being cracked at the show. Everything taut and tense finally reaches its point of no return. He prays for the rain to cut through the roof, through the ceiling insulation, through the ceiling itself, to cut up his now-bare body. He raises his arms to the deluge and speaks as he imagines a great biblical figure would have spoken when confronted by the harshness of God’s judgment, Why have you chosen me, why have you left me in the wilderness so long only to reward me when it is too late? He demands to know. He pleads.
Naked, he runs through the back door and out into the rain. He feels the rain strike his body and burn away the dry, flaky outer layer of skin. A snake shedding its skin. A moulting.
And then the rain stops.
Ben looks around. He hears the parrots laughing in the York gums. He covers his burning nakedness with his hands and slinks back into the house. The rain doesn’t start again. Nothing. He dresses and goes to bed without eating, sleeps all night and through the next day. When he wakes, there is no rain on the roof. He rings his brother. Been no rain here, Ben, says his brother in the same limp voice. He rings his two neighbors. No rain, mate. No rain, mate. They ask how it’s going out at his place—must be good with all that rain he’s had. Ben can taste their bitterness. Most of it just rolled off the surface into the creeks—made it look like more than there really was, he says. Only a few points in the gauge for a couple of days, in the end. Not enough to start seeding, I’m afraid.
Ben wants to reassure them all. He keeps talking, Well, just enough rain, I guess . . . but it’s not worth wasting my seed grain when there’s no chance of any weather down the track. The long-range forecast is for dry days and cold nights. Thought my ship had come in, but it hadn’t. You can’t bet your life’s savings on such long odds . . . Hah, nah, didn’t amount to much. Not so strange after all . . . really.
He wanted to stop reassuring them—his brother, his neighbors, himself—but his skin still tingled with the burning of the rain.
They had their hearts set on purchasing a piece of land up north, but not too far north. Coastal—or as near coastal as they might afford. Close to a town for supplies, but not too close to a town: they wanted privacy and a sense of having “got away” from it all. This wasn’t really a “sea change” (as the trendies and media would have it)—going down to the city had been that, for them. They were country people who’d retired from the farm early and given the city a go. Now they wanted out. But not a place on a large scale. A small property of, say, thirty acres. Grow a few olives, keep a few sheep for hobby shearing, nothing more.
A suitable block came up not long after their search began. They visited a small town close to the Batavia Coast and had a chat with the local real estate agent. There was nothing up in the sales window, but she had her ear to the ground, as real estate agents do, and knew of a property about to go on the market. The owners had only had it for a year, so it was good luck they were selling—land in the region was at a premium and much sought after. There was a waiting list but, recognizing like minds—she was a farmer’s daughter—and the prospect of cash on the button, she “juggled” her list.
The boy watched his dad’s car emerge out of the setting sun and speed down the gravel driveway, the back end dropping out in clouds of dust, then pulled back into line. Perched on his trail bike on the hill, he glanced across at the people walking the neighboring property with the real estate agent. He revved the engine and dropped the clutch, spinning the back wheel and kicking dirt and stones out towards the newcomers. They were too far away to be hit by the debris, but not too far to sense some kind of aggression. They stared at the boy zigzagging over the crest of the hill—that bare property next door . . . not a tree on it.
For a moment, the couple basked in the neat mixture of clear space and white gums they were buying. And they had (for in their minds it was already theirs) a small hill as well—looked like an old mine on the far side, to the east, but it’d been filled in or blasted shut. The estate agent said she didn’t know much about it, but could guarantee it was entirely sealed and there was no risk of sheep wandering in and being lost. As an ex-farmer, the man—or Darl, as his wife called him—took a close look, and agreed. Perfectly safe! At the access road end of the property—to the west—there was a creek, dry midsummer. Plenty of water too: a well had been sunk and there was a dam in the western corner which would catch the entire flow off their hill, and off their neighbor’s. The couple was going to sign off on the deal that evening—one last wander around and chat with the agent.
The boy’s dad had only had a few drinks after work, and was in a sardonic yet almost pleasant mood. The boy had to tell him now. If he left it till later, his dad would go spare. It was the boy’s job to keep a lookout. And then, if Dad was really pissed when he discovered for himself—because he would, because all the blokes at the pub were his dad’s spies and they’d know quick as lightning—he’d give him a good kicking for holding back the info.
Dad, I saw that bitch real-estate agent with some new people. The boy steadily ripped open a Coke and kept his eyes to himself. The fizz of the can would be the prelude to . . . Jeez! What now?! Can’t get any privacy round this fucking place. Get rid of one lot and another rolls in. Bitch! Fucking bitch! I’ve got her number . . . give it time, give it time. His dad stopped there and the boy knew the silence meant his dad did have a plan for the real estate agent. She’d keep. And when his dad fixed things, he really fixed things. In the meantime, he sensed his dad switch attention to the problem immediately at hand.
Taking a bottle of spirits from the cupboard, the bearded miner called the boy to get his lazy carcass into the kitchen and cook him a steak. That was the night Dad was supposed to eat at the pub before getting home. The boy looked after himself on these nights—he was good at that. Even though he only had his dad, his mum had gone a long time back, he liked it out on the block alone. He was never scared . . . only when his dad got back from the pub. The boy started to walk towards his room. Hey, where do you think you’re going? Cook your dad a steak!
To get their new place started, the couple went south to Batavia and picked up an old donga from a construction company. It was to be delivered in a few weeks—enough time to clear a pad for it and sort out the details of their move from the city. The plan was to live in the donga for as long as it took to get their new house established. They’d always wanted to build.
Though Batavia was much further away than the small town where the real estate agent plied her trade, they stayed in a motel down there because it was easier to get things done. They arranged for workers to go up and build the pad—being on site to ensure it went in the right place, of course. Choosing to work with an architect to design the plans themselves, they shopped around builders for the best product. It was an exciting time, though—somewhat ironically—one during which they barely had a chance to be at the new place!
The couple was out there to see the donga set to rest. And it was then they met the boy on the trail bike . . . heard his dad yelling in the distance. A stream of abuse they were unable to interpret. They thought the dad drunk and best avoided. Nonetheless, it was an exquisite day, and it reminded them of their best times on the farm. After the harvest check was in, and they didn’t have to worry about money for a while. That kind of feeling. And the pressures of the city were gone. Down there, drunks were never far away either—it was no big deal.
But what the boy had to say bothered them a little. Darl more than his wife. Pet, he said to her, these neighbors aren’t all there. They’re a few planks short of a jetty. He enjoyed sayings like that. He always smiled after using them, even when concerned. To be honest, Darl thought it bullshit and was suspicious of the kid anyway. Looked like a dope smoker. You get them on small properties—Darl hadn’t come down in the last shower. But given the
