Rural Dreams Page 3

  Suddenly, I need to wee. I’m holding onto this meaty, moving tail with Kate and Raggers staring at me and it’s all I can do to keep it together. I’m going to be like one of those prisoners in war movies who wet themselves before they get shot, leaving the guards laughing and pointing at the stain on their pants. I’ve got to do something. I’ve never been much good at holding on when it counts.

  One night not long ago when the rest of the house was asleep, I had to go to the toilet. Half awake, I lowered my feet to the floor like I was testing out water in a dam and tried to remember where the traps were. Since we moved here, dad’s been making jokes about people in the town trying to get him for his work in conservation, saying that after his talk on the link between the mice and stock feed we may have to go into hiding. I don’t know about that; dad makes a lot of jokes and not all of them funny. I do know that no one ever takes the pamphlets on soil damage from out the front of his office. I took a whole stack once to try to make him feel better, but then I forgot about them and mum found them at the bottom of my schoolbag and told him.

  Like a cartoon robber, I made my way through the minefield that was our hall, inching along the cold walls, listening to the family snore. Scuffling noises escaped from under my brother’s door – a sure sign he’d smuggled some toast to bed. He’d wake with droppings in his bed again and mum would go psycho. When I reached the laundry, I fumbled around for the light and turned on the switch. The sudden brightness made my eyes screw up like a prisoner just out of solitary and I was surprised to discover that our cat was inside.

  ‘Git out!’ I said in the pitchy tone I reserve just for him. ‘Now!’

  The cat turned his head and settled back in the corner of the room. I placed my hand on the sink and leaned sideways to see what it was he was preoccupied with, hoping that he was not hawking up a fur ball; I’ve got a weak gut.

  But I wasn’t prepared for the sight. There in the corner of the room, huddled against the wall was a tiny mouse, shuddering. At first, I was confused. What in the hell was the cat doing? This was easy prey, yet there he was, paws stretched out in front, head rested like he was watching his favourite show – but then after a short moment, I understood.

  The cat was playing with it. In a sickening game, every time the mouse tried to move the cat would effortlessly slap it back into line. I watched as the little mouse darted this way and that, only to be stopped in its tracks by a fat paw. At one point, the mouse almost made it – it got about two feet, until the cat leaped easily in front of it – and thud – it was back in its corner again.

  A queasy, green feeling came over me. This time the mouse cowered in its spot. The cat smiled – pink jaws opened wide – and rested again, head on its paws. Watching.

  ‘Gitout!’ I went to yell, but the cat had got my tongue you might say, and my voice came out like a squeak. Instead I bent down and picked up a gumboot, the only weapon available in sight.

  Then something truly awful started happening.

  The mouse began to try to jump into the cat’s mouth! At first, I thought it was attempting some sort of Great Escape, but I was proved wrong. Even if the cat moved its head slightly the mouse would jump in its direction, determined to reach those pointy white choppers. In a suicidal frenzy it leapt and leapt again, trying to reach the open jaws, exhausting itself in the process. I stood paralysed, a scream lodged somewhere in the back of my throat. Again, the mouse jumped, and again, its whole body shaking with the effort.

  The sound of a trap snapping in the background jolted me from my stupor, and I threw the boot hard. The cat turned around and snarled – a prehistoric warning – before slinking off. The mouse dragged itself away and I scurried back to bed, forgetting all about traps and the toilet.

  Meanwhile, here I am with Kate and Raggers staring at me like I’m their Friday night fish n’ chips. These two are the most popular kids in Grade Six and I need all the friends I can get.

  It’s weird, in this place I can find spots near our house where I lie on the warm red dirt and hear the scratches and scrapes of birds and animals in the low scrub. I can feel how fine the dirt is, like something precious – and it seems to me that if I could understand it, what the soil means, then everything might be ok for dad and for us. In this place, I can stand outside our house and watch the wheat paddocks roll on and on and the sky’s so big and I’m all the world and its possibilities. I feel like that a lot here, but then I go to school.

  The local kids up here stick together like glue and joke about the grey uniforms my mother makes us wear, despite there being no dress code at school. They come from big farms and talk about Headers, Stripping Wheat and Massey Fergusons. I can’t catch on, no matter how hard I try. The leader of them all is Kate. She has pink stripes in her hair and green eyes that win every blinking competition. Dad’s always telling us to focus on our surrounds. He says if we only pay attention to the people in the town and not where we live then we’ll get stuck. The land is what frees us, he says. Dad says a lot of things and a fat lot of good they do too.

  Just before (just before!) I was eating lunch with Eddie and the twins on the oval when she sauntered up with Raggers and a few others. Raggers is a poor version of Kate, kind of thick with a laugh like a fox. She looked sideways at Eddie and the twins; said something like, ‘Geez, there’s enough of yez. I can’t think what your mum and dad do for fun.’

  I concentrated on my cheese sandwich. ‘Don’t think Raggers,’ I said. ‘It’s not what you’re good at, just follow orders like you’re used to.’

  My words proved to be a small victory and Kate – eyeing the rest of the kids laughing, brushed up against me and whispered; ‘Wanna catch mice?’

  I nodded, (this was my chance!) but she had already slunk away toward the bike sheds where the nests were.

  There was a group of kids already there. One boy lit a match and set a small grassfire going at the entrance of the crack in the wall where the quarry lay. It didn’t take long. Mice of every size soon poured out, darting this way and that, trying to avoid the boots and planks of wood that came bearing down on them in an instant. I averted my eyes to the massacre. My sisters and brother followed and were waiting for me, bunched up in a huddle of three.

  There were squelches and shrieks, there was laughing. I tried not to look down.

  A mouse ran over my foot and I jumped back.

  ‘Oi, you should have caught it!’ some kid yelled.

  I looked up to see them all watching like I was some sort of toy they couldn’t work out. A fresh wave of mice came pouring out of the wall and I bent toward them. Scurrying feet scratched at my arm – and using one hand to block the escape of it I managed to pick up a small mouse. Its hot little feet moved frantically this way and that, trying to escape. It made me sick, but I took it by the tail and held it between my thumb and forefinger. ‘Got it!’ I said, shaking and trying to sound all pleased.

  Kate stood toward the back of the room, eyeing me with arms folded.

  I’m not dumb. I knew what was expected of me from these kids, what was expected from all of us. Swinging my hands in an arc, I hit the mouse against the wall of the shed. There was a rousing cheer. My efforts were only half arsed though, and the mouse kept wriggling.

  ‘Come on!’ the kids cried. ‘Finish ‘im orf!’

  In the background, one of my sisters ran away crying, the grey belt of her dress flying behind. Taking a deep breath and looking away, I repeated the swinging harder this time so that the mouse made a dull thud against the wood. Still it wriggled. God, what did it take? Desperate, and with blood in my mouth, I bashed it harder – so that for a moment it was still. My stomach churned like it was vitamising rocks. Meanwhile, most of the crowd had lost interest; someone in Grade Three was eating a worm and they ran off shouting.

  Only Kate and Raggers are left now, a growing suspicion on their faces.

  I reckon I’ve got two choices. Kill the poor little thing or drop it and run.

  If I choose
the second option, we’re gunna be eating lunch on the oval every day till high school. Never mind the big sky and the golden paddocks, my brother will never be asked to play cricket at recess and I’ll never get invited to a sleepover.

  And so, I do it, grinning like Judas and biting my tongue so hard I can feel the blood.

  At the very last moment the mouse goes still, as though resigned to its fate. I bash it hard against the wall. There’s a squelching sound, and a dark red stain appears on the wood. Purple guts comes out its tiny mouth and I drop it to the floor.

  I look up to see that Kate is grinning widely at me and my heart slows. I feel as though a giant spotlight has trained its beam on me and I can’t move at all.

  A wet trickle runs down my tights and now I understand.

  I’m trapped.

  FOWLER’S BAY

  The woman leans on the fridge, counting out her money. She studies each of the coins up close, looking at the queen on the back of each one. She’d been through a few changes, the old queen. In the 1980s she looked like a Greek goddess, while the 90s bought her dangly earrings and a higher crown. Pre-Diana and all that. In the latest version the Queen had a double chin, which was good to see. Realistic. Earrings were back to studs and the perm looked a little tighter. The woman wonders whether the coin people would design another version to account for the fact that the old Highness must be nearing 100. Put in a turkey neck and balding head. Probably not. Whatever the case, people would be able to look at that royal face hundreds of years from now. They’d say, wow, I found an ancient coin from 1983, and shit like that.

  Thirty bucks left, the woman thinks. May as well treat meself like a queen. She asks for a packet of Benson and Hedges, 25s and a Magnum ice cream. Double choc. Hands over the cash. A lady with a turtle head stands behind the kiosk. Gives a turtle look.

  ‘You’ll need thirty-five for that. Magnums gone up. Six bucks now. Hit the big time they have.’

  ‘Six bucks! Too right they’ve hit the big time.’

  ‘Magnums are the fucken Princess Mary of ice creams I tell ya. You’d be better off with a Gaytime.’

  ‘Orright,’ she says.

  ‘Gaytimes are good. Used to call em poofter clocks. You can get a Gaytime with yer thirty.’

  ‘Get that then.’

  Turtle fetches the items. ‘Enjoy,’ she says.

  Oh, I’ll enjoy. I’ll have a gay old time the woman thinks, putting the smokes in the front pocket of her jeans. She walks outside, feels the sea wind belt her like a whip. Puts the Gaytime behind her back to shield it and finds a bench on the other side of the kiosk, facing the dunes. She wipes a piece of seagull shit off the seat with a leaf and lowers herself down.

  As she unwraps the ice cream a big chunk of biscuit falls off the side. Only a bit on the dirt – mostly on the concrete. She picks it up and eats it. Leans her head back on the wall of the kiosk and looks at the dunes.

  ‘Fucking Fowler’s Bay. Who woulda thought I’d end up here?’ is what she thinks.

  They rise up in front of her, white sand as big as five houses. Stretching across the coastline for thirty odd kilometres and according to the experts, still growing. Two million years old.

  In the heat of the afternoon they shimmer. As a kid, she’d imagined she could see them moving. Witness their silent creep toward the town. It scared the shit out of her. Used to jump on her father’s knee while he was fishing and beg to leave the place.

  Funny that. Thirty years later and now she would have to beg to leave. Got 20 cents change from Turtle after the fags and Gaytime and can’t do much with that except buy one of those big gumballs from the machines at the supermarket. No supermarket in Fowler’s Bay, might have to give it to one of the kids in the park. Make their day with twenty cents for a gumball.

  A gust of wind whips up, bringing the dunes with it. Sand everywhere. She holds up the Benson and Hedges in front of the Gaytime. Protect it. She’d read somewhere that in Victoria, a mother called her twin boys Benson and Hedges. Poor things. The images on the front of the carton were not cute, you wouldn’t want to be reminded of your twin boys when you looked at them. Rotten, bleeding gums; a tongue half ripped out and a grey looking bloke on a breathing machine.

  She lit up a fag. Wouldn’t mind a breathing machine right now, she thinks. Can’t breathe here in Fowler’s Bay with all this fucking sand blowing down my gullet. And yet, here she was. Had chosen to be here. Fowler’s Bay, sitting on seagull shit with 20 cents left in her right pocket and the air so big and clean it hurt.

  A crunching beside her. Thongs in the golden sand. Two feet, hairy as all hell in her line of vision.

  ‘You Sandra Coffey?’

  She looks up. A young bloke in his 20s stands in front of her. Big bloke, sandy hair, skin flaking off his nose and nodding at her; a friendly nod, not quite a smile.

  ‘Yeah, what of it?’

  ‘Gotcha letter. Got it last Tuesday. Been out trawling, just got in this morning. Came to see you.’

  ‘The letter was for Ron Beamer.’

  ‘Know that. Ron’s dead but. Died six months ago. Heart attack on the boat.’

  She takes a good while looking at the hairy feet. Her mouth goes dry and she wishes she’d bought a coke rather than the Gaytime. Cheaper too. Sand blows in her mouth and she spits it out, to the left side of the hairy feet.

  Her father had hairy feet. Never without a pair of thongs. When the straps broke, he used to use the plastic tag from bread packets to fix them up. Put them under the thong, under the round bit of the strap. Loved his thongs. Loved every bit of this place, the sand he walked on. The sea his big feet paddled in. He taught her to swim, out there in Fowler’s Bay, in between the leaky trawler and the jetty. Forty years ago.

  Her mother Dee couldn’t stand the place. Sand dunes gave her the creeps and she missed the pokies, the loud pubs of Adelaide. After a few years of it Dee took off, taking her with her, leaving the old man behind. Moved to Melbourne. Back to Adelaide and then a stint in Kalgoorlie. Motherhood a trial. Kisses and cuddles one minute then smacks and throwing glasses the next. Always needing the highlife. Dee in Kings Cross now, somewhere. Submitting to the highlife.

  ‘You ok?’ the young bloke says. ‘Don’t look too well if yer don’t mind me sayin.’

  ‘I don’t mind you sayin.’ She shifts forward on the seat. Puts her head in between her knees, takes a couple of deep breaths.

  ‘Ron died quick you know. Started coughing, grabbed his shoulder and fell on the deck. Over in less than five minutes. It’s how he woulda wanted it.’

  She nods. Feels pain like a shot-put in her guts. No tears. Rubs her legs.

  ‘Take you to the doctor praps?’

  ‘No,’ she says with some force. ‘No more bloody doctors.’

  ~~~

  A heaviness on the seat beside her. The young bloke sits down. ‘Want me to get someone for ya? Husband, boyfriend maybe? Kid?’

  She shakes her head. There’s no one. She married the last boyfriend, a whippet of a man named Kane. Kanine, she sometimes called him. Kanine lasted a few years till the shit hit the fan, till it all got too hard – the trips up to Perth – too expensive. She couldn’t blame him for it, he was a nice enough bloke. Deserved someone good; a family, a house.

  Never had any kids, although she would’ve liked to.

  There was a woman too, after Kanine. Sal, an exnurse with a touch of the martyr. That didn’t last long. Sal wanted a noble cause and soon found it in a younger woman. Single mother with breast cancer. The pink ribbons you can wave about, and the fun runs – Sal would like that.

  She takes a few more deep breaths and sits up straight. Takes another fag from the packet.

  ‘Not too good for you.’ The young bloke says, ‘if you don’t mind me sayin.’

  ‘I don’t mind yer sayin.’ She lights up and blows smoke out the side of her mouth.

  ‘You a local?’ she asks.

  ‘Yeah, born and bred.’

  She r
ecognises the pride. Feels a twinge of jealousy.

  ‘Listen,’ he says. ‘I read the letter you wrote Ron. Read the part where it says you’re his daughter, wanted to come and see him. Go out fishing again and that, like when you were a girl.’

  Sudden tears in her eyes. Hot. Ron never got the letter. Dad. She hadn’t seen him in over twenty years. She draws in hard on her cigarette and feels a bit of sand on her lips. Jesus. You can’t escape those dunes, she thinks and looking up at them she sees again how enormous, how powerful and slow they are. Idiots drove their motorbikes on them, kids scrambled up and down, but all it took was a soft westerly and all sign of human interaction would be erased.

  The dunes made time slow. Made the days lengthen and stretch. Fowler’s Bay was a place to wait. Her father knew that, with his eye on the weather, on currents and wind. ‘Good things would come for the boats,’ he used to say, ‘for the fishing line, if you just wait for the right time.’

  ‘Had no right to open my letter,’ she says. ‘It wasn’t addressed to you.’

  His hairy foot shoos an ant away from her leg. ‘But I open all his mail. I’m Ed Beamer see. Ron’s son, from his second marriage.’ He spits some sand to the side and gives her an unsteady smile. ‘He talked about you. Dad did. Got your letters from time to time. Then he heard you got sick, up in Perth. Wanted to come and see you but didn’t know where and you changed names that often.’

  It was true. First her mother’s maiden name, then her step-father’s, now Kanine’s.

  ‘I was coming down to see him,’ she says to no one, says to the dunes. She was coming to see him. Coming to wait with him. All those twenty years she was just on the brink of it. But her mother, her jobs, Kanine and the illness – there was always a reason not to go and over the years the memory of her father shifted and blurred till all remained was a faint mirage.

  ‘Dad left you a bit of money, not much. And the old house, the one you grew up in. Bit of a wreck. Got papers for you to sign.’

  She nods. Feels a pain down her spine. Rubs her lower back with the packet of fags.