words mean? Then she remembered the seeping moisture that came from the roof. Drops of tears? But why? The rest of the message, delivered in a foreign tongue, was also a mystery.
The rain continued to fall as Jars, fully awake now, lay in her bed. She recalled what she had seen, what she had heard. ‘A man died,’ she murmured in the dark. ‘Or did he? Ghosts don’t die, do they?’
It rained for two days. Jars had hoped the storm would last; that it would flood the track that led to the highway; that it would swell the creeks, making them impassable. Then she would have an excuse. She wouldn’t have to leave, or, at the very least, her departure would be delayed. That would give her hope. Now the sky’s grey wetness had given way to a clear blue.
‘Make sure you’ve got all your things,’ Ms Barnard told her during an early breakfast. ‘Be ready to leave within the hour. We have to be at the airport by noon.’
Jars went to her room and packed her clothes, then, head lowered and eyes fixed to the floor, she walked into the living room. She stood in front of Mr and Mrs Henderson, case in hand.
Without saying anything, Mrs Henderson threw her arms around her. ‘We’ll keep in touch,’ she said, her voice quivering. ‘It’s not really goodbye.’
Mr Henderson, hat in hand, shifted from one foot to the other. ‘That’s right,’ he said, ‘now, off you go and don’t worry too much. Things will work out just fine. You’ll see.’
Jars lifted her eyes briefly, fighting tears. ‘Yeah,’ she said, ‘maybe they will.’ As she made for the door, she could not help noticing the smug look on Ms Barnard’s face. She’s won, Jars said to herself. She beat me. And Mr H. is wrong. It’s not going to be fine. I just know it.
The Hendersons stood on the veranda watching as Jars and Ms Barnard walked to the car. In the distance, Tom, who was standing near the stables with the other station hands, silently tipped his hat. Jars, her face empty of emotion now, raised her hand and waved goodbye.
Jars opened the car door and climbed into the passenger’s seat. She turned and placed her suitcase on the back seat. Ms Barnard climbed into the driver’s seat. It was time to leave.
The early sun’s rays were already striking like a hot hammer, quickly burning off any wetness that remained in the soil. A swirling vaporous grey cloud hovered like a blanket over the ground. Ms Barnard started the car and drove out of the yard, past the sheds and the stockyards, and past the enclosures where the wallabies stood and the birds perched, watching Jars leave.
The homestead disappeared from view as they drew near the thick scrub, and in some distant tree the metallic cry of a cockatoo pierced the air. Jars flinched. A bad omen, her mother would have said.
As soon as they hit the bush track, the car began to slide and fishtail in the shaded places where water still lay.
‘It will improve further on,’ Ms Barnard said, more to herself than Jars. Jars laughed inwardly. She didn’t think so; they were heading into seriously wet ground where the sun’s rays hardly ever penetrated the trees and scrub that grew to the edges of the bush track.
They continued on, somehow surviving Ms Barnard’s driving. She accelerated over high rocks instead of slowing, raced through creeks not checking for either depth or a firm bottom, fought the steering when she didn’t have to. No wonder she’s in a sweat, Jars thought. She’s a disaster waiting to happen.
Jars filled the time gazing out of the passenger side window at the birds and the occasional wallaby, wondering if this would be the last time she saw them. When they came upon some grazing buffaloes, she shuddered. Every nerve and muscle in her body tensed. Would she ever get over it? Would the memories ever leave?
From the corners of her eyes, she saw that Ms Barnard was hovering on a state of panic. Her eyes held an insane glaze as she hunched over the steering wheel, wrenching it this way and that. Rivulets of sweat poured down her face. Jars crinkled her nose. A mixed smell of fear and cabbage was wafting across to her from Ms Barnard, whose khaki shirt was now stained dark with perspiration. Jars wound the window down. She needed fresh air.
Except for the occasional moans and squeaking whimpers coming from Ms Barnard’s throat, they drove in silence. At last they came to the metallic grey road that was the Stuart Highway.
They drew to a halt. Ms Barnard let out a sigh and slumped over the wheel. ‘Lucky,’ she said, ‘it’s a miracle we made it.’ She leant back, stretching and swivelling her neck in an attempt to relieve the tension in her tight muscles. She lifted her hand and looked at her watch. ‘It’s past ten o’clock. We’ve lost time, but it’s all smooth sailing from here on. We ought to make it.’
Jars didn’t know whether she was being spoken to or not. She didn’t reply.
Ms Barnard gave Jars a quick glance, her thin lips stretching into a vague smile. ‘I realise we were planning to purchase some clothes for you, something decent to travel in, but I’m afraid that won’t be possible now. There’s no time. I’m aware that you were provided with funds to buy new clothes, but unfortunately you’ll just have to make do with what you’re wearing.’ She sniffed as she glanced towards Jars. ‘Such as it is.’
Jars shrugged without replying and wound the window up. Clothes? What did they matter? She had already lost all that she really cared for.
They sped along the bitumen highway towards Darwin Airport. Jars stared straight ahead, eyes fixed on the road. They ate up the miles.
It was nearly eleven-thirty by the time they got to the airport car park. Ms Barnard lost no time. She jumped out of the car and hurried ahead towards the lounge and ticketing area. ‘Quickly now,’ she called over her shoulder, ‘keep up, we’re late.’
Jars, almost running, followed. As soon as they were indoors Jars wanted to retrace her steps; she desperately wanted to leave. She did not belong here. Not among all these people, who had taken care to dress for their journey. They wanted to be there. She had been forced to leave against her will. They had a purpose, a reason. She did not.
Clutching her battered suitcase, Jars looked down at herself – stained jeans, old flannel shirt, thongs. She felt out of place; maybe she was wrong back there when Ms Barnard mentioned clothes, because right now she felt tacky and out of place, like a starling lost among a flock of parrots. ‘Ms Barnard,’ she called out to her back. ‘Do you think we could find some place around here where I could buy those clothes … to look better?’
Ms Barnard, without slowing, barked a reply. ‘Don’t be silly. You know very well we’re running behind time. Just pray that they’ve held your seat.’
They came to the ticketing area. Ms Barnard, breathing heavily, approached and began talking to a male uniformed attendant. Jars stood at a distance, shoulders slumped. The attendant, fresh-faced and smiling, called out to her. ‘Just pop your case on the scales’. He glanced at her ticket. ‘Jacinta. Nice name. Now, here’s your ticket for seat allocation. And don’t worry, one of the flight attendants will help you with that and anything else you’re not sure about.’
Sitting in the departure lounge next to Ms Barnard, Jars saw her plane through a viewing window. It was a jet. She stared at it. It was so big. Not like the few aircraft she had seen flying over the cattle station. They were small and
