Cool and wet to the touch
Did you hear that? The blast? City express, on its way. Railway crossing in the distance. All melted, buckled tar, silver snake rails. Somehow still functional to metal monsters, grand gleam and fug on the blind corner. In the bright you could miss the flashing lights. If you want.
Let’s give it a go. Make a run for it. Take a chance. Have a flutter, Russian roulette on the city express. Wallace would like the idea of me taking a punt. Having a bet.
Wallace kindly left the farm to me and the kids. Good of him. The weak chinned prick. Left a double mortgage, car loan, and tab at the service men’s club; 12 fish and chips, 6 chicken parmas, 14 schooners, 3 double scotches.
Pokies. Couldn’t resist the pokies. Loved a flutter did Wallace. Thought he were in them ads, you know, impress the young fillies, high five his mates. Until it was time to pay the electric or gas, feed and haulage, heifers, lambs to the slaughter. The drought on us, all over us, again. Calling the contractor to gouge a ditch and bury carcasses. Months of fence fixing for invisible herds. All our final scrawny lambs sold up last spring. Who doesn’t like spring lamb? Poor little mites.
He didn’t seem to mind leaving the kids. No word on a weekend visit, a train out from the city to catch up with Cedric and Sheya. Shouldn’t have given the poor lad that bogus name. Cedric. Destined to be a gardener or theatre critic. I’ve renamed him Tony. No more Cedric after his grandfather. On the land himself for seventy years until a double barrel got him. No suspicious circumstances, as they say. Look away. In the land, on the land, the land in him.
Wallace ran off to the big smoke. A bankrupt farmer’s no worries in the city. No one knows. He’s not on the computer, yet. Brown collar crime. Just has to be good with a crowbar or hauling bricks. Crumbling spine like his dad. Give him five years before the wheelchair.
If you look close he has pokie lights behind his eyes. Wallace can sing the little dinky Asian songs from memory winning 50 times 20 cents. Enough for the taxi home if he hadn’t put it straight back into the silver tongue machines. Obviously missed that maths class on probability. Missed most of school I’d say. Red dust drift through childhood, eyes firmly closed. Family, children under the blinds.
Can’t do it on my own. I just left Tony and Sheya with mother for an hour. Call it respite if you like. But an hour’s the limit. She’s likely to put them in the oven with a lemon in their gobs. Evening roast with thyme and rosemary, legs out the door.
I had a date with the bank. Mr shiny suit, soft hands, white brite teeth, squinting at exponential, expansion debt numbers.
‘Yes Mrs Turnbull, the loan is valid. Payments are still required.’
Payments are still required?
It’s 43 degrees on the pavement and it hasn’t rained for months. A double-D passes in the street, dust and grit spits the glass. On it’s way to slaughter.
We’re all on our way to slaughter. Bank slaughter. Looks in town slaughter. General store-tab-owing-slaughter. Little deaths.
My son, my daughter, are all I got left.
So we’re coming around the bend to the crossing, back to farm, home, and this time
I’m sure there’ll be a padlock on the gate.
Again.
Now the red lights are clear and flashing. When nothing is for certain. It’s only a question of continuing; when not much good has come from anything we’re ever done. Family, farm, you name it. The shit sum of us.
I hear a sound but it’s not the train, it’s Tony.
‘Ma, ma!’ He screams. I glance, my foot flat punching the car, to beat the booms, beat the express, beat the banks.
His hand reaches out pointing, shaking, because he wants another chance, he knows and feels the dust and the sky. But more than anything he understands this particular sky. I blink. Jesus! A great roiling oily topped bank of rain drenched clouds fill the wind screen from top to bottom.
I wind the window down and judder to a halt, boom gates dancing, lights, bells and the rapid slush of the passing train mingles with dust and grit, and the dank stench of immanent rain.
The air con fan, click, click, clicks as Tony grins. He’s a country kid who knows the meaning of rain. Things will be OK for now, even for a while at least, until next time.
The boom arms rise and we cross the rails and chase the corrugated ribbon to farm. When we get there the gate swings open easy with the wind. Cool and wet to the touch.
Cool and wet to the touch.
Kevin Bonnett 