a hip against the cool metal of the sink and looked out over the expanse of dry ground in front of the cottage, the double-fronted tin shed and tall, graceful salmon gum with the tyre swing Neal had rigged up for the boys.  The windmill next to the house rasped and creaked with some imperceptible movement of wind.  She doubted Neal would talk to her about his mum, and what he was feeling.  When they were first together she֒d been happy that hed expressed the bare minimum and asked little. She had preferred it that way; silence suited her.  Now, she understood the depths of his inability.  Emotions and thoughts built up inside him, then forced their way out, uncontrolled. That was how he was.  He didnҒt mean anything by it; he loved her.
His brother should be turning up at any time and he hadnt said a word about that, either. It worried her how much he was holding in; his motherҒs death, the pressure of waiting for the rain, not knowing whether the salt, despite his best efforts  and he was good, the best farmer in the district, no doubt about it ֖ would seep up to poison the water and stain the farm white.  And now his brother.  That stuck-up bastard, as Neal called him, on the rare occasions he mentioned him at all.
  Dan.  Hed always sent books for the boys, every birthday and Christmas without fail, with neat inscriptions on the inside cover: Lots of Love From Uncle Dan.  The presents had come through Marjorie, so Neal could not refuse them; it would have meant making a scene, upsetting his mother. She presumed Marjorie thanked Dan on their behalf.  Her mother-in-law had only ever said good things about Dan;  sheҒd often spoken proudly of his work, his flat in London, the exotic places hed visited.  Hester felt a pinch of guilt every time a new book turned up.  
Neal might hate his brother, and perhaps with good reason - she really had no idea -  but she was grateful for the books.
  She filled three plastic cups with water from the filter barrel on the cupboard next to the sink and splashed green cordial into two of them. She gave the cordial drinks to the boys and sipped at the cup of water.  There was plenty to do, but she felt restless, couldnҒt get started.  How much, if anything, did Dan know about her?  He and Andy had been best friends - theyd grown up together, the BohanҒs farm was only a couple of miles away.  Andy had talked about Dan a lot.  But that was a long time ago. She didnt know when theyҒd last been in touch.  
She put on a Play School CD for the boys and dried the dishes. For a while, she wandered around the room with the tea towel slung over her shoulder like a waitress with no customers, then found herself tapping out footsteps on the battered lino of the hallway to the room at the end.  Neals room. She stood in front of the door. Music from the CD seeped through the house; ґthereŒs a bear in there, and a chair as well, there are people with games, and stories to tell....  Neal was never around, anymore.  He shut himself up in the room when he wasnҒt working on the farm, or giving advice to someone else on theirs.  He could talk about farming; he didnt have a problem with that.  
She hadnҒt been in the room for a long time  six months or more.  It had become, somehow, Neal֒s domain, his sole territory. Out of bounds. Daddys in his room.  DonҒt disturb him.  She had hardly noticed it happening.     
The room was a kind of office, a tacked-on lump at the back of the cottage, but crowded with beautiful objects; a heavy Jarrah desk from the Big House that Marjorie had given them when they were married, along with a set of matching drawers and a cupboard where the guns were kept, on a special rack. Neals Grandfather had made the rack himself. There was an elegant brass desk lamp and a big leather swivel chair.   
She leaned against the wall next to the door.  She wanted to go in, to sit in the quiet room, the space Neal occupied without her, but he would not be happy if he found out. It was risky, asking for trouble.  She closed her eyes.  When they were first married it had been different.

She puts NealҒs cup of tea down on the desk and he smiles up at her from the paper he is scribbling on, calculating the cost of sheep dip, or the amount of fence wire he needs for a repair. She sits on his lap and he holds her and twirls the chair around fast, so she giggles and clings to him.  They kiss and sometimes have sex right there in the chair.  He strokes her hair and whispers, Ill finish this later.  They take the ute as far down the back paddocks as they can get on the rutted tracks, then walk to the farmҒs one remaining stretch of solid bush, dotted with salmon gums, thick with mallee and fat wattles, their bunches of pure yellow brighter than the lights on Hay Street at Christmas.  Neal pulls her by the hand like an excited boy keen to impress, delighted to be sharing all he knows and loves, clearly explaining what he wants to, though he doesnt say much. He snaps a thin piece of branch from a jam tree and the sweet smell makes her mouth water. They stand still and watch a hoard of bright green parrots clatter away through the tops of the gums, go to the dam and lie in the shade of the windbreak trees around the big square spread of water and eat ham sandwiches and Granita biscuits.  Sometimes they strip off, watching each other, and launch themselves into the water, laughing like children, feeling the sun bite deep into their skin.

She could hear the boys singing along, out of time, to the duck song on the Play School CD: ґ...the one little duck with the feather on his back, he led the others with a quack, quack, quackŒ.  They rarely did anything together, now, her and Neal.  She had let him go, allowed him to sink into a world of his own. She wanted to comfort him, bring him back to her, make him understand that it could be the way it was before.  Was it too late?
 She wanted to go into his room.
As she touched the cool metal of the door handle there was a noise from the kitchen, a crying screech, a wail that tingled panic through her.  She ran down the hallway, burst into the kitchen
What?  Whatђs happened?  
	ґBilly took my bickie, Alex sobbed. ґMy best bickie!  
	ґSaid he can have this one.  Billy shoved a star-shaped biscuit towards his younger brother with a sticky hand. Alex batted it away.
	ґCome on, you two.  She was calm with relief. ґLets decorate some of your yummy bickies together.  LetҒs make a nice surprise for Daddy. 

That night, Billy had trouble getting to sleep.  Hester lowered herself onto the edge of his bed and watched his flushed face in the glow of the night-light as he whimpered and fretted.  His eyes flickered open.  She grazed a soothing hand along his back.
	ґMummy?  
ґSshhh.  Whisper.  She indicated Alex sprawled in the bed across the room.  
ґMummy, whats happened to Gran?Ғ
She died, lovey.  Remember?ђ
So I wonђt see her again.  Never, ever?
ґNot in real life, sweetheart.  But youll see her in your thoughts.  I know itҒs really sad, but Gran would have wanted you, and all of us, to remember happy times, and keep being happy ourselves, wouldnt she?Ғ
He nodded and lay thoughtful for a minute before rummaging for his soft brown bear with the chewed ear.  She settled the sheet around him and kissed him on the cheek.  
Bear too,ђ he murmured.  She kissed the bear.  
After his eyes had closed and his breathing deepened she sat listening for a while.  There was a faint buzzing drone that might have been a mosquito.  The tin roof ticked in the cooling night. She looked up to the ceiling, towards the sky, or what would be heaven, if she believed in it, at the broken fan with the wide blades that Neal had said he would fix.  It was probably the wiring.  The whole house needed doing.  
Ill try to be happy, Marjorie, she thought.  IҒll keep trying. 
Eventually, she crept out, easing the door closed behind her.
In the dim light, it took her a second to realise Neal was right there, his back against the wall. They stood staring at each other, as though waiting for music to start up before they could dance.  
That was good,ђ he said at last, in a quiet growl, the way you explained it to Billy.ђ  
She tried to smile. She still had to tidy up, do the dishes.  The chooks hadnt been fed.  She reached out and stroked his arm, but as she moved to go past him he grabbed her, held her body to him, tight, the way Billy squeezed his bear, forcing the air out of her. She could not move her arms to comfort him.

2   The Accident

At Northam, an hour the other side of Perth, Dan stopped for more coffee just before the scatter of shops closed for the day, at a cafҩ with plastic tablecloths.  The coffee was instant.  The woman serving splashed milk into his mug and pushed it towards him across the counter. He asked for an extra spoonful of coffee, then added three sachets of sugar from the bowl on the table.  Hed kept himself going with sugar-laden lattes and espressos all the way from London.  When he got back in the little Nissan Җ the cheapest car they had at the airport hire place that would cope with the mileage and the roads  he felt awake enough to tackle the long stretch of the Great Eastern Highway through the Wheatbelt to Joondyne.  
He drove through four-odd hours of mesmerising sameness, dots of towns and occasional roadhouses, red earth and sheep straggling across flat land.  When it got dark, the car֒s lights speared straight ahead down the corridor of road; he might not have been moving at all.  
	  It was nine before he made it to Joondyne. As he pulled into the Roadhouse a road train, all wheels and body, like a giant centipede, rumbled away towards Kalgoorlie.  
Inside, the glare of artificial light and buzz of background radio noise were oddly comforting.  The place was empty apart from the man serving.  He was young, perhaps in his early twenties. He called Dan mate, and asked him if he was from England.  He looked pleased when Dan agreed, and said, 
Thought so. Iђm pretty sharp on the accents.
    
Dan sat down at a clean plastic table.  He drank another sweet coffee and ate a sausage roll; he wasnҒt hungry, but he couldnt remember the last time heҒd eaten.   He bought a copy of the Wheatbelt Mercury  there was no Guardian here, no Times or Independent, not even the Sun ֖ and pretended to read it at the table, to avoid conversation.  The man called See yu later, mate,ђ when Dan left.
He drove straight to the cemetery - no matter how tired he was, how gritty and heavy his eyes felt, he couldnt diverge from his plan -  down a narrow road off the highway.  He had to turn back twice to find the sign.
The cemetery was marked out by a low wooden fence, painted white.  He parked, and sat for a minute, his stomach churning with the coffee and greasy sausage roll.  In the beam from the carҒs lights he shuffled around the strange territory of headstones and flat granite slabs, searching, until he found it; a mound of freshly turned earth, pinkish, even in the poor light, littered with drooping flowers in cellophane with names on tag cards. She was buried next to his dad, of course.  He stood for a while, disorientated, a little frightened by the rustles of wildlife in the surrounding bush.  The night air had a dry chill to it.
When he finally made it to the Big House, exhaustion stopped him feeling anything much. He pulled on a jumper and collapsed on the sagging green sofa, the same one hed curled up on and hidden behind, as a boy.  It took him a while to get to sleep, loaded with coffee, surrounded by the strange quiet of the empty house.  

When drove the fifteen minutes into Marrup the next morning, he had the road to himself.  With the air-conditioning off and his elbow poking through the open window, he let the morning air clear his head. He was looking forward to seeing Marrup again. 
The car bounced over a rough patch of tarmac and he brought both hands back to the wheel. He looked around at the bare paddocks and greyish sheep, the stately silver windmills and occasional set-back farmhouses, all stark and clear in the pure light.  He breathed in the earthy smell of the land, the sharp tang of eucalyptus, let the reassurance of the familiar wash over him.  The treesҒ morning shadows stretched over the road, flickering across the car.  He couldnt help smiling.
But as he drove into the town, his mood faded. The sign declaring Marrup was pocked with holes Җ were they bullet holes?  The main street -  the one route in and out  was deserted.  Nothing moved.  
He slowed the car to a crawl, searching for some comfort of recognition. Boards blanked out the doors and windows of the solid stone post office.  Abandoned shops, charming wooden structures with wide windows and tin roofs, gaped out onto the road, their facia lettering bleached to vague outlines by the sun.  Wheat coloured grasses grew out of cracks in the footpath in front of what used to be the bakery, a seventies building of pale brick, where his mum had bought him creamy vanilla slices on Saturday mornings.
Marrup had never been a big town; now it barely existed.  
He parked the car at the end of the street and switched off the engine.  He shook his head, as if trying to clear the remnants of an unpleasant dream.    
He֒d come here to get something for his nephews before going to the cottage  he couldn֒t turn up empty-handed, not the first time he met them.  It was Billys birthday, too, in a couple of days.  Usually, he sent them books, through his mum.  No matter what he thought of his brother, the boys were still his nephews. 
There never had been a bookshop here, as far as he knew, though the newsagent had sold magazines and a few kidsҒ books and paperbacks.  Now, even the newsagent was gone. It was eight years since hed last been in Marrup;  heҒd come to say goodbye to his mum before he went to London. In that time, the place had withered and collapsed, like some diseased animal.
He looked across the road at an empty shop, a crack spreading across the 
window glass.  He was pretty sure it had been Brannies, the caf and lollie shop. When they were kids the highlight of their week was going to Brannies on Fridays after school to spend their ten or fifteen cents on little white paper packets of lollies.  Mrs Brannigan was patient as he and Neal picked out what they wanted from the display under the long glass counter; chocolate freckles and milk bottles, pink sherbet sticks and stretchy snakes. Neal convinced him, for a while, that all black lollies had gone bad and were no good to eat. Dan trusted his brother, he handed over his black lollies - licorice, black-jacks, hard-boiled humbugs, black jubes -  without complaint, as if the older boy was doing him a favour.  He couldnt remember when he钒d finally realised the con, or if hed been angry.  He must have been.
Dan got out of the Nissan.  The sound of the car door closing echoed down the street.   He stepped along the footpath, hesitant and cautious in the surroundings that should have been familiar.  A post in front of the old hardware store had crumpled in the middle, chewed away by white ants, giving the tin awning a dangerous lean.  He heard the growl of a vehicle.  A farmer in a dusty ute stared at him as he bumped passed.
Strips of guttering hung loose from the Marrup Hotel, an imposing, two-storey Victorian building.  Paint flaked off the intricate wrought-iron balcony. Faded curtains hung in the windows. Dan was surprised to see a crate of empty bottles at the side of the Hotel and a station wagon parked in the gravel car park.  Not everything had closed down, then.  Further along the street, multi-coloured fly curtains rippled in a shop doorway and a man appeared with an A-frame sign.  He set the sign up on the edge of the footpath.  As he turned to go back into the shop he noticed Dan and raised a hand in greeting. 
Open! The sign read.  Marrup General Store Җ for ALL your needs! 
 Inside the Store, a ceiling fan clicked lazily. The chiller gave out a low electric buzz. Dans footsteps on the wooden boards sounded through the shop. Behind the counter, the man heҒd seen was unpacking cigarettes from a box and slotting them into shelves.  He called, Good morning!ђ  as he worked.  Dan mumbled a reply.
He wandered past tins of food exposed in half-opened cardboard boxes; beans and chopped tomatoes, frankfurters, mandarin segments and pineapple slices. There were bottles of detergent on the shelves, Jiff, Glad Wrap and packs of toilet paper.  Next to the chiller a chest freezer had its contents hand-written on a piece of paper taped to the lid:  
PIZZAS (three cheese, ham and pineapple)
 CHIPS
 PIES
  FISH FINGERS
 PETERS ICE-CREAM (vanilla, strawberry swirl)
NOTHING ELSE! PLEASE DECIDE WHAT YOU WANT BEFORE OPENING!
He collected a box of breakfast cereal, milk, some tins of food.  He found coloured pencils and colouring books in a neatly arranged stationery corner.  A squeaking metal rack displayed bowed cards in dusty plastic covers.
The man turned and smiled as Dan eased his armful of shopping onto the counter.  He extended his hand.  
ґGraham Walker. You must be Dan.
ґWild guess?
The man put both hands flat on the counter and laughed.  
ґAw, look, you know how it is. Small place. Word gets around.  He tilted his head to consider Dan, then nodded.  ґAnd youre like your brother.Ғ 
Neal? You think so?ђ
Yeah.  I reckon itђs the eyes. He paused.  ґSorry to hear about Marjorie, Dan.
ґThankyou. Thanks.
Graham Walker picked up a can of beans and tapped the price into the cash register
ґThe wife, Lou  I let her sleep in of a morning ֖ she used to go out to see your mum.  Took her the Womens Weekly, a few groceries.  Played cards.Ғ  He shook his head.  Weђll miss her. The place gets smaller by the day.
ґIt looks like a ghost town.
ґYeah.  Shocking, isnt it?  Me and Lou came out here about five years ago, from Perth.  Early retirement. Thought weҒd do something different; didnt want to go stale, moulder away, you know? Little business to see us through. Just as the place started to shrivel up. YouҒll have heard all about the drought, of course. No rain at all, the last couple of years.  But we still like it here. Stay as long as we can. Public service, really. He picked a yellow $6.60 sticker off the back of a birthday card.  ґFor Billys birthday?  Lovely kid. We looked after him and Alex yesterday. Good as gold, they were.  No Grandkids ourselves.  Not yet.Ғ 
He told Dan the total.  Dan thumbed through the confusion of Australian notes in his wallet.  
Thatђs it, Graham Walker pointed, craning over the counter, ґthe red one, and the blue  that֒ll do me, ta. He gave Dan change, and packed his purchases into plastic bags.    
ґShame you missed the funeral, but at least youre here now, eh? Anything we can do to help, Dan, you know where we are. Remind Neal and Hester, too.  Be nice for you to be around family, wonҒt it, at a time like this.

There was a beep when he started the car, and a low fuel warning light flashed.  He 
groaned.  Why the hell hadnҒt he got fuel at Joondyne?  He would 
have to try Johnsons Garage.  It wasnҒt far, just the other side of town - at least it 
used to be.  He thought about going back and checking with the man at the Store  
Graham - that the garage was still open, but he didn֒t feel like getting dragged 
into conversation.  He decided to risk it.
	He eased the car along in second gear, looking around him. There was the 
road heading to Dog Rock, the turn-off to the primary school and high school on the 
opposite side, then farmland again. Long runs of wire fencing topped by a 
strand of barbed wire marked out empty land.  In the paddock on his right, 
the emptiness was broken by a tall windmill and a concrete tank, stained a grey-
green down one side from an old water overflow. The stagnant windmill loomed 
above its own giant shadow stretching across the red ground.  Along the backs of 
the paddocks, trees marked a dark line, in the distance.  He realised that the paddocks 
should have been busy, the air full of wheat dust and chaff, the hum of heavy 
machinery; it was November - harvest time.  
Drought.  Yes. His mother had written about it in her regular letters, along 
with average temperatures, yields, and price per sheep.  Hed become immune over the years, skimmed through the endless details, taken no notice.  Drought in Western Australia.  It had meant nothing to him.  He had not even recognised it when he saw it.

JohnsonҒs Garage looked shabby, but it was open. Dan remembered it being a busy meeting place  the Johnson֒s had run a farm supplies business, too.  As a kid, hed sometimes sat in the cab of the truck while his dad had loaded bags of fertiliser or rolls of wire into the back amidst banter and laughter.  Mr Johnson used to lean in with his cheerful red face and ruffle DanҒs hair, or squeeze his thigh.  It had seemed pleasant and friendly at the time.  He wondered about it, now.
	As he pulled in, a flock of black cockies jostled overhead like a crowd of rowdy teenagers.  Hed always loved these big, raucous birds.  For a moment they distracted him and made him smile.  
He had forgotten which side of the car the fuel tank was on and moved the wheel hesitantly, both ways, before swinging to the correct side of the bowser.  There was a dull thump. He felt a shudder of resistance through the steering wheel, a bump, a squealed yelp!  He shoved his foot on the brake and pushed the gears into neutral.  He turned off the ignition and sat, gripping the wheel.
	An older man wearing work boots and a battered leather hat appeared in the shop doorway, carrying a large plastic container.  He glanced towards Dan, swung the container into the back of a ute parked to one side, then ambled towards the Nissan.  The walk seemed familiar Җ was it Colin Bohan, Andys Dad?
	Dan struggled out of the car.  He bent down.  The dog was under there, near the rear door.  It wasnҒt moving.  Blood oozed from its slack mouth.  Flies were already gathering on the damp, sticky liquid.
	Shit,ђ he grimaced.
	The man came around behind the car.
	Gђday, Daniel. You made it, then.  He squatted near the rear door, by the dogҒs head.  The muscles in his thin calves bulged and worked like lumps of kneaded dough.
	Mr Bohan?  Iх 
	Colin Bohan reached under the car and pulled out the animal in one smooth movement.  He tilted his ear towards its nostrils, then stroked its fur with a rough, work-worn hand.
	ёNot very good circumstances to meet in, Mr Bohan. Im so sorry.  God.  I just didnҒt see it.  Im used to driving in London, itҒs different, its҅poor thing.  He looked miserably down at the still creature.
	The other man stared at the dog in silence, then stood up.  
ґWhat, he tilted his hat back slightly with a finger, ґour traffic too much for you, mate?
	Dan pulled a brief, tense smile.  ґI really am sorry.  The cockies wereő He looked up at the now empty sky.
	The dog lay flaccid, streaks and rivulets of blood mottling the dusty forecourt.  Flies massed around its nostrils and eyes.
	Aw, itђs just one of them things, Dan.  Cant be helped. She was a beaut worker, but.  Understood sheep.Ғ  He stared down at the dog, then looked back at Dan. You round for long?ђ
	Just a few weeks.  Mr Bohan, if thereђs anything I can do to make up for -
	The older man waved a hand.  Dan wasnҒt sure if he was silencing him, or just brushing away flies.
	Been a while, hasnђt it?  Since you were here.
	ґQuite a while.
	ґThe funeral went off smooth yesterday.
	Dan scuffed at the ground with his foot.  
ґI wish I could have been here, but by the time I got Neals message, sorted out the flights...and there was a delay in Singapore. Five hours.Ғ  He knew it sounded like he was making excuses, and that annoyed him, when Neal was really to blame; his brother had left it a whole day before letting Dan know that their mother had passed away, in a brief, bland phone message.  Then hed arranged the funeral so quickly. He must have known it would be hard, if not impossible, for Dan to get here with so little notice. 
	 ґNot to worry.  Mr BohanҒs head moved slightly in a reassuring nod. Howђs London treating you?
	ґFine.  Thanks.
	ґYoure in, what was it, town planning or something?Ғ
	Thatђs right. Development Controlђ, they call it.
	ґGood job?
	ґYeah.  Its okay.Ғ 
	At their feet, flies swarmed greedily on the dogs head, creating a droning, black mask.  Dan felt his throat tighten.
	ґWell, good on you, Dan. Your mum was proud, you know.
	Dan mumbled an acknowledgement, glanced down at his feet. 
ґAnd yourselves? It cant be easy, with the drought.Ғ
Mr Bohans shoulders lifted as he drew breath.  ґToo dry to even bother planting, the last two seasons. Then theres the bloody salt. Course, when it does rain, itҒll bring all the white stuff up.  Disaster waiting to happen.  But were a tough lot out here, Dan. You know that.  HavenҒt given up hope, yet.
ґGood.  Im pleased to hear it. What about Andy, Mr Bohan?  Is he still in the city?  IҒd like to catch up with him while Im over.Ғ
	The older man stood, silent, as if Dan hadnt spoken.  He squatted and scooped up the dog, sending flies scattering.  The animalҒs head lolled over his arm.  
Andy,ђ he paused. Yep. Still in the city.ђ
	A woman with large, sagging breasts under a faded floral dress lumbered up to them from the shop.
	Aw, bugger,ђ she shook her head.  Well, she always was a chaser, wasnђt she, Col?  Go for anything that moved. You get em, sometimes.  She shuffled towards the fuel pump, still talking.  ґI heard Phil Macklays bitch has got pups on the way.  If you need one.Ғ
	Colin Bohan nodded to her.  He began to leave, then paused.
	Make sure you come up to the farm while youђre here, Dan, he directed, kindly.  ґLizzie wants to see you.  
Dan watched him lower the body of the dog into the tray of the ute and drive away.  The big woman stood by the bowser.  
ґSorry about your mum, love, she boomed.  
Everyone was bloody sorry, he thought, suddenly irritated. Who was this woman, anyway?  A Johnson relative?  He didnҒt remember any kids.  
	The woman lifted the nozzle and the pump began to whirr.  She smiled at him.  Fill her up?ђ

As he drove back towards the farm his hands trembled on the wheel. At the edge of town, he eased the Nissan to the side of the road next to the Country Womens Association hall.  Long grasses lapped at the hallҒs wooden walls.  
He hadnt meant to kill the dog, of course Җ it was an accident.  Still, it shouldnt have happened.  He felt terrible about it.  What was wrong with him?  He was hopeless.  He hadnҒt even seen the thing.  What must Andys dad think of him?  
 He turned off the ignition and leaned his head back on the headrest. The heat in the car built quickly with the air-conditioning off. He fumbled for his sunglasses, pushed them on and got out. He stood at the edge of the empty road.  A ghostly heat haze shimmered over the black tarmac. On the other side of the road were the remains of the old Rotary park. He crossed over.
	His footsteps crunched across discarded bark and dry vegetation. The old cement path was barely visible.  ThereҒd been a playground here, once, where hed come after school with Neal and Andy while his mum had shopped, or gone to the post office.  Sometimes, sheҒd sat on a bench and talked to Lizzie and other mums, while the boys had played.  The park had boasted grass, then, only the tough Buffalo variety with sharp edges that had made his skin itch, but it was grass.  Now, the surrounding bush had taken over, regained control.  It was impossible to tell exactly where the playground had been. 
A wooden bench, doused with flakes of bark and bird droppings, crouched under a salmon gum. He cleared a space on the seat and sat down.  A scurry of black ants came and went from a volcano of dirt near his feet.  He brushed a foot over it and watched as the ants speeded up, rushed around frantically attending their disaster.  He flicked a couple off his shoe before they could crawl up his leg, and moved his feet away.
	His mouth felt sticky and dry; he hadnt brought any water with him. 
Almost three weeks, he was supposed to be here.  Why had he thought heҒd need so much time? His new manager at work would be furious at him disappearing for so long with no notice. Hed pushed his last functioning credit card to its limit to pay for the flight, and missed the funeral, anyway, thanks to Neal. His brother. He was not looking forward to seeing him.  
If he tried, he could dredge up good memories of Neal. TheyҒd been close as kids, building cubbies in trees together, mucking around in the dam, snuggling up in bed with warm milk while their mother, when she had time, read them stories about bunyips and magic possums. Later, Neal, the eldest by three years, had been left in charge of him sometimes when his parents went to a big do at Joondyne, or to the Marrup pub with the Bohans to celebrate a good wool harvest.  Theyd played ґscarey hidey in the garden with torches, and Neal had let him eat Milo, crunchy and sweet, straight out of the tin.  
But as they got older, Neal began to spend all his time working on the farm; he was the next in line, the farmer-to-be, the one who was always going to take over from their dad.  He learnt how to pull a lamb out of an exhausted sheep and to put up fences, when to plant wheat and how much fertiliser to use.  Neal wasnҒt interested in school, left the minute he turned fifteen, didnt even stay to finish the year.  He was a country boy, through and through.  Dan lived in another world Җ he studied hard, read everything he could get his hands on, oblivious to grain prices and fly strike.  Neal took the piss out of his brothers stupid, useless books.  He called him a bludger when he stayed in his room writing essays at harvest time, and a bloody sook when he didnҒt want to watch a sheep being butchered.
As it turned out, Neal had to take responsibility for the farm sooner than expected - he was only seventeen when their dad died. He had a heart attack, while  driving the tractor in one of the back paddocks. The tractor kept going until it stalled, finally, in a ditch.  The dog was with him.  It barked and barked, could not be calmed for hours. 
 Dan left for university in Perth as soon as he finished school. The first time he came back in the holidays he found all the books hed left behind gone.  Neal had burned them.  To Kill a Mockingbird and Catch 22, his Penguin Book of Australian Poetry, and Catcher in the Rye, all precious purchases made on rare trips to Perth.  Nothing but ashes.  Neal told Dan his bloody books had been taking up space, bringing white ants into the house. Dan was furious, distraught, but his mother had remained silent, baked cakes, washed clothes; she had avoided confrontation, kept out of it.  Nothing was said.  Nothing was ever said. 
And perhaps some things were better not spoken of. Dan had kept to himself the one memory of Neal that overshadowed all the others, the picture in his head Җ  still clear, precise, shocking - that he couldnt banish. He had never told anybody about it. Neal did not even know Dan had been watching that night.  Would there be anything to gain by bringing it into the open, now?  It was a long time ago.       
A squall of parrots flushed from a nearby stand of trees as a whining hum, like a giant mosquito, grew louder. The noise rose to a crescendo and a trail bike blasted past on the road, leaving a ticking echo in its wake.  
	Somehow, his brother had got married, had kids.  She wasnҒt a local.  From the city, originally, his mum had said.  He didnt know much about her - she had taught the kids to swim in the dam, apparently, and liked cooking. Perhaps his mum had told him more in her letters, but he didnҒt remember.  Hester.  An old-fashioned name.  Well, no doubt she was a good match for his brother.
	He felt a sting on his leg and jumped up.  Ants swarmed on his shoes and around the bottom of his trousers.  He swept them off with his hands and picked off the individual stragglers that had made it to his bare flesh. The smell of crushed ants was unpleasant, like burnt liquorice.
He started back towards the car.  He was exhausted; all he wanted to do was sleep.  He would go to see his brother tomorrow.  There was no rush. 

3	City Life  

Andys eyes flicker open as a sharp sound echoes around him; click, clack; click, clack.  He struggles to understand the sound, to place himself. He looks at the legs sprawled in front of him on the damp concrete floor.  His legs.  Yes. He knows that the floor must be cold, that the filthy toilet bowl next to him will stink. His head lolls towards one shoulder. Slashes and scribbles of graffiti show on the walls of the cubicle in the bluish light. He has been trying to cut down, but he didnҒt feel like rationing, today. Got greedy. Stupid. 
Click,clack.  Shoes. Hard soles on the concrete. Then softer footsteps. The rustle of paper. Voices.
	Ten bucks short. Prick.  No wonder he pissed off quick.ђ
	Aw, fuck it, itђs only ten bucks -
	ґShhh. You hear something?
The hard-soled footsteps click closer to Andy, like the repeated priming of a gun.  He thinks about getting up but he canҒt.  His body is distant and heavy, his breath a bare puff of shallow air. In, out.
	Crack! crack!  The flimsy door lock falls away. The edge of the door slams into him and he feels his body dislodge from its place against the wall and slump through the cubicle doorway.  His head drops to the grey concrete. 
A groan oozes around the toilet block.  He realises it comes from him. 
He manages to heave his eyelids open enough to see white trainers close to his face, a pair of flat black leather shoes next to them. Legs and faces, further up, looking down at him.  
	He one of ours?ђ  
Donђt think so.
	The man in the black shoes spits, landing a sticky globule, festooned with tiny bubbles, inches from AndyҒs face.
Stupid fucking junkie.ђ He moves around Andys body; click, clack, click.   
	ґBoots look alright.  Could get a few bucks for them.
Andy sees the flash of flame from a cigarette lighter, dark shadows on the manҒs face. White smoke billows and swirls.  He notices the way the cuffs of the mans trousers ruck and crumple where they meet his shoes. The man steps back, shifts his weight onto one leg.  The bright tip of the cigarette moves and bobbs, drawing patterns of light in the strange blue gloom. One dark leather shoe draws back. Andy could beg the bastard not to hurt him, but he doesnҒt.  He does nothing.  He deserves whatever is coming.  The shoe swings towards him.  He lets his body go loose, his eyelids close. 

A nurse with tied-back, glossy hair yanks the needle from his arm and slaps a lump of cotton wool over the puncture wound.  She takes down the drip from its stand.  Andy shifts in the bed and winces at the pain from his cracked ribs.  He knows there is no point asking for pain relief  junkies do not get that privilege
	֑So does this mean its time to go?Ғ 
The nurse looks at him with disinterest, even disdain, and shrugs.
	You donђt know? 
She makes notes on a form and ignores him.
	ґWell who should I ask, then? 
She clicks her pen and slots it into a pocket in her uniform before answering.  
ґDoctorll be round tomorrow.Ғ  She turns to leave, then pauses.  Oh, and by the way, your girlfriend,ђ she draws the word out, a sneer picking at the edge of her lip, called in while you were out of it.  Left you some things.ђ  She nods towards the bedside cabinet, and strides off on sturdy calves.
Thanks a fucking million, love,ђ Andy mutters, half-saluting the nurses receding back. 
	There is a plastic Target bag on the cabinet and a scribbled note tucked under the water jug.  He carefully levers himself into a sitting position and slides the note out.  Water from the jug has smudged some of the writing, but it is easy enough to make out, in DebbieҒs rough capitals:  
ANDY  GOT KICKED OUT OF ROOM.  GOING TO KAL WITH MIKE HE GOT A JOB ON THE TRUCKS.  SEE YU IN ANOTHER LIFE. D.
	He screws up the bit of paper and drops it on the floor.  He rummages in the plastic bag.  There is his woolly hat, his tattered notebook and lucky stone, his pocket knife and ancient Neil Young t-shirt. All his wordly possessions.  
	He eases himself back on the pillows and closes his eyes.   Tears stream down his face; he has no control over them.  He has been in here over two weeks now, gone  through the agony of detox in a blur of sweat and pain, been left with the ache of his broken ribs and bruised organs.  But it isn֒t the physical pain that makes him cry; it is feeling.  Emotion gushes out of him, years of it, pent-up, pushed aside, ignored. He is not used to feeling.  Anything.  Hes been numb, for a long time.  Now, he knows the miserable, soiled reality of being found half dead in a filthy toilet block.  A low-life junkie.  
 Feeling is hard.
	It is another three days before they let him out. The doctor, a harassed Indian registrar, tells Andy he still needs to rest.  He asks, scribbling on the page in front of him, if Andy has someone at home who can look after him for a while. 
	Andy clutches his plastic bag. ґHomes, he murmurs.  ґYeah. Course.

It was a warm, late September day, perfect city weather, the brief damp of winter thrown off for another year.  In his tatty Neil Young t-shirt and the clothes the hospital had given him to leave in - a pair of worn, thin-soled shoes, too-short tracky pants and a cap - Andy shuffled along amongst the thin wash of office workers and shoppers. Tourists ambled around. Somewhere, a busker played a digeridoo. With the plastic bag holding his few belongings rolled up and tucked under his arm, and the two dollar bus fare theyҒd given him safe in his bunched hand, he was glad to be free of the bland, unfriendly hospital.  
The light at the pedestrian crossing turned green and he eased himself across the road and headed towards St Georges Terrace.  As he came down the hill the great swaithe of the Swan River confronted him, almost the same blue as the sky.  A few white sails dotted the water. KingҒs Park towered, lush and green, to his right. He felt light and happy, overjoyed at existing, despite everything.
He hoped Summie still lived in the house in Inglewood, prayed, to whoever might be listening, that he would be at the solid 1940s place hed inherited from his Gran.  HeҒd run into Summie in Hay Street a while back -  how long would it have been?  A year.  Maybe less.  Time turned confusing and hard to unravel, with the drugs. He did remember that Summie had been looking good; trendy clothes and a nice girl with him.  That day in Hay Street Summie and the girl had stopped to talk to him, even though Andy had been a bit wobbly on his legs. But that was Summie.  A top sort.  
A herd of cars gathered at the nearby lights roared away as the signal changed. An ambulance siren wailed, then faded. He knew he could try to hike it over to the squat at Moorlands. It was Saturday  he was pretty sure it was Saturday - Allie and Mick and that lot would be around. He֒d be able to get some gear on tick.  But he didnt want to.  He just didnҒt.  And it was a bloody long way.  Summies was closer, a serious consideration with his insides aching and the pain from his ribs jarring through him when he trod too hard. It would be good to see Summie again.  
Summie had got clean.  They had used together, then his mate had stopped.  Just like that. Said heҒd rather spend the money on wax for his surfboard. That was back in the days when it was for fun.  Casual, on weekends.  But Andy wasnt even close to giving up, then; heҒd only just started. When he finally did stop, it didnt last long. Every time he used again, he thought he could control it, deluded himself over and over.  
 But something had changed. HeҒd been lying in the hospital bed the last few days, thinking; it was his birthday soon - in a few months hed be thirty three. He was still young!  If life began at forty, he would have a head start.  Thirty three.  It had a nice ring to it.  His girlfriend Җ on-off girlfriend, admittedly - had left him.  Hed overdosed, again. The smack would kill him, sooner rather than later. His body had been smashed up.  He was tired of it all. Exhausted.  The last eight years had been like a non-stop rollercoaster ride.  It was time, finally, to calm things down.  Get his act together. Start a new life.  If he didnҒt do it now, he might not get another chance.   
Summie had been good to him when they shared the house in Inglewood, encouraged him to go to detox a couple of times, always let him come back when he got out. But Andy was useless; he turned up late at night, did deals at the house with people who ground their cigarette butts into the carpet. Eventually Summie had told him that hed better go.  Which was fair enough.  Andy had nicked SummieҒs DVD when he left, but hopefully he would have been forgiven for that, by now.  It must have been about five years ago.  Something like that. 
Please be there, please, please, please, he chanted under his breath with each limping step. He slumped against the bus shelter, took off the cap and lifted his arm, gritting his teeth against the pain in his ribs, to wipe the sweat from his forehead.  He noticed for the first time that the cap was emblazoned with the word Fremantle across the front, as though he were a tourist.  It made him laugh out loud.  The other people waiting for the bus edged away.

The sight of the familiar house was a momentary relief, but as he came closer he began to worry; the big jacaranda was still there, but the place looked different, neater than he remembered. The lawn at the front was recently mown, still giving out a fresh grass smell.  Wooden outdoor chairs and a small round table sat on the front verandah, with healthy-looking plants in huge pots.  Did Summie still live here?  As he limped up the verandah steps it occurred to him what a pitiful sight he must look, in his trashy jumble of clothes. His teeth, what was left of them, were a mess. He was scabby and bruised. He ran a pale hand through his lank, shoulder-length  hair.      
He pressed the doorbell.
The sounds of soft footsteps washed out to him. A young woman in shorts and a bright, tie-dyed singlet opened the door.  Through the grey mesh of the flyscreen he could see she was pretty.  Behind her a long, ethnic rug stretched along the stripped wood of the hallway floor.  
What can I do for you?ђ  She was brusque, but not unfriendly.
Hi.  Hi.ђ  His voice was rough.  He hadnt used it much recently.  He cleared his throat.  ґSorry, Im really sorry to bother you.  I was just wondering if Summie Җ Steve, if Steve Summer was here.  Im an old mate of his.  I mean, I donҒt even know if?Œ
Yep, heђs here.  Ill get him.  Who is it?Ғ    
Andy.  Itђs Andy Bohan.
ґAndy Bohan?  She paused for a moment, then pulled the screen door open and held out her hand. Her tanned, bare upper arm was decorated with a complicated celtic design tattoo. They shook hands. Her grip was firm.
ґJules.  Sorry, I didnt recognise you. WeҒve met before, in Perth.  It was a while back, you might not remember.  Hang on, Ill get Summie.Ғ
He shifted his weight from foot to foot while he waited. Tender blisters had formed on his heels from the shoes hed been given.  His head thumped. The handle of the plastic bag felt slimy in his damp hand.
He heard the lift and run of voices, loud, then quiet.  He waited, wondering if heҒd done the right thing.  Perhaps he shouldnt have come.  Then someone was ambling towards him along the hallway. The flyscreen door swung open again. There was a hint of chubbiness about the man in front of him but it was, unmistakably, Summie.  He pushed waves of sandy hair away from his face.  
ґSummie. Long time no see, eh?
ґJeez, Andy, whered you spring from?Ғ
 Iђm really sorry to just turn up like this. Ive been in hospital, I didnҒt have  I mean, the thing is, I haven֒t got anywhereŒ  Andy realised he sounded weedling.  He felt wretched, suddenly. Disgraced. As embarrassed to be himself as it was possible to be, standing next to his well-fed old mate, on the verandah of his nice house.   He felt sick.  A babys cry detonated from somewhere inside. He shook his head, turned and hobbled back down the steps.
ґAndy? Summie let the screen door bang behind him and followed him onto the grass. Andy stopped. They stood near each other.  The sun was high, now. Andy was thirsty.
ґBit of a surprise, you just turning up. I dont Җ Its just that -  Jesus, mate, you look like shit.Ғ
Andy nodded and smiled. 
Feel it, too.  But Iђm notŒ he lowered his voice, Iђm clean, Summie.  I really am.  Just so you know.  A car trundled past.  The driver beeped the horn and raised a hand. Summie returned the greeting.
ґLook, Andy made a vague gesture towards the house, ґyou dont need me around.Ғ 
Summie pulled in his lips and dug at the grass with his toes.  Andy could feel a dent from the reticulation under the thin sole of his right shoe. 
Yeah, well, thereђs Jules, and the baby, its not really҅  
	ґCourse.  Andy nodded.  He wondered why the hell heҒd come here, how hed thought even for a second that these people would want him, a fucked-up useless junkie, in their lives.
	ґI still owe you for the DVD. I havent forgotten.Ғ
	Good.  Neither have I.ђ Summie smiled unconvincingly.
 	The screen door flapped open and Jules stood on the edge of the verandah holding a baby on her hip. 
Iђm making smoothies, Andy.  You want yours with or without ice? 
Andy shook his head.  ґThanks, but I -  I was just leaving.
ґDont be bloody stupid.  TheyҒre almost ready. 
ґOh.  Well...
Summie frowned at Jules. He ducked his head and strode back across the grass and into the house, straight past her and the baby, without a word. Jules shrugged and jerked her head in SummieҒs direction. 
I wouldnђt worry about him, mate. Come in. Weve got something for you.Ғ  The baby kicked her legs and burbled incomprehensible sounds. 

4	Roo

She had pegged the bathers out to dry and almost finished washing the lunch dishes when a blue car pulled up under the big salmon gum, in front of the shed. She dried her hands on a tea-towel and watched through the kitchen window. Someone got out of the car.  Was it Dan?  It had to be.  
	She stoked the fire and filled the kettle, to be doing something.  After a couple of minutes there was a hesitant tap on the wall next to the flyscreen door. 
Hello?ђ  
Hester eased open the squeaky door. Hi.  Dan, is it?ђ
	Yes, hi. You must be Hester.ђ  He extended a hand.  Nice to meet you at last.ђ  His accent was soft and unfamiliar. They grasped hands, briefly.  
	You too.ђ  She was conscious, suddenly, of her tatty t-shirt and rough-edged nails.
	He stood on the threshold of the room until she ushered him in.
	Nealђs not here.  He should be back in a few hours.  About five.
	ґRight.  Okay.  Sorry to -  I was going to call, but theres no signal, and the phone at the Big House seems to be cut off.Ғ
	Yeah, I think Neal arranged to have things stopped there.  Not sure about the power.  Is it still on?ђ  
Yes.ђ  
Good.  You can forget about your mobile, though.  Twilight Zone, here.ђ  She wiggled her fingers in the air and made a woooђ noise, and he smiled, a genuine, relieved smile, as though he needed it, had been waiting a long time for the opportunity.
I got in late, a couple of nights ago.  I should have come up sooner і been a bit zonked out, to tell the truth.
	SheҒd seen photos of him at Marjories; now, there were tired crescents under his eyes, but he was still more attractive in real life.  He had the same dark, thick, hair as Neal, but his was well-cut.  He seemed much younger than his brother, though she knew there were only three years between them.  
	ґIt must have been a long trip.
	ґYes. It was.
	ґHave a seat.  Get you a drink?  Tea?  She asked, already spooning leaves into the pot. Tea-bags would have been easier, but Neal wouldnҒt have them in the house; he insisted on the real thing.
	Dan pulled back a chair and laid a pair of sunglasses, sleek and expensive- looking, on the table.  He put a plastic bag he was holding at his feet.
	I wish Iђd made it for the funeral. Went to the cemetery the night I got here.  It was a bit  a bit weird.֒ He smiled again, but more nervous, this time.  Shy. 
	Hester stopped filling the teapot and held the steaming kettle in mid-air.  Iђm really sorry about your mum. 
	ґIt was a shock.
	ґWell all miss her.  The kids are still trying to work it out.  TheyҒre asleep at the moment.  Billys just about grown out of his afternoon sleep.  Unfortunately.Ғ  She remembered a small china milk jug that Marjorie had given her and dug it out from the back of a cupboard.  She brushed the dust out of it, filled it with milk from the carton in the fridge and put the tea things on the table.
By the way, the boys have always loved the books youђve sent them. Thanks. It was a relief to be able to say it, finally, to thank him in person.  
	 ґMy pleasure, Hester. Theyre my only nephews.  Mum always kept me up-to-date with them.Ғ  
She kept me up-to-date with you, too.ђ  She turned away as soon as shed spoken, her face warming, feeling like sheҒd crossed some line, stumbled into a kind of intimacy.  
Only a colouring book this year, Iђm afraid  all Marrup had to offer.֒ He went on, not noticing her embarrassment, or politely pretending not to. Got one for Alex, too; I didnђt want him to feel left out. I went in this morning. Thought I might be able to get books, but the place has completelythereŒs nothing there.  He looked bewildered.
She piled biscuits from an old Roses chocolates tin onto a plate. ґI know.  There were heaps of shops when I first came here.  Now theres only Җ well, youve seen whatҒs left.  In less than six years.
ґMum said youre from Perth.Ғ
Yep. Thatђs right.
	ґWhereabouts?  I used to live in Bayswater.	
ґHey, youve got to try one of these,Ғ She offered him the plate of different shaped biscuits, messily iced. Perhaps he did only know what his mum had told him. 
	The boysђ creations.  They taste better than they look.
	A small voice came from the hall doorway.  
	ґMummy?  Billy rubbed his eyes and blinked.  He stood staring, as though wondering if the stranger in his kitchen was still part of his dream.  Hester held out her arms and he padded over and snuggled into her. 
	ґGood sleep?  Guess whos here. Uncle Dan!  All the way from England.  Say hello.Ғ
	He murmured hello, curious, but gripping his mother firmly.
	Now, letђs see; Billy?
The boy nodded.
ґAh, Billy! We meet at last.  Such a big boy.  Youre Җ lets see Җ almost five now?  It must be your birthday soon. 
	ґTwo days! He flung out an arm with two fingers held up. ґIts my birthday in two days!Ғ  
	She smiled. Dan was good with kids.  He had that in common with his brother.
	She told him he was welcome to wait until Neal got back.   

Hester strung tough-skinned runner beans at the sink.  The boys coloured with their new pencils, while Dan read them the Percy the Park Keeper book hed sent to Billy last Christmas; he turned the book around at the end of every page and they leant forward to examine the pictures of lush green trees and small, soft animals. She listened to DanҒs gentle, expressive voice as he read, and tried not to worry.
When the screen door slapped open she flinched. Neal was there, lumbering across the room with his slight limp  always worse at the end of the day ֖ to his old armchair in the far corner.  He dropped into the chairs sagging seat, legs extended, ankles crossed, his white calloused feet angled, like strange growths. 
Hester emptied the mess of old tea leaves from the pot into the compost bin and began to make Neal fresh tea.  The boys clambered on their fatherҒs lap, vying for space.
	Uncle Danђs here, Daddy.
	ґSo I see.  
	ґHello Neal.
	ґDan.
	ґUncle Dan knows you.  Hes your brother!Ғ  Billy declared.
	Huh,ђ Neal grunted.  My brother?  Aw, yeah.  So he is.ђ
	Sorry I didnђt make it in time yesterday.  The flight was delayed in Singapore.	
	ґWe managed without you.
	Hester brought over her husbandҒs tea.  Under her instruction, the children tidied up their things and put them away in their room.
	It went okay, then?  The funeral.ђ
	It was a funeral,ђ Neal shrugged.  People. Flowers. Said no flowers, but they brought them anyway.  Dunno where they got them. Waste of bloody money, you ask me.ђ 
	Dan fiddled with the handle of his mug.
	I stayed at the Big House last night.  Iђll stay there until I go back, if thats okay.  IҒve got a few weeks.
	ґUp to you.
	ґLook, if theres anything that needs doing, just let me know.  I can sort out the stuff in the house. Have you got a headstone arranged yet?  If you like, I can -Ғ
	Itђs done.
	ґRight.
	 Hester stoked the fire and wiped the table. She picked up DanҒs mug and  asked if she could get him another drink. 
Iђd like some water, he said quietly, ґif thats okay, Hester.Ғ  His face was flushed and damp with sweat.  He wasnt used to the heat.
 The boys chattered in their bedroom and the stew made a soft, glugging sound on the stove. Hester flicked water on week-old bread and slid it into the oven to freshen it. She re-filled DanҒs glass.  
I told Dan he might as well stay for tea,ђ she said.  Since heђs here. 

Through the meal, Dan struggled to make conversation with his brother. Neal focused his attention on the boys, clearing up BillyҒs spilt drink, helping Alex cut a piece of meat. They fidgeted and kicked at the legs of their chairs, over-excited at having a visitor.  Wood in the fire fizzed and cracked.  She felt sorry for her brother-in-law.  She knew Neal didnt like him, but couldnҒt he at least be polite? The poor bugger had lost his mum, too.
She asked Dan about his flight; how long it took, what the food was like. She 
had never been on a plane herself.  Never even been out of the State. Dan seemed grateful for her interest.
	This is lovely, Hester,ђ he pointed at his plate of food with his fork. Just what I needed. What kind of meat is it?ђ
.	Roo,ђ Neal cut in, before she had a chance to speak. Youђre eating roo, Dan. Real meat.  He held his knife and fork steady, on either side of his plate, and looked  at his brother.  ґShot it myself. 

5	Expectations

It was dark when Dan got back to the Big House.  He sat in a fraying wicker chair on the front verandah and marvelled at the stars crowding the sky.  It had been a long time since heҒd seen a sky like that.  He sipped a can of gassy Swan Larger hed bought from the General Store. He and Andy used to drink the stuff when they were teenagers, just cans here and there, taken from a carton AndyҒs dad had kept to re-stock the fridge.  
The outline of the old shearing shed loomed to his left.  Hester had told him the shearing teams didnt come, anymore Җ no-one could afford them, and there were not enough sheep, anyway.  Local farmers pitched in to get each others shearing done.  He sensed the solid presence of the tree next to the shed, where his dad had hung sheep from a huge hook to butcher, kept catching site of it from the corner of his eye, though he knew that the tree was gone.  
He lifted a hand, heavy with tiredeness, to brush away a mosquito.  Lights from the cottage at the end of the track cut into the darkness, but there was no sound.  It was too far away for him to hear anything.

Sweating and disorientated, he woke on the lumpy mattress heҒd dragged into the lounge from one of the dusty, long-uninhabited bedrooms, and remembered.  The house was empty.  He was on his own.
	Morning light cut through the gap in the faded curtains. He lay there and listened to the scutters and sighs from the house, the soothing creak and hum of the windmill, the faint maaaa of sheep. He got up.
The fridge stank. He should have sorted it out the day he arrived.  A green mould crept over a bowl of some kind of leftovers.  There was a block of dried-up cheese in Glad Wrap, a carton of putrid, lumpy milk, a small, unopened pot of yoghurt. He left the jar of jam and the honey, but threw everything else into a black plastic bag from a roll he found in the cupboard under the sink.   The little rectangular freezer compartment was lightly furred with loose, frosty ice, hiding a single chop, a bag of peas and a plastic container with half a dozen scones. He dropped them into the bag, too, and added a few green, sprouting potatoes and the swampy mess of tea leaves in the pot.  He tied the bag tightly, and took it out to the verandah.  
He walked the length of the verandah, clutching the bag, wondering what to do with it.  When he was a kid, theyd thrown their rubbish into a huge hole dug in one of the back paddocks.  That was bound to be against some kind of regulation, now. But what was the alternative?  There couldnҒt be any rubbish collection out here. In the end, he left the bag at the far end of the verandah. He would find out what to do with it later.  
He spent half an hour cleaning the fridge, then made himself a cup of instant coffee in one of his mums tannin-stained mugs.  He wandered around the house.  The long hallway was cool and dim, cloistered from the heat, the outside world. He clicked open doors and peered into empty, musty rooms.  HeҒd grown up here, at the Big House, with its high ceilings and big bay windows. His great-grandparents had built the place, nearly a hundred years ago; theyd managed a good living out of wheat and sheep.  But even when heҒd lived here the house had suffered from neglect; now, it was falling apart. In the long disused formal dining room the ceiling had crumbled in places, leaving chunks of white plaster like splattered cake on the rich, dark wood of the floor. A crack sliced across the glass in the window of his childhood bedroom, and mouse droppings littered the floor.  There was no furniture in the room -  Dan wondered if Neal had taken it up to the cottage for his boys.
He ran a finger along a dusty table in the hallway, leaving a shiny trail.  
The only room that had been in regular use in this part of the house was the one at the end of the hallway, on the right, where his mother had slept on her own for the past twenty years, and, before that, for about the same amount of time with Dans father.  
He glanced in, caught a cloying, confined smell and shut the door quickly. He had to go in there, but not now.  He needed time to think, to work out what to do. Should he just throw away all his mumҒs things, take everything to the nearest charity shop?  Was there one in Joondyne? He wondered if Neal wanted to keep anything.  His mum had left the contents of the Big House to Dan.  The farm, with the house and the cottage, had been passed over to Neal years ago.  He thought that was fair enough, though it riled him that Neal had let the house fall into such a terrible state. Maybe his brother would fix it up now his mum was gone, move in with his family.  He wouldnt put it past the self-serving bastard. 
There didnҒt seem to be anything valuable in the house   perhaps some of the old bits of hand-made wooden furniture would be worth a bit, and they֒d be clamouring for the 1950s Formica kitchen table at Spitalfields Market, no doubt. But that wasnt much use to him, here. Dan admitted the hope of his mum leaving him something had tingled at the back of his mind on the trip over.  He could certainly do with some help; the garden flat in Primrose Hill had never been realistic, financially. Why the hell had he done it?  Because he wanted that life; heҒd been tired of the years of grime in Turnpike Lane, the scrum and noise of Hackney.  And he did it to please Claire, who grew up in Hampstead, with a country house in Devon. But he didnt belong there - not only did he have the wrong accent, he spoke the wrong language; he was Australian.  Just a sheep farmerҒs kid from the back-of-beyond.  
Claire was gone within a year, anyway.  Then he found Sara, who hed always suspected loved the flat more than him.  TheyҒd argued when he told her he was going to sell the place. In the end, he was stuck with it, and his huge mortgage, when the housing market bottomed out. There were no more weekends in Berlin or Paris, no opening-night seats; just walks on the common and demands for payment. Sara didnt stay around long after that. He hadnҒt met anyone important in the two years since Sara. He couldnt deny he was lonely, but heҒd become wary, had lost confidence in his choices. The only thing he knew for sure was that he wanted to be with someone different; a woman who cared about him and didnt give a shit about the gorgeous damn flat.
Back in the lounge, he pulled the curtains and let an onslaught of light into the shabby room. Cheap ornaments lined the shelves.  Stacks of WomenҒs Weeklies, crammed under the sideboard, spilled out onto the thin carpet. He picked up a flimsy grey ceramic owl.  A stamp on its flat base read Made in China.  
Why was he left to tackle clearing the house on his own, when Neal and Hester were just up the road?  It didnt look like either of them had set foot in the place since his mum had gone.  Hester had not offered to help, yesterday. She had plenty to do up at the cottage, of course, but he suspected there was more to it.  Had Neal forbidden her?  HeҒd thought, last night, that there was something not right between them, the way his brother expected her to run around after him like he was bloody royalty. Why did she put up with it?  
She had been a surprise, Hester. He had expected a frumpy, dull farmers wife, but she was funny and bright and kind Җ the opposite of his brother.  There was something unkempt about her, but measured, too.  She had a kind of subdued self-assurance, an attractive way of moving; fluid, but precise. Sexy, he supposed.  
She was not what he had expected, at all.  

6	Sanctuary

She took the boys swimming the next morning, wanting to get back to the normal rhythm of their days. Both were remarkable in the water, for their ages.  She had started teaching them while they were babies.  Once, she had overheard Neal telling Jack Bryson that his boys could float before they could walk, with an uncharacteristic  edge of bragging in his voice.  When shed first come here, Hester had listened to the stories of farm children drowned in creeks and dams and flash floods, tragic tales told and re-told until they took on a sad inevitability.  Even before she became pregnant with Billy, she had been prepared. It was a fear she could confront, take control of; she would make sure her boys knew the water as well as they knew the land. She still gave them lessons every morning, before the sun was too furious, and let them muck around, for a while, afterwards. 
The boys played on the huge tractor tyre inner tube, and with the old surf board Neal had found by the side of the road, left behind by some adventurous tourist making a quick escape back to the coast. She watched Billy balance on the board, his little limbs brown and strong.  Alex sat astride the tube, kicking his legs.
She settled into a float close by. With her ears submerged, the sound of the boys playing became distant and hollow.  She smelled sheep and hard-baked soil, dry grass and the spicy sap of the swamp mallet along the windbreak.  She belonged here, now, on the farm, and the dam was her special place.  Neal had given it to her, this big slab of water surrounded by dusty paddocks, like a gift.  He had put up a fence to keep the sheep and the roos and rabbits out.  To keep it clean.  For her.  
When she came here it was a revelation to swim again, after so many years.  SheҒd panicked when the water level had started to lower at the end of that first summer.  Neal had explained that it was normal  it was a run-off damn, and wouldn֒t fill up again until the next rain. But she was so upset to see the water level inching downwards, sinking into the ground, being sucked away by the heat of the sun, that Neal had rigged up a pipe into the dam from the big windmill that pumped artesian water for the sheep troughs around the farm. Since then, it had always been full enough to swim in, even when the rain didnt come, and all the other damns sat bone dry, the land around parched and desolate.  The dam was always there.  Her sanctuary.  
She made her eyes into slits and stared up at the sky, a vast blanket of perfect blue, reaching to the edges of the land, clear and precise and effortless.  When she was a girl she had floated like this in the sea, looking up at another huge sky,  listening to the squawk of the gulls, peopleҒs shouts and laughter muffled by the stir and crash of the waves, tasted the salt in her mouth, felt its gritty crust on her skin. 
Shed swum every day in the summer, and after school and weekends the rest of the year when it wasnҒt too cold. Shed taken her life-saving exam at twelve.  Her knee-boarding skills made tourists on the beach stop and watch.  A true-blue water-baby, her dad had called her.  His clever girl.  HeҒd always said he was proud of her.  Still, it hadnt stopped him leaving.
Her body lay, buoyed, weightless, in the water. Since NealҒs brother had turned up, fleeting memories of the past, thoughts long buried, had startled her at odd times.  Yet meeting Dan had lifted her mood, somehow.  She admitted to herself she was looking forward to seeing him again. 
One of the boys popped up next to her, spouting water. She dived under, smooth and quick, slipped away to come up in the middle of the inner tube.  She waved her arms in the air and teased her boys that they couldnt catch her.  They splashed towards her, laughing.
It had shocked her to realise, seeing Dan and Neal together, how difficult her husband had become, how tight and gloomy and inward.  He had treated his brother badly last night.  She had been embarrassed.

Soon, they walked back along the track to the cottage, still damp and fresh from the water, the boys kicking at gravel, collecting sticks, chattering. The swimming wore them out; they would have lunch, then sleep, for a little while Җ at least Alex would. Billy was too old, really, for an afternoon nap, but she encouraged him to have a lie down, to rest. She craved that time, a little gap in the day, to herself.
	A dull, rhythmic sound carried across to her, growing louder as they moved along the track. She could see Neal, digging, on the far edge of the paddock.
Thereђs Daddy!  The boys called. They stood at the fence and waved but he was turned away, and didnҒt notice them.  She watched his shoulders dip and swing, dip and swing, as he wielded the shovel.  A couple of sheep carcasses were sprawled nearby.  He dipped and swung again, then suddenly flung the shovel away and leaned over with his hands on his thighs, his head lowered. He didnt move.  She thought, for a moment, that the sound she could hear was a bird.  The boys watched and said nothing.  
ґCome on, then, lets get some lunch.  DaddyҒs busy.  She shooed them on towards the house.