eucalypts and tea-trees grew, the thick bushland beyond, and the billabong where barramundi swam with crocodiles, and where rifle fish spent their days hovering in the shade of the spreading fronds of the pandanus bushes.
It had been three months since the day of the accident. Her body had mended – the broken leg and ribs, the smashed skull – but the scars in her mind remained, sensitive when nudged. And so, with the familiarity of the billabong – the birds, the animal sounds, the heady mixture of bush scents – the unwanted memories had come back, surging and boiling inside her.
She bent over once again, choking and spewing onto the ground.
She wiped her lips free of spit once again. ‘It sucks,’ she said aloud. ‘It bloody well sucks! Why couldn’t I have died with them? It’s not fair. Everything’s too hard now, too different.’
Without thinking, she picked up a rock and threw it, low and hard, into the water. The sudden splash caused the birds to scatter, half-running, half-flying, squawking across its surface. Jacana BiIlabong shivered as the ripples from the rock spiralled outward towards the shore.
‘Watcha doin’ Jars?’ She spun around, startled. It was Tom, the station hand; the cries of the birds had drowned out the sound of his arrival. He was on horseback, dressed in his work clothes – felt slouch hat, faded green denim shirt, jeans and riding boots.
Taking a deep breath, more to recover from her surprise than from her need for oxygen, she met Tom’s eyes. ‘Nothing much, I just thought I’d come back again – to this place.’
‘How come yer chuckin’ rocks at them birds? Always thought you liked ’em.’
He spoke in a matter-of-fact sort of way, a toneless drawl, not accusing but demanding. He wanted an answer. He took off his hat and wiped some sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. ‘Well? Why was ya?’
Jars shifted from one foot to the other. ‘I wasn’t aiming at them. I just threw the rock ’cause I was – you know – pissed off.’
Tom adjusted his hat. ‘Okay, good enough. Letting off a bit of steam every now and then is okay, I guess.’ He half turned and patted the horse’s rump. ‘Anyhow, jump up. You’re wanted back at the homestead.’
Jars, who was also wearing jeans and a felt hat, walked towards Tom and the horse. Once there, she gripped the saddle with both hands and hoisted herself up. She adjusted her hat then held Tom’s waist for balance. ‘How come you’re riding Nellie, Tom? The station ute broken down or something?’
Tom clicked the mare into a walk and, without turning, pointed towards the horizon. ‘Didn’t you notice? Black clouds. Storm’s comin’. Closin’ in fast too. Wouldn’t want to get bogged when that lot drops its bundle. Not when you have to get to the station. Urgent, Mr H. said.’
‘How do you mean, urgent?’
‘Don’t know. Some woman wants to see ya.’
‘Yeah? Who is she?’
‘I don’t know that either. All I know is I gotta fetch you back.’
‘Can’t you give me a clue? I mean, what’s she look like for a start?’
‘Hey, steady up. All I can say is she drove a flash lookin’ four-wheel-drive. She looked official though, now I come to think of it. Dressed fancy-like.’
‘I wonder what she wants?’
Tom didn’t answer. His eyes were on the dark clouds that were now approaching fast. He prodded the mare into a slow, steady canter. Jars leant forward and whispered into his ear, ‘Whatever she wants, it won’t be good. I know that much.’
Half turning in the saddle, Tom met Jars’ eyes. ‘Hey, that’s enough of that kinda talk. I for one don’t wanna hear it, so shut up and hang on.’ He kicked his heels, urging the horse on. They rode in silence, each alone with their thoughts.
Who could she be? Jars wondered. I’ve never had visitors before. Not way out here. We’re more than a hundred kilometres from the nearest town.
She shuddered, not liking the new queasiness that had crept into her belly.
Nellie let out a whinny, then snorted and sniffed the air. Tom leant forward and patted the side of her neck. ‘Steady old girl. We’ll get you home safe and dry. You too Jars.’ He turned to face her once again. ‘And settle down, will you. I can feel yer shakin’ and shiverin’ from ’ere.’
As if in answer, sheet lightning lit up the sky, followed by a low rumble of thunder.
Jars glanced upward. The clouds were almost overhead now, a mass of billowing blackness, quickly swallowing any pockets of blue left in the sky.
Then suddenly, as if on command, the familiar sounds of the bush faded – the cries of invisible birds, the occasional panicked rustle of lizards, even the breeze that had been twitching the grass and swaying the bushes had now grown still, its silence ominous, quiet as a whisper. Only the ants on the ground were busy, building dimpled shelters in the red earth.
Jars continued to wonder. What was brewing for her back at the homestead?
The screen door creaked as Jars pushed it open. She stepped into the living area of the homestead. It was a large room, with just a scattering of furniture – cane chairs, a long wooden table that served as a workdesk for Mr Henderson, and shelves, where books and magazines were both stacked and scattered at random. Immediately above, a ceiling fan, powered by the station generator, pulsed with a steady rhythm.
There were three people in the room. Mr and Mrs Henderson and the woman who wanted to see her. In hushed tones, the woman was talking to the Hendersons. They hadn’t seen Jars, who remained standing near the doorway.
She took a deep breath and rubbed her hands on her jeans; a film of moisture had suddenly sprung to their surface.
She took a step forward just as the storm front hit. It struck with a fierce, howling gush, and with it came the lightning, jagged flashes that lit up the room. Thunder cracked and the liquid rhythm of the rain followed. Wiping her hands on her jeans once again, she walked with nervous steps towards the Hendersons and the woman who had come to see her.
‘Ah, Jars,’ Mrs Henderson said, rising from her chair, ‘come and sit down. This lady is Ms Barnard, from the welfare department.’
Jars gave a slight nod, then walked towards a vacant chair; a trail of red dust fell on the polished wooden floorboards. Stealing a sideways glance at the stranger, a large, round woman dressed in a khaki uniform, Jars sat on the chair. She clasped her hands tightly on her shaking knees and waited.
A sheaf of papers sat on Ms Barnard’s lap. Holding these in one hand and gripping the arm of the chair with the other, she raised her body as if about to stand. Then, as though the effort was too much, she sank back into the chair again. ‘Hello, Jacinta, my dear. How very nice to meet you.’ She placed the papers back on her lap and reached for a cup and saucer from a side-table. She sipped, her little finger extended.
‘First of all,’ Ms Barnard continued,
