manner. Most regretful. My sincere sympathies, my dear. However, life must go on as the saying goes, and that, Jacinta, is why I wish to talk with you … about your future.’
Jars shifted forward in her chair. She did not like the official tone that droned from this stranger’s lips, and there was something else – a sixth sense, unexplainable but somehow very real, like a jolt of electricity that now scraped her insides. At that moment, she knew. Her earlier feelings of disquiet had been true. Something was very wrong.
She glanced towards Mr and Mrs Henderson. Mr Henderson, still in his station work clothes, was fidgeting with his hat, swapping it from one hand to the other. He doesn’t want to be here either, Jars thought. And neither does Mrs H.
She was sitting ruler straight, arms folded, frowning.
Ms Barnard leant forward. ‘Now, Jacinta my dear, the problem – and I must say again how sorry we are about these circumstances – is that you are now without any immediate family, not in mainland Australia anyway. The only relative we have been able to trace is your father’s brother, who lives in a small town on the west coast of Tasmania: Cray Bay, it’s called. He has a family, including a son who is your age, thirteen, and they have agreed to look after you, see to your schooling and so on. So,’ she concluded, ‘let us be very grateful for that mercy.’
Jars, her natural shyness leaving her, sat upright, her brown eyes screaming. ‘What?’ she said. ‘You mean leave Jacana Station, to live with strangers?’ She looked directly into Ms Barnard’s eyes. ‘No way. This is where I live. Not where you say I gotta go.’ She turned to Mr and Mrs Henderson. ‘That’s right Mrs H? Mr H? … Isn’t it?’
Ms Barnard was the first to reply. ‘Now, now, my dear. Let us not be hasty. These people in, er, Cray Bay, are not strangers. They are your family. You will be much better off with them. Believe me, I know. For instance, there will be others of your age to mix with, which is impossible here, where there are no other children whatsoever.’ She waved her hand in the air as if to emphasise the point. ‘I mean it’s so remote here, hours from the nearest town. No, we must face facts. This has been discussed at the highest level within my organisation. You are, at present, decidedly disadvantaged, as I have outlined to you.’ She shrugged her shoulders and opened the palms of her hands. ‘Now, I am sure you will agree that by relocating, you will have the chance of a new and exciting life, an opportunity to learn new things, see how other people live. Believe me, I know about these things. In fact I’ve seen dozens of cases similar to yours. So –’
Jars rose from the chair, not letting her finish. Hands on hips, she faced Ms Barnard. ‘That’s crap. I like it here.’ She choked a little and her eyes moistened. ‘I’ve always lived on the station. And I’ve always done okay with the Correspondence School lessons.’ She looked towards the Hendersons, her eyes pleading. Both shook their heads in silence, as though utterly confused.
Jars stuck out her chin. ‘And I’m not just one of your so called “cases” either.’
Mr Henderson pushed himself from his chair and hurried towards his wife, who had also risen. He put an arm around her shoulder. ‘Look,’ he said in a loud voice, any previous confusion now gone. ‘Jars is right.’ He waved his hat in Ms Barnard’s direction. ‘This is where Jars belongs. Marge and me are looking after her. Like we explained to you earlier, she lives with us now. She has her own room and the general run of the place. This is her home, not some far off place in Tasmania. Right Marge?’
Marge Henderson shook her head. ‘No, Gil, we have to think of the girl. I mean, what’s to become of her here? Ms Barnard is right in what she says. She’ll be far better off with her own kin.’
‘I know, Marge, but you know me. I might be a bit of a sop at the best of times, but the lass seems to belong here … with us.’
His wife shook her head once again and looked at her husband. Her silent stare said everything. Gil Henderson nodded. He understood. So did Jars. Her fate had been decided and there was nothing she could do about it.
Ms Barnard replaced her cup and saucer on the side-table and with some effort prised herself from the chair. ‘I beg your pardon? I’m afraid you’ve lost me.’
‘You’ll have to forgive my husband, Ms Barnard, I’m afraid he is a big softy, but the truth is, we both know what’s right for Jars, however hard that is.’ She waved her hand in a sweeping gesture as though describing Jacana Station. ‘This has always been her home, but now I think it’s time for a change.’ She looked at her husband. ‘Right Gil?’
He nodded once again, knowing that his wife was right.
‘Yes, well, be that as it may,’ the welfare lady said, her lips twisting into a crooked smile, ‘but what matters now is that Jacinta must make the move to Tasmania soon. Her plane leaves Darwin in three days. Schools over there have already started the September holidays, so, if she leaves immediately there will be time to adjust to her new community. She looked into the faces of the Hendersons and then across to Jars, who was now staring at the floor, defeated. ‘I will personally put her on the plane after she has acquired some new clothes in Darwin.’ Ms Barnard looked Jars up and down, then sniffed. ‘She certainly can’t be seen wearing those.’
Jars, who had remained statue-still, looked down at herself. Then, raising her eyes, she said, ‘So, it’s been arranged already! The plane and everything. All this talk has just been a big waste of time.’ She looked down and ran the back of her hand over her shirt and jeans. ‘And for your information, Ms Barnard, these are my everyday clothes.’ Her voice quivered. ‘I’ve got some better stuff in my room, you know.’ She said this with her fingers crossed. She knew it was not true.
Ignoring Jars, Ms Barnard continued, ‘She will be met by her new family at the Burnie airport. That’s on the north coast of Tasmania. Jacinta will then be driven to her new home’.
Mr Henderson smiled knowingly. ‘I’ll tell you one thing for nothing. Nobody will be going anywhere for a few days. The Wet Season has arrived. The creeks will flood for sure with this rain. And that’s not mentioning the dirt track to the highway. That’ll be a mess, impassable – even in that flash four-wheel-drive you’ve got parked out there. Nope, you’re stuck here for a while, whether you like it or not.’
As if on cue, the wind eased, paving the way for the full fury of the rain. With a sudden, deafening rush, heavy drops exploded onto the iron roof and smashed into the windows, making any normal conversation impossible.
Gritting her teeth, Jars turned, and with slow, deliberate steps, walked from the room towards the outside door of the homestead.
‘Jars,’ Mrs Henderson called, almost shouting.
‘What are you doing? Where are you going? You’ll get drenched …’
Jars turned. ‘Nowhere.’ She looked into the eyes of Ms Barnard, ‘And the name’s Jars, not Jacinta.’ She opened the door and continued walking into the storm as though the rain didn’t exist. The last thing she heard was the screen door creaking to a close behind her.
‘Gil,’ Mrs Henderson said to her husband. ‘Go after her. We can’t have her out there.’
Mr Henderson’s lips flattened into a thin smile. ‘Don’t worry, Marge. I know exactly what she’s up to. No worries on that score.’
‘What? Where’s she going?’
‘Oh, she’ll be making sure all those sick wallabies and birds she’s been nursing
