Jubilation Road: a Novel and Exegesis

Jubilation Road: A Novel and Exegesis

By Rasata Knight

Doctor of Philosophy

Swinburne University of Technology

2016

Abstract

Jubilation Road tells the story of a town that sits by a slowly swelling river. As the river gradually grows out of control, so do the lives of the people who pass by it everyday until nature and man meet in a dramatic point of no return. The exegesis examines the potential relationships between nature, man and fiction against an eco-critical framework. It considers questions such as how nature might be represented in fiction, ways that character and landscape can be entwined in the production of story, and the uses and challenges of creating a multiprotagonist narrative. It also evaluates the application of theories of the shamanic and whether these can be used to shape narrative structure and character development within fiction.

Acknowledgments

I thank Dr Carolyn Beasley for her assistance and support throughout this project and Professor Josie Arnold for her commentary and her encouragement in getting me to the finishing line.

My eternal gratitude to my partner Dr Kate Jackson for her support, intelligent critique, encouragement and abiding love. Kate’s nurturance in all areas of my life throughout this journey, particularly during times of illness and recovery, made this sometimes tortuous task possible.

To the great spirits of nature – thank you.

iii

Dedication

For my parents

Elsa Marion Knight (6.8.1912 – 18.2.1996)

and

John Stanley (Jack) Knight (27.10.1908 – 25.1.2002)

Declaration

I certify that the thesis entitled ‘Jubilation Road: A Novel and an Accompanying Exegesis’ submitted for the degree of PhD contains no material which has been accepted for the award of any other degree or diploma; to the best of my knowledge contains no material previously published or written by another person except where due reference is made in the text; and is not based on joint research or publications.

The content of this artefact and exegesis was proof-read by professional editor Dr Rachel Le Rossignol. The work undertaken was in accordance with Current Australian Standards for Editing Practice and restricted to Standard D (Language and Illustrations) and Standard E (Completeness and Consistency). Dr Le Rossignol’s area of specialisation is similarly in eco-feminism and narrative. However, no advice was given on Standard C (Substance and Structure).

Full name: Rasata Knight

Signed:……………………………………………………… Date:………………………………………………………… v

Table of Contents

ABSTRACT ...... II

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS ...... III

DECLARATION ...... V

TABLE OF CONTENTS ...... VI

JUBILATION ROAD: A NOVEL ...... 9

AN EXEGESIS TO ACCOMPANY ‘JUBILATION ROAD’ ...... 414

INTRODUCTION ...... 415 Landscape, seasons and water Error! Bookmark not defined. Ecocriticism ...... 418 Realms of the imagination ...... Error! Bookmark not defined.

SECTION ONE LANDSCAPE ...... 421 The flood ...... 421 Humans as nature ...... 424 Humans and landscape ...... 426 Aboriginal Australians and the landscape ...... 431 The land is knowledge ...... 433 Developing character in the novel ...... 438 Plot, character and landscape ...... 442 Landscape and culture ...... 449 vi

SECTION TWO ECOCRITICISM ...... 453 Theories, society and nature ...... 453 Nature writing: a feminist perspective ...... 458 Gender, nature and culture in literature ...... 461 Environmental awareness ...... 465

SECTION THREE SHAMANISM ...... 468 Healing and seeing ...... 468 The shamanic state ...... 471 The shamanic journey ...... 476

SECTION FOUR MAGICAL REALISM ...... 481 Shamanic characterisation and magical realism ...... 481 Shamanic realism ...... 484 Literary ghosts ...... 489 Shaman and artist ...... 493 Optimal experiences ...... 496 Dilemmas met in writing shamanic realism ...... 498

SECTION FIVE THE MULTI-PROTAGONIST STORY ...... 501 Plural characters: plural voices ...... 501 Point of view ...... 502 The multi-protagonist narrative ...... 504 The catalytic event ...... 506 Multi-protagonist narrative forms ...... 509 The story world ...... 511 Challenging social conventions ...... 514 vii

Plot and character ...... 516

CONCLUSION ...... 520 The flood metaphor ...... 521 Landscape and characters ...... 522 Environment and shamanism ...... 524 Magical realism and shamanism ...... 526 Voice in the multi-protagonist novel ...... 526

REFERENCE LIST ...... 529

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Jubilation Road: A Novel

Celeste loved her faded, antiquated house. She lay in her bed each night listening to its creaks and groans and murmured conversations. She heard its stories and sometimes talked to it about her life or her day. Or she listened to the myriad night scramblings in her matted garden, the end of which backed onto a thin trickle of water named Whistling Creek.

There were only nine houses in Jubilation Road and Celeste Moon lived in the ninth at the leftover number forty two. When the railway line through the city of Redbrooke was re-routed to the south, the end of Jubilation Road was truncated and left lying like the severed tail of a lizard, still twitching with a half- life of its own, whilst the body moved on.

The city council abandoned the leftover road and with typical creativity, re-named the city side Railway Avenue. It was rumoured at the time that eventually the houses would be bulldozed and the area reclaimed as wetlands. The scrubby belt with its dilapidated houses had no permanency about it, so the few residents enjoyed cheap rent, or in the cases of ownership, no ability to sell the houses. To reach Jubilation Road it was necessary to cross over the railway bridge and take a dogleg turn; except for the postman, most people missed it.

The houses were old weatherboard Queenslanders standing on stilt-like structures to lift them above the flood level. The gardens consisted mostly of long grass and rampant creepers, the occasional mango, fig or paw-paw tree and straggling bottlebrush hanging over rotted picket fences.

On hot summer nights Celeste dragged her mattress out onto the deck and lay on her back to watch the night sky. She knew the flight paths of fruit bats and understood the whirring calls of tawny frogmouths down on the creek. She could track the seasons by the movement of stars and knew intimately the quarters of the moon. She lay sometimes in the embrace of the Milky Way as it whirled its billion smoky lights through the velvet darkness and she fell to sleep.

Every screech or bark or whistle held meaning for her; the angle of a magpie’s flight, the third note of a butcher bird’s call, or the fold of a butterfly wing heralded its own message. Celeste heeded them all, drawing them to her like newspaper headings or TV news. She noted the pauses, the posturing, the reveille and the retreats, she read the day and night by its sounds and sights and eternal whisperings. She greeted each day like a prayerful monk, the dawn chorus a private aria sung for her benefit.

On weekdays she dressed at seven, ate a meagre breakfast of cereal and fruit, packed a lunch of cheese and lettuce sandwiches and backed her battered red Toyota four-wheel drive utility from the shed onto the potholed street.

She arrived at Commercial and General Financial Services at 7.50am to commence work at 8.00am. Celeste was known for her efficient, timely work, her silence and her complete lack of dress sense. From the time she arrived wearing her elastic- sided boots and her tailored shirts tucked neatly into her slacks beneath a snakeskin belt, until the time she left the conservative accounts department, she barely spoke a word, preferring to plough silently through the load of work in her in-tray.

She corrected mistakes without query, organised, filed, fended off complaints with saintly diplomacy and emptied her in-tray by the close of each day. She never took sick leave, was never heard to complain and left the office for her holidays every month of September.

The grey-suited men in the accounts department named her Miss Vogue and smirked behind her back at smutty made-up jokes about sex with boots on. They surreptitiously loaded their work into her in-tray whilst enquiring after her health. They presented her with a cactus plant for her desk and on the occasion of her tenth work anniversary gave her a plastic

Mickey Mouse clock. They guffawed endlessly in the staff room and lapsed into silence when she appeared.

Despite her seniority she remained at clerk level, receiving only the yearly increments due in her award. She trained all the younger men as they monotonously appeared and she watched them climb the ladder to become her seniors. She smiled and corrected their mistakes without comment. She had no choice but to offer them advice and guide them through their ascent.

She fared little better with the women but they respected her work enough to avoid her. She heard their deliberate conversations about body odour and a certain person, about where to shop for clothes and the benefits of make-up. Celeste was immaculately clean, hated the feel of make-up on her skin and clothes didn’t interest her so she ignored their comments. There were matters of which Celeste was very aware. She knew that Robinson in accounts spent each lunch hour playing the poker machines at the RSL Club and was fudging his figures to cover his debts. That Davis from the mail section was the person who sent a photocopy of his bum to Eleanor in reception and that despite the investigation and Eleanor’s protestations, no-one was reprimanded. She also knew that her manager Robert Gray met with his secretary Judith Sumner every night after work and sat with her in the unlit car park by the dark

river. Celeste noted these events in the same manner she did her figures, with absolute accuracy and detachment.

Celeste had one friend with whom she visited once a month. Ted Duncan was a farmer of sorts who lived in a small cabin some seventy kilometres from Redbrooke in a damp and grassy valley beneath the Ridgeback Mountains. He ran a mixed herd of beef cattle, a large flock of turkeys and a tropical orchard.

Although older than Celeste, Ted had been a childhood friend who limped through their schooldays with a deformed foot and a kindness for other outcasts. When Celeste arrived in Redbrooke, Ted, his face grown craggy and lined, had called to renew their acquaintance and to help with repairs to her house.

She had taken to driving up to his farm each month with supplies of groceries, fencing wire, pump parts or whatever else he needed and phoned her with the week before.

These were pleasant times for them both, though neither spoke about it or even spoke much at all, preferring to work on some farm chore together and to sit into the twilight on the cabin verandah watching the mauve-pink sky fade and sipping beer or wine, as the valley chilled and the shadows crept towards the house.

On these occasions Celeste slept on the sofa in front of the squat black stove which threw heat and flickering shapes throughout the night and warmed the house as frost settled across the paddocks. She would be eased into sleep by the conversing of mopokes at the edge of the mountain and the gentle snoring of the house dogs on the hearth.

She would waken early to the chortling of turkeys and Ted rattling around in the kitchen making his own brand of thick, black coffee, the tantalising aroma of which drew her from the warm cocoon of the sofa, out into the stark frosted mornings.

Celeste enjoyed the long drive home after her weekends with Ted; it gave her time to think. She would grind her way through the gears to the top of the track which led out of the farm, stop at the top of the hill to shut the gate and look back on the little cabin tucked into the hillside below; a thin trail of blue smoke drifting from the chimney across the valley. There was comfort in the way the house sat against the silver ribbon of creek that ran the length of the fields. The sheds like cardboard cartons dropped untidily across the yard, tiny specks of turkeys scratching about between them.

Today Celeste had other matters on her mind. Her email had a message tagged with an urgent response flag. She’d opened it

immediately to find the attachment contained a photograph of an erect penis. She heard sniggering from behind the partitions separating her desk from those of Davis and Robinson, but she didn’t need their indiscretion to know whose idea the offending email was. Just as surely as she knew the time of day by the sun, the month of the year by the moon and whether the wind would bring dust or rain, Celeste knew the inner workings of the office and her colleagues like the time-worn pages of a child’s storybook.

The stooped shoulders of Robinson, the colour of his suit, his hands shoved deep in his pockets in the mornings, told her of his wins and losses. His whispered telephone calls and the stench of stale tobacco on his clothes were more than she needed to know about his fortunes. Robinson was far too preoccupied with the precipice on which he teetered from week- to-week to be distracted with the perturbations of others.

Celeste clicked the email block sender icon on the taskbar and continued on with her work. Davis would have to deliver any future work to her by hand.

In the staff room at morning tea Davis avoided her gaze as she turned from the steaming urn with her tea. Bradley Campbell was the only other person in the room, a weedy mouse-haired

man with a pimpled face and a perpetual sniffle. Davis had no time for him, but, on this occasion he clutched at conversation with Campbell like a drowning man. Reciting football results in the fashion of a radio sports commentator; he ended with a lame question as to the success of Campbell’s team.

Bradley Campbell stared at him blankly; he had never been to a football match in his life. He shot a puzzled look at Celeste and left the room. Celeste followed him to the door and as she left she turned to Davis and quietly informed him that there had been no local football on Saturday, due to a bye in the round.

* * *

Jason Davis drove a low-slung black Ford with dark-tinted windows and chrome twin exhaust pipes that thrust like machine guns from holes in the rear. The repetitious thud of his car radio and the throaty revving of the motor were daily features of his arrival and departure from the car park. An iridescent pink sign stating that he was Fearless adorned the back window.

Davis parked his car under the shade of the only tree in the car park, a large Pittosporum which stood on the edge of the river bank into which the car park naturally sloped. Only in early summer when the tree shed its ample pink berries that

splattered everything beneath it, did Davis give up the shaded space to his colleagues.

He was a short, thickset man with swarthy features and coarse pockmarked skin. The early recession of his hairline belied his twenty two years. He addressed everyone as mate and walked with a swagger, his pelvis thrust forward and his arms hanging from his shoulders like a gunfighter in a western movie.

Davis spent his lunch hour parked in his car outside Redbrooke South high school where he sometimes lifted the car bonnet and revved the motor for the impressionable boys. His eyes constantly roved over the breasts of the girls who wanted to be seen with someone who wasn’t at school.

Davis spent any other free time at computer cafes or game zones where he played against kids or sometimes on his own until the zone closed. On Saturdays he cruised the streets with teenage boys hanging from the windows of his car shouting obscenities to their less fortunate friends on the footpath.

At home in his parent’s house Jason surfed the porn net from his bedroom. His knowledge of sex was confined to screen and magazine images of fishnet stockings and giant engorged genitalia entering the Jagger-like mouths of women in scant clothing.

The men at Commercial and General listened to his crude jokes and outwardly encouraged Jason. They felt uncomfortable in his presence and couldn’t respond with like humour. Some were envious of his youth and the stories of his prowess; others thought him a loudmouth, a fool and a liar. None trusted him.

The women avoided being with Jason. Many had experienced his innuendos and suggestions whilst at the photocopier and more than one had experienced his body firm against them as he reached for a paper or parcel from above their heads. They called him The Octopress and looked up words in the dictionary and thesaurus like frottage and erubescent, and used them loudly in sentences within his hearing; their conversations punctuated by shrieks of laughter.

Beneath this forced humour most of the women were a little afraid of Davis. There was a sinister feel to his behaviour that breached the known territory, that seeped into the office and left unease they were not sure what to do with. They remained collectively silent, for fear of seeming the weak link in the daily defiance of his antics. Jobs were hard to find in Redbrooke.

* * *

Celeste lifted a file of papers from her in-tray and placed them in front of her. She recognised them instantly as Robinson’s. The sweaty, limp paper, the faint smell of tobacco and the overdue dates all concurred. She sighed and commenced the corrections. One day, she mused, she might take her in-tray to morning tea with her.

She sent Robinson a polite email suggesting he might like to change his computer to the correct program to complete his accounts and went on with her work.

Robinson arrived protesting at her desk a few minutes later. “I don’t know anything about papers on your desk.” He began to raise his voice. “I do my own work; are you mad or just a stupid cow?” By the end of the sentence he was shouting, breath flustered, face red, voice loud enough to inform the whole office.

Celeste looked at him without response. The reef knot in his tie, oily from constant handling, was loose, revealing a brown rim inside the collar of his shirt. His stomach hung over his belt like a roll of uncooked pastry and protruded through his shirt where a button was missing.

Celeste remained silent and Robinson began to show discomfort under her scrutiny. He turned away from her desk,

swearing as he scuffed his way back to his office. “Fuckin’ weird bitch.”

Celeste watched him go, the shiny seat of his trousers tight around his buttocks. She had witnessed many of these outbursts, they usually occurred on Mondays following a race day. On those days he brought his lunch from home and sat sullen and uncomfortable in the lunchroom, reading the paper. His wife phoned and he held whispered, angry conversations which ended in the phone being slammed back onto its cradle and another call from his wife a few minutes later. He hurried from the office early after such calls. On Tuesdays he tried to borrow money from colleagues or was seen to be frantically emptying the drawers of his desk as though the litter of betting tickets, pie crusts and pawn shop receipts might produce an unforeseen deliverance.

Celeste knew where the portable fan and the wooden framed clock from reception had gone. The set of glasses won for high achievement at an interstate conference; the photographs of old Redbrooke and a Criccelli print from the lobby. They were small things, no one else noticed, except for Nuncia Cavallo who dusted them carefully each Friday on her cleaning round.

Nuncia loved the Criccelli print. A little piece of Calabria had been preserved for her in its muted sepias. The lined faces of old women looked down from the wall, approving her industriousness. She was shocked to find a space where it had hung. She left a note for Celeste in whom she sensed a kindred spirit.

It was late January when Celeste felt the change. Ants were appearing throughout the house and garden, their laborious journeys punctuated only by perfunctory greeting of each other in passing. They lifted from bowl and bench, from compost to creek in their frantic squirrelling of supplies.

The chorus of green tree frogs took on additional decibels and several commenced to venture across the deck in the early evenings, their long green legs and splayed fingers expertly gripping the damp timber on their way to a tryst in a downpipe or amongst the soft purple-green elephant’s ears.

The pheasant coucals gurgled their mating calls across the soft evenings like water bubbling out of bottles. They crashed about in the trees, their ungainly landing practices terminally unperfected. There was extra burrowing and scrabbling in the garden and increased night traffic through the forest of weeds that Celeste observed from a battered cane armchair on the deck.

The air changed to a thick humidity which left a layer of tiny droplets catching like diamantes on spider webs and grass in the early morning sun. For three nights a pale yellow mist encircled the moon like the halo of a saint in a religious icon.

When Ted phoned and mentioned flocks of crows gathering on the ground in the top paddock, Celeste began to pack up her house. She shifted boxes of goods into the ceiling cavity and the space above the verandah which Ted had created for her in anticipation of a time of need. She left only a skeleton wardrobe for work and enough utensils for survival. She purchased canned and packet food, radio and torch batteries, fruit, biscuits and some supplies from the vet. She decanted water from the rainwater tank into large plastic containers which she rolled onto the deck and stacked on the table.

On Wednesday it began to rain in Redbrooke; a grey drizzling rain that hung over the town like a mourner’s cloak. By Friday the gutters were streaming with swirling debris and an oily wash from the streets.

People grizzled and held umbrellas and newspapers over their heads and sat at their work in damp clothes and a steaming humidity that threatened to turn the most even-tempered into irritable, snapping piranhas. They reassured each other that at least the farmers would be happy and that it would all be over by Saturday.

On Saturday Ted phoned early to tell Celeste the creek had broken its banks and the bottom paddock was flooded. He was

moving his cattle to the mountain. He had enough supplies he told her and Celeste should not come as the roads may close.

Celeste telephoned Nuncia and asked her to meet at their workplace. Nuncia arrived at Commercial and General Financial Services with her large ring of keys and a look of concern. She opened the building and they proceeded into the office. Celeste explained her reasons for requesting Nuncia’s assistance as they hurried through the offices to open the upstairs storeroom.

Celeste then sat at each computer in turn and downloaded their contents onto back-up flashdrives. The two women then set about unplugging and dismantling all the computers and carrying them upstairs to the store.

It was heavy tedious work and Nuncia was not at all sure of the motive. She did not question Celeste however; as she had developed an immense loyalty to her over many years of bitter experience in the office.

It was Celeste who had defended her when she was once accused of stealing; standing like a statue between Nuncia and her accusers, arms folded across her chest, demanding evidence of their claim, Celeste had stared them down. Later when the missing items were found, Celeste had insisted that they

apologise to Nuncia. It was the only time she had ever seen Celeste angry.

They had developed a kind of friendship after that; taking time to catch up for a quick chat every cleaning day. Celeste had kept a watchful eye on Nuncia’s welfare and Nuncia returned the favour with small gifts of flowers and vegetables from her garden, left discreetly on Celeste’s desk.

Today, Nuncia simply followed instructions, carrying papers, books and office equipment to the store, stacking them in neat, marked piles and returning for the next armful. The women worked steadily until lunch time when Celeste went out to the car park and returned with a large Esky.

She set out boiled eggs, garden salad and thick slices of seeded bread for two on the canteen table. She boiled the jug for some of Ted’s rich coffee, which she produced from the Esky, along with a small glass plunger. They chatted without mention of the task, like any normal workday. Nuncia didn’t ask and Celeste didn’t explain.

search of evidence. The sky remained impassively bleak, the drizzle continued and Nuncia could detect no change.

By early afternoon the office was cleared. The desks and cupboards stood naked in the large bare room. A single sheet of paper, pinned to Robert Gray’s desk, informed him of the whereabouts of the office contents. More than once Nuncia surreptitiously watched Celeste for signs of diminishing sanity. She also worried about her own continued employment, but she said nothing when they parted on the office steps, gracefully accepting Celeste’s gift of the leftover coffee, before hurrying through the rain to her car.

Celeste drove through the back streets on the west side of town to a small clubhouse with several tennis courts. She parked in front of the clubhouse sign which read: ‘West Tennis Club Courts for rent see Fred Jenkins or phone…’ The paint had worn away and Fred Jenkins’ phone number remained a mystery.

Celeste climbed through the fence and walked to the tennis court furthest from the club house. She untied the net from its moorings and folded it into a bundle. She then struggled back to her utility and threw it into the back, covered it with a tarpaulin before climbing into the cabin and driving off.

The windscreen wipers slapped a rhythmic tune as she returned home through the grey dusk. Upon her arrival Celeste unloaded her booty from the Ute and set about constructing an apparatus that slowly took on the appearance of a Meccano structure with pieces missing. She dragged the net down to the creek bank and tied one end to a large gum on the near side. She dragged the other end across the creek and secured it to another large tree. The net now hung suspended some metres from the ground, straddling the creek.

She retreated to the shed where she retrieved a number of tyre tubes, which she inflated with the car tyre pump. She looped the tubes together with rope to form a kind of tube ladder which lay flat on the ground. The tube ladder ran from the creek to the garden and halfway to the house. She stretched the remainder of the rope to a large bloodwood that stood beside the deck and looped it around the girth.

She pulled the remaining rope back to the creek bank and joined the rope ends around the gum. Then, using some boards from the shed, she constructed a small platform held together with wire and roped it to the first tube in the ladder. The platform sat astride the tube closest to the creek.

Celeste tested all the knots, carefully releasing enough slack in the rope to allow the tube ladder to rise to its limit without

strain on the tree or the net. Finally she added pieces of rubber to form a protection around each tree where the rope encircled it. The overall effect was a rather disjointed and precarious rope circle from the house to the creek and back to the house.

Celeste sat back and scrutinised her handiwork. She had no way of testing it and could only trust that her calculations were correct. Having satisfied herself that her work was complete she returned to the house to prepare dinner.

On Sunday morning she woke to a world bathed in an eerie, dull, yellow light. Black clouds thickened on the horizon and rose in huge towers that skulked across the sky and shadowed the earth. Their billowing rain-swollen bellies hung low and waiting. A cold damp wind swept through the trees and rushed around the house, bringing the smells of faraway places and silencing the birds.

The creek was already running in a steady cleansing stream when Celeste backed her utility, loaded with her bicycle, out of the shed. She drove the few kilometres to the top of the ridge on the edge of town and parked the Ute in the disused bails of an old dairy farm. She locked the cabin, took the bicycle from the tray and began the downhill ride back to the house. As she reached the end of Jubilation Road a brilliant fork of lightening

cracked open the sky and the first heavy drops of rain splattered on the roadway.

She heard a new sound as she turned into her driveway; a haunting whistle that rose and fell with the chill wind and echoed up and down the length of the creek. She wheeled the bicycle up the steps to the deck and secured it with rope to a corner post before leaning over the rails to listen to the wind.

A thousand river spirits were shrieking and whistling in every crevice and cleft of the creek. Whipping the trees and spiralling up and down the banks the frenzied melee of the wind sounded its urgent message of alarm.

Celeste spent the day listening to the whistling creek and checking the house and garden for anything not tied down, lifted up, or stored away in safety.

She sat on the deck for a short time during a break in the rain, watching the creek rise. A pale sun smudged the storm clouds with yellowish light as it sunk below the hills.

She closed the door to the deck behind her to shut out the rain and stood at the window to watch the turbulent evening sky. Thunder rolled overhead in tumultuous waves which reverberated throughout the house and set the glasses on the sink tinkling. Tendrils of forked lightning fell to the ground 30

followed by shots of crackling thunder that rattled the windows then tumbled away toward the hills like the echo of a rifle fired in a tunnel. Slashes of fiery light split the sky and caught the garden in naked blue shadows and a silver sleet of rain.

The wind rose from the creek and tore about the house, thrashing the grass and tearing loose pickets from the fence. Hail hammering onto the roof drowned out the thunder momentarily and soon the garden was thickened with a covering of white. Branches snapped and tore from the trees under the weight of the cacophonous ice, crashing in large rounded chunks onto the roof and garden. The deck was covered in small mounds which piled against the water containers and corner posts like snow. The hail subsided to be followed by a steady torrential downpour which blurred Celeste’s view from the window. She turned away and headed to the kitchen, leaving the storm to roll on.

Throughout the night Celeste woke to the drumming on the roof of the steady deluge. Morning brought the sound of the gurgling creek swirling into the bottom of her garden and creeping towards the house. She did not go to work but was delighted to see the first tube in the ladder of her handiwork lifting to float on the water.

By mid morning the garden had disappeared under a murky brown sluice that eddied and slurped around the foundations of the house like thick soup.

By lunch time the soup had transformed the street into a vast running reservoir that covered the length of Jubilation Road to the railway line, and then slithered under the bridge into the town proper to join the river.

Celeste telephoned Ted and was reassured to hear that he was marooned safely in his house, surrounded by a sea of water, his cattle safe on their mountain refuge and the turkeys in the care of his neighbour at the top of the hill. He and the dogs were enjoying the rest in front of the fire. The phone crackled before he could elaborate and they agreed to end the call.

Celeste returned to her living room and positioned a comfortable armchair in front of the windows which overlooked the deck. She selected several bottles of wine and put them in an Esky filled with ice; placed candles strategically around the house with matches to light them in a central position beside the armchair. She fetched a pile of towels and blankets from the cupboard and put them near her chair.

She collected a number of books of poetry from her bookshelf and placed them on the little pine table with the

newspapers. She hung her rainproof coat on a hook and placed her rubber boots and gloves on the table near the door leading to the deck.

She then sat in the armchair, rested her feet on the coffee table and prepared to watch the flood.

Jason Davis arrived at the office on Monday as his boss was opening the front door. The two men walked together through the building discussing the rain and the rising river. They found their colleagues in a noisy huddle outside the accounts department.

Robert Gray gasped in surprise when he saw the empty office. He read the note attached to his desk and headed for the storeroom. The staff speculated endlessly on the situation and finally Robert suggested the men might stay and move the equipment back and the women could go to the coffee shop and bring back coffees.

Before they were able to commence the task an Emergency Services officer appeared in the hallway. His orange rain suit and yellow helmet gave him the appearance of an alien from a children’s TV serial.

“Oh look,” Davis laughed, “there’s a spaceman in the hall.”

Robert Gray greeted the man. “G’day mate, what’s the story?”

The SES man began with an air of authority. “The river is rising fast. You need to move your cars from the car park immediately. This building must be evacuated.” 34

“Yeah, right mate,” Robert nodded.

The SES man didn’t smile. He looked back down the hallway and added, “I hope you’ve had the good sense to move your equipment up high.”

He left as abruptly as he had arrived. Robert looked uncomfortable; he looked about the room trying to decide on a course of action that would return his authority.

Bradley Campbell commented, “The river’s risen on numerous occasions but there hasn’t been a flood for twelve years. Don’t know what the fuss is about.”

He left to go home whilst the others stood around and speculated about Celeste, made jokes about the supposed danger of the river and with much hilarity slipped into a kind of holiday mode. The women prepared to leave.

Robert Gray picked up the container of flashdrives. “I will be contactable on my home phone, I’ll be working from there, has everyone got that number?” he asked.

No-one believed him but they all made approximating noises about working from home. None of the other men took any of their work with them.

Jason said goodbye to the others and walked to the car park. “Shit,” he exclaimed.

There was water lapping around his car. The silent river had risen and now formed a broad expanse which encompassed the car, the parks and gardens all along the river bank and the laneways which ran between the buildings and the main street. The river spread its fingers of murky water into every opening that offered passage onto lower ground. He splashed through water up to his ankles and fumbled his key into the door.

“Shit! Shit!” He threw himself into the seat and pushed the key into the ignition. He gave a nervous glance over his shoulder as the motor roared. His hands were wet, his heart thumped in his throat and he struggled to get enough breath. He gunned the motor, his foot hard on the accelerator. He felt the wheels spin on the wet clay surface and the car slewed sideways. He’d done plenty of doughnuts outside the school, why wouldn’t the wheels grip? Must be the mud.

“Com’on, com’on, fuck, aah, fuck!” Jason yelled.

He riveted his foot to the floor as he dragged down on the steering wheel. Shock jolted him as his head banged against the window. The sleek black sedan spun in a complete circle and now faced the river. Confronted with a broad expanse of water and a car which seemed to have developed a mind of its own, Jason slammed his foot on the brake.

“Faaarrckk,” he yelled.

His beautiful car, its wheels locked in keeping with its designer’s safety requirements, and Jason, his hands fervently and helplessly gripping the steering wheel, his eyes wide in horror and his foot plastered to the floor, slid in a slow and graceful arc, down the length of the car park and into the river.

* * *

The water surrounding Celeste’s house rose steadily throughout the day under a relentless torrent of rain. Brown-stained water carrying polystyrene cartons, timber, tin cans, plastic drink bottles and an assortment of other junk floated past all day in an urgent dispatch to the river. Debris caught among the trees and banked up against any immovable barrier only to be shifted into the stream again when a larger object collided with it. The house creaked and groaned and conversed with the swirling brown world beneath it as the floodwaters pounded the foundations with flotsam.

Celeste listened to the house and watched the changing landscape from her chair in the lounge with calm anticipation. The tube ladder rose with the water and strained against the current, the ropes tightening and the tubes giving off a musical plunking as they bounced around with the debris. Sprays of yellowish foam whipped off them by the wind formed a stained

petticoat of scum that rocked in the water with the movement of the tubes.

She turned on the radio and listened to the litany of creeks and rivers for which a flood warning was being given. The citizens of Redbrooke were advised to leave their houses and seek safety on higher ground. Instructions were given about drinking water, electricity, road closures, emergency accommodation and food centres. There were warnings about creek crossings, bridges, blocked roads and finally a list of emergency service numbers. The sombre voice assured its listeners that radio 2RE would continue to inform them of any new developments on the hour every hour. Celeste sighed and turned off the radio.

She leaned on the doorframe and looked out over the deck. A brown morass lapped at the steps and the tube ladder strained on its rope as though tugged by a submerged hand, the rope jumping rhythmically in the water. Two forlorn crows sat on a pipe under the eaves of the shed, their mournful cries tossed in the wind.

The water had reached the bottom of the net across the now invisible creek, sticks and other floating debris were caught in the bottom strands and the net curved in a horseshoe away from

the trees. The fastest part of the current passed through the middle.

A movement caught Celeste’s attention and she stepped onto the rain-swept deck to get a closer look. A small dark shape struggled against the rocking net. It clawed its way upwards out of the stream and hung precariously above the debris on the swaying mesh.

Celeste watched intently, willing the animal towards her. She concentrated all her efforts into a picture of the ladder leading to the house; she focussed on the thought and sent it like an arrowed lifeline to the little suspended shape now swaying up and down with the vagaries of the current.

The rain beat against her wet head and she pushed open the door and grabbed her rain coat, pulling the hood up as she returned to her post. The creature began to inch its way along the net, grappling each claw-hold like a rock climber; only letting go of one toehold when the next was secure. It made its way to the platform at the end of the net at an excruciatingly slow pace, Celeste climbing every step of the way with it. She could now see that it was a possum, hunched and frightened but safe on the platform.

She untied the rope from the mooring and slowly hauled the platform toward the house. The tubes began to fall into line one

behind the other as the ladder moved across the choppy expanse, the possum clinging to the boards, the slack from the house tightening as the ropes wound around the trees.

The ladder took on the appearance of a giant dragon moving slowly through the water, its tail holding the precious cargo like a baby. Celeste drew the platform to her over the last few metres with concerted caution; the creature watched wide eyed, and bedraggled as it was hauled to its unknown fate. She secured the pulley rope to the deck and reached down and snatched up the possum by the scruff of the neck.

Too weak to resist the animal conceded without a struggle and she took it into the lounge and placed it in the armchair. Celeste dried the possum with a towel and wrapped it in a warm blanket. She took a little bottle of rescue remedy from the shelf, dropped several drops onto the possum’s head and rubbed it in, tucked the wrapped possum into a shopping basket hanging on the wall and returned to the deck to haul the ladder back out to the net.

It was a heavy job as the ladder pulled against the current and it took several tries to secure it. Satisfied with her work Celeste returned to check on the possum. It had stopped shivering and now appeared to be sleeping snugged into the

blanket; she watched its rhythmic breathing for a short while then left it to sleep.

Outside the late afternoon light took on a yellow-pink glow behind the veil of grey drizzle. Fat rain clouds hung low over the house and the floodwaters continued to rise as the sun faded behind the hills. Celeste checked the ropes attached to the deck and then returned to the lounge where she watched the water in the fading light.

She thought about the wild creatures trapped by the flood and she raised her hand to her heart in an unconscious movement that was at once a comfort and pain.

Celeste woke to the chill air in her bedroom and the clunk and reverberation of the house standing against the storming waters. She pushed back the covers and thought immediately of the possum in the shopping bag. Pink light dabbed at the edges of a mould grey sky and fell across the window sill. It was still raining. A fine rain-mist caught the feeble sunlight and glowed in sheen above the water.

Despite the swift movement of the current it was a still morning. Except for the carolling of a lone magpie the dawn chorus was deferred and there was no early search for food.

The possum was missing from the bag. After a quick search she located it on top of the kitchen cupboard cowering away from her in a corner. She left sliced fruit and a small amount of dog food on a saucer for it.

She pulled on a track suit, donned her rain jacket and sneakers and stepped out onto the deck. She leaned on the railing to check the net and felt the railing move beneath her hand. A python had wound itself around the balustrade. She unwound the creature, its diamond skin rippling beneath her hands; it smoothed itself along her arm struggling to get free.

Celeste stood on a chair and unwinding the python from her arm she encouraged it into the roof cavity, apologising to the mice that lived there as she did so.

There was movement on the net. She could see the white legs of a dead calf sticking up from the water, its bloated belly breaching the surface like a giant toadfish. Above it a small creature clung to the webbing, another huddled on the platform.

Celeste untied the pulley rope and began carefully hauling in the platform. The water was not as choppy as previously and the platform travelled easily across the surface. As she drew it closer Celeste recognised the animal as a koala and with it, dismay at the realisation that the tiny creature on the net was probably its baby.

She sized up the condition of the mother and reversed the pulley rope. In gentle hand over hand lugs she pulled the platform bearing its shivering cargo back to the net. The tiny bundle clinging to the net moved towards the platform in agonising steps. The mother huddled on her island.

Celeste rocked the platform from side-to-side to make the mother move; she felt distaste at the necessity. The mother clung to the platform but the movement of her body attracted the baby and it struggled to its only known comfort. As the baby reached the end of the net the mother stood momentarily to fuss over the tiny animal and it gripped her head and clasped its paws around her face. Celeste retrieved them both in an anxious hauling of the platform back to the house.

She reached down to pull them from the water and received a claw which ripped a long gash in her arm. The mother spat and hissed at her and held tenaciously to the rope. Celeste retreated to the lounge and returned with a blanket which she threw over the two animals and then swept them up in her arms and hurried inside.

The mother koala grunted and croaked beneath the blanket whilst Celeste gathered towels and an empty cardboard box. She lifted the largest shape inside the blanket into the box and released her grip. She shut the lid quickly and placed several

books on top of it. The box was quiet. She then took the baby koala out from under the blanket and dried it with the towel, examining it carefully for wounds.

The tiny creature clung to her hand, its infant eyes large and innocent. It mewed and nestled into her sleeve. She placed the baby in a dry towel between the cushions on the couch and prepared to extricate the mother from the box. She lifted the lid and turned the box upside down, tumbling the mother gently onto the floor. Before the mother could recover Celeste grabbed her by the back of the neck and holding the koala out at arm’s length she rubbed it briskly with a towel.

The creature protested loudly and flayed its paws about, grasping at the air. She could see no damage. Celeste then placed the mother on the couch with her baby. The little animal grabbed the mother’s fur, pulled itself up and disappeared under the mother’s chest. Mother was already heading for higher ground and she scrambled onto the back of the couch and looked around for the next highest point, the baby now riding on the back of her neck.

Celeste stepped away, satisfied that both animals would survive. She headed for the bathroom to tend to the blood now seeping through her sleeve. She bathed the wound clean in antiseptic lotion and stuck a plaster dressing over it.

The throb of a motor thumped in the distance and she returned to the lounge and looked out the window. A motorboat with yellow-coated men in it was heading up the street, their rain jackets wet and shining. The wash from the boat created a v-shaped wave that trailed behind it and sloshed against the houses with a slapping sound that echoed across the water.

She watched them help the occupants of number thirty-six into the boat. One of the children clutched a terrier under her arm as she was lifted into the vessel. The boat rocked as the people boarded and Celeste watched as the family were carried down the street, the hull lifting out of the water as the boat throttled away. The men would be back.

Celeste went to the front of the house where she tore several small branches from a eucalypt overhanging the verandah. She brought the leaves into the lounge and placed them on top of the bookshelf where the koala now sat. Books had spilled onto the floor. She left them there and went to the kitchen, flicking on the toaster as she passed the bench top. She cut two slices of bread and placed them in the toaster and pulled butter and marmalade from the fridge. The fridge light was out and water dripped from the freezer compartment.

She swore and took the bread from the toaster. She pulled an Esky from the top of the cupboard and emptied the freezer

blocks and ice from the freezer into the esky. She then filled it with dairy food and perishables from the fridge.

The possum slept unperturbed, curled in a ball above her head. She retrieved a small gas bottle and burner from under the bench and set a saucepan of water to boil for coffee; made the bread into a cheese sandwich and took the meal into the lounge to eat from her armchair. The koala remained wary.

Robert Gray was uncomfortable after two days cooped up at home with his family. He made the excuse of work to escape to his study to play on the computer.

He sent a tentative email to Judith his secretary requesting information on a room booking for a proposed section manager’s meeting the following week. Shortly after a reply appeared on his screen stating that the meeting room had been booked and the attached file contained all he needed to know. He smiled and saved the file onto a flash drive and placed it in an empty packet at the back of his desk drawer; he then deleted the message.

He was surprised to find an email from Celeste Moon.

‘Hi Mr Gray,

Could you forward me the file on Schlesinger and Co.? I have the accounts but I’m missing pages 7 – 17 of the audit. Robinson may still have them but they should be in with the file I am working on. From memory they were forwarded from Schlesinger in November. The only other option is that Robinson has accidentally filed them with Corbel Schlesinger and Straus, the subsidiary. C S and S are in a file titled Audit 47

Pending as theirs is not completed yet. Could you please confirm?

Regards, Celeste’

Robert chuckled to himself at Celeste’s dedication. She must be the only one working during the flood, so bloody efficient.

He retrieved the work box from his car and returned to the study. It took him a few minutes to find the Corbel Schlesinger and Straus file and he studied it on the screen. There were indeed ten extra pages attached to the notes but it was the manner in which they were inserted that held his attention.

He couldn’t figure the reason for the insertion, it must be a mistake. He emailed back to Celeste a request for a copy of the Schlesinger file. He checked it against the subsidiary’s document. There was a $5000 discrepancy. He felt irritated.

For the next hour the emails flew back and forth to Celeste, his frustration mounting as he attempted to decipher the system. Celeste was unable to enlighten him further, she suggested he go back to the beginning of the financial year and follow the entries from there.

Robert forced himself to methodically check all of Robinson’s entries. To begin with, he felt less anger at the 48

mistakes than he did at the time lost from a potential email conversation with Judith, but as the figures revealed themselves to him a mounting panic set in.

Month after month he found small amounts missing from the calculations. He added them in a side column and found at the end of the financial year they totalled $65,300. He swore loudly several times. Sweat ran down his back and his hands shook. He reached for the phone.

* * *

Tracy Robinson met Russell at her brother’s football team barbeque. She was shy and uncertain of herself and Russell had dished sausages from the hotplate for her when he saw her standing back from the crowd.

She thought him sweet and considerate. Russell had a good job, her parents liked him and most of her friends were married. In four months they too were married and in another seven had a daughter whom they named Cherie.

In the second year of their marriage they had a son, Scott, a mortgage and a circular conflict over their household budget. It was on the afternoon of Cherie’s fourth birthday that Robert Gray rang.

“Hello, Robert Gray speaking, may I speak to Russell please?”

“He’s not home Mr Gray,” Tracy replied.

“Do you know when he will be home?” Robert felt irritated but kept an even voice.

“Dunno where he is Mr Gray, so I dunno when he’ll be home.”

Robert heard the resentment in her voice. A child grizzled in the background.

“Could you ask him to phone me as soon as he gets back?” Robert remained polite.

“Sure, I’ll tell him when he gets back,” Tracy replied with the accent on when.

Robert thanked her and hung up the phone.

She returned to the task of packing the last of the children’s clothes into the suitcases open on the bed. She heard her mother’s car in the driveway. The children ran to the door to meet her, they knew all about the surprise Nanna had waiting for them at her house.

Tracy snapped the suitcases shut and placed them with the packed cartons on the lounge floor. The children had clambered into her mother’s car. The two women packed the luggage

around them and filled the boot. Tracy piled the remaining cartons into her own small car and waved to the children as her mother backed out of the drive.

She returned to the kitchen; collected her house keys, turned off the lights and closed the front door behind her.

* * *

Robert pushed the phone away and stared out the window. His mind darted from one possibility to another. Corbel and Schlesinger were very big in Redbrooke. Henry Corbel’s brother Fred was chairman of the board. He cursed Robinson and paced the room; his stomach churned. He put off the temptation to phone Judith and poured a scotch from the sideboard before he returned to the computer. A steady drizzle of grey rain beat against the window.

Robert snapped at his wife when she enquired about dinner and she closed the door to the study and tiptoed away, surprised at his anger. It was midnight when he finished a preliminary search of all Robinson’s files.

He woke in the morning with a dry mouth and a feeling of dread. He peered at his red rimmed eyes in the mirror and

rubbed his whiskery face. On the way to make coffee he decided to phone Celeste Moon.

He dialled the number and received a ‘not connected’ tone. He swore and looked at his emails. Celeste had written,

‘Mr Gray,

No electricity, battery low, last email. Phone may also cut out.

Am safe.

Celeste.’

Robert Gray swore again and leaned back in his chair. He would have to find Russell Robinson.

* * *

As Jason’s car hit the water it planed for a few feet on the surface and for a moment Jason thought it might float. His hands still gripped the wheel and his foot remained pushed hard on the brake. The car nose-dived and he watched as the world turned in slow motion, the bonnet disappearing and the water tumbling towards him.

He shrunk back into the seat as a wall of brown water hit the windscreen. He saw his hands on the wheel, the pattern on the sleeve of his shirt, grey and white stripes, the cuff buttoned, neat, firm, the St Christopher medal swinging on its chain from the rear vision mirror, his pyjamas striped, mummy tucking him in, a kiss, his teddy bear falling from the bed, falling, falling into the dark, mummy, mummy.

The group of emergency services men sat beneath the back porch of the fire station eating their lunches and watching the river. They had cleared every building in the CBD and were about to relieve the shift filling sandbags at the levee bank.

Shorty Novak first saw the rear end of the car as it tilted out of the river. Two red taillights and the smooth dome of the window peered above the water like the face of frog emerging from a pond.

They ran as a group to the rescue boat moored to a car park fence and pushed it out into deeper water. As the boat gained draught the men leapt aboard and they throttled out into the river in a wide arc bringing the boat back in to idle alongside the car.

The face of Jason Davis floated against the rear window. The men smashed the window with a grappling hook and

dragged Jason through the hole into the boat. They pushed off the car with the grappling pole before motoring away. A rush of air like a deep sigh rose from the window as the shiny black dome slid beneath the surface and disappeared.

Jason watched as white-gowned angels surrounded his bed, lifting him into the air where he floated up to the ceiling. He looked down through brilliant white light to see himself in repose. He felt warm and peaceful, an angel kissed his mouth, and another massaged his chest. He heard the highest note of a trumpet and saw the lights of heaven flashing blue and red.

He saw Jesus walk towards him, his emerald gown floating above the ground. Behind him in green and white serenity walked Mary and Martha. They took his hands and attached a shining golden bracelet to his arm. Jesus bent over him and called upon him to awaken, touching his face and laying his hands upon his chest. Jason was enveloped in love.

Jesus repeated the call to awaken and Jason opened his eyes to a blinding hospital light and a crushing pain in his chest. A nurse checked the drip attached to his arm and smiled into his face,

“Hello, she said brightly, “I’m glad you’re back.”

He looked to the blank ceiling for a moment, stared at the nurse, then turned his face into the vomit stains on his pillow and began to cry.

Robinson liked the Golden Beach track. He considered it lucky. He liked the sweep of ocean that could be seen from the grandstand and the tiny blip of the lighthouse perched on the rocks off the coast.

It was always crowded and noisy; the touting of the bookies and the smoke and jostle of the betting ring gave him a sense of being a man amongst men.

The aroma of meat cooking wafted from the bright food stalls. Beef burgers and onions, hot dogs dripping with sauce and mustard and doner kebabs wrapped in greaseproof paper were handed to men in raincoats, their hats and caps pulled down, their sneakers and boots scuffed with mud from the ring.

The smell of horses and manure and wet sawdust rose from the mounting yard and mingled with the steamy damp of clothing and pungent beer smells from the bar. This was a gambler’s track; a lucky track.

Russell pushed his way up to the bar and collected a beer. He headed to the food stalls, bought a burger and then stood at the back of the betting ring to watch the bookies’ boards. He fancied Southgate at 7 to 1. The price was shortening. This was the last race of the day, he was $500 down. He looked down the 56

list of prices and then he saw it. The name was Cherie’s Dreamer; it was 200 to 1, a very long shot.

He read his newspaper guide; they gave it no chance at all. He shoved the remainder of the burger into his mouth and pushed through the crowd to the bookmaker. He placed a $200 bet on Southgate, now shortening at 5 to 1. He hesitated a moment then shoved his hand in his pocket and pulled out a wad of notes and thrust it at the bookie.

“Southgate, Cherie’s Dreamer quinella.”

He shouted above the noise at the second who took the money.

The bookmaker repeated the names of the horses in a nasal twang, and handed him the quinella ticket written in illegible scrawl with a thick black pen. Russell’s heart thumped as he headed for the stands to watch the race.

He had not paid the mortgage for two months. He had borrowed two thousand from the Cordel account again and intended to pay it back the next day but it had slipped his mind. He would do it tomorrow. Tracy would be furious if she knew. It was his forgetfulness about Cherie’s birthday present that had prompted the fight this morning. He had stormed from the house and driven the two hours to the coast.

This was the only weekday meeting. He rarely came to Golden Beach races. A scratchy recording trumpeted the start of the race. The horses were coming onto the track. The crowd moved towards the rails. The race caller read the numbers and colours in a jolting nasal tone, stopping abruptly at the end of each description. “Number seven, Cherie’s Dreamer, pink and gold sash, pink cap”, he heard above the din.

He listened for Southgate but heard only the number eleven. The horses were lining up in the stalls, white-coated men pushing them from behind. The race steward’s flighty grey was prancing behind the barrier, his rider moulded to the horse’s movement, his face impassive, red coat tails flapping above his jodhpurs.

The caller gave information about the owners of the favourite, Loud Nancy. Russell’s palms sweated. He looked out to the unbearable calmness of the ocean and back to the track. Grey thunderclouds were drifting inland across the beach.

The horses leap from the barrier. Southgate is slow to start and falls in behind three other horses in a blur of movement. The pink cap of Cherie’s Dreamer falls slowly to the back of the field. Southgate stays with the leaders out from the fence. The field is turning for home when the second horse clips the heels of the leader. Its jockey tumbles over its head to the ground, the

horse behind careers into the fallen, another and another fall in a mess of tangled legs and bodies. The lead horse struggles to regain its balance; Southgate slips past on the rail. The field is strewn all over the track. Riderless horses struggle to their feet and bolt behind the leaders, stirrups flailing their sides. Russell can’t breathe. A pink cap is bobbing down the outside rail, there is a clear run between it and the finish, it reaches number eleven at the post and they cross the line together, locked inseparably by a nose ahead of Loud Nancy.

The bookmaker wrote a cheque for Russell for twenty eight thousand, eight hundred and five dollars. Russell’s shirt was wet and his legs barely held him as walked to his car. He opened the door and flopped into the driver’s seat, nonchalantly tossing the cheque onto the seat beside him. As he pulled from the racetrack out into highway traffic, he turned the radio onto the race results; he wanted to hear it again.

His thoughts raced. He can pay back the account and the mortgage. He and Tracy can have a celebration; he can tell her about the races now that he has the money. He’ll apologise when he gets home, she’ll be so happy. He won’t tell her about all of it; he could even give her a couple of hundred.

* * *

Caroline Gray looked at her husband across the breakfast table. She poured him another coffee and refilled her own cup. She is an attractive woman with dark peppered hair swept back from her face in a modern stylish cut. Her black sweater enhances her dark eyes, now watching him with interest.

“What’s up Rob?” she enquired in a casual tone.

“Nothing’s up, nothing you can help with anyway,” he snapped back.

She withdrew behind her newspaper and ate her toast.

“Look I’m sorry, it’s not you.” Robert’s tone was contrite. He told her of his fears about Robinson. He nodded his head from side to side in disbelief at his own words as he told the tale. They discussed the matter at length and she reinforced his idea of seeing Robinson immediately.

Except for Judith he had never kept secrets from Caroline. Well, there was the golf club trip to Hobart… and the Sydney conference, but he’d thrown the girl out at midnight, it was nothing.

“There may be a perfectly reasonable explanation for the whole thing,” Caroline suggested. “But you won’t know until you see him. Don’t worry so much,” she added.

He watched without interest as Caroline rolled up her yoga mat and stuffed it in her gym bag. 60

Caroline tried to sound cheerful, but there was a nagging doubt at the back of her mind that she didn’t want to think about. Robert looked pale.

“I’ll be back by lunch; the boys will be home because of the flood,” she said.

Robert looked blank.

“You know,” she paused, then went on, “those other two humans who live with us and only appear at the smell of food.”

Robert smiled wanly and turned away.

Caroline grabbed a towel from a pile of clean linen on a chair and headed for the door.

A few minutes later she returned still carrying her bag and towel and searched through the cupboard. She heard the shower running and cut short the rising question.

She went to Robert’s study and opened the drawer, rummaged around with her free hand, snatched up a packet, shook it and picked up a flashdrive. She stuffed the flashdrive in her pocket and hurried out the door.

Robert dried himself slowly and wrapped the towel around his waist. He studied his face in the mirror. The lines around his eyes had increased and black shadows formed half-moons

beneath them. He was beginning to look old, he thought, rubbing his chin.

He shaved and dressed in a pair of jeans, a t-shirt and sneakers. The examination in the mirror had depressed him. He sat down and leaned his elbows on his desk and put his head in his hands. What was it all about? He longed for something but he was not sure what. Freedom perhaps? A new car? He thought about his future, the dilemma with Robinson had jolted him; he felt his life was a little more precarious than he wanted.

He thought about Judith. She was in love with him, but she was just a nice distraction. Anyway she was still married to ‘nice guy Larry’. They could not go anywhere in this town together.

His boys Adam and Nicholas were still at university; and they didn’t seem to need him for anything other than money. It was Caroline they turned to for other things, not their fault, he wasn’t around for years, always working, never making time for them. Caroline had warned him enough times.

He felt like he wanted to run away; maybe drive down the coast and start a new life. He sat for a while thinking about the joys of being single. Not having to answer to anyone, no responsibilities pick up girls again… party. He sniggered at himself.

He had always laughed at the men who suddenly, midlife, started wearing open necked shirts, draped themselves in gold chains and jewellery and bought sports cars to entertain women as young as their daughters. He wondered if he was turning into one.

He realised with a sense of shame that he was lonely. He had stopped talking to Caroline about anything significant; or rather she had stopped talking to him. He didn’t blame her for that; he had cut her off enough times. He realised now she had tried for a long time to get him to unburden his pent up concerns.

She had her women friends; they seemed to cope much better with talking about themselves. He admitted to himself a bit of resentment about that. His mates, the few he had, didn’t talk about personal matters. At golf they just played golf and sent each other up and laughed over their beer at the clubhouse later. They were OK guys but you wouldn’t tell them your troubles.

He missed his boys. He realised Adam had grown up without him. Apart from the games they played when he was little. He should try harder to talk to them. Maybe they didn’t even like him?

His eyes welled with tears and he brushed them away with the back of his hand. What was the matter with him? It was probably this bloody Robinson thing. Maybe he should try and talk with Caroline. When she wasn’t busy. The resentment rose again with tears. He sat staring into space for a long time.

Later he tried phoning Robinson again; there was no answer.

Caroline returned from her gym class looking flushed and happy. She babbled about the new level she had reached and how much fitter she felt. She picked up magazines and papers as she talked, folding them neatly and putting them away.

“What have you got planned for today?” Caroline asked.

Robert didn’t answer and Caroline continued on after a pause. “Irene is going to download a wonderful new yoga program she found on the web.” She turned back to the task of tidying the room. “Oh by the way, I took your last flashdrive from the desk drawer, here’s a new pack.”

Caroline reached into her gym bag on the table and pulled out a new three pack of flashdrives that she handed to Robert.

He nodded without interest and took the packet.

“You know Rob, yoga would be really good for you,” Caroline enthused. “Why don’t you try a beginner’s class; there’s one starting next week on Tuesdays at 5:30. You could go after work.”

Robert looked despondent and shook his head.

Caroline dropped the subject.

“I will chase up Robinson this morning; I’ll be back for lunch,” he added without enthusiasm.

Caroline smiled at him. “Want to see a movie tonight?”

“There’s a flood out there,” he reminded her.

She laughingly suggested a candlelight dinner for two in the living room in front of the TV.

He made an effort to smile but he couldn’t catch her mood. He picked up his car keys and kissed her lamely on the cheek.

She turned away to empty her gym bag.

Robert reversed his Statesman onto the street and thought about his destination. On impulse he picked up his mobile phone from the car seat and called Judith.

Judith talked in an unusually loud voice. “Oh hi Robert, No I don’t mind working on those papers. I just have to drop Larry at the levee bank. They are calling on the radio for all SES 65

volunteers.” Judith rushed on. “Will I need the laptop? No, it’s no trouble to come over to the east side… I’ll be there in twenty minutes.” Judith hung up.

Robert smiled at her exaggerated tone and turned the car away from the flow of traffic up the steep rise to the eastern suburbs. He drove around the ridge road that bordered the eastern part of town and turned into a crescent with driveways that sloped down to the street. He parked the car, climbed out and leaned on the door to wait.

There were no houses; the developers had built the crescent in anticipation of a land sale. The street sat above steep cliffs which dropped away in green slopes of disused land to the edge of the built up area. The crescent overlooked Redbrooke city.

Robert could see where the floodwaters had fingered through the streets of the CBD. The river had become an extensive lake upon which drifted the puppet rooves roofs of houses and shops. Below him the city floated like a Vietnamese water theatre.

To the south the lake lapped at the edges of farms and the hills shrunk away into a grey mist. Dark huddles of cattle clumped together on patches of high ground. A vague fear played at the edges of his awareness; he crossed his arms over

his chest; it was colder than he had anticipated. Judith’s small sedan pulled into the crescent and parked behind him. She stepped out looking trim and sexy in tight blue jeans with a short black sweater stretched over her breasts. Robert let out a wolf whistle and held out his hand to take hold of hers. They walked together to the edge of the cliff and looked out over the city.

Judith gasped at the sight of the flooded landscape. She snuggled up under his arm and pulled his hand around onto her breast. They walked arm in arm back to his car and climbed into the back seat.

He kissed her hard on the mouth, running his hand beneath her sweater, pushing her top up to kiss and lick her breasts. He groaned as she unzipped his jeans and slid her hand inside.

He pushed her down onto the seat as she eased herself out of her jeans and lowered himself on to her. They cursed the car as they struggled and shunted, gasping and panting to a final rush of long sighs. The portentous river spread below them.

* * *

Celeste woke in the night to the sound of yelping. She donned her raincoat over her pyjamas, grabbed a torch and went out to the deck. The sound was coming from the net. She shone the 67

torch into the darkness, picking out the direction of the yelps. A small reddish dog splashed about below the platform. It struggled to climb onto the boards, fell back again and again. It would weaken soon.

Celeste concentrated her efforts and whistled a low sharp whistle. The kind she had heard Ted use when he wanted his dogs to heel. The dog stopped struggling. She whistled again. The red shape flashed in and out of the torch focus. Around it the water looked black and menacing. Celeste gave a continual low whistle. The dog struggled towards the sound, its head bobbing in the black liquid.

The flash of torchlight caught its eyes, luminous green as it turned its head. It bumped against the tubes in its laborious paddle for life. Celeste continued to whistle the dog to heel. It laboured gainfully through the water, pushing along the line of tubes. She could see it more clearly now, a red Kelpie, thin, with barely the energy to move.

When it reached the edge of the deck Celeste climbed down the submerged steps and dragged it from the water by its rough rope collar. It shook itself and struggled to stay upright. Celeste carried it inside and towelled it down. Blood dribbled from its mouth.

She wrapped it in a rug and laid it in an armchair. She gently prised open the dog’s mouth and shone the torch for the source of the wound. His tongue was bloody and swollen. She felt all over him for any signs of pain but the dog remained still and uncomplaining. She held his jaw open and wiped away the blood. The torchlight revealed a splinter of wood embedded in his tongue.

Celeste retrieved tweezers from the bathroom and holding the dog’s jaw open with one hand, she deftly pulled the splinter from his bloodied tongue. She rubbed rescue remedy onto the top of his head. He made a feeble attempt to lick her hand then lay his head down and closed his eyes. It was almost dawn.

The blood dried on the dog’s jaw. Celeste boiled water for tea and sat holding the steaming mug and watching the dog until the first pink hues of light tinged the clouds.

The Kelpie slept. His body twitched with the mysteries of sleep and occasionally he yelped or whimpered. Celeste checked the other animals’ food supplies. The possum was missing from the cupboard but had eaten. The koala had not moved from its aerial perch on the bookshelf.

Celeste dressed and climbed onto a chair to peer into the roof cavity with the torch. The python was wrapped around a

beam, a contented bulge in its midriff. She placed a bowl of water inside the space and retreated.

She searched around the rooms and found the possum curled and sleeping in the dirty linen basket in the laundry. She lifted the basket onto the top of the washing machine and covered it with a towel.

Celeste made a breakfast of fruit and boiled rice and black coffee. She sat down beside the dog, pushing the blanket against his back. She thought about the emergency services boat outside her door the day before; the men’s voices calling. She had lain on the lounge floor. They had throttled away satisfied, as she willed them not to motor around the back where the ladder floated. There was no one left in the other houses.

She thought about the Schlesinger account that Robert Gray had asked for. She knew why. It was inevitable. She sighed.

The rain had begun to ease and came now in a thin intermittent mist. She missed the dawn chorus. The house smelled damp and feral and mould was appearing in grey speckles on the ceiling.

She emptied water from the double bird feeder on the deck and filled it with seed and a mix of water and honey. The dank smell of the flood rose through the floorboards and filled the 70

house. Wet towels were draped on a line under the verandah. Droplets of water hung on every carapace and water dripped onto the verandah where the downpipe had rusted away.

Celeste retired to her bedroom and curled up on the bed. The house was quietly patient.

When Irene Mason telephoned Caroline to ask her over, Caroline was concerned. Her friend was not usually so reticent about information over the phone. Irene insisted she come to her house as soon as possible.

Robert had not returned. Caroline left a note and drove through the leafy streets to the east side of town. She had known Irene for about fifteen years, part of which had been as teachers in the same high school. Her friend was a reliable and trusted confidante. Caroline thought about the call; she hoped Irene was not sick or that something had happened to one of her children.

Irene lived with her partner Ric and their blended family of three children. She had divorced her husband of thirteen years because of his drinking. She met Ric on a holiday in Chile. After a year of correspondence he came to Australia with his daughter Constancia, who was at university in Sydney.

Irene’s two sons had followed their father into real estate and ran a business together in Redbrooke. Damian the eldest was to be married soon.

Caroline pondered these things as she pulled into the driveway of a large federation house set on the high side of the 72

street. She loved Irene’s family as her own. Their boys had grown up together.

Irene met her at the door and ushered her inside. Irene urged Caroline to sit down in response to her urgent questions regarding Irene’s welfare. She asked Caroline where she had got the flashdrive from that she wanted the download on. Irene told her the drive contained information she thought Caroline should read for herself. She was sorry she had opened it but the title just stated Meeting Schedule and she presumed Caroline had known the disk was not new.

She realised she shouldn’t have read the file but she had. She apologised again, stating that she wished she hadn’t. Words tumbled from her mouth as though she only had a set time to fit them all in.

Caroline stared in puzzlement at her friend. “That’s not a problem Irene, it was probably one of Rob’s old ones. I just grabbed it this morning without looking.”

“That’s just the problem, Car,” she blurted. “I think you should read it.”

Still not understanding the fuss, Caroline sat at Irene’s computer and opened the file.

‘Darling, darling, darling R, 73

I miss my big boy, this little pussy cat is purring for him.

When can pussy be stroked, purr?

I thought of you this morning when I heard Tom Jones

“Pussy cat, pussy cat I’ve got flowers and

Lots of hours to spend with you.”

I thought they’re playing our song, I nearly rang you but I thought someone else might answer the phone.

Larry will be away next week, he has to visit the Brisbane office for training for a week. I can take my time after work. I’d like to take some of your time…

You better believe it honey. XXXXXXXXX

J.’

Caroline read and re-read the message. Her mind could not function. The words would not register at a comprehensible level. Her stomach churned. She felt as though she had collapsed in on herself. What had been her life a moment ago was no longer there. Who wrote this note? Surely not Judith. There must be some mistake. What could Robert know about this? It must be someone else’s disk. The questions rocketed around her mind like a missile gone mad. Irene was silent behind her.

She stood up from the chair in a daze and walked towards the door.

Irene took hold of her arm and sat Caroline down on the sofa. She begged her friend not to go. It was dangerous to drive like this. She was in shock. Irene would make tea. She was so sorry.

Caroline stared at her blankly.

Irene brought tea. Caroline drank it absently, holding the cup in shaking hands.

“Rob has gone to see an employee and he’ll be home for lunch,” Caroline said in a faraway voice. “I must go home.”

“It’s three pm,” Irene said with authority. “I’m sure he can get his own lunch.”

Caroline burst into tears.

The pain sat between the two women like a third person, intrusive, humiliating. Invading their afternoon, like a crude guest reluctant to leave. Exposing the frailties of each. Neither wanting to be blamed. Both feeling the weight of women burdened. Good wife, good mother. Not enough, never enough.

“It’s so childish,” Caroline proffered at last. “The letter.”

Irene agreed. Caroline thought about the letter. How could something so immature, so idiotic, entice Robert? Caroline decided to leave.

Irene held her friend in a long embrace, kissed her on the cheek and wiped the tears from her face. Caroline agreed to phone her and left.

She drove slowly through the streets, unmindful of her destination, until she came to large yellow road barriers and remembered the flood. She turned the car around and drove to the top of the ridge where she parked in a siding off the ridge road. A place where lovers might come after movies and shows. She had not been here before and climbed from the car to look out over the city.

She thought about Judith. Caroline had never considered her. She was just Robert’s secretary. He sang her praises, said she was indispensable. Caroline had always believed him on these issues. She had met Judith briefly, once at a Christmas party. Caroline’s first impression was ‘a bit brassy’ but she was Robert’s choice and it really didn’t matter. Apparently she did the job exceptionally well.

She wondered now if Robert had known all along.

A few weeks ago she and Robert had danced in the lounge to Tom Jones singing Pussy Cat, Pussy Cat. They’d laughed when the boys had groaned and called them undiscovered fossils.

It wasn’t their song. Just a song they had kept since their very early days. Just moments of memory. Their moments. How could he do this?

She had not given Judith enough thought. Judith was not a secretary. She was an explosion which had left a ragged cavity in Caroline’s chest. Her life now hung like wounded pieces of skin, tattered edges flapping accusingly at her.

So brazen, to send an email to him at home. She must be very sure of herself. Caroline shrank from this revelation. The word ‘flaunting’ kept returning to her mind. She sickened herself with a million accusations.

She became slowly aware of the city below her. The fading light of the day threw a pink glow on the inundated streets. The city floated, unsure of itself. There was no ground on which to plant your feet. No path upon which to walk steadily; just the spectre of hundreds of rooftops aimlessly wandering in a pink sea.

Here and there a small boat filled with yellow men buzzed between the buildings. Like ants whose log has been overturned, they fussed in fruitless circles.

Caroline reluctantly returned home. The house was empty. She copied the flashdrive onto another and returned it to the drawer in Robert’s study. Her head was throbbing. She took some painkillers and climbed into bed, pulling the doona over her clothes. She lay listening for Robert’s car before falling into an exhausted sleep.

* * *

Russell Robinson had driven happily along the highway, rocking to the car radio and planning his entrance home. He pulled into his street, spinning the steering wheel with a one- handed flourish. He was a winner. He was the man. He slowed for his house and swung into the driveway.

Robert Gray was leaning on his statesman in the drive.

Russell jumped from his car and greeted his boss. Gray informed him there was no one home. Tracy was probably just down at the corner shop. He invited Robert in. Russell pushed open the front door and stood aside for Robert to enter.

The house was a husk. Russell looked around in amazement. There was no lounge or kitchen furniture. The

walls were bare. Silence. He quickly walked through the house to the bedrooms.

Robert stood waiting in the lounge.

“She’s gone,” Russell blurted at Robert. “She’s gone...What’s fuckin’ happened?... What’d she fuckin’ do that for?”

Robert pressed his hands into his pockets and shrugged. Robinson stormed from room to room, slamming doors and swearing as though doing so may rematerialise his family.

Robert suggested he would come back at a better time. He told Robinson he had something to discuss with him but it could wait until tomorrow. He would phone.

Russell nodded, having not heard any of it. Robert let himself out.

Russell went to the phone. It was on the floor. There was an envelope with his name scrawled large across it.

‘Russell

I’m sick of your lies. I’m sick of making excuses for you. I’m sick of having no money. I’m sick of your promises. I’m sick of you. I’m staying with mum until I get a house. I’m not coming back.

Goodbye, Tracy.’

Tracy’s mother answered the phone. No, Tracy did not want to come to the phone. No, she did not want him to come around. No, she did not want to hear what he had to tell her. Tracy’s mother parroted the messages. She ended by telling him Tracy did not want him to call again.

Russell slammed the phone down. “Fucking bitch! Who the fuck does she think she fuckin’ is?”

He kicked the wall. It began to dawn on him that he had no bed and there was nothing to eat. He thumped the wall again with his fist. He fumbled in his pocket for a cigarette, lit it and walked outside to smoke under the verandah.

Russell took a change of clothes and locked the house. He drove into town to look for food. There was no entry to the CBD so he drove back along the highway towards the coast until he found a takeaway. He picked up a pack of beer from a bottle shop and booked himself into a motel.

He found the room, unlocked the door and kicked it open. He threw his clothes over a chair, pulled the top off a beer and slumped onto the bed. He flicked through the TV channels to a sports show then sat back to eat his hamburger.

* * *

Jason Davis sat at his computer deleting the porn sites from his favourites list. His mind was very clear. The Jesus site had clearly said, ‘Before you can enter the kingdom of heaven you must be born again of water and the spirit.’

It had happened to him. He had been chosen personally. There was a lot of information to take in. He avoided the temptation to look at the Dress Up Jesus site and the Jesus Goes to Hollywood site and clicked instead on The Anointed. A soulful Jesus gazed at him from the screen. His deep blue eyes burned and his hands were held out in welcome. Underneath Jesus was written the word Come.

Tears ran down Jason’s face.

He continued the task of clearing his computer before returning to the picture. Although Jesus didn’t look as bright on screen as Jason remembered he was grateful to have this private audience with him.

He discovered he could purchase movies of Jesus, postcards to send to friends, car stickers and badges. He could have a free bible and join a Jesus club. He could download the gospels, the scriptures and every word Jesus had ever spoken. He chose instead to join a Jesus chat room.

* * *

When Celeste woke the Kelpie was sitting beside the bed watching her. She held out her hand but he remained wary. Celeste got up and the dog followed her to the kitchen. He kept a safe distance and watched her every move. She put down a bowl of tinned food for him and stood back. The dog watched her face.

“Here boy,” she coaxed gently, and held the bowl out to him.

The dog moved to the bowl and ate hungrily. She filled another bowl with water for him and placed it near the door to the deck. She walked out to check the net and the dog followed. Celeste reached up to test the ropes and the dog cringed. Celeste sat down on the boards.

“Here boy, here boy.”

She called the dog to her. He cringed again, twisting his thin body away. Celeste called him softly again. The dog dropped and crawled on his belly to her. She patted his head, noting old scars on his ears and shoulders. He was only young.

They sat together watching the water.

“I’m going to call you Fraser,” she said to him. “Good boy Fraser.” Celeste continued to stroke his head.

The rain had stopped and thin slivers of sunlight sparkled on the tube ladder. A hungry crow flew down to the edge of the 82

roof and watched her. She went to the kitchen and took some dog food from the can, returned to the deck and threw it onto the roof. Fraser waited. The crow was joined by another and the pair gobbled the food, their feet scrabbling on the tin roof.

By mid-morning the sky was beginning to clear to pale grey. Now and then a rain cloud swept by but no rain fell. There was smoothness to the body of water that moved around the house. The urgency was gone.

The net was straining with the weight of detritus. Cans and bottles glinted in the feeble sun. Branches, plastic containers, toys and assorted building materials banked up against the net.

Celeste placed newspaper on the deck for Fraser and locked him out. She then pulled on her gloves and dragged a chair to the bookcase. She reached up for the koala and was met with a series of grunts and swinging claws. She retreated and fetched a blanket. She threw the blanket over the koala and pulled her off her perch, hanging her upside down in a blanket hammock.

She then took the pair to the verandah and lifted the koalas into the gum tree. She pulled the blanket free and the startled animal scrambled to safety, the baby clinging to its neck. Celeste watched them until the mother reached a forked branch

where she settled herself, still watchful. Fraser had not moved. She let him into the house and he lay on the mat watching her.

She cleaned and wiped the top of the bookcase and removed one shelf. Fraser bolted to the corner of the room and cowed into the wall. She put the shelf down and called him to her. He came reluctantly, dragging himself across the floor.

She stroked his back. “It’s alright boy, it’s alright Fraser, I’m just moving the shelves; I’m not going to hurt you.”

She picked up the board again and Fraser shrank away. Celeste put the board down near him and patted his head, encouraging him in a soft voice.

She repeated the process several times, then stood up in slow movements and carried the shelf to the front of the house. She ignored Fraser; he followed. She then took the shelf and lodged it between the trunk of the gum and the railing on the verandah. It formed a ramp from the tree to the rail. The koalas and Fraser looked on.

Celeste returned to the lounge with Fraser at heel and dragged an old cane chair out onto the deck. She piled cushions and a faded Batik shawl into the chair and set a small table within reach. She placed her pile of poetry books on the table and returned to the kitchen to get a glass, a plate of cheese and biscuits and a bottle of white wine from the Esky.

She returned to the deck and settled into the chair, her feet tucked beneath her, the cushions at her back and Fraser curled in a horseshoe at her side.

She looked out over the creek become lagoon and breathed in the smell of the flood. The water had collected aromas from every part of its journey. The rain, fresh, cool, dripping from the ends of leaves; eucalypt, grevillea, cabbage, mint, banana, bougainvillea; from the backs of possum, cow, dog, goat, echidna; sliding from snake, lizard, rock, roof, drain, sand, earth, the banks of creeks, cattle, manure, mud, dying grass, the roadside, gravel, oil, bitumen; the stain of rubber lifted from the tarmac, into the flow of freedom to the river.

She tasted the smells, heard them like a voice rising from the water. Before her rose the journey of the flood, its spirit sung by the whistling of the creek; an opera, a play.

Here a cow runs along the boundary, her calf slips down a bank, struggles in the water, sinks wild eyed, flounders. Mother runs the length of the field until the fence stops her following her floating offspring, legs akimbo, dead. She paws the fence, emits a grating cry, she stares at the stream all night in the wet cold.

A horse clambers at the slippery creek bank he cannot negotiate. His legs bleed, tired, his owners gone to higher

ground. The images whiz by. Grasses drowning; their voices crying against their watery demise. Frogs burrow to safety in grey mud havens beneath the known ground. Grasshopper crawls, too wet to fly onto a leafy refuge. She is stuck with mud, dies embalmed, an embodied sculpture.

Celeste sees, hears, tastes, feels the flood reach for her with its earth smells, its boundlessness, its intrusion into every part of being. She breathes deep into the reaches of marshes, creeks, lagoons and dams. Breathes in the flooded burrows and nests and hollow logs of denizens long gone or given up with the dead. She holds the flood in her chest a long moment; raises her head and releases the captured air into the whistling breeze.

A lone swallow rises on the updraught; its shadow flits beneath. She watches until it disappears. The breeze subsides. Afternoon shadows lengthen upon the water. The house settles into stillness. Celeste reaches for the wine, her other hand outstretched to Fraser.

High above the flooded ground a magpie begins to pipe.

Celeste picks up the first book in the pile on the table. She flicks open a page. The title says ‘Zero Circle’, the first lines reach out like a beacon shone between earth and heaven.

‘Be helpless, dumfounded, 86

Unable to say yes or no.

Then a stretcher will come from grace

To gather us up.’

Celeste reads and re-reads and leans back into the armchair. Above her head the python’s tongue flicks at the edge of the water bowl.

* * *

Tracy Robinson did not enjoy living with her parents. The children were too spoilt by their grandparents and became sulky and belligerent when denied anything. Her mother criticised her handling of them and her father questioned her judgement in relation to Russell, albeit when her mother was not in the room.

She longed for her own space and sometimes secretly wished she was back in her own home. She became increasingly despondent about her situation and avoided her friends for fear of having to admit the breakdown of her marriage. She felt trapped and despairing.

The children weighed upon her with unceasing demands. Her mother carped about the washing of the children’s clothes, her share of the housework and the responsibility of Russell in

regards to the cost of keeping an extra three people. She missed her afternoons curled up on the couch with a box of Mars bars, Oprah and Jerry Springer and the daytime dramas in the world where everyone was slim and tall and attractive.

She hated the channels her parents watched at night and missed the phone calls from friends about Backyard Makeover and whether Brad Pitt would get back with Jennifer.

It was three days after she had left home when Russell phoned in the middle of the day. Her mother was at her volunteer’s day at St. Vincent de Paul shop and her father at work. Her heart jumped when she heard his voice but there was a bargain to be negotiated here.

“What do you want?” she began.

After days of arguments with her parents and the promise of winnings from the racetrack ringing in her ears, Tracy and the children returned home with the furniture in a large van.

Russell had arranged a takeaway dinner and had decked the empty house with candles and roses. He had purchased an Esky and stacked it with champagne and chocolates.

Scott vomited as soon as he reached the house and Cherie screamed that she wanted to stay at grandma’s house where

things weren’t in boxes. It was late when all the furniture had been restored.

The takeaway was consumed during the unpacking and the pair hunkered down into their nuptial bed with the television and the chocolates. It was like the old days when Russell had brought home little gifts of sweets from Russell Lea and held them behind his back until she kissed him. They squirmed about in the bed, feeding each other chocolates, Tracy extracting promises with each fed morsel until finally with nothing more to request she succumbed to his abundant fleshy form in what passed for lovemaking.

Later when he pulled on his shorts and went outside for a cigarette, Tracy finished the chocolates and planned a list of phone calls she would make to friends tomorrow.

Russell stood under the cover of the verandah feeling pleased with himself. He was glad Tracy was back, things had worked out well. Tomorrow he would pay the mortgage. As soon as he was back at work he would return the money to the Corbel account. He flicked the butt onto the lawn and returned to the bedroom. Tracy was asleep.

* * *

Jason and Cindy discovered their common interests whilst chatting in the Jesus Room. Cynthia (Cindy) was warm and friendly and very encouraging of Jason’s newfound interest in religion. She sent sweet notes signed with little smiling faces and always started her messages with a compliment; like ‘Hi clever boy’ or ‘Hi J, now my day is better.’

Although he struggled a little at first, Jason soon found himself answering in like form. ‘Hi sunshine girl.’ Or ‘Hi babe’ became his favourites.

Jason told Cindy of his miraculous meeting with Jesus and his watery conversion. Cindy was impressed and interested and went over the story with him several times in their emails.

Jason found he wanted to spend all day talking with her online and she seemed happy to do so. They discussed the opportune time of their meeting and the similarities of their interests. Their work, their families and particularly the things they most loved; cars, teddy bears, banana-caramel smoothies, Justin Bieber, and most of all, Jesus.

The bud of their email interest blossomed into a rosy romance and finally full-blown desire. Soon the conversation turned to a possible meeting date. Jason was taking a little longer to delete any porn sites that returned to his email. He slept in longer and spent enough extra time in his bedroom to

concern his mother. She was pleased to discover he had a female friend.

Cindy told him about life at home with her parents on the coast at Flat Rock Beach about two hours north of Redbrooke. He hoped to meet them one day. She promised he would.

Jason’s car was still in the garage for repair. They decided to meet halfway; in Golden Beach at the Lions Hotel in the beer garden. Not, as Cindy was quick to explain, because she drank much or even went to hotels, but because it was the biggest building in the street and easy to find.

Jason was nervous. He had to borrow his father’s car and, he had never been on a proper date before. Cindy seemed much more confident than him. She teased him about his nervousness and asked him to send a photo of himself. She said she didn’t have a recent one of herself but would wear a bright orange top and orange straw hat so he could recognise her easily.

He sent a photo of himself leaning against his car, one foot tucked nonchalantly behind the other, his sunglasses pushed back on his head. He thought he looked ‘cool’ and felt a pang of sadness about his car as he looked at the photograph.

On the day of the meeting with Cindy, Jason woke early and lay in bed listening to the sounds of traffic on the highway and his parents moving about the house. He thought about

Cindy and a knot of tension tightened in his stomach. He slid his hand beneath the waistband of his pyjamas and imagined her taking firm hold of him.

He woke later to the sound of his mother’s voice calling him to get up. He checked his email.

‘Hi J,

I’m really looking forward to our meeting. You are soooo handsome! Wow what a beautiful car and you look so good beside it! You are so cool! Don’t forget orange top, orange hat.

See you soon

Love Cindy’

Jason’s heart raced, his palms sweated and his stomach seemed to lift to the bottom of his throat. He couldn’t touch breakfast except for a glass of juice. He showered and dressed in five different shirts and three trousers before settling on black jeans and a pale blue t-shirt with ‘surf king’ written across the front.

Jason didn’t swim or surf but he often sat at the beach in his car watching. He pulled on his Nike sneakers and stood back to

examine himself in the mirror. He felt pleased with the image. He flicked his hair back, his confidence returning.

Jason moved the seat of his father’s car forward a few notches and reached for the radio. A tinny sound came from the local station. He cursed the radio and flicked through stations until he found his favourite and turned the volume to full. The sound distorted through the vibrating speakers and he had to turn it down.

An hour’s drive up the coast without his sound system seemed unbearable, but the thought of meeting Cindy soon changed his concern about the radio. He cruised along at a gentle speed because his father’s Camry wagon didn’t go very fast. Well kept, but slow and heavy. An old man’s car he thought. He would try and park it where it could not be seen. Anyway Cindy had the photograph of his car.

He thought about the girls at work and how envious they would be. He would be back there this week. His pride puffed new life into the day. The highway spun past and the traffic thickened into a three-laned entrance to Golden Beach shire. He took the left lane to the beach.

He drove carefully along the beachfront. People spilled from the cafes and shops in board shorts and swim togs. Blonde-haired youths with golden tans wandered barefooted

across the road in front of him. Young girls gathered in groups on the footpath, their sarongs tied low on their sensuous hips. It was a sunny golden day.

Jason parked a block away from the hotel. He flicked his hair back in the rearview mirror and stepped out of the car. The fresh beach air buoyed his spirits and he headed for the hotel.

He walked cautiously past the hotel entrance glancing from the corner of his eye in search of Cindy. His habitual swagger returned and he took on the appearance of a rugby player ready to tackle. His arms hung ape-like from his shoulders and he leaned back on his heels in an effort to appear casual. He passed in front of the hotel twice before going in.

The beer garden was empty. He sat down at a table and waited. A few minutes later a barman approached him and asked his name. He told Jason that a Cindy had left a message for Jason to meet her at room 14. The barman gave him directions.

Jason was surprised. He began to sweat at the prospect of Cindy waiting for him in a room. He walked carefully along the corridor counting the room numbers and hesitated outside number 14.

He brushed back his hair and straightened his shoulders before knocking. The door opened into a dim light and standing

inside Jason could make out a figure dressed in an orange sarong and a bright orange halter-top motioning him to enter. Jason stepped forward as the light flashed on.

A short paunchy man, grey chest-hair sprouting in a clump above his halter top, his face eerily white with make-up and his mouth smeared red with lipstick, opened his arms to Jason and said, “Hello darling, you must be Jason, I’m Cindy.”

Caroline Gray woke to the warm aroma of fresh coffee. A golden haze glowed behind the blind. She threw back the covers and placed her feet into a pair of scuffs. She stood up slowly and pulled her cotton wrap from a hook behind the bedroom door. She heard Robert in the kitchen and hesitated as yesterday’s truth returned.

She looked at her reflection in the mirror. A pale face with shadows under its eyes looked back. The memory of waking in the early hours and exchanging her clothes for a nightgown returned. She drew in a deep breath and released it in a long sigh. She would be calm. She would calmly ask him. She would be fair and mature about this. She walked into the kitchen.

She looked at her husband of twenty-seven years and wondered who he was. The familiar roundness of the back of his head, the grey hair cut neatly in a straight line across the back of his neck. His suntanned arms with their grey fuzz of hair poking out from his towelling dressing gown with its ‘too small’ sleeves. They had laughed about the sleeves when his mother gave it to him for a birthday. Always wanting him to be smaller than he was, he’d said.

Caroline felt she was standing in her own kitchen with a familiar stranger. She remembered how he looked, but after that, she didn’t trust herself to know any more. She stared at his back not wanting him to turn around but wanting to see his face, to reassure herself of him, Robert; Robert Gray, her husband.

He turned and looked surprised at her presence. “Oh hi,” he said. “I’ve just made coffee.”

She didn’t want to speak for fear of betraying her feelings. Anger choked her, sadness, loneliness and outrage, outrage at his folly, his stupidity, his poor taste, his dishonesty, at pain she now felt in her gut, her heart, and the weakness of her legs.

She turned and ran to the bathroom, slamming the door behind her and choking her tears into the basin, dribbling and sobbing.

She splashed water onto her face and held the damp towel against her eyes for a moment. Her breath returned to normal and she looked in the mirror. Her brown eyes peered at her from under swollen red lids and her pink-tipped nose felt blocked. She blew her nose on some toilet paper and flushed it down the toilet.

Robert tapped on the door. “Are you alright love?” he asked.

Caroline pulled the door open with a flourish and said into his surprised face. “No I’m not alright love. My husband is having an affair with his tarty little secretary.”

Robert’s mouth dropped open and his face flushed. “That’s not true,” he began. “Ah… it’s, ah…look it’s not what you think.” He backed out of the bathroom doorway into the hall, not looking at Caroline’s face.

Caroline followed him.

He turned and headed back to the kitchen, Caroline continuing to trail behind.

He fussed over the coffee and made a show of pouring hers, putting the milk in for her and handing her the cup. His eyes did not meet hers and he turned away to the sink to empty some coffee he had spilt in his saucer.

Caroline sat down at the table. She watched him as he turned from the sink.

“Look,” he began again, “it was nothing…it was over long ago.”

“How could you Robert? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“How did you find out?” he asked, turning to look at her for the first time.

“Does it matter? Why didn’t you tell me?”

Robert couldn’t answer. He felt trapped by this conversation; embarrassed. It was obvious why he hadn’t told her wasn’t it? You couldn’t exactly say, “By the way, I’m having an affair.” Anyway, he didn’t want her to know.

There was a certain pleasure in her not knowing everything about him. A secret pleasure. He didn’t mean her to be so upset, not deliberately. But he felt smugness about her knowing there was another woman who was attracted to him.

She had her friends. She was always out somewhere with her friends doing something. As much as he found the telling of it boring, he wished she wasn’t so much in demand.

“I didn’t want to hurt you.”

It didn’t sound any more convincing to him than it did to her.

“Oh save me from the clichés,” Caroline interrupted him, throwing her hand to her forehead in mock drama. “How long has this been going on?” she asked.

She watched his face. His discomfort pained her. His inability to answer her questions drew rage from the pit of her stomach and a sick feeling of despair.

“Look… it was nothing… she was just a distraction… it’s over anyway. It never meant anything.”

He repeated himself and seemed lost to any further explanation, his face was both sheepish and closed. His expression reminded her of Adam once when she caught him drinking beer with his mates after school. He was only thirteen at the time. She saw the same likeness in Robert’s face. At least Adam had told the truth.

“Robert, we need to discuss this, I feel really hurt by you. I don’t understand why you would do this. I trusted you. You’ve betrayed me. Can’t we discuss this?”

“There’s nothing more I can say,” he replied. “I had a bit of a flirt with her, that’s all, there’s nothing to tell.”

“Not even sorry.” Caroline looked out the window, a tiredness had crept into her voice.

“Of course I’m… ah… sorry,” he stammered, turning away to pour more coffee.

Robert disappeared out of the kitchen with his coffee. She heard the shower running and a while later he reappeared in his golf clothes.

“Aren’t you working today?” Caroline asked in surprise.

“No, the Emergency Services people haven’t given the all clear yet,” he said.

“What about Robinson?” she asked, trying to pin him to some responsibility. 100

“I’ll go there on my way home,” Robert said quickly. “The game might clear my head.”

Caroline’s pursuit of the conversation failed. She picked up the dishes from the table and stacked them on the sink.

Robert stood for a moment in the doorway, then picked up his keys from the table in the hall and headed towards the front door.

“See you later,” he said over his shoulder.

Caroline didn’t answer.

Caroline moped about the kitchen, picking up things absently and putting them down again. She went over the conversation again. He had hardly reacted at all. She wondered how long the affair had been going on. She hated the word affair. So tawdry, so like something you read in Woman’s Day. How dare he drag her into his common little affair with his common little secretary? Little slut.

She was shocked at her own thoughts. Slut was not a word she had ever used. Of course the woman wasn’t a slut. She was just a tarty little cheat, “on with the boss,” she said out aloud, startling herself.

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She made fresh coffee and sat down again at the table to think. She finished her second coffee and stood up suddenly. She pulled the telephone directory from the shelf above the kitchen phone and flipped through the pages. She stopped at the heading: Security Services and jotted down a number on the phone pad.

Her heart was racing as she heard the male voice announce the company name. “Brentwood Security and Surveillance, Ken speaking.”

Ken was polite and helpful, even a bit playful. He suggested a number of avenues to pursue. Caroline told him she was not experienced in this kind of thing. Ken told her not to worry, he could take care of the matter and he would inform her of any results as soon as possible. He took her details and asked when she would like him to start. She thought today was as good a time as any. Ken thought so too.

“Now Caroline,” said Ken in a masterful tone, “where will Robert be today and what will he be driving?”

* * *

Russell woke late and found the bed empty. He rolled his feet onto the floor and sat up, rubbing his eyes and stretching. He 102

could hear Tracy in the kitchen and he smiled at the thought of breakfast. He pulled on his shorts and was met full on in the hall by Scott and Cherie, who stopped chasing each other and dragged him into the kitchen.

The breakfast table was scattered with used plates, pieces of half eaten toast, opened jars of jam, vegemite, honey and knives covered in melting butter. Milk was spilled on the bench top and the coffee jar had a piece of butter sticking to the rim like a small yellow flag. Tracy was talking on the phone.

Russell cut two slices of bread and put them in the toaster. He walked outside and collected the newspaper and flipped through to the racing page. He folded the paper before returning to the kitchen to retrieve his toast. Tracy had put the phone down and was making coffee in two large mugs with the stain of newspaper print on the outside.

A cardboard carton of crockery was open on the floor and newspaper lay about in crinkled balls. Scott was throwing them at Cherie.

It was after lunch when Tracy and Russell had unpacked all but a few remaining cartons. She was surprised at his offer of help. Her new resolve to get him to share the housework was already working. Tracy put the children in their bedroom for a nap

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whilst Russell showered and changed. Russell needed cigarettes he said, and Tracy gave him a short list of groceries to get whilst he was out. She kissed him on the cheek as he left.

“See, you can do it when you try,” she said.

He looked surprised.

Russell drove into Redbrooke. The yellow barriers had been removed and shopkeepers were mopping up outside their shops. Grey mud oozed from doorways as the workers pushed their brooms ahead of them like dozer blades. Young women in shorts and t-shirts washed down windows with hoses and mops and a council truck was being loaded with debris from the street.

A brown watermark stained the shops for the length of the street and left an oily slick which encircled each verandah post. A pair of overalls hung from a tree and the lid of a suitcase was wedged in a drain pipe outside the supermarket. The footpath had lifted in several places and chunks of rock and concrete littered the road.

Russell made his way through the debris and up the steps to the supermarket. The place was crowded and he waited at the cigarette counter in the queue.

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This was probably the only food shop open, he thought as he watched shoppers filling trolleys with groceries. He bought two extra cartons of Benson and Hedges and a small packet of Dutch cigars then collected the items on Tracy’s list before returning to his car. He pulled two packs of cigarettes from a carton and hid the remainder in the boot. He put the cigars into his shirt pocket.

Russell drove to the end of Main Street. The office of Commercial and General still had water lapping at the front steps and the street was barricaded with yellow plastic netting. He reversed and turned the car around. He drove past the RSL Club out to the levee bank and pulled into the curb to watch the yellow-coated men cleaning up.

He unpeeled the cellophane wrapper from the cigar box and opened the lid. He held the box up to his nose and sniffed the contents. He then climbed out of the car, shut the door and leaned on it. He unwrapped a cigar and with exaggerated motions, lit up and took a deep draw, puffing the smoke into the air towards the men on the levee.

He finished the cigar and flicked the end onto the grass. Maybe he would drop into the club just to see what was happening. Can’t do any harm just to have a look. Maybe just see what was going on at Flemington or Ascot Park.

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He started the car and slowly turned back towards the shopping centre. He parked in a car park behind the shops, pushed a packet of cigarettes into his pocket and walked back to the club. He passed through the foyer and straight into the gaming room.

The pungent beer smell and the familiar bells and buzzers of the poker machines drew him into the Stallions Bar. He walked between the machines to the counter and ordered a beer. A group of men were crowded around a table at the end of the room, all eyes focussed on a television screen above a second, smaller bar.

The last numbers of a game of Keno were flashing on the screen. The game finished and the screen lit up again with the bright silks of a jockey being interviewed by a journalist. In the background, horses were circling the mounting yard.

Russell moved closer and pulled up a chair to an empty place at the table. A red dotted sign flashed at the top of the screen: Race – 2 Flemington: the red lights rolled the message across the room: 1.35pm – 1.35pm – 1.35pm it said.

Russell looked at his watch, it was 1.25pm. He had plenty of time. He left his beer on the table and walked to the race sheets pinned to the wall. He picked up a discarded newspaper

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and skimmed the names and jockeys. The screen was now flashing prices for race 2.

He took a pencil from the bench and marked the numbers with the prices. He then walked to the automatic teller machine and punched in his pin number. The balance enquiry responded; the cheque he paid in up the coast had been cleared. His face lit up and his heart thumped, he began to sweat. He picked up his beer and walked to the betting window where he joined the small queue.

* * *

Caroline felt calmer now, something had shifted, some small cog had clicked into place; there was a new distance, a flatness that replaced the pain. She felt a wave of disgust at the thought of Judith and Robert together, but even that seemed duller, as though it had moved past her in some way.

Since Ken Brentwood had delivered the video of Robert and Judith in the back of the car in the golf club car park, she had felt removed from everything. She hid the video on a shelf in the top of her wardrobe.

She had talked to the boys in general terms about the situation. Adam had shouted it was information he didn’t want and slammed the front door as he left, threatening to punch his 107

father. Nicholas watched her face and listened without speaking. Later he put his arms around her and said, “I love you mum.”

When Adam returned she heard them talking late into the night.

She thought about her sister Susan in Italy. She had not spoken to her since Christmas and she missed their regular chats. She picked up the phone and dialled the Tuscany number.

* * *

As the floodwaters receded past the bottom of Celeste’s garden, she released the rope from the tube ladder and allowed the remaining debris to slip into the diminishing stream. The flood had left hillocks of grey mud banked against the fences and shed and around the bottom of the house.

The garden lay flat and broken and here and there the weeds had taken on patterns like sea grass, where the water had swept through. The thick stench of decay permeated the air and the house reeked with the smells of damp fur, feral animal poo and rotting vegetation.

Celeste opened the roof cavity door and clipped it to the wall with the hook Ted had supplied. She pulled on her boots and tied a rope lead to Fraser’s collar. They set out along

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Jubilation Road at a brisk pace; Fraser happy to be free of confinement.

The road resembled a lunar landscape where the bitumen had washed away and turned the potholes to large pools. Chunks of rock and bitumen were buckled into odd shapes and protruded from the road surface like strange creatures emerging from the underworld.

Fence posts leaned into each other and an unattached paling gate sat upright by itself in a paddock behind the houses.

The corner of number thirty-eight had washed away and the house stooped as though bowing to the road, its roof sliding to meet the front steps. A plastic doll was stuck in the guttering, its nylon hair glinting orange in the rusted tin. Uprooted trees, broken branches, fence posts and wooden palings littered the ground like the dead on a battlefield.

Celeste headed up the hill to the ridge behind Jubilation Road. She untied Fraser’s lead and he bounded off. When she reached the top, Celeste could smell fox in the bails.

Fraser sniffed around the Ute and ran back and forth amongst the old stalls. There was a flurry of snarling and barking and a fox leapt from the stalls and darted through the door into the paddock with Fraser in pursuit. Celeste caught a

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glimpse of red fur and a ginger brush tail flying through the scrub before the two animals disappeared down the hill.

She started the Ute and backed onto the track, calling to Fraser as she descended the hill. He appeared on the track ahead, his red tongue lolling from his mouth. Celeste stopped the truck and opened the passenger door. Fraser stood his ground and watched. Celeste called for him to jump in. He watched without moving. Celeste got out of the Ute and opened the drop tray at the back. Fraser took a running leap and landed in the back.

He took up a spot against the back window where he stuck his head out over the side, watching the track ahead, his ears laid back in the wind and his mouth open and smiling.

Celeste glanced at him in the rear-view mirror and laughed. “Smart dog,” she said aloud.

She parked the Ute in her yard and opened the tailgate for Fraser.

Two men in orange safety jackets were restoring power to the poles outside her house. One shouted for her to let them know if the power was back on. She flicked a switch as she went inside and waved her assent to them from the verandah. The radio chatted to her from the bedroom and she could hear the fridge hum into action in the kitchen.

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“We’re empowered again Fraser,” she said.

Fraser headed for his water bowl.

Celeste turned on the computer and checked her emails. A notice from Robert Gray took precedence:

‘Memo to all staff

All staff will recommence work Tuesday.

The office will open at 8.00am and all staff will be expected to attend an emergency meeting at 8.30am.

All staff will be expected to cooperate in the office flood clean- up. Please wear appropriate clothing.

Please bring lunch as some shops have not re-opened.

Robert Gray

Manager’

Celeste sighed, smiled and said out aloud, “Where’s the date, Mr Gray?”

Fraser turned and listened for further instruction. When none was forthcoming, he curled at her feet to wait.

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Caroline dressed carefully in a black pantsuit, brushed her hair back behind her ears and examined her face in the mirror. She practised a smile. Her eyes in the reflection did not respond. She grimaced at herself and poked out her tongue. She decided to have her hair cut.

She picked up the folder of papers she had taken from Robert’s study and put them in her bag. She closed the front door and walked to her car. As the motor fought off the damp and slid into a healthy hum, she glanced at the roses along the fence. She and Robert had chosen them for their names rather than their colours. Masquerade, Lilli Marlene, Love’s Gift, Billy Boiler, each one had represented to them some gaiety that left the nurseryman puzzled at their laughter.

They had stacked the roses into the boot and driven home singing ‘Lilli Marlene’ with the windows down and making up stories in silly French accents about Papa Meilland and Ena Harkness. She allowed herself a moment of pain before reversing onto the street.

Her long appointment with a financial advisor at her credit union changed her to a kind of single status in the stroke of a pen. The next long appointment with her solicitor and an

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equally long appointment at the beauty parlour changed not only her financial status but the way she looked. It all seemed like an adventure now. She felt a strange rush of adrenalin at the thought of her own daring.

She transferred half of the money from the Gray joint account into an account named Caroline Gray. She opened a share portfolio with a reputable stockbroker and invested in some steady blue chip stock and in a high risk new engineering company whose name; Winsome and Wish Geotec, she liked for the serendipity of it.

She purchased an expensive bottle of champagne, phoned Irene and invited her to lunch.

Irene flopped into a chair opposite Caroline at the small café table and complimented her on her new hairstyle, making her turn around to examine the new look from all sides. She toasted her friend with the champagne and took a considerable gulp before setting the glass down. The two women scanned the menu as they eased into a familiar pattern of conversation.

“Now,” said Irene, leaning over the table and looking intently into Caroline’s face after they had ordered two Thai fish dishes.

“Tell me what happened with Ken what’s-his- name’s…ah… whatever he does?” 113

“Surveillance,” Caroline whispered, leaning into the table.

“Surveillance!”

The word leapt into the room. Irene looked about as though there might be someone watching them right now.

“You mean… following people?” Her voice rose with incredulity.

“Yes, following people…well following husbands more to the point.”

Caroline laughed at her friend’s startled expression then said with a tinge of bitterness, “Well it got the result and now I know for sure.”

Irene touched Caroline’s arm then picked up the bottle and refilled their glasses. She leaned back into her chair and said, “You’d better tell me the worst Car.”

It was after 4pm when Caroline arrived home. Robert’s car was not in the driveway. She felt slightly intoxicated, heady but resolved. She pushed open the front door with her shoulder and stumbled a little in the hallway. The house was silent. She had not noticed silence in the house before.

She flung her bag onto the table and searched through the stack of CDs in the rack by the sound system. She selected a

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Marianne Faithful and put it into the machine. The thudding beat and gravelly voice of Faithful filled the room. Caroline stood beside the window which faced onto the garden rocking to the beat. She thought of the possibilities. Like Lucy Jordan she thought. There was nothing to stop her pursuing anything she wished. She was free. A strange emptiness came with the realisation.

She looked around the room and saw it as it was. The cushions neat and colourful on the sofa; a pair of Adam’s sneakers lying where he had dropped them. Robert’s spare reading glasses on the coffee table on top of Finance Weekly. The flotaki rug frayed around the edges where Casper had played with it when he was a kitten.

An ordinary room. A room which would look the same next year and the next. Maybe the same in ten years. Would she just pass quietly away like Casper? Would anyone notice that she wasn’t just sleeping?

The last track ended and the silence returned. Caroline turned from the window and headed for the kitchen. She filled the coffee percolator and rifled through the cupboard for a snack. While the coffee bubbled she searched through the CDs again. She put a disk in the machine and waited for the sounds of Nina Simone.

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The familiar honeyed voice filled the lounge room and she returned to the kitchen to load a tray with the coffee and a plate of savoury biscuits. She poured a generous measure of Schnapps into a shot glass, placed it on the tray and carried it to the lounge where she settled into the sofa with her feet on the table beside the coffee.

* * *

Caroline stowed her hand luggage above her head in the drop down locker and climbed across the seats to the window. She settled into her seat and looked across the aisle to the neighbouring rows of passengers filling seats. Her view was blocked by a couple preparing to sit beside her. The woman moved into the seat next to Caroline and smiled hello. The man pushed the last of their belongings into the lockers and sat down beside her; he clipped on his seat belt and stared rigidly ahead. Caroline saw the woman reach out her hand and cover his.

Caroline turned away to allow them their privacy and looked out of the window across the tarmac to the low airport buildings. A young man in khaki uniform and army slouch hat walked towards a waiting aircraft. As he stepped onto the boarding stairs he turned and waved towards the transit lounge.

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Caroline felt a pang of unexpected pain which caught her breath and brought tears to her eyes. Her thoughts flashed to Tom. She remembered that last wave as he turned on the bus steps before the army bore him away.

“Private Thomas O’Reilly wants to marry you,” he had said on his last leave before departure to Vietnam and she had accepted his proposal. His brown eyes smiled his relief, his dimpled face creasing into a broad smile. They had shyly broken the news to her parents; standing together in the lounge holding hands.

The O’Reillys had arrived at her father’s invitation a little later and the two families had celebrated with a mixture of joy and optimism despite Tom’s imminent departure.

Caroline thought she could never be happier, their engagement the culmination of their first love and two years of waiting for their parents to think they were old enough.

When Ted O’Reilly had arrived ashen faced at the door just three months later, Caroline’s world collapsed. She recalled hearing the sound of screaming above her head, fragments of sentences; “stepped on,” “night patrol,” “fence,” “mine,” “Nui Dat,” “amputation,” “so sorry Ted,” “sorry,” “sorry.”

The town had turned out for the funeral. There had never been an army funeral held there before. People lined the streets to watch as the flag-draped coffin with its attendant soldiers

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slow marched by. She had never been able to recall the service but remembered the slow drumbeat and the riderless horse, polished black boots turned backwards in the stirrups, she was shocked by the space in the saddle.

The men in uniform all reminded her of the photos of Tom. She thought she would die of the pain. She could not bear to see his body lowered into the ground and was taken home from the church by Tom’s sister, who stayed until a doctor arrived.

She didn’t sleep for weeks despite the drugs and could not bear to be awake until finally her father firmly told her she must get on with her life. She could not settle with the town’s pity and felt the kindnesses would stifle her life away. She left and went to the city to train to become a teacher.

Caroline became aware of the plane’s engines revving. She tried to stifle the tears running down her cheeks but she could not control the unexpected flood. She covered her mouth and nose with a handkerchief and pretended to be blowing her nose, but the exercise turned into sobbing which shook her shoulders and wrenched at her chest.

She turned to the window and felt her face flushed and swollen. She reached into her bag for a tissue and blew her nose. She regained her composure and pulled a small compact

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from the handbag at her feet. She studied her face and applied a small amount of makeup. A moment later she was overwhelmed by tears again.

The plane taxied onto the runway and nosed into the wind. The upward lift caught Caroline unawares and her stomach lagged behind as they were launched into the sky.

The woman next to Caroline leaned over to her husband and whispered, “It’s all over now love.”

She turned to Caroline and said, “My husband hates the takeoff too, now you’ll both feel better.”

Caroline was surprised out of her tears. She laughed at the assumption and wiped her face. “I’m much better at landings,” she blurted, blowing her nose again and straightening herself in the seat.

The woman smiled and said, “I’m Jennifer Faraday and this is my husband Steve.”

“Caroline Gray,” said Caroline as she leaned forward to reach Steve’s outstretched hand.

“Are you going to Rome?” Jennifer enquired.

“On to Tuscany,” Caroline replied, and then added, “to visit my sister.”

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Jennifer, obviously reassured of Caroline’s sibling status, smiled approvingly and settled back into her seat. Caroline turned to the window again and looked down on a silver ocean sparkling below. The plane banked and she felt her stomach tighten as they leaned into the turn and then straightened in a slow rise into the journey proper.

How strange she should think of Tom.

* * *

Celeste reluctantly placed an advert in the Lost and Found section of the Redbrooke Herald for the owner of Fraser.

She rang Ted on the newly restored phone line and was relieved to hear his voice. The roads were still a bit dodgy he said, but he was fine. She told him about Fraser. Ted made sympathetic noises but thought Fraser might be a working dog and someone would be looking for him.

He was right. Two days later her phone rang and a gruff voice asked for a description of the dog. His name was Geoff Ruddock and the dog’s name was Dopey.

“Dopey by name; Dopey by nature,” Geoff laughed. “I’ll come an’ git ’im tomorrer,” he added.

Celeste didn’t like his proprietorship or his voice.

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That night she sat with Fraser on the deck, her hand resting on his back, his head nuzzled against her legs. She imagined Fraser at home waiting for her after work, walking together in the evenings and sitting at night on the deck. The picture didn’t quite fit. She felt sadness for Fraser. She knew she didn’t want to give him back to Geoff Ruddock but she knew also that he wouldn’t be happy waiting at home all day.

Geoff Ruddock arrived at Jubilation Road in an old Holden Ute with a rusted bull bar. He climbed out of the car and greeted Celeste. He was a thick-set balding man with the ruddy face of a drinker and the beer gut to match.

“Where’s the dog?” he asked, looking past Celeste.

Fraser had run out to the fence at the sound of the Ute but now sat at a discreet distance watching the man.

“Come ’ere dog,” he said, looking at Fraser.

Fraser flattened onto the ground and began crawling his way towards the man.

“Whadidya run away for ya bloody mongrel? ’Ere git in that truck.”

Fraser stayed put on the ground.

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Ruddock’s face flamed instantly and he shouted at Fraser. “Git in that truck ya useless bastard.”

Fraser squirmed on the ground at Ruddock’s feet but made no move toward the Ute. The man aimed a kick at Fraser and the dog moved swiftly out of range. Ruddock rocked off balance for a moment then moved towards Fraser, his face red and sweating.

Celeste stepped between Fraser and the man and said in a quiet firm voice, “Don’t kick that dog.”

Her approach surprised him and he stopped and looked at her.

“’S my fuckin’ dog, I’ll do what I like lady.”

“Do you want to sell him?” Celeste added without wavering.

“’E’s worth a fair bit, cattle dog ya know, they don’t come cheap.”

“Well he can’t be worth much if he doesn’t follow instructions,” Celeste bargained.

' The man’s face reddened with anger again.

“Course ’e follers instructions, ’e’s just a dopey mongrel that’s all.”

“Well, what price do you want?”

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Celeste pressed on, taking no notice of Fraser and gazing past the man with feigned disinterest.

“Well ’es a dam good cattle dog,” Ruddock said emphatically, sensing he might have lost the edge.

“Doesn’t look that good,” Celeste continued. “He’s in poor shape, can he run all day?”

Ruddock looked indignant. “Course ’e can run all day, ’e gets a foot up the arse if he don’t.”

“Ah,” Celeste said quietly. “So sometimes he can’t run all day.”

“Whaddya mean?” Ruddock looked confused.

“Well you just said you have to kick him to make him run, that’s not much good to me.”

Celeste turned to walk away and Ruddock moved to follow her.

“Look yer can ’av ’im fer two ’undred dollars.”

“Dog like that’s not worth more than fifty,” Celeste said without turning around.

“Fuckin’ givin’ ’im away,” Ruddock complained, but his eyes were alert now.

“Last offer,” said Celeste, half turning to Ruddock.

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“Ya bloody thievin’ ’im at that price.”

“Take it or leave it.” Celeste met Ruddock’s eyes.

Ruddock shifted his feet and looked at the ground.

“I’ll get the money, won’t be long,” said Celeste and headed into the house.

Fraser watched her go, staying put.

She returned with a fifty dollar note and held it out to Ruddock. He snatched the money without a word and headed towards his Ute without looking back.

“Come on Fraser,” Celeste said, smiling at the dog. “Let’s celebrate.”

Fraser ran to her and pranced around, barking. They went skylarking together into the house.

* * *

Jason stepped back in alarm at the sight before him. He stuttered in confusion,

“Where’s Cindy?”

“Right here darling.” The man stepped towards him, holding out his hands. “I’m so pleased to meet you at last.”

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Before Jason could respond he felt a firm hand on his shoulder and a deep voice behind him said, “Up to your old tricks again, eh Cindy?”

Jason turned to find a tall security guard towering over him. He had huge shoulders and leg-ham forearms that bulged from his shirt sleeves. His white shirt tucked neatly into his black belted waistband. A leather holster in which Jason could see the dull grey-black handle of a pistol hung from his belt.

He guided Jason out of the doorway by the shoulder and told him to stand against the wall. He asked Jason to spread his feet apart and frisked his hands up both trouser legs and over his pockets.

“Wait there,” he ordered.

He then pushed into the room and grabbed Cindy by the back of the neck, forcing him down into the chair.

“There’s no problem Mr Gordon,” Cindy’s voice squeaked with fear. “Jason and I are old friends; he’s just visiting for the day.”

“I bet he is,” said Gordon, leaning over Cindy. Gordon then turned to Jason, who was still facing the wall, his legs spread behind him. “Where’d you meet him Jason? That is your name, isn’t it?”

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“Yes,” Jason responded, his voice shaking. “I didn’t meet him, ah…I, ah… I thought he was a girl… I don’t know him… on the internet,” he added lamely.

“Ah,” said Gordon, seizing on the information with obvious delight.

“So you are up to your old tricks again Cindy. Well I’ve got you this time you little prick. We’ll see what the cops have to say about you soliciting from this pub.”

“It’s not like that, Mr Gordon,” Cindy whined. “We’re just friends, aren’t we Jason?” he appealed.

Jason didn’t answer. He glanced at the security guard, and did not look at Cindy. The security guard’s face remained closed.

“Give me the room key,” Gordon ordered Cindy, who obliged by reaching into a gold lame handbag he had left on a chair.

“Now you are going to wait here while I talk to Jason.” Gordon stepped away from Cindy and quickly shut the door behind him, turning the key in the lock.

He turned to Jason and motioned him to walk ahead of him down the hallway. Gordon ordered him to stop outside a small office as he unlocked the room with a set of keys which swung on a chain from his belt. 126

He motioned Jason to sit opposite him in a wooden backed chair. The office was cramped with the size of the man and a small desk which held a lamp, a phone and some papers. Behind the desk a bookshelf contained a row of well-worn paperback Westerns and a pile of newspaper clippings. More clippings were stuck with Blu-tack to the wall above the man’s head.

Jason caught the heading, Andy Gordon scores hat trick above a photograph of a jumble of footballers tackling a man sprawled on the field behind the goal line.

“Now you better tell me what you’re doing in a bedroom with Cindy.”

Gordon moved his chair closer to Jason and leaned into his face. Jason’s heart thumped in his throat and his legs felt weak against the chair. He had a sudden urge to use the toilet.

“I ah… I ah…I thought he was a girl off the internet,” he began.

“Don’t lie to me you fuckin’ little poofter,” Gordon interrupted. His vehemence took Jason by surprise.

“It’s true,” Jason stammered and his eyes welled with tears. “I sent emails and he told me his name was Cindy. I’ve never met him. He was in a Christian chat room and he sent me

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emails.” Jason’s voice cracked and he began to cry, his face flushed red as he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket.

“Oh, so you’re a Christian too, eh?” Gordon’s voice softened and he sat back in his chair. “Then you would know the Lord is taking note of all this and he will know what you’ve done.”

“But I haven’t done anything,” Jason spluttered into his handkerchief.

“What church do you go to?” Gordon enquired.

“I don’t go to church; I just joined a Jesus room,” Jason cried, despairing, anxious as to where the conversation was going.

“You’d better start from the beginning.”

It was Gordon’s turn to be confused. Jason began the tale of the flood and his car and his conversion and Gordon listened intently. He interrupted Jason a few times to clarify some point but other than that he appeared pleased with what Jason related.

Later he pulled a card from his wallet and handed it to Jason. The card had the name Pastor Cameron P. Gordon written across the top and underneath the address of the Church of the Great Assembly and a telephone number. Andy Gordon turned the card over and wrote his own mobile number on the back. 128

“You join a real church brother, and know the Lord has given you a special gift in saving you from that river. You are being called to do his work. You call this man here, he’s my brother and he’ll give you the address of the Great Assembly in your district.” He pointed to the card.

Jason had recovered in the telling of his tale and felt relieved to be received back into the fold.

Gordon told him to go home and held out his hand to Jason. “Call me if you need any help.”

“What will happen to that bloke?” Jason asked, unable to use the name Cindy after his hand had been crushed in the giant clasp.

“I’ll be looking after him.” Gordon’s smile turned into a peculiar sneer and he half laughed as the pair walked out of the office and down the hallway.

“You see Jason; I do God’s work too, in my own way.”

* * *

Robert Gray tried once more to telephone Russell Robinson. The phone had been engaged all morning and he was beginning to feel frustrated. Caroline wasn’t home yet and there was no lunch prepared, his watch read 2.00pm. She hadn’t mentioned

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not being home for lunch but things were very frosty when she left. He assumed she was visiting Irene.

He thought about their discussion of last night. She had continued to carp on about Judith. He felt irritated both by the memory and his frustration at not being able to contact Robinson.

Robinson’s phone began ringing out. Robert prepared himself. Tracey’s voice surprised him.

“Is Russell at home?” he enquired.

“No, he’s at the shops.”

“Do you know when he’ll be back?” Robert contained his resentment.

“Nah, could be any time knowin’ Russell.”

“Could you ask him to phone me when he gets in?”

“What number is it?” Tracy had the last word.

Robert snapped the receiver into its holder. “Bloody useless idiot,” he said to himself.

He went to the fridge and peered inside. An envelope inside a plastic bag was attached to the top shelf, the word ROBERT just decipherable through the condensation inside the bag.

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He pulled the sticky tape from the bag and pulled out a damp note. He thought immediately one of the boys was playing some kind of joke. The note was brief.

‘Robert,

I thought you would go to the fridge at some time. I will not be home for lunch as I will have lunch elsewhere. I think I will be all at sea for dinner and in Rome for lunch tomorrow. I will stay with Susan and Enzo. I have explained to the boys and asked them not to discuss this with you until after I left. Don’t blame them.

You will find a DVD in the top drawer of your dressing table that you may find interesting. I didn’t. I have sent a copy to Larry Sumner. I do not want the boys to find the DVD. Don’t contact me. I don’t want to hear from you.

Enjoy your new life.

Caroline.’

Robert drew in a sharp breath and re-read the note. What did she mean lunch elsewhere, a DVD in the dressing table? Was this some kind of joke? He followed the instructions and

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went to the drawer. He pulled the DVD from the drawer. The label in Caroline’s hand read The Liar and the Tart.

Robert hurried with the DVD back to the lounge and pushed it into the player. The screen turned black and then the logo and credentials of Brentwood Security and Surveillance appeared. The screen flashed to a picture of him and Judith walking to his car in the golf club car park. He felt his throat constrict. He watched with shock as he and Judith climbed into the back seat. A close up shot of his number plate and the car followed. Blurred figures inside the car were then shown from a distance and then a long shot of the golf club clubhouse name and car park and back to his car.

A short screen blank followed and then the picture resumed with a close up of his bare buttocks with his trousers around his knees lying between a pair of bare legs awkwardly squashed into the back seat. The camera then moved to reveal Judith’s face and part of the back of Robert’s head, her hands around his neck and their bodies working in a feverish lust. The soundtrack grunted and moaned with faint noises, like the background farm sounds of a beef advertisement. A close-up followed of Robert’s car registration sticker on the side window and then a shot of the whole car rocking.

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The next scene showed them climbing out of the car and Robert doing up his trousers and zipping his fly; Judith tidying herself and brushing back her hair. A little later, the last scene showed the pair, laughing and chatting as they walked back towards the golf club.

Robert sat staring at the blank screen. The film had excited him a little as it played. Now the realisation that Caroline had seen it and a copy had gone to Larry Sumner began to sink in. He felt a rising panic in his gut and pushed the eject button. He pulled the DVD from the machine and took it to his desk and tossed it into the bottom drawer.

He kept pushing away the thought that Caroline had left him. She just needed a break. A holiday with her sister would do her good. When she came back she would be fine again. He would call her in a couple of days; give her time to cool off. She wouldn’t really leave him. He walked into the bedroom and peered into her wardrobe, a row of empty coat hangers rattled at him.

* * *

Celeste phoned Ted and enquired about the roads. She would like to come up for a quick visit; she had a surprise for him she explained. He reminded her to take care crossing the creeks and

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requested some tobacco and a bag of dry dog food. He told her he was right for everything else until he’d had time to look around properly. He would see her tomorrow.

Celeste drove into town and purchased two large bags of dog food from the grain store, a bag of groceries from the supermarket, fresh bread, some bottles of wine, and a pouch of tobacco for Ted.

Fraser watched with interest from the back of the Ute. When they returned home she packed the Ute for an early start and covered the tray with a clip-on tarpaulin.

Dusk crept across the hills behind Celeste’s house and the shadows lengthened over the garden. From the creek below the whirring of a frogmouth drifted up to the deck where she sat with Fraser. Cicadas still trilled in the evening heat and the first tree frogs began their throaty barking from a corner of the yard.

Celeste leaned back in her chair and watched the evening sky dressing. Tiny beads of light appeared one by one as the daylight faded. A column of fruit bats trailed across the sky, their faint cries like the voices of children. They separated high above the junction of the river and spread out in small bands, arrowing over the land. The last stragglers passed overhead as night closed in.

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Celeste tied Fraser to the deck with a small length of rope and went into the house to find the possum. She returned to the deck with a bundle wrapped in a towel and climbed down the steps to the garden. The feral smell of the floodwaters wafted up from the creek. The creature struggled in her firm grip and she hurried to the edge of the creek. She placed the bundle on the ground and slowly unwound the towel. The possum hunched on the damp ground for a few seconds before bounding to freedom up the nearest tree.

Celeste watched him safely to a thick branch above the creek bank where he leapt to another branch and disappeared into the darkness. She sighed and turned back to the house.

She peered into the roof recess with a torch from the lounge. The python was curled around the join in the beams. It appeared she had taken up residence. Celeste left the recess door ajar and returned to sit with Fraser on the deck.

“Well Fraser,” she began softly, “it appears I may still have some company when you go.”

Fraser looked up at her but his head remained on his paws.

At first light Celeste woke and lay listening to the dawn chorus. The butcher bird had added a fourth note to his opening scale and a slightly longer trill to the end. She listened for the return 135

from further down the creek. Two magpies drowned out the response with combined carolling and from far away she could make out a rainbird’s signature call. Fraser walked up to the bed and pushed his wet muzzle into her face.

She swung her legs out of the bed onto the floor and put her arms around Fraser.

“Big day today, boy,” she said and swallowed, her throat tightened.

Fraser pranced ahead of her into the kitchen, excited at the prospect of something happening. Celeste fed him and placed bread in the toaster for herself. She made tea and took the steaming cup onto the deck. An orange glow filtered through the bush behind the creek and soft slivers of pinkish-orange striped the battered garden.

A crow watched her from the corner of the shed; his glossy back shimmered bronze. Celeste looked at the sky and tipped the remnants of her tea onto the grass.

“Time to go boy,” she said.

Fraser bounded down the steps in front of her to the Ute. She clicked the worn wheel hubs onto four-wheel drive and climbed into the cabin. Fraser took up his place in the tray beside the window, his head hanging over the side as they moved off into the burnished morning. Celeste manoeuvred 136

carefully along the flood-damaged road before turning off at the dog leg and heading away from town.

Everywhere the signs of the deluge were evident. Large potholes had opened up the road surface and trees, fences, timber and rubbish were piled up against any barrier. Householders had dragged wet carpets, ruined furniture and bric-a-brac onto the roadside for council collection.

Cattle huddled on islands on the high ends of paddocks surrounded by lakes of water. Here and there the stubble of hay lay scattered in patches where it had been tossed. The cattle looked forlorn and two horses stood in water up to their fetlocks watching the road, expectant. Steam rose from the fields and roadside grass as the sun lifted above the trees. The air sparkled with droplets from every tree and bush and hung in beads along the wire fence lines.

Celeste turned onto a smaller bitumen road that quickly became gravel and slowed her progress as she dodged the potholes. She crossed several creeks, easing the Ute through the water where the road had disappeared. Bridges had been washed away or damaged in most places and Celeste wound her way through shortcuts, detours and sometimes through precarious water crossings as she passed into the valleys of the hinterland.

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Trees and branches littered the track and she stopped several times to clear the road of logs or fallen rocks. At last they left the shadows of the valley and commenced the climb to the ridge. The sun was surprisingly hot as they turned onto the road leading to the mountain.

Celeste pulled the Ute to a creaking halt on the shoulder of the track and climbed out to look back down to the valley. She pulled a thermos from her pack and poured steaming black tea into a mug. She placed a bowl of water for Fraser beside him in the back but he ignored it and strained at the leash tethering him to the Ute. She leaned on the tray beside Fraser and looked out over the valley.

Pools of water, dotted across the lowlands, dazzled with light. Silver ribbons meandered through the fields and fed into fat ponds. The hill slopes glowed with a greenish-silver sheen and scattered here and there were clumps of camphor or the darker shades of leftover rainforest; figs, native frangipani, pittosporums and towering hoop pines.

The land had a washed-clean look that brought comfort to Celeste. Every thirst was quenched; everywhere the sated landscape raised a face of joy to the sky. She breathed in the crisp new air and felt a strange sense of anticipation – as though

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the cleansed land had become an offering on some altar of renewal.

Celeste turned to the distant blue haze of the mountains. She was surprised to see floating through the mist, her house on a yellow low loader being pulled by a huge truck. Above the truck three crows perched on the branch of a gum.

She stared at the mountain, but all that remained was the haze and the road ahead.

Celeste emptied the remainder of the tea onto the ground and packed the cup and thermos back into the bag.

“We’d better move on, boy,” she said, and ruffled Fraser’s head before climbing back into the cabin.

A slow climb brought them out onto the plateau above Ted’s farm. Celeste slowed for the open gate and eased over the cattle grid into the long driveway down to the house. Cattle grazed in the house paddock beside the brimming dam. The creek had widened to double its size and the low paddocks were still a lake that stretched into the neighbour’s property.

A small tractor loaded with hay moved out of sight behind the house. Fraser barked in an excited frenzy and Ted’s dogs came onto the drive. Celeste pulled the Ute under the shelter of the shed and climbed down. The dogs sniffed at her clothes and raised their hackles at Fraser. There was a ritual pissing on the 139

wheels before the dogs gave up on this stranger who didn’t get down from the truck. They followed Celeste into the house with the groceries, sniffing the bags and getting under her feet before bounding back to the Ute.

Ted appeared from behind the shed and seeing Fraser in the Ute he whistled his dogs, who ran to him and stood behind him waiting.

Celeste untied Fraser’s lead and he leapt down from the truck but stayed close. She led him across the yard to where Ted waited. The dogs moved forward and sniffed at Fraser with caution. Fraser curled his tail under his legs and lay on his back, his underbelly exposed. The meeting was over for the moment.

Celeste released Fraser to fend for himself and the dogs stalked around each other, their hackles rising and falling and finally smoothing back with a cautious peace.

“Well, you survived the road?” Ted began.

` “Yeah, wasn’t too bad, a bit of water about but it was okay.”

“Good lookin’ little fella, a bit skinny.” Ted nodded towards Fraser.

Celeste smiled, “Great dog,” she said, and turned to Ted.

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“Do you want him?” she asked, a tentative note in her voice.

Ted laughed, “You mean will I keep him for you?”

They both laughed.

“Yeah, you know what I mean.”

Celeste looked at Fraser, who was now sitting a little distance from the other dogs, his head on his paws and his attention on Ted and Celeste.

“Will he work?” Ted looked serious.

“You sound like his bloody owner,” Celeste laughed.

“Course I’ll take him looks like a nice little fella. Let’s see what he can do.”

Ted called his dogs into the shed and shut the door. He whistled to Fraser who sat up, his ears pricked. Ted whistled again and Fraser watched his every move.

“Come here boy.”

Fraser moved towards Ted with caution. Ted held out his hand and patted Fraser’s neck.

“Good boy Fraser, good boy.”

He repeated the phrase over again and again, patting his neck and then his head, in slow strokes. Fraser relaxed his

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guard and Ted walked away without looking at him. Fraser followed a few yards behind, watching. Ted stopped and called to the dog again. Fraser came trotting. Ted repeated his actions a few times and then turned to Celeste.

“He’ll be fine, come on, let’s have a look.”

He headed off in the direction of the cattle.

Celeste caught up and Fraser followed.

Ted stood about twenty metres from the cows, opened the gate to the paddock and whistled to Fraser. Fraser watched the man closely.

“Bring ’em round boy,” Ted called and moved towards the cows.

Fraser flashed past him, running close to the ground, he slipped under the fence and round to the back of the herd where he flattened himself on the grass and watched Ted.

“Bring ‘em round,” Ted shouted again to the dog over the noise of the uneasy cows.

Fraser ran the length of the herd, barking at the heels of the cattle and pushing them towards the gate. He worked them up the fence line and into a column, heading them towards the gate. Two stragglers swung away from the mob and Fraser turned in a

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blur of red; he flashed a look towards Ted and ran behind the cows, where he waited, belly on the ground, ears pricked.

Ted gave a shrill short whistle. Fraser looked momentarily confused then he threw himself between the two cattle, cutting them out and turning them into the fence. He ran behind the two, keeping enough distance to keep them moving. The main mob was now passing through the gate. Fraser moved the two recalcitrants up to the back of the column and saw them through the gate. He flattened on the grass inside the gate and waited for Ted, his red tongue lolling from his mouth.

Ted walked back to where Celeste waited. “How much do you want for your dog?” he asked.

“Can he run?” Celeste replied and they both laughed.

“He’s better than good Cel, he’s bloody brilliant. What’ll he be like when he knows me?”

Celeste smiled and looked at Fraser with a mixture of pride and sadness and relief. Fraser’s eyes stayed firmly fixed in Ted’s direction. He had work to do.

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Caroline pushed through the door out of the customs section and into the Arrivals lounge at Leonardo Da Vinci. The airport was filled with school children. A group of people stood waiting behind glass panels, watching as the passengers filed through the glass doors into arrivals. A man in a thick grey overcoat held up a sign with the word Marlena written on it and looked expectantly at Caroline. She smiled and shook her head as she passed him. Her mobile phone rang. She opened her handbag and answered it. Susan spoke into her ear, apologising for not being able to pick her up but giving a description of the man who would.

His name was Giancarlo Arroghetti. He was a dear friend who was in Rome for a meeting and would bring her back. He was totally trustworthy, Susan reassured her, and was wearing a black coat over a yellow polo neck jumper and black jeans. Caroline felt a little irritated at the news but kept her voice calm. How was she to find this man in the crowded airport? She looked around the circle of faces and pushed her way to the edge of the crowd. She felt suddenly tired and rested her suitcase back on its wheels. . . Susan had been supremely confident Carlo would find her.

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“Go to the post office on the same floor and wait outside, it’s painted yellow, you can’t miss it,” Susan had reassured her before hanging up.

As she reached the coffee shop a man wearing a black coat pushed through the doors and walked up to her. “Caroline?” he asked tentatively, pronouncing her name slowly. Caroline nodded and he smiled and held out his hand.

“Hello, I’m Giancarlo Arroghetti, welcome to Italy.”

They smiled at each other with relief and curiosity.

“Hello Giancarlo, thank you for meeting me.”

“Carlo is okay with me.” He smiled and offered to take her suitcase trolley.

His face creased into tanned wrinkles around his eyes and mouth and Caroline guessed they must be of similar age. His hair was greyed at the temples and brushed back without a part and his coat looked expensive, elegant Caroline thought.

“Do you need anything before we leave?” he asked, swinging the trolley around behind them. Caroline shook her head and they started off through the throngs of school children and noise of Arrivals down the walkway to the car park overpass. They took the lift to the second floor and Carlo led her to a late model but somewhat battered Audi sedan. Carlo

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opened the door for her and she settled in whilst he put the suitcases in the boot.

They spiralled down the concrete drive out of the car park into the street and Caroline was surprised to see night had closed in. Taxis lined the road and travellers bustled across their path as Carlo steered them through the airport perimeters and onto the main outlet to the autostraub. The car was warm and held a faint smell of leather. On the rear view mirror a small gold medallion hung on a chain and a pair of leather driving gloves sat on the dashboard. Carlo picked up the gloves and pushed them into the glove compartment along with some documents from the console. He concentrated on getting them out of the city before he relaxed and turned his attention to Caroline. He enquired easily of the flight and her welfare and seemed comfortable with himself and his role. They settled into an amicable conversation as Carlo eased the car into the line of traffic entering the F25 and Caroline watched the turnoff signs flash by.

Carlo had visited Sydney and spent some time in South Australia in the Barossa Valley where he studied new methods of vine propagation. He talked about his visit and his shock at the size of some of the vineyards in the Riverlands.

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“I have friends in Loxton,” he finished, then added as an afterthought, ‘Have you been there?”

Caroline had not and the conversation turned to family. Carlo owned the property adjoining Susan and Vincent’s wine distribution business. He and Vincent had begun discussions regarding a joint venture but it was very early yet and Carlo felt he could not discuss details. His family had been vignerons and landowners in the region for two centuries.

Caroline was surprised. Susan had not mentioned any of this. Carlo had two daughters, one in America studying genetic predispositions to certain forms of cancer and the other managing a marketing venture in wine distribution and export in Rome.

“My wife Emmenia died from cancer five years ago.” He looked out of the window into the darkness.

Caroline instinctively laid her hand on his arm. “I’m sorry she said, that must be very painful for you.”

“It’s much better now but it’s the girls I worry about. Anna has never really recovered. I think that’s why she’s studying in America. She can’t bear to be here. But we are in touch constantly and she seems to be doing very well. She finishes her PhD this year sometime and says she will come back for a holiday.”

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He paused and looked across at Caroline. “Elena’s okay though, she’s doing well in the business and I see her often. We had lunch today. They scare me these daughters, they are afraid of nothing.”

They both laughed.

“Good for them,” Caroline was emphatic. Carlo laughed again. She talked briefly about her boys and skilfully she thought, avoided talking about Robert. Carlo turned to her again and asked after her husband. Caroline found herself telling him about Robert as though he was someone else’s husband. The story seemed estranged from her. She felt distant from the event, as though it had happened long ago and she no longer remembered the details. She was surprised at her lack of feeling; surprised that she felt as though she was just on a holiday. Maybe she was just tired. Carlo didn’t ask any further questions and a comfortable silence settled between them as they wound between the hills.

Susan met them in the driveway in the light of the porch. She hugged Caroline and kissed Carlo on both cheeks, asking a constant stream of questions as she did so. She invited Carlo in but he politely refused, stating that he thought they probably had lots to catch up on. Caroline turned to Carlo as he lifted the luggage from the boot and placed it in the hallway.

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“Carlo, thank you so much for bringing me here, I really appreciate it. It is lovely to meet you.”

Carlo gave a mock bow and smiled back, “piacere” he said and headed back to the car. “Ciao, ciao Susan.”

Caroline and Susan watched as he swung the car around and headed down the driveway, the headlights lighting up the stone walls of a barn as the car turned.

Susan led Caroline into a narrow hallway from the porch and out into a spacious living area. The walls were thick yellowish sandstone and windows filled an entire wall which overlooked a paved courtyard lit with soft lamps hung from the stone walls. Caroline gasped and turned to her sister.

“Oh Susan it’s beautiful.”

Susan smiled and headed towards a galley type kitchen to one side of the room.

“We think so. It was our one big splurge to fix up this area but I couldn’t live any longer with the plumbing and the kitchen out of the dark ages. The floor was the real extravagance, but I love the warmth of it and it reminds me of home.”

Susan was almost apologetic as she waved her hand in the direction of the polished boards.. Thick coloured rugs were scattered about and the lounge was plump with fat cushions that spilled onto the floor. A fire burned in a large pot belly stove 149

squatting in a corner and the walls were hung with bright modern paintings. The room exuded warmth and colour and had a homely feel of modern comfort. The smell of coffee wafted from the kitchen. Caroline turned away from the windows and watched Susan pour coffee from a glass percolator atop the hotplate into two elegant white mugs which she placed on the bench with a small plate of biscuits. Above the stove, hung on small brass hooks were various pots and pans and cooking utensils. A striped apron hung from a hook beside the stove and a pile of cookery books leaned against a large old copper urn.

The two women walked to the sofa holding their coffees and biscuits, kicked off their shoes, settled into the cushions, tucked up their knees beneath them in comfortable and familiar poses and looked closely at each other’s faces.

“Now I want every detail Car,” Susan began.

* * *

When Russell Robinson left the hotel he was surprised to find the day was darkening and people hurrying to catch the supermarket before it closed. He checked his watch and hurried to the car. He wished he hadn’t placed two thousand on the last race; he was sure the quinella would get up and was adding up

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his winnings when the numbers came up on the screen. He had torn up the ticket in disgust. He was amazed at how quickly the money went. He reassured himself that he would get it back tomorrow and anyway there was still plenty left.

Tracy met him at the door, her flushed face signalling her anger.

“Where’ve you been, I’ve been waiting for the food.” She yelled into his face.

“Sorry love, I ran into a couple of blokes from work and they wanted to know some stuff about the accounts,” he lied, pushing past her into the hallway.

“That reminds me,” he continued, not looking at her but pulling food from the shopping bag and putting it on the kitchen bench. “We’ll get that mortgage sorted tomorrow if the bank is open. I’ll put in a couple of payments ahead. We’ll get a few things for the house too if you like love, I know you always wanted that LCD telly. There’s something else for you too.”

His promises came out involuntarily one after the other. Still not looking at Tracy, he continued, “Want some help with dinner love?”

Tracy walked up to him, her face changed to interest, her hand on her hip. “What’s for me then?”

“Can’t tell you.” 151

“Course you can, come on,” she wheedled, sidling up to him.

“Nah.” He flicked her with the empty shopping bag.

“Come on Richie Rich, tell me.” Tracy put her arms around his neck.

This was working much better than he imagined, he thought. He leaned back on the sink and said in a conspiratorial tone, “I’m not sure yet if I will give it to you tomorrow or the next day, I might require some reward of some sorts.”

Tracy feigned shock. “Oh, what sort of reward?” She giggled.

* * *

Jason drove the journey home pondering his fortunes and feeling very sorry for himself. He resented the slowness of his father’s car and wanted to be home. Doubts about his commitment to Jesus were creeping in and he felt foolish about facing his mother about his date. He turned the tinny radio up and went over again in his mind the events of the day. He felt a sense of panic about what he might tell the others at work as he had boasted about the date. He began to construct a story but nothing seemed feasible. Jason began to feel depressed. He also had the security guard’s brother to deal with. He was afraid 152

that if he didn’t go and see Gordon’s brother the Pastor, Gordon might come after him. He drove for a while lost in the possibilities, none of which pleased him.

Jason was relieved to find his parents out when he unlocked the front door and headed straight for his bedroom. He flopped onto his bed, lay on his back and stared at the ceiling. He would have to go to the Church of the Great Assembly of Gordon’s brother Cameron Gordon.

He would tell his parents Cindy didn’t turn up, it was the only way.

When Pamela and Bruce Davis arrived home they found Jason in the kitchen peeling vegetables for dinner.

“Oh hello love.” Jason’s mother put her bag on the table and looked surprised. “You didn’t have to do that,” she nodded at the vegetables on the bench.

Jason’s father walked through the kitchen to a cupboard under the stairs and put his bowls case on the shelf. He returned to the kitchen and took a beer from the fridge.

“Want a beer love?” He motioned the bottle to Pamela who nodded and headed to the bedroom with her handbag.

“I’ll just get changed first,” she replied over her shoulder, looking back with a quick glance at Jason’s face.

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“What about you, Jace?”

“Yeah, I think I will Dad.” Jason avoiding looking at his father and busied himself with a show of putting the peeled vegetables into a bowl.

Bruce pulled another stubby from the pack for Jason and took a glass from the cupboard and poured a beer for his wife. “How’d the car go son?”

“Yeah good Dad, thanks for the loan, I filled it for you.” Jason kept his back to his father.

Pamela returned from the bedroom wearing an apron over her frock and took the glass from her husband. “Thanks love.”

“Well love, how was the date?”

Jason’s mother turned to her son with an expectant smile. She put her beer on the table in anticipation and gave her full attention to Jason. This was the question Jason was dreading.

He kept his back to his mother and said, “Well she didn’t turn up Mum.”

Pamela Davis sometimes had a way of knowing when Jason was lying. She had known this from the time he was a schoolboy and would hide himself away when he had taken something from the kitchen or his father’s shed. It was something in his voice that she recognised as dishonesty. She

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had talked to him as a child about it but Jason had never changed.

“Oh really love, what a pity, did she phone you?”

Jason turned around and raised the stubby to his mouth, “Nah, I tried to phone her a couple of times but she didn’t answer.”

He was unsure how far to take this story and now began to feel a sense of panic. His face flushed a little and he turned back to the sink and put his drink beside the bowl of vegetables, as though to continue the task.

“Leave that love,” his mother said. “I’ll do that later. What do you think happened?”

“Dunno.” Jason shifted his feet and took another sip from the bottle. “But I don’t think I’ll ring her again.”

“Well, that’s a pity love,” his mother repeated, studying his face. “You’d think she would’ve had the manners to at least phone you.”

Jason was anxious to drop the topic but could not find a way out.

“Dunno mum,” he said lamely. “Something could’ve happened I suppose, maybe her car broke down or something.”

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He hadn’t wanted to add another dimension but found himself concocting excuses for Cindy. “Her car was giving her trouble the other day,” he added for good measure.

Jason’s mother wanted to pursue the conversation but Bruce interrupted. “Can’t trust this internet thing son, you need to meet a girl in a decent place. It might be a good thing she didn’t turn up.”

Jason was rescued by his father’s opinion. He quickly pursued the line of thought.

“You’re probably right Dad, plenty of fish in the ocean.” He deliberately used one of his father’s axioms.

“Anyway Dad what about you? Did you beat Barney?”

The conversation steered away to the day’s events and his father began to discuss bowls. Pamela listened as she prepared a chicken for dinner. Jason was not usually this interested.

“You going to watch the game tonight, Mum?” Jason turned his attention back to his mother.

He was anxious that she not return to the former conversation.

“Of course, we’re going to beat the pants off you lot.” Pamela replied for Jason’s sake, but she remained curious about the strain in his voice.

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“That’ll be the day, love,” Bruce chimed in. “The Reds’ll have it all over in the first half.”

Jason felt on safer ground at last.

On Sunday morning Jason was up and dressed before nine o’clock. His mother came into the kitchen as he was recuing his toast from the toaster.

“You look nice Jace, going out?”

“Well as a matter of fact, Mum, you won’t believe this but I’m going to church. Some friends invited me to a gig at the Assembly church so I thought I might go just for a lark to see what it’s like.” Jason said all this whilst he buttered his toast and without looking at his mother.

Pamela wondered if the girl who had stood him up might be the reason he was going to church. Perhaps she went there, she thought. She noticed Jason’s evasiveness; his eagerness to please was unlike him.

Jason caught the one Sunday bus into the city centre then walked the four blocks to the Church of the Great Assembly. The church was in fact an enormous corrugated iron shed built on a rural block that backed onto farmland on the city’s edge. A sweeping white gravel driveway ran to the large porch entrance with open double doors then off to a full carpark on one side of 157

the building. Above the porch the roof peaked in a triangle shape with a flashing neon cross at its zenith.

Jason walked up the drive to the entrance and was met on the porch by a rotund man in a white shirt with a red and yellow logo of the Church of the Great Assembly in the shape of a cross on the pocket.

“Welcome brother,” he said as he clasped Jason’s hand. He then turned to the woman following Jason onto the porch and clasped her hand in the same manner. “Welcome sister.”

Jason hesitated for a moment then followed the woman into the church. He was taken aback by the enormity of the place and the number of people seated in row after row in a semi- circle that stretched the length of the great hall. The seats were polished wood with a soft red vinyl seat and each row ran in a continuous line from one side of the hall to the other with an aisle in the middle and down each side. The front of the hall was dominated by a large stage with a microphone standing in the centre. To one side there were guitars on stands and drums behind a set of keyboards. On the other side of the stage a small grand piano stood in front of low tiered steps that filled the width of the stage. The main body of the church was almost full with people who chatted and greeted each other as more came in and took their seats. Wardens of some kind, all wearing white

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shirts with the logo, directed people to their seats and assisted the congregation to find a place. A neat young, clean-shaven warden approached Jason who was standing in the aisle uncertain where to sit.

“Morning brother, my name is Josh, have you been here before?”

“No,” Jason said, waiting for instructions.

“Well, welcome brother, what’s your name?”

“Jason.”

“Jason, you come with me, I have a special place for you today.”

Josh motioned Jason to follow him and he turned and walked down the aisle to the front of the church. Jason’s face flushed as he was walked down the aisle. He had not planned on being so public. His plan was to sneak in and out just to satisfy the pastor’s brother. Josh invited Jason to sit in the row closest to the stage. He was thankful to be seated at last. He looked around and noticed that he was with a group of young people about his own age and younger; the seat beside him was empty. A short time later Josh ushered another young man into the empty seat beside Jason. The wardens then all came to the front of the hall and sat to one side on a row of chairs near the stage. 159

The hall was suddenly quiet and Jason watched the stage. The rotund man who had greeted him at the front door walked across the stage, picked up the microphone and held up his hand for silence.

“Greetings brothers and sisters, the Lord Jesus Christ has brought you here today and we are thankful to him for that. We are going to praise his name and live in his love. Let me introduce you to the man who is going to bring us the healing and power of the lord today. Brothers and sisters, the Reverend Pastor Cameron P. Gordon.”

The last sentence was shouted as though the pastor was a boxing champion coming into the ring. Cameron P. Gordon’s entrance onto the stage was just as showy. Jason took a sharp breath as an Andy Gordon look-alike bounced onto the stage wearing the now familiar logoed white shirt. His huge muscled arms and chest stretched his shirt tucked into tight black trousers fastened at the waist with a large silver buckle on a black leather belt. The buckle enclosed a jewelled crucifix. The man introducing the pastor picked up the microphone stand and took it to one side of the stage. Pastor Gordon shouted into his microphone headset as a group of young men came onto the stage and picked up the musical instruments.

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“Do you know why you are here today? Well, I am going to tell you why you are here. You are here because the Lord Jesus Christ has chosen you to be here. He has CHOSEN YOU. Yes that’s right, he has chosen YOU! And he has chosen some very special people to join us today and I’m going to call upon our deacons to introduce them to us. Are you ready?”

The congregation answered in unison with a resounding “yes” as the band began a rocking tune that lasted just a few minutes before the pastor held up his hand and silenced them.

“Deacons, who has Jesus chosen to follow him today?”

Josh stood up from his seat and looked at a mobile phone he had taken from his pocket. He read out a name. “Brittany Glover!”

The congregation applauded enthusiastically and Pastor Gordon called upon the young woman to stand up. “Jesus welcomes you Brittany, his love and healing are upon you now!”

Josh worked his way through the list of names and each one was welcomed into the church with equal enthusiasm from the congregation.

“Jason Davis.”

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Jason was shocked to hear his name being called and he remained frozen, shrinking into the seat as far as he could lower himself.

All heads turned to look in the direction that Josh was facing. Jason blushed crimson.

“Jesus is waiting for you, Jason, don’t be shy. Come on now everyone; give your brother some encouragement.”

The pastor’s voice boomed into Jason’s head. The congregation began to clap and shout Jason’s name.

“Ja-son, Ja-son, Ja-son.”

Josh appeared by Jason’s side and reached out his hand. People moved in their seats to let Jason and Josh past and Josh guided Jason towards the stage. Pastor Gordon reached down and assisted Jason to step up beside him.

“Brothers and sisters,” he boomed across the hall. “I think this brave young man is a little bit shy and he deserves your support for his courage. I can tell you now that the Lord has asked me to heal this man and that’s what I am going to do today.”

The congregation began calling out various blessings and salutations.

“Hallelujah brother!”

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“Jesus loves you!”

“Praise be to Jesus!”

“Hail the light!”

Pastor Gordon placed his hands upon Jason’s head and began calling out to some place near the ceiling. Jason did not remember much after that. He sank slowly to the floor as the room darkened around him. When he awoke he was seated in a side room in a large chair with Josh and a young woman watching him. He could hear a choir singing and loud clapping in time to a rollicking beat. He struggled for a moment to recognise his surroundings then remembered the recent events.

“You are okay,” Josh began. “You have had a healing. It happens sometimes when the Lord comes into your life that you fall down with the power.”

Jason managed a weak nod. He had no idea what to say. He wished he could go home. His visit to the church was far worse than anything he had ever imagined. The young woman took his hand and introduced herself.

“My name is Tanya, Jason. I will stay here with you until you feel okay. After pastor Gordon speaks to you, you will feel much better. It’s a big thing giving your life to Jesus. Some people do get overwhelmed, there’s no shame in that. It happens all the time.” 163

Jason liked the sound of her voice but could not bring himself to answer. He could not think of one thing to say. Tanya smiled at him and then at Josh as though she held some secret he was not privy to. He wished he could think of something funny to say about fainting, or something clever about the choir but nothing came. Instead he blurted the one thing he didn’t want anyone to know.

“I know Pastor Gordon’s brother.”

Josh and Tanya were both startled.

“Pastor Gordon doesn’t have a brother,” Josh countered.

“I’ve met him,” Jason insisted. “I met him at Golden Beach, he works there.”

Josh looked puzzled. “I think you must have made a mistake, Jason.”

The choir finished singing and the noise of shuffling feet and people leaving the hall brought relief for Jason. He was confused by the conversation and desperate to leave the church. He no longer wanted to have to explain himself. He didn’t want to be a Christian and he certainly didn’t want to meet with Cameron P. Gordon. At that moment the pastor walked through the door. His large frame took up the small space and Jason shrunk into the chair. He was at once removed to the Golden Beach hotel and looking into the face of the security guard. 164

Josh immediately addressed Pastor Gordon. “Jason thought you had a brother in Golden Beach, you must have a look-alike pastor,” he laughed.

Cameron Gordon’s face registered a shadow of surprise but he quickly recovered and laughed along with Josh.

“Well thank you both for looking after Jason. Jason and I have some important messages from Jesus to talk about so you guys can take a break now.”

Josh and Tanya said their farewells to Jason and left the room.

Pastor Gordon shut the door and sat down in a chair opposite Jason. “Well Jason, you’ve had a big day. I’m glad you’ve come to join us.”

Cameron began in a friendly, effusive manner. Jason managed to nod but said nothing. He felt as though he was back in the Golden Beach hotel and any minute Cindy would appear; he had the same urgent need of the toilet.

“Now what brought you here today Jason?” Pastor Gordon leaned forward in his chair and feigned interest.

“Your brother told me to come.” He said almost in a whisper.

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Pastor Gordon leaned back and laughed, still keeping his gaze on Jason’s face. “I don’t have a brother. I’m sorry Jason; you must have seen someone who looks like me, eh?”

Jason remembered the card Andy Gordon had given him. He reached into his pocket and pulled it from his wallet. He handed the card to pastor Gordon.

“His number’s on the back,” Jason croaked.

Cameron looked at the card then turned it over; his face clouded momentarily before he handed the card back to Jason. He forced a smile that seemed more like a grimace to Jason.

“Same name but no relation, never mind, you came to the right place.” He added quickly. “Lots of people have my cards, how did you meet this bloke?”

Jason’s heart thumped and he began to panic. “I’ve got to go to the toilet.”

“Sure Jace, it’s just down the hall.” Cameron assumed a matey voice and pointed the way to the toilet. “See you in a minute, I’ll just say goodbye to the others.”

He rose from his chair and walked back out to the main hall as Jason headed down the passageway to the toilet. Jason shut the door of the toilet cubicle and leaned on the wall. His mind was racing and his breath coming in short gasps. He peed into the toilet without lifting the seat and zipped his fly. He opened 166

the door and peered into the hallway. There was a door leading to the back of the church and the hall was empty. He hurried to the door and opened it onto a back yard that ran to a farm fence. To the left he could see the street leading back to town. He shut the door and began to run along the farm fence line until it reached the street. He sprinted down the remaining bit of gravel driveway and onto the footpath leading into town. When he reached the bus terminal he found that the bus did not return along his home route for two hours, so he decided to hitch.

He walked along the main road and held out his hand to the passing cars without looking back. His breath had returned to normal and some of the fear had left him. He would be home soon and could forget about the whole thing. He wondered why Pastor Gordon had lied. He had an uneasy feeling about the pastor. He was creepy like his brother and very threatening. Why did he look like a body builder; he wasn’t Jason’s idea of a pastor. The pale thin church men of Jason’s childhood were pastors; not this muscleman in tight trousers.

Jason had walked for a couple of kilometres before a car slowed for him. The black BMW pulled into the kerb and the tinted passenger window slid down. Jason leaned down to peer in the window. Cameron P. Gordon grinned back at him.

* * *

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Robert Gray was frustrated and afraid. He had finally calculated the amounts missing from the accounts and found it to be considerably more than he anticipated. He knew without deliberation that an independent audit would be necessary. That would mean informing the board. He half hoped that Robinson could give some feasible explanation for the missing money but did not want to think about the alternative. Robinson was his responsibility. He pushed the account papers into a folder and pulled the flash drive from his computer. He would have to talk with Robinson before the rest of the staff returned to work.

When Tracy answered the door and saw Robert Gray on the step she knew that they were in trouble. Robert Gray had never come to their house before. Tracy said a brief hello and called to Russell.

Russell came to the door in a pair of shorts and no shirt; Tracy followed and stood behind him, leaning on the door jam. His opulent pale stomach hung over his waistline and he was unshaven. Robert hid his distaste of the man and asked if he could talk with Russell in private.

“We got no secrets here Mr Gray,” Tracy answered for Russell.

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Russell immediately jumped in. “It might be about work stuff love, that’s confidential, y’know; you wait inside while I talk to Mr Gray.”

Russell stepped onto the path outside the door. He avoided eye contact with Robert. He tried to anticipate what Robert would say and to divert his fear he joked about the weather.

“We could do with some rain eh?”

Robert Gray didn’t smile.

“I’d like you to come down to the office immediately, Russell. I need to go through a few figures with you. Celeste is still flooded in and I need to have some help with a few accounts.”

Russell didn’t believe him. Rising panic gripped his throat and he began to sweat. “Yeah okay,” he said too quickly. “Give me fifteen minutes to get changed. I’ll see you there.”

Robert arrived at the office to find water stains across the empty floors and the smell of the river throughout the building. Debris from the flood was still piled up outside the back of the building and a dank smell permeated the stale office air. It had been a mistake to ask Robinson here to the office. Robert had forgotten that all the computers were packed away, despite

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having requested staff to be at work Tuesday. He rang Robinson on his mobile phone.

Robinson sounded breathless at the other end of the phone. Robert formulated a quick plan. “The office is still in a mess,” he began without apology. “Could you come down to the coffee shop in Grenville Street, the one with the striped awning over the street, I don’t know the name of it.”

Russell agreed to come and Robert clicked his phone off. He drove around the town to the main shopping area and parked near the coffee shop. People were still busy cleaning up after the flood and Robert walked around debris piled up on the edges of the footpath waiting for collection by the council. The air was damp and smelly and the shopfronts marked with a brownish waterline that ran the length of the street. A woman was washing down the front of her shop with a hose and broom. Robert found a seat in the corner of the coffee shop that would afford some privacy and ordered a flat white coffee. Two men in council work jackets waited for takeaway coffee at the counter.

There was a trail of muddy footprints and water where customers had walked to the counter. A young boy put a yellow plastic sign up at the doorway that stated “Caution Wet Floor.”

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“You’re not fair dinkum,” one of the council workers said to the boy as he passed through the doorway. They all laughed and the men walked towards their truck.

Robert thought about what he would say to Robinson. His stomach was in a knot and he felt angry about the turn his life had taken. He was angry about the accounts, annoyed that Celeste was not available to assist him and furious with Robinson for creating this mess. His thoughts turned to Caroline and his anger mounted. Where the hell was she and why wasn’t she here to help him through this? His thoughts went around in circles and he found it difficult to concentrate for more than a few seconds on any aspect of his impending conversation with Robinson. He sipped his coffee and glanced at his watch. The shop grew busier with morning traffic.

Larry Sumner was not a big man but his mates were often surprised at his ability to endure when others were flagging. He was hard working with a wiry strength and quick wit that endeared him to his friends and teammates alike. Larry supervised his team of council workers with a quiet fairness and the expectation that the work would be done. The team cooperated without acrimony. For the last few days however, Larry had been short with the men and seemed edgy. The team

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took it to be the flood clean up and the extra work; except for Shorty Novak, they chided him a little and avoided comment. Shorty remained silent about the boss but made a mental note to talk to him when the others weren’t around. He had done many of these clean-ups with Larry; this was not the cause of his mood.

The men had been working solidly for half the morning when Larry suggested they take a break.

Shorty offered to go and get coffee and suggested Larry drive him to Grenville Street. When they were in the council Ute and on their way to get the coffee, Shorty said, “What’s up mate, get a bad crayfish or what?”

Larry looked surprised and laughed despite himself.

“Am I that bad?” He looked surprised.

“Pretty bad mate.” Shorty was not saving him.

“Got a bit going on that’s all.” Larry was about to make excuses.

“Like what?” Shorty was not letting him off the hook.

“Judy’s boss’s been putting the hard word on her. She says she thought she’d lose her job so she gave in, had it off with him.”

Larry looked away from Shorty out his side window.

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“Yer what! You’re fuckin’ jokin’ mate!” Shorty exclaimed in disbelief.

Larry said nothing about the DVD. He wanted to keep his own story. It wasn’t that he wanted to lie. It was just too painful for him. He fell silent.

Shorty and Larry had worked together for a long time. They were both senior SES men. They sometimes drank together and occasionally went fishing. They were not close friends but they had developed a trust in each other. Larry knew he could speak freely.

Shorty wanted action.

“You’ve gotta get the bastard mate,” he advised vehemently. “Who the fuck does he think he is? You can’t let him get away with that,” he went on.

Larry was glad of the support but he didn’t want to be pushed into anything yet. He needed time to work it out for himself. His world had crashed. Nothing made sense. He didn’t know if he believed Judith. Why were they both at the golf club? Why did Caroline Gray say in her note that it was not the first time? Did she mean Robert, or Judith, or both together? He hadn’t slept for two nights and felt irritable and depressed.

“Yeah,” was all that Larry said. 173

He swung the Ute into the kerb and they both got out and walked towards the coffee shop. Shorty was still taking in the information as they walked up to the counter and ordered coffees.

Larry moved away from the counter and Shorty turned in time to see Robert Gray stand up from his table before Larry hit him with one solid punch to the bridge of the nose. Shorty grabbed Larry by the jacket and pulled him backwards as Robert slid from the tabletop to the floor. Startled customers moved back and the shop owner Dot Langley came out from behind the counter to look at Robert, who was now sitting up holding his face in his hands. Blood dripped down his inside arm and onto his jeans. Larry stood back and looked at him. He seemed stunned.

Shorty pushed Larry towards the door and out to the Ute. He opened the door for Larry and pushed him into the seat. Shorty went back into the shop and spoke briefly with Dot, retrieved the coffees and walked to the Ute where he climbed into the driver’s seat and backed out onto the street.

“I take it that was him,” he said dryly.

Larry didn’t speak.

“Couldn’t have done better myself mate,” Shorty added. “Fuckin’ beautiful punch,” he chuckled.

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Larry didn’t smile. He rubbed the knuckles on his right hand.

Dot Langley didn’t call the police. If Larry Sumner had flattened a bloke in her shop then he must have deserved it, she reasoned. In fifteen years she had never seen Larry Sumner even the slightest bit angry, let alone hit someone.

Robert Gray didn’t call the police either. He pulled himself up to the table and wiped his face on his sleeve. Dot went behind the counter and returned with a wet towel and handed it to him.

“Hold it on your nose,” she said, before she returned to making coffee. She kept a wary eye on Robert who was gathering his papers with one hand and holding the towel to his nose with the other.

Russell Robinson arrived breathless and sweating. He was taken aback by the appearance of his boss, bloody towel held to his face and his cheeks already swelling dark under his eyes.

“What happened?” Russell asked by way of greeting.

“Slipped and hit my head on the table.”

Robert’s face was hidden.

Dot Langley came over to Russell and looked him up and down. “If you’re a mate of his, you’d better take him to the

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hospital, his nose needs looking at.” She turned and went back to the coffee machine.

Robert seemed happy with the suggestion and he walked out of the shop with Russell to Russell’s car. He seemed a bit unsteady on his feet so Russell opened the car door for him and guided him into the seat. He was unsure whether to hold his arm or not.

Robert didn’t speak until they neared the hospital then his muffled voice came out from behind the towel. “Best not to mention this to the others,” he said.

He gave no reason and Russell couldn’t believe his luck that there was not going to be any conversation about the accounts.

“No worries, Mr Gray,” he said, containing his relief.

He swung the car into the hospital parking lot and got out quickly to open the door for Robert. They made their way to the Outpatients department and Russell stood at the glass partition with Robert whilst he gave his details to the clerk behind the panel. A few minutes later a nurse arrived and led Robert away through the swinging doors to the emergency room. Russell sat in the waiting room.

The nurse took Robert to a small partitioned room and sat him on a bed before drawing the pale blue curtains around the 176

cubicle. She took the towel away from his face and looked closely at his nose.

“Been in a bit of a blue have we?” She said, still examining Robert’s nose.

“No,” Robert replied emphatically. “A guy just came up to me in a coffee shop and punched me. I think he was probably a mental health patient, he ran off down the street.”

“I see,” The nurse mused. “Well it’s broken; you’ll have to see Dr Siriyanand. You can wait in here if you like. I’ll get someone to clean you up a bit.”

Robert’s nose was aching and his eyes were closing up. He felt suddenly tired. A while later a young nurse came in and looked at his wound. She went away again and came back with a small silver bowl and a wad of what looked like cotton wool. She wiped Robert’s face and gently wiped around his nose. He drew away from her as the pain increased.

“Doctor won’t be long now Mr Gray, I’m sorry I can’t give you anything for the pain yet. Won’t be long,” she said, and finished with a cheerful wave of the wad as she left the cubicle.

Robert looked down at the blood on his sleeve; his head ached and his eyes were swelling up so much he could barely see out of them. He fought back tears that welled. He wished Caroline was here to help him. He took out his mobile phone 177

and dialled Adam, then thinking twice about it he clicked the phone off and returned it to his pocket. He sat back on the bed and waited.

* * *

Celeste was in the last phase of cleaning up her house. She had hosed down the deck and verandahs and the outside walls of the house. The murky flood stain disappeared and the peeling cream walls returned. It was tiring and smelly work. She tipped a few drops of Lemon Myrtle oil into a bucket and mopped out all the rooms. The house smelled fresh with the lemon scent. She tidied away the books and made a list of food shopping. Her back ached.

More rain threatened but the creek stayed at a steady, brown flow past the house. She would have to ask Ted to help her move the tree trunks that had washed into her back garden. The ground was still sodden and too wet to do any work on it. Celeste showered and changed into clean shorts and t-shirt and flicked on the kettle to make a cup of tea. She took the steaming cup onto the deck and sat in a plastic chair next to Fraser’s mat.

She missed him, even though he had only stayed a short while. She began to mull over the work she had done on the

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accounts. She had located $259,000 that could not be accounted for from the Corbel account. It was simply missing. She had checked several times but had arrived at the same figures each time. She had phoned Robert Gray three times but he was not answering his phone. Celeste kept immaculate accounts. As she reached each total she checked back in relation to who had entered the amounts. She found only one anomaly of $16. The rest of the missing amounts appeared in Robinson’s work.

It was not as though he had added incorrectly. The amounts were just missing altogether from the books. Celeste was not surprised. She had given the Corbel accounts to Robinson in the previous two years and had therefore not had to check this particular account. She had also on one occasion pointed out to Bradley Campbell that he should take care when accepting Robinson’s records. Her concerns were dismissed.

Celeste knew that Commercial and General were in trouble. Even if the money was recovered, it was surely now a criminal matter and publicity of the kind that could ensue would end any trust the public had in the company. She began to mentally list the people in the company she trusted and was surprised to find that upon examination, except for Nuncia, there were none.

The work with C&G was not fulfilling for her but she had pushed such thoughts away at other times because the thought

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of starting over in some other job daunted her. Her mind turned now to her own future. Perhaps she had wasted too much time in her life. She had lacked the confidence to think clearly about new directions for herself when opportunities had presented in the past. Now she felt this latest information was going to be very significant. She needed to talk with someone, maybe Ted. She finished her tea, walked to the kitchen, put the cup in the sink and decided to phone Ted.

Ted sounded concerned when Celeste rang and told him she wanted to talk with him.

“What’s up Cel?”

“Well something has happened at work but it’s confidential so I’d like to come up and discuss it with you.”

Celeste found it hard to explain. Ted noticed the formality.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“Yeah fine, but I need a sane person to talk to,” she said.

“Well there’s none of those up here Cel, you know that,” Ted joked to cover concern at her tone. “I’ll be coming down in a couple of days when the track dries out a bit, will that do?” he asked. Ted was testing the unfamiliar ground.

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Her response was not the usual joviality. “Do you think I could get through now Ted?”

Celeste sounded uncertain. She and Ted had shared enough problems over the years for him to know that this was serious

“There still a lot of water in the crossings Cel but if you take the back road to Wallaby Flat and go up along the Ridgeback North road you will probably get through. Just have to be careful Cel, a lot of water has come down from the mountain now, use those lower gears.” Ted issued the instructions more for his own reassurance than for her need. Celeste knew the roads as well as he did. She had pulled many less skilful drivers out of creeks with her Ute.

“What do you need?” Celeste’s voice returned to normal.

“Think I’m pretty right for now. Maybe pick us up some beer, I’m just about out… Plenty of food,” he added.

“I’ll see you tomorrow then, thanks Ted.” Celeste clicked off the line.

Ted hung up the phone and wondered about the call. Celeste must be due back at work soon. The only time he remembered her not going to work was when her mother died. She had attended the funeral in MacKay and then stayed with him for a few days on her way back from Queensland; quiet in her grief 181

as she helped him with farm chores. He found her weeping into the flank of the house cow one evening at milking. He held her then for a long time before they returned to the house. Later they sat on the verandah reminiscing about childhood and family.

“My grandmother was a mixture of Irish and Spanish and I think a bit of gypsy. The old kind y’know, on my Dad’s side. She had a special way about her. She could divine water and she always had animals at her house. I don’t mean cats and dogs, she had those too; but she had animals from the wild. She had a way with them. She could understand and talk to them. Sometimes I would go there at night to hide from dad and there would be an owl perched outside on the verandah rail. She told me they were spirits come to give her messages. She could make things happen, strange things, like telling insects to go out of the house and they did. I didn’t think they were strange then. Once, a fox came to live in her shed. She said not to tell anyone as it was hurt and had come to get better. She gave it a mixture she made from grasses and wild herbs and fed it scraps of bread with fat from the meat. The fox was not frightened of her and when it was better it left to go back to the bush.”

“You’ve got a lot of your nan in you Cel,” Ted had smiled towards her and let her continue.

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Celeste had paused and sipped her wine to hide the tears brimming. She went on quickly.

“She always knew things before they happened, she would say, ‘I knew you were coming today’. I would say, ‘How did you know nan?’ She would laugh out loud and say, ‘Listen to the crows my girl; they’re trying to talk to you’.” Celeste smiled at the memory and Ted chuckled as he refilled her glass.

“They’re still talking to you Cel.”

Celeste turned to him and said earnestly, “I wish I had listened to her Ted, I miss her; she was like a real mother to me, always protected me from dad; mum’s death has made me think about her a lot. Now there’s just me left.”

She had talked then of her feelings of isolation and about her family. Ted recognised her childhood loneliness as his own. It was one of the few intimate times they shared. Neither felt the need to discuss their friendship.

Ted moved out of sight behind the house, deftly caught and chopped the head off one of the chooks. He sat at the laundry trough to pluck it in readiness for tomorrow night’s meal. He carefully washed and cleaned the fowl and placed it in the fridge in a sealed container. He swept up the last of the feathers from the laundry floor and threw them into the incinerator. It was the only way to stop the dogs raiding the compost.

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With the day’s chores finished early because of the flooded creek Ted had the rare occurrence of time on his hands. He made a cup of tea and sat on the verandah to think about the day. The dogs lay in the sand near the house with their ears pricked for any movement from Ted. Darkness had not fallen and there were cattle close to the house. They rested comfortably with each other, each in his or her own space, waiting. It was not time to sleep yet.

Ted thought about Celeste. He had long thought she should leave Commercial and General and do the things she loved most; looking after animals and growing things. They had talked a few times about the possibilities but Celeste was always uncertain about how she would afford such a change.

Ted went to the kitchen, picked up the phone and rang his neighbour Belle Ahern.

“Belle, Ted, how are you? Horses okay?” Ted linked the sentences together.

“Hi Teddy. Yes, we shifted the mares to Bill’s place just to be sure, they’re still up there. Everything’s okay here,” she replied.

“Good, Belle, Celeste is coming up tomorrow; she’ll probably stay a couple of days. Would you like to come over for dinner tomorrow night?” Ted followed up.

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“Sounds good to me Teddy, I’m a bit tired of my own company, been cooped up for days, I think even the horses are sick of me,” she laughed.

“Great, come over early for a drink if you like, we don’t have much to do either.” Ted laughed too. “See you then.”

They both hung up. Ted felt pleased with himself and avoided the small twinge of guilt he felt for not telling Celeste. He liked Belle a lot and he thought it might be good company for Celeste if she needed a woman to talk to. He walked into the yard and the dogs immediately fell in behind him. He pulled the gate shut on the cattle, leaving them to graze close to the house until morning. He didn’t want to have to retrieve them if it rained and the creek rose again. He returned to the house and fed the dogs; poured himself a whiskey and sat again on the verandah to think about the phone call. The shadows closed in and squabbles erupted in the trees as the Shellback lorikeets roosted for the night. Small stirrings reached him from the tall grass along the dark fence line. Probably bandicoots he thought. He sipped his whiskey and sighed, they probably hid under his sheds during the rain. His thoughts returned to the phone call.

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Celeste too was thinking about her call to Ted. She felt quite daring in deciding not to go back to work for the clean-up. She thought about her superannuation and the threat it might come under and the vague disquiet returned. Although she had been a loyal and hardworking employee, she felt the company had not really treated her well. Robert Gray had repeatedly overlooked her for promotional roles. She should have earned much more over the years. This was something of a sticking point in her thinking; how would she support herself if she left the firm? She felt a surge of resentment for the first time. Robinson earned more than she did. What a joke that was. She scoffed out loud. The thought of a couple of days off at the farm made her feel calmer.

In her usual orderly fashion Celeste took a writing pad and began to write a list in two columns of what she thought the company owed her and what she owed the company. The first column was much larger. Then she wrote a list in two columns of what she could possibly achieve if she stayed with the company and what she could possibly achieve if she didn’t. The first column had only two items and the second was half full. She then sat thinking about the stark reality of the fraud and its possibilities for a short while. Celeste was a cautious person but the options began rolling across her mind. She definitely needed space, time to think. 186

She sent an email to Robert Gray advising him she would not be at work for a few days due to family business. She attached her calculations and a warning to Robert that the missing amounts totalled $259,000. She poured herself a glass of wine and sat on the deck with her writing pad and began to list the things she had dreamed of doing; she became engrossed in the task. When she had finished she read the list carefully. Celeste was surprised to find the list most frequently mentioned animals, gardens, vegetables, acres, sunshine, countryside, wealth and happiness. There was no mention at all of bookkeeping. Celeste stared at the list for a long time.

Later she went inside and packed a few clothes for the trip to the farm. She threw a pair of rubber boots and a shovel into the back of the Ute and checked the oil before driving into town to fill up with fuel and to pick up a carton of beer for Ted and some wine from the bottle shop. She had a mounting feeling of excitement about the trip. It was as though this was going to be a special visit. She could not fathom why but the feeling persisted. Something was changing for Celeste; apart from not going to work.

Celeste made an early start and other than a couple of flooded creek crossings the journey proved uneventful. She pulled the Ute into a turn-out halfway up the mountain and looked out across the paddocks. The recent wet had given new 187

life to the grasses and everywhere bright green shoots were pushing out of the earth. The morning light sparkled across the broad panoply of crops and forests and in the distance the faint blue hue of the Ridgeback range leaned out from the horizon. She felt welcomed in this country; thousands of green arms reached out and everywhere she looked, the spectre of beauty unfolded; layer upon layer of emerald hillsides opened to her. Celeste sipped from her water bottle and looked out to the range. A line of coloured goats walked up a stony ridge into the sky. They vanished instantly along with the stony ridge and Celeste wondered at them. She climbed back into her Ute and continued on.

Ted, relieved to see her arrive safely, greeted her warmly. Fraser bounced around her feet and the other dogs retired to the yard after inspecting the Ute and pissing on all the wheels. Ted put the kettle on. They sat on the verandah for a while drinking their tea.

“You want to give me a hand to put this lot into the bottom paddock?” Ted asked, waving his hand toward the cattle now grazing in the house paddock.

He didn’t need any help other than the dogs but thought it might help break the ice for Celeste.

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Celeste cooperated with the obvious ploy. “Sure, it’ll be good to have a walk. I’ll see how my star pupil is going,” she replied with a nod at Fraser.

They finished their tea and Celeste took her rubber boots from the Ute and changed her shoes. The pair walked to the gate with the dogs trailing behind. The cattle lifted their heads in wary anticipation.

“Cel, open the bottom gate for me will you?”

Celeste headed down the hill to the gate at the bottom of the paddock.

“I don’t want ’em in the creek end,” Ted yelled after her as the cattle began to rumble towards the lower gate. “Put ’em in the other side and leave the creek gate shut.”

Celeste waved her assent as she hurried towards the gate. She heard Ted ordering the dogs from behind the cattle. “Bring ’em round Bess, get back, get back.”

Once the dogs had the cows in a tight bunch, Ted needed only a couple of short whistles for the dogs to see them into the paddock. Celeste shut the gate behind them. The dogs ran under the fence and fell in behind Ted as they walked back along the track.

“Well, what’s going on Cel?” Ted looked across at Celeste.

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“It’s a bit of a long story,” Celeste began. She gave Ted a summary of the most recent events including her findings with the accounts. Ted didn’t interrupt except for the odd whistle or exclamation. They reached the house and sat back on the verandah. Fraser placed himself beside Celeste’s chair and she absently patted his head as she talked.

“I’ve been thinking a lot, Ted, about all this stuff and I don’t like the feel of it.” Celeste looked worried and went on. “If Robinson gets charged it will be in the papers and who’s going to use C&G when that gets out?”

Celeste continued without waiting for an answer. She voiced her concerns about her superannuation and any other career she might have. About her fears of not having enough money to start again somewhere, nor the confidence. She talked about Robert Gray’s treatment of her and the bullying and disdain she felt from the other staff. Her voice rose slightly and Ted looked at her face. He had not heard any of this before; nor had Celeste ever shown this much emotion about her job.

“Now let’s take one thing at a time Cel,” he began kindly. “You know what I think about that place. You need to get out and get a life mate. They treat you like shit there.”.

“They use you up because you are really good at what you do, but they couldn’t care less. That Gray bloke’s a mongrel.”

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Ted was warming to his topic. “Give me five minutes with him.”

Celeste smiled for the first time.

Ted felt encouraged to risk it. “You know Cel, I wouldn’t want you to get a big head or anything, but you are pretty good at everything you do. You could climb bloody Mount Everest if you put your mind to it.”

Celeste laughed openly and teased back. “Come on Ted, you’re not paying me a compliment are you?”

“Well bloody hell Cel, you scared shit outa that Ruddock bloke and got Fraser for a song.” They both laughed.

Ted became serious. “I’ve been thinking about it Cel. That ten or so hectares with the dam is up for grabs if you wanted it. You could start something for yourself over there; it’s got a bit of rock on it but it’s still good soil. I’d give you the right price.”

Celeste looked surprised. She was moved by Ted’s generous offer. The land he was talking about was part of his property that the creek ran through.

“That’s a great offer Ted, thank you; I need time to think about it.” Celeste was overwhelmed and fell silent.

“I’ve invited Belle over for dinner tonight; didn’t think you would mind” Ted said, changing the topic.

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“Oh lovely, I love Belle. What a good idea.” Celeste rose from the chair. “I’d better put the wine in the fridge then.”

They both laughed. Ted was pleased to see Celeste brighten. They discussed the dinner and Ted suggested Celeste put her feet up and relax.

“Given that I haven’t done anything all day,” Ted joked, “thought I might do a slap up dinner on the Weber.”

At five o’clock Belle Ahern swept into the yard in a battered Mercedes and alighted from the car with a bunch of bright yellow chrysanthemums and several bottles of wine under her arm.

She slammed the car door shut with her foot and boomed across the verandah to Ted and Celeste in the kitchen. “Well at least the bloody dogs know how to welcome a girl!”

“I think Belle’s arrived,” Ted laughed.

Belle placed the flowers on the kitchen table and deposited the wine into Celeste’s arms.

“Hello darlings,” she hugged Celeste and kissed Ted on the cheek. “Well you two have to be an improvement on talking to the horses.” She laughed at her own joke.

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“Get the glasses out, honey,” she ordered Celeste. “We’ve got some serious wine tasting to do.”

Belle drew everyone into her circle of energy and exuberance. Men wanted to help her or bed her; women wanted to emulate her; strangers wanted to be near her. She trusted very few, but for now she was with friends.

The trio took their glasses onto the verandah and sat chatting about general farm matters. When Belle asked Celeste about her work Celeste decided to tell Belle the situation. The three discussed the news at length and Belle agreed with Ted that Celeste should leave. They talked about Ted’s offer and Belle thought they should all go down to the land and have a look at it.

“Why don’t you two go and I’ll keep the chook company,” Ted said.

Celeste and Belle headed out to Celeste’s Ute.

“I’m not riding in that heap of junk,” Belle stated loudly. “I’ve got my reputation to keep.”

She headed for the Mercedes, threw herself into the driver’s seat and started the motor. Celeste laughed and climbed in and they headed over the rise to the land Ted had offered. Belle never bothered with the track but headed straight across the 193

paddocks, the car bouncing over tufts of grass and ruts. She seemed oblivious to the rough ride and chatted happily. She swung the Mercedes through the gate to the land and pulled up on the side of the hill. The two women got out and looked towards the blue haze of the Ridgeback range in the distance.

“Beautiful spot,” Belle said.

Celeste agreed and they proceeded to walk up the hill to a small rocky outcrop.

“I don’t know what to do, Belle,” she began. “I don’t know how I would survive financially.”

Belle snorted, she reached over to Celeste and took hold of her arm and pushed her onto a small ledge ahead of them. They both sat. The valley below looked serene in the fading light.

“I want to tell you something Celeste,” Belle began in a serious tone. “Ted has made you an offer that he wouldn’t make to anyone else. He won’t do it again. The people you work for are probably going to go down the drain. So, my girl, you are going to have to make some decisions pronto.”

Belle looked out over the valley. She turned to Celeste and continued, “When Barry left me all those years ago I thought I would be in debt for the rest of my life. I was angry and depressed and I had no income of my own. Every day I had to face the run down farm and the debts the bastard hadn’t told me 194

about. I had the bank trying to sell the land out from under me and debt collectors on my door every week. I ended up being quite suicidal. I really wanted to die.”

Belle was quiet for a moment. Celeste had not heard this information before and she was taken aback by Belle’s frankness. She had imagined that Belle had always been wealthy.

Belle went on, “That darling Teddy came to my rescue when he heard. He had some land he said he would sell me for the right price when I got back on my feet. In the meantime I could use the land and the house on it as my own. I was amazed at such a generous offer. I didn’t know whether I would survive or how I would ever pay him back.” Belle looked away. “He helped me move all my things up to his place to get the debt collectors off my back. They took my car and all the farm equipment and the bank foreclosed on the farm and sold it. I thought I would die of embarrassment and shame; I cried for weeks. Teddy took out a court order to keep them away from his property and they couldn’t touch me there,” Belle said.

“Then one day he came around with a bottle of wine and some nice food and we sat down and talked about the situation. He suggested that I had always loved horses and was good with them; so why didn’t I start doing something with horses. I had

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no money but I had a house to live in, a good friend and my health. I got a seasonal job nut picking and planting vegetables in the valley. Teddy lent me his old Ute to drive to work and I saved every penny. Grew all my own food, wore my clothes till they fell apart; looked like a bloody bag lady most of the time.”

Belle laughed at herself and went on. “One day I saw a news item about the problem of Brumbies in the high Alpine country and how they were going to cull them. Well, to cut a long story short, I borrowed Teddy’s truck and went up there and brought four lovely little mares back. Wild buggers they were too. The farmers there thought I was mad. I think Teddy did too but he never said so.” Belle laughed again.

Celeste listened intently; she was in awe of Belle’s tenacity and wanted to hear every detail.

Belle looked at her watch and at the sky and said, “We’ll have to get back to the dinner; we can talk as we go.”

Celeste nodded and the pair walked towards the Mercedes.

Belle began again as she turned the car around and headed for the farmhouse. “It took me months to tame them, they were all young. I studied Monty Roberts and gradually I trained them to a saddle. Then I had some divine intervention. I went to my cousin’s wedding in Gippsland and I told her that Barry had left me and what had happened since with the horses. She told me

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about a neighbour’s racehorse that had been badly injured and was about to be destroyed.”

Belle pulled the car up outside the house and Ted came out.

“Well I got him up to the farm Cel and nursed him back to health, he sired beautifully and the rest, as they say, is history. I’ll tell you later; now not a word to Ted about his kindness to me,” she whispered. “Oh just one thing, take his offer in both bloody hands and run with it my girl!”

Ted called from the verandah. “Have you been sowing a crop out there or something?”

The women climbed from the car and the three went inside to the kitchen. The table was set and Belle’s flowers were arranged in a vase on the sideboard. The yellow added a gaiety to the room and Belle and Ted joked as they dished up the vegetables together. Celeste poured wine into the glasses on the table and she and Belle sat down. Ted served the lightly browned chicken, stuffed with olives, lemon and garlic straight from the barbecue on the verandah onto a platter at the table, and carved pieces for each of them.

“That smells heavenly Teddy,” Belle said.

They raised their glasses and toasted each other, farm life, the weather and the good fortune to eat Ted’s chook, before settling down to enjoy the wine and each other’s company. 197

The next morning Celeste rose early despite her feelings of a heavy head and a vague anxiety. She stepped out onto the verandah and watched the dogs stretching and scratching as they rose one by one, sensing her presence. Fraser ran to her for his head to be patted before re-joining the other dogs sniffing and worrying each other in readiness for Ted to fill their breakfast bowls.

Celeste watched a large kookaburra searching the ground from his fence post before she heard Ted in the kitchen and the aroma of his coffee drew her inside. Ted was turning from the stove, coffee pot in hand, as she entered the kitchen. A huge pot of food was warming on the back of the stove. Ted put the coffee pot on the table and turned back to stir the pot. Celeste took two mugs from the cupboard and set them on the table. She took the milk from the fridge and put it beside the mugs.

“Don’t pour mine yet Cel, I’ll just give the gang theirs first,” Ted said.

Ted took the pot from the stove and walked out onto the verandah. He placed the pot on a bench and took a number of bowls from the bench and ran them under the outside tap. The dogs barked with excitement, leaping on each other, snapping and snarling. Ted put each bowl on the ground and filled it with

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the food. Rice, meat, vegetables and kibble in vitamin gravy poured into the bowls. Ted called each dog by name as he put the bowls down.

“Bessie; here girl.”

“Good boy, Digger.”

“Settle, Curly, settle.”

“Good boy, Fraser.”

The list went on until the all the dogs were eating feverishly from the bowls. Ted waited until they had all eaten before returning to the kitchen.

“I wish I felt as good as they seem to,” Ted lamented.

Celeste laughed, “Maybe try some of their breakfast, Ted.” She poured them both a coffee and they sat at the table.

“Ted,” she began, “I would like to accept your offer, conditional upon my superannuation coming through when I resign.”

“It’s amazing what you can achieve over a good bottle of red,” Ted laughed. “You won’t regret it Cel, welcome to our little community.”

He reached out and shook her hand. They raised their coffee mugs in a salute to each other. The kookaburra tapped a skink against the fence rail before swallowing it whole.

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11.

It was some weeks now since Caroline had left Redbrooke. She had spent a lot of time with Susan and Vincent and had started to find her way around the winery and their business. Carlo was a regular visitor to Susan’s dinner table and Caroline found him charming and considerate.

Adam and Nicholas phoned regularly and nagged at her to get Skype so they could see her; and as she thought, because it was cheaper. They seemed to be coping, although Caroline noted, both had asked if she was coming home. Adam told her of Robert’s broken nose; he added that he didn’t believe it came from falling against a table. He’d heard in town that a council worker had biffed him in a coffee shop. Neither he nor Nicholas had heard why. Caroline let the matter lie.

She was surprised to hear that Robert had been in a fight. It was unlike him and Caroline suspected that there was more to this than the boys knew. She did not want to entertain the speculation mounting in her mind; a certain amount of guilt cornered her thinking and so she avoided the topic with the boys when they called.

Irene put the matter to rest when she next sent a text to Caroline.

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‘Larry Sumner broke Robert’s nose! Lol. He’s OK. Miss u honey luv. Irene.’

Caroline couldn’t help thinking the message was a bit ambiguous about who was okay. Her guilt subsided a little and she was surprised to feel a faint sense of triumph. She smiled at the text.

Carlo had invited her and Susan to dinner at his house whilst Vincent was away in the city at a wine forum. Susan had already arranged a dinner with friends and insisted that Caroline go to Carlo’s without her. Caroline felt it rude to refuse and anyway the thought of a quiet dinner with Carlo was a pleasing prospect.

She dressed casually as she and Susan compared notes on clothes; laughing at memories of teenage clothes swapping. Susan pulled on a coat and handed Caroline a spare house key as they headed to the car. “Just in case I am late Car, Carlo will drop you home,” she said.

Caroline felt vaguely nervous and was glad of Susan’s chatter on the short drive to Carlo’s house. They waved goodbye as Carlo came out onto the porch to greet her.

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“Hi Caroline.” Carlo kissed her lightly on both cheeks. “So you are stuck with just me for dinner, and of course Banjo.”

A small black poodle ran out to greet her, sniffed at her offered hand and wagged his tail.

“Banjo?” Caroline laughed. “Banjo?” she repeated.

“Yes, Susan and Vince gave him to me for my birthday, so he has an Aussie name,” Carlo explained smiling. “See,, “he likes you; he has very good taste in Aussies.”

It was Caroline’s turn to laugh. She reached down and patted Banjo’s head. “Hello Banjo,” Caroline said. “Aren’t you a handsome boy?”

They walked into the front of the house together. The entrance was old and elegantly furnished with period furniture. Worn Persian rugs covered most of the smooth stone floor. Carlo led her into a formal lounge with large sofas and paintings hung in heavy frames. An old man glared down at her from a photograph hung above the door. The room had an air of austerity. She followed Carlo through another door that led to a white painted, stone hallway. Carlo opened the door at the end of the hallway and stepped down into a well-lit spacious living room filled with modern and colourful furniture. A fire burned in a huge ancient stove in a corner of the room. A large copper

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urn stood loaded with wood beside the stove. Banjo ran to a cane basket in front of the stove and leapt onto a plump cushion.

“Welcome to where I live.” Carlo turned to Caroline with a sweep of his arm. “Well, Banjo is really the boss here.” He laughed.

“It’s lovely Carlo,” Caroline said.

“When my parents had passed on I found it difficult to live in their house. We wanted to preserve the original place but we needed something a bit more upmarket. We moved in here with the kids.” Carlo looked thoughtful. “When Mena died it was the same again. I didn’t want to be here.” He paused. “Then the girls were much older and had their own lives and I was on my own again.” His voice slowed but then hurried on. “I decided to have the whole place re-vamped. The girls found it hard at first but they were not here most of the time and I needed to move on.” He stopped. “But I am boring you already?” He looked at Caroline.

“Not at all Carlo, I love to hear about your life,” she replied.

“The original house has been preserved, that’s why the front stays the same. But I usually use the side entrance when I’m here by myself.” Carlo nodded towards the back of the house.

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He took Caroline’s jacket and hung it on a hook in the hallway as he continued talking.

“What would you like to drink?” Carlo asked, motioning her to the sofa.

“A red would be lovely,” Caroline relied.

“I just need to turn the oven down,” Carlo said.

He disappeared into the kitchen. A few minutes later he returned carrying a bottle of red wine and two glasses in one hand and a plate of crispy hot nibbles in the other. Caroline took the plate from him and placed it on the coffee table. He poured the wine and sat beside Caroline, handing her a glass and tucking one leg up as he turned to face her.

“Your happiness,” he said, raising his glass to chink against hers.

“And yours,” Caroline replied.

Caroline was charmed by his graciousness and warmth. She was unused to being the centre of attention and diverted the conversation back to the more comfortable topic of the house. She nodded towards the stove. “What an amazing stove, I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“Not many people have.” Carlo looked at the stove. “It was in one of the old workers’ cottages. I had it restored by a very

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old blacksmith in a village near here. I was very lucky to find him. I use it mostly to warm the house; it’s too tricky to cook on but it makes a nice slow coffee.”

Carlo turned back to Caroline and looked into her face. “But that is enough about my house; I want to know about your life, I love to hear about Australia.”

They chatted about their travels and their children and Vincent and Susan and the business. The conversation was light and friendly and they both laughed a lot at their children’s foibles. Caroline did not mention Robert. Carlo went to the kitchen several times to check on the food.

“Would you like to come through, I think we will eat in the dining room, it’s easier with this dish.” Carlo nodded towards the next room.

Caroline followed him into a small dining room where the warmth from the stove was piped via ducts in the wall. The table was set with a centrepiece of yellow lotus-like flowers floating in a glazed terracotta bowl.

Carlo pulled her chair out from the table for her.

Through the dining room divider Caroline could see a modern kitchen with large stainless steel appliances. The windows looked out onto a paved courtyard with geranium pots suspended from iron hooks embedded in the ancient stone walls. 205

Like Susan’s courtyard, the walls were lit with the soft light of lanterns hung at intervals around the square.

“Your house is so warm and inviting Carlo, how did you do this under such difficult circumstances?” Caroline asked.

“It was my healing Caroline,” Carlo called from the kitchen. “I wanted to feel safe from the world and to have a place that I could invite friends without having to deal with their pity.”

Caroline waited.

Carlo put a serving dish on the bench and went on. “I know it sounds awful but as supportive as they were, I knew they felt sorry for me. I wanted them to see that I was coping.”

Caroline nodded. She found it hard to imagine how it would be if a loved partner died. She thought about Robert briefly. She felt a rising anger and dismissed the thought.

Carlo was carving the meat. He came to the table with an aromatic dish of what looked like chicken.

“That smells delicious Carlo,” Caroline said, looking at her plate.

“Fagian alle Olive,” he said smiling. “It’s pheasant in pancetta, Marsala, and rosemary.” Carlo smiled, “my mamma

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used to cook this but I don’t think I ever get it to taste quite the same.”

Caroline looked at her plate, the meat was covered in a wrapping of pancetta, with black olives and a red wine sauce. The vegetables were lightly browned and glistening against a small bundle of green beans.

“It looks wonderful,” she said, and picked up her knife and fork..

Carlo also began to eat and they devoured the meal with enthusiasm. They discussed recipes and methods and food and Caroline found an enthusiastic epicurean with an extensive knowledge of both food and wine. She had not enjoyed a meal so much for as long as she could remember. Carlo too, appreciated her knowledge of Asian food and they agreed they should pursue outings to some of the restaurants Carlo knew of, but had not visited.

The pheasant was followed by bowls of strawberries from his garden, macerated in Cointreau and topped with mascarpone. They retired to the lounge and Carlo placed a large glass coffee pot onto the stove. The coffee aroma floated in the air. He served black coffee in small white cups with handles painted with a tiny finch in flight.

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“My Nonna gave me these,” Carlo said. “She knew I loved food and cooking. I treasure them.”

Caroline examined the tiny painted handles. Turning the cup around she said, “Did that go against the social norm?”

“Oh yes, you don’t know how much,” Carlo replied, his face intent. “It was a tough time for me as a boy. Fortunately it was a man’s job to bake the bread in the outdoor oven, so I just expanded on that; eventually even Nonno agreed that I made good food. That’s him hanging above the door on the way in,” he added.

He poured two glasses of cognac and set them on the coffee table. Caroline took a sip and sat back into the lounge as the brandy warmed her throat. Carlo joined her and their discussion turned to politics. Carlo relayed the escapades of Berlusconi and they engaged in resolving the world’s problems.

He brought the conversation back to Caroline. “Have you thought about what you are going to do?” he asked.

Caroline was thrown by the question that had been nagging at the back of her mind since her arrival in Italy. She hesitated and looked away. “No,” she said, after a pause. “I haven’t made any plans yet.”

“I don’t mean to pry,” Carlo put his hand over hers. “If there is anything I can help with, I am here.” His face softened. 208

Caroline felt the sincerity of his offer and the warmth of his hand over hers. She put her drink down and looked at him. “Carlo, thank you, you really are the kindest person. I’m so glad we met. I have so enjoyed your company.”

Caroline felt like she was babbling at him. She felt a rising panic as tears began to well behind her eyes.

Carlo leaned forward and put his arms around, her drawing her towards him. “Hey, hey, hey,” he said softly. “Everything is going to be OK, it will work out, you will see.”

Caroline felt foolish and embarrassed by her tears and comforted and attracted to his warmth all in the same moment. He continued to hold her and she stayed momentarily in his embrace before moving to look at his face.

“I’m sorry Carlo,” she said. “I feel foolish at being emotional; maybe it’s just the wine.”

Carlo sat back but kept his hand over hers on the couch. He looked into her eyes. “Yes, the wine. Ah, the wine.” He smiled gently at her. “The wine and the loss of your trust, and your boys being so far away, and your husband behaving badly, and not knowing your future and feeling angry and lost… and shall I go on?” He moved his hand and sat back on the couch.

“Caroline,” he began again. “You are doing fine. Just be yourself, give yourself time, you don’t need to do anything. 209

You can laugh, you can cry, you can go or stay, you are free to be sad or happy.” Carlo reached forward and kissed her on the cheek. “I want to get to know you, so I am selfish, I want you to stay.”

Caroline looked at him in surprise as car headlights flashed by the window. “Thank you,” she said, and added quickly, “I think that’s Susan arriving.”

They both looked towards the front of the house as a car motor was heard running; a minute later there was a knock at the front door. Carlo went out and let Susan in. Caroline stood in readiness to leave and Carlo took her jacket from the hall and handed it to her.

“You missed my Marsala-pheasant and olive,” he teased Susan.

“Oh no!” Susan lamented, throwing her hand to her forehead. “We had just plain old chicken.”

“He spoilt me entirely,” Caroline greeted Susan. “We’ve had a lovely time.”

Carlo looked pleased with the compliment and walked behind them to the front door.

“Just to show you it wasn’t a fluke, why don’t you come over next Sunday for lunch?” Carlo asked.

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“Sounds good to me,” Susan broke in. “Vince will be back then and we can all come.”

Caroline was relieved the acceptance was done on her behalf. She hugged Carlo at the front door, thanking him again for the evening.

He remained gracious, kissing her on both cheeks and hugging Susan before he opened the car door for her. They waved as they drove away.

Caroline looked back at the bottom of the drive and could just see the figure of Carlo standing in the faint light of the porch. She felt a slight pang.

Next morning both Susan and Caroline rose late and Caroline trundled out to the kitchen in her dressing gown to make breakfast. Susan joined her a few minutes later.

The pair sat at the dining table drinking their coffee in silence for a few minutes before Caroline said, “I have been thinking about the future a fair bit but I don’t really know what I want to do. Are you tired of me in your space?”

“Is that a projection Car?” Susan laughed.

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“Oh no, not at all,” Caroline protested. “I love being here and I know how hard it is sometimes to have relatives in your space for long periods.”

“No problem for me,” Susan replied. “In fact I have a project I need your help with; I was going to ask you today what you think.”

Susan poured them both another coffee and put some bread in the toaster before she sat at the table again. “You haven’t been inside the old barn yet but it has great potential to be a separate living space,” Susan continued. “I frequently have to entertain wine people, you know, buyers and exporters and the like. Sometimes they stay overnight with us. I would like to have a separate place for them to stay. Not all of them are people I really want in the house with us, although the majority are okay, sometimes it’s just difficult for lots of reasons.”

Caroline nodded as she got up to remove the toast and butter it for them both. She brought the plates to the table and Susan reached for the honey jar.

“It’s a big job but I would like to renovate the barn and turn it into a kind of flat. It’s big enough for two bedrooms and some of the plumbing is already there as it was used by the workers when we first arrived here.” Susan looked at Caroline.

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“How would you feel about helping me with the renovations and the furnishings?”

Caroline was thrilled with the prospect. She brightened immediately and launched into excited questions one after another.

Susan held up her hand and stopped her. “I take it that’s a yes? I’ve got some drawings you should look at. That will answer some of your questions,” she added.

Susan rose from the table and disappeared into her office. She returned with a folder and spread sheets of plans on the table. She and Caroline examined the plans, both talking rapidly.

“This is a fabulous idea, Susan,” Caroline enthused. “I would love to get my teeth into this. Imagine what we could do with it!”

“It’ll be a lot of hard slog Car,” Susan cautioned.

“Just what I need,” Caroline replied. “It’ll give me time to clear my head and keep me fit.”

The two women scribbled on the plans with pencils and pulled various home fashion magazines from the bookshelf to flip through designs.

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“We are getting a bit ahead of ourselves here,” Caroline said. “Let’s go and look at the barn first.”

They pulled on warm slippers from the hearth and walked to the barn across the bright cold morning. Caroline pulled her dressing gown around her against the chill and they pushed into the barn through a heavy wooden door.

The barn ceiling was held up with eight huge oak pillars. The beams held rigid against the roof and slotted neatly into a main beam that stretched the length of the room. At one end a doorway led to another room, smaller than the first that Susan explained had been grain storage in former times. A large wooden door led to the outside, onto another paved area that was walled on two sides with sand coloured rock. The end of this area opened out to a view of the surrounding land. Caroline caught sight of an old stone well sitting downhill from the barn where the land sloped gently towards a shallow valley. In one corner of the paved area a gnarled olive tree leaned over the rock wall. Large iron rings were embedded in the rock at even spaces and looked like they could have been used for tethering animals. Along the bottom a small stone trough ran the length of the wall. The floor in the main room was laid with flagstones set in a large circle that surrounded a round stone plate set in the centre. Later alterations had put in windows that looked out

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onto the fields on one side and some taps and a sink against the end wall. Caroline was enchanted.

“Wow Susan, this is fantastic!” she exclaimed. “Will it cost a lot?” She turned to Susan.

“Well, Carlo knows a few carpenters and tradespeople that are reliable and he thinks we could do it for a reasonable price,” Susan replied. “Especially if we did some of the work ourselves.”

She looked quizzically at Caroline.

“I’m in,” Caroline said.

The women walked around the barn speculating and planning before pulling the door shut behind them. They stood outside the barn discussing the possibilities, the sun warming their legs through their pyjamas. They were engrossed in debate when Carlo’s car swung into the drive and pulled up beside them.

Carlo wound down the window and called, “Good morning, just in time for the fashion parade.”

The two women laughed. Caroline wrapped her dressing gown around her and tidied her hair.

“Sorry it’s so early,” Carlo called from the car window, “but could you have Banjo today? My cousin called me very

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early and I have to go over there. Don’t know what time I’ll be back, there’s a problem with some equipment.”

Susan walked to the car. “Of course, we’d love to have him.”

Carlo opened the door and Banjo bounded out and ran to Susan to jump up at her. Carlo handed Susan Banjo’s lead, waved to them both; turned the car around and drove off.

Banjo was happy to be with Susan. He ran ahead of them to the house and waited at the door with some impatient barking, to be let in.

“Not my best outfit,” Caroline mused.

“Oh, so it matters?” Susan queried, a smile on her face.

Caroline escaped into the house and didn’t respond to the question. Susan followed with Banjo and they continued to talk with enthusiasm about the barn renovations.

* * *

Cameron Gordon opened the passenger door and called to Jason, “Jump in mate, looks like we’re going the same way.”

Jason complied. He climbed in beside Cameron and pulled the seat belt around him as the car pulled away from the kerb.

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“I must have missed you,” Cameron began. “Sorry about that, I got caught up in something with another member.”

Jason didn’t miss the inclusion and he remained silent for want of a response.

Cameron continued on in a hearty tone, “Where do you live Jase? It’s no trouble to drop you home; I’m probably going past anyway.”

“Watervale,” Jason said, looking straight ahead and already panicking about Cameron knowing where he lived. “Seaview Drive,” he added, a sense of helplessness setting in.

“No worries mate, I know Seaview; just have to swing by a mate’s house on the way, is that okay with you, only take a few minutes.” Cameron smiled across at him.

Jason felt less uncomfortable knowing he wasn’t the only matter for attention. In an effort to control the conversation he asked quickly, “Do you do weights?”

Cameron looked momentarily surprised, and smiled again at Jason. “Yes, I do,” he replied. “I bet you do too.”

“I used to but I haven’t done any for a while.” Jason relaxed a little.

“Well you look like you have,” Cameron laughed.

Jason warmed a little to the compliment.

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Cameron went on, “We have a gym here in town Jace, you can use it at any time; it’s free for CGA members.”

The idea of the gym appealed to Jason. “Where is the gym?” he asked.

“It’s down in Tobin Street,” Cameron replied. “Near the swimming pool, do you know that area?”

Jason knew the swimming pool but couldn’t remember the gym.

Cameron pursued the topic. “Brand new this year mate, best equipment in town.”

“I’ll go and have a look at it sometime,” Jason said.

“Hey mate, I’ll take you there now, I’ve got time. I could sign you up while we’re there,” Cameron enthused.

Jason’s doubts about Cameron began to slip away under the flattery of his interest and the offer of the gym. “I don’t want to put you out,” he began.

“No trouble mate,” Cameron interrupted. “You’re going to like this.”

The pastor swung the car around and they travelled back along the highway until they reached the edge of the more built up area. Cameron turned into a side street and began to weave in a series of short cuts through the town until they reached a

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large square building with a modern façade that stood out from the older buildings in the street. Cameron turned into a broad carpark and stopped in a park marked CPG on a small wall plate on the fence in front of them. He climbed from the car and Jason followed him into the gym. The carpark entrance to the gym opened into a reception area with an office and counter staffed by a young woman in gym clothes. The wall behind the receptionist was hung with photos of mostly male athletes and body builders in various poses.

Cameron introduced Jason to the young woman behind the counter as Nadia and requested she fill out a membership form for him before wandering into the gym proper. Nadia took Jason’s details and told him a membership card would be sent to his address. She gave him instructions on the swipe-in system that allowed access to the gym building and equipment then called over a PA system for an instructor to come to the front desk.

Cameron appeared beside Jason again and Nadia smiled up at him from behind her desk.

“I’ve just called Jim to introduce Jason to the equipment,” she chirped.

“No need sweetie,” Cameron smiled at her. “I promised Jason I would show him around.”

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Jason thanked Nadia and he and Cameron walked into the gym exercise area. The gym was busy with people walking, running and exercising on numerous pieces of equipment. Along the wall in front of the walking machines a bank of LCD televisions screened various programs. Some showed soapies, some sporting events, one, a home renovation program. Off in a small side section two men were boxing against punching bags hanging from the ceiling. The sweaty smell of gym clothes wafted through the room and Jason’s attention was drawn to a young woman in brief shorts and a halter top lying on a bench lifting weights. A youth in a track suit with the CGA logo reached down and moved another weight closer to her side.

“Nice huh?” Cameron breathed in his ear.

Jason laughed and nodded and Cameron slapped him on the back. “I’ll give you an intro later, her name’s Rhianna.”

Cameron showed him all around the gym and introduced him to several instructors. Everyone was friendly and accommodating and Jason felt pleased when Cameron introduced him as a “weights man” to some of the young men.

Jason was beginning to enjoy himself. He was impressed with the gym and the energy of the place buoyed him up. He felt a sort of companionship with Cameron and felt good when

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Cameron joked with him. He didn’t seem such a bad bloke after all.

Cameron bid farewell to the staff and they drove through the city again to Jason’s home at Watervale. Cameron pulled the car to a halt in the Davis driveway and as Jason opened the door to alight, Cameron said, “A few of us were thinking of taking the boat out to Lighthouse Rock next Sunday. Would you like to come?”

Jason was surprised at the invitation. He answered without hesitating. His original misgivings about Cameron had slipped away at the gym and now he wanted to be included.

“Yeah,” he replied, his confidence returning, “sounds good to me.”

Jason got out of the car and peered back in the open window.

Cameron called to him, “We’ll go straight after the service, bring your swimmers and runners, food supplied so don’t worry about anything else.”

Cameron turned to begin reversing out of the drive, and then braked. “Don’t forget the service is a 9am start.” He reversed onto the road and drove away with a wave to Jason who stood watching him go.

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Jason waved back. He stood for moment thinking about the invitation. He had forgotten about the church. The invite meant he would have to go to church again. He felt a wave of discomfort that he pushed aside. Maybe it would be okay now. He decided not to think about it and went inside.

On Tuesday morning Jason and the other staff busied themselves restoring the office to its normal arrangement. The floors had already been cleaned by Nuncia and the computers were carried from upstairs back to their owners’ desks. The office staff rearranged the timetables and calendars for each staff member and tidied the desks and reception. The building still smelled of floodwater and the receptionist sprayed the room with a strong floral air freshener from the toilet.

At 11:30am two men dressed in dark suits with shiny leather shoes and smart ties arrived and disappeared into Robert Gray’s office. A short time later Henry Corbel also arrived and went into Robert’s office. Russell Robinson and Jason stood in the kitchen sharing a coffee and talking about the fact that Celeste and Judith Sumner were not at work and two strangers were in the office.

Jason called to Bradley Campbell. “Hey Brad, come in here mate.”

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Bradley left his desk and walked to the kitchen.

“What’s going on mate?” Jason asked.

Bradley looked a little wary then shrugged. “Dunno.”

“Who are the suits?” Jason continued.

Bradley looked around the room then lowered his voice. “Cops I think.”

Jason looked surprised. “Cops,” he exclaimed.

Bradley held up his hand to quieten Jason. But Jason urged him on. “What are they here for?”

“Dunno.” Bradley looked about to say more but decided against it and turned to go back to his desk.

Jason turned to Russell but Russell had turned to the sink to empty his coffee mug. He too left the kitchen and returned to his desk. Jason walked to Russell’s desk and leaned down so that the receptionist could not hear him. “What do you think mate?” he asked.

Russell didn’t look at him but muttered, “Dunno mate. Funny thing that Celeste’s not here though.”

Jason looked about the office as though to catch the reason for the unusual visitors. Russell avoided looking at Jason and continued to arrange things on his desk.

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“What’s Corbel doing here,” Jason nodded towards Robert’s office.

Russell looked up and indicated to Jason to go back to the kitchen. The pair walked to the kitchen and stood behind the door. Russell began in a conspiratorial tone, “A weird thing happened the other day...” Russell relayed the story of his call from Robert Gray to the coffee shop and the blood nose and his visit to the hospital. “I’m telling you mate, it was fuckin’ weird, I reckon that’s why the cops are here.”

“What do you think happened?” Jason was excited by the intrigue.

“I reckon someone thumped him for some reason,” he replied.

“You reckon?” Jason queried.

The pair discussed the event for a few more minutes then returned to their desks. Reception had put piles of opened mail into their in trays and Jason reluctantly began to read his documents. Russell was flipping through the sports pages of the weekend paper.

There was an air of disturbance in the office and no-one could settle to their work. Celeste was not coming back until Thursday and Robert Gray had a very obvious black eye and swollen nose. Judith Sumner had not come back and there was 224

no phone call or information about where she was. The women in the office decided that Judith Sumner was not at work because her husband was in the SES and maybe she was assisting. They speculated about Celeste and the police. It was unheard of that she was not at work. The police had introduced themselves at the front counter and the women wondered at their presence. It was not long before they connected the two events and by lunch time, they had agreed that the Celeste must be in trouble of some kind. By late afternoon they had Celeste avoiding arrest by staying away from work. By four o’clock they all agreed that Thursday couldn’t come soon enough and her heinous crime would be revealed.

The two detectives emerged from the office after lunch and left quietly, carrying boxes of documents. Henry Corbel stayed on for another hour before striding out of the office with an expression of fury on his face. Celeste’s life was looking grim, the women agreed as they left the office.

On Thursday morning Celeste arrived at the office to be greeted by a stony silence from the reception staff and whisperings from her colleagues. The two detectives arrived again and were shown into a small office located at the back of the building. No-one enquired after Celeste or her health or her

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family. About an hour after they had arrived the detectives asked that Celeste be shown into the room they were using.

Celeste was aware of their presence and walked from her desk to the interview room with a folder of documents under her arm and an air of calm. Every eye in the building watched her.

She entered the small room and sat in the chair the detective indicated. The two detectives sat at a small table. One had a pen and writing pad in front of him. She introduced herself to the two men whose names and titles were Detective Sr Constable Jimmy West and Detective Sergeant John Fontaine. They explained the reason for their presence in a polite and pleasant manner and asked Celeste if she would mind answering a few questions. Celeste felt no concern and agreed to answer their questions.

“Ms Moon,” Detective West began.

Celeste interrupted, “Call me Celeste, it’s easier.”

Detective West smiled at her and agreed it would be easier. He stretched his legs under the desk and relaxed back in his chair. “It has been reported to us that amounts of money are missing from the accounts of two of your clients, can you tell us anything about that?”

“What are the names of the accounts?” Celeste queried.

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Celeste was going to make them work for their salaries, she was aware of what they were asking, but she decided she was not going to be drawn into any trick questions. She didn’t know if they had interviewed anyone else in the office. When she found their card tucked into her door upon her return from the farm, she had phoned the Police station as requested and had agreed to the interview. She had also contacted her solicitor and sought advice. Celeste had asked the detective that the interview take place at her office and not at the Police station as she had already taken a few days off work. She felt, she explained, that the interview should proceed in company time.

Detective West watched her face and said, “Corbel and Schlesinger and Corbel, there may be others.”

“I don’t think you will find others,” Celeste replied. “I have some documents you may find helpful.” Celeste leaned forward and laid the folder on the table. “I have accounted for all the missing amounts; times, dates and author of the entries. You will find the missing amounts differ but the pattern of removal is regular – once per month in most cases in the last three years, and more frequently in the last twelve months.”

The two men looked surprised and immediately opened the folder and examined the information. Detective Fontaine read

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through the figures for a few minutes then whistled under his breath before recovering to look impassively at Celeste

“When did you know about these missing amounts?”

“When I took these files home during the flood,” Celeste replied then continued. “I haven’t worked closely on these files for a couple of years but Mr Gray asked me to take home some work. I knew they would be behind schedule because Robinson is always late. When he is behind it holds up my work. So I took them home to catch up.”

“Who is Robinson?” Jimmy West asked.

“A colleague who works in the major accounts section,” said Celeste.

“Did you report the missing amounts to anyone?” Fontaine asked.

“Yes,” Celeste responded. “I told Mr Gray in an email because I thought there was just a mix up with the file names at first.”

“When did you know that it wasn’t just a mix up?” Fontaine pressed.

“When I went through all the entries trying to get a correct total,” Celeste said evenly.

“What day was that?” Fontaine watched her face.

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Celeste leaned forward and took a wad of papers from the back of the file. She flipped through the wad and pulled out a copy of an email. She read aloud the email, the time and the date then handed the paper to Fontaine.

He read the email copy then put the paper back on the table. “Did anyone else know about the missing money?”

“Mr Gray,” Celeste repeated.

“Anyone else?” Fontaine leaned forward.

“I don’t know,” Celeste answered. “I suggested to Mr Gray that he contact Robinson; I don’t know if he did. My computer battery went flat and I had no power.”

“Did you know before this date, that money was missing from accounts?” Fontaine’s tone changed to accusatory.

“I have suspected Robinson for some time. There have been discrepancies in his work,” Celeste explained.

“Did you report these?” Fontaine continued in the same tone.

“Yes.” Celeste leaned over to the table and took the wad of papers again. She rifled through them and pulled a small bundle clipped with a paper clip and took them apart. She placed the papers face up on the table and lifted them one at a time, reading each day and date and time and year that she had

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reported discrepancies in the accounts. She put the papers in order and handed them to Fontaine.

“I reported each time to Mr Gray,” Celeste said without emotion.

“What did he do?” Fontaine leaned back in his chair.

“He ignored me,” Celeste said quietly.

“Why do you think he ignored you?” Jimmy West chimed in.

“You would have to ask him that,” Celeste responded.

“You mentioned earlier that you suspected Robinson because there were discrepancies in his accounting, can you tell me about that?” Fontaine took charge again.

Celeste explained her many encounters with Robinson over his sloppy work and the manner in which he presented at the office.

The two detectives listened with interest. West took notes.

“If Robinson did make mistakes in his work, do you think that it was deliberate?” Fontaine asked carefully.

“If it was deliberate it wouldn’t be a mistake, would it?” Celeste asked.

Fontaine was taken aback. He paused for a moment then reworded the question. “Do you think Robinson was 230

deliberately hiding missing amounts in the accounts?” Fontaine asked.

“Yes.” Celeste responded.

“Why do you think he would do that?” Fontaine was really trying it on.

Celeste hesitated momentarily then said firmly, looking at Fontaine, “Robinson has a gambling problem.”

The men looked at each other and Fontaine said, “How do you know that?”

“Detective,” Celeste began looking at Fontaine, “What beer does Detective West drink?”

Fontaine was thrown for a moment then he responded with humour. “He drinks West End of course,” he laughed.

“How do you know that?” Celeste asked.

“We work together,” Fontaine looked at West.

“Exactly.” Celeste leaned back and folded her arms.

Jimmy West laughed and said, “Fair enough Celeste.”

Fontaine began again. “Would you be prepared to give a statement in writing regarding the issues we’ve talked about today?”

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Celeste took a couple of pages from the pile of papers and handed it to Fontaine. “Read that and let me know if you need anything else,” she said.

Fontaine read the pages and handed them to West.

Celeste waited for Jimmy West to finish. He handed the pages back to Fontaine.

Fontaine gathered the papers from the table. “Would you be happy to sign your statement Celeste?” Fontaine asked.

“Of course,” Celeste said without emotion.

Celeste reached down and signed the statement she had carefully written. Fontaine then also signed the statement and dated it.

“Thank you Celeste, You have been very helpful. We won’t need anything more from you for now. Can we have these papers?”

“Yes, they’re yours,” Celeste said. “I have copies.”

Celeste turned and left the room and walked back through the office to her desk. She collected her coffee cup, went to the kitchen and made herself a coffee then took it back to her desk. She took a long sip of coffee; opened a word document on her computer and commenced writing her resignation.

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About thirty minutes later Robert Gray asked Robinson to go to the small room. A short while later Robinson was escorted by the two detectives from the office. At four o’clock that afternoon he was formerly charged at the Police station with twenty seven counts of larceny for personal benefit and three counts of fraud.

Robert Gray was the next to be interviewed. He left the office telling the staff he would be back in an hour. Four hours later he was still being interviewed by Police. His solicitor asked for his release from the police station as no charges had been laid. He was advised not to answer any further questions. He didn’t return to work that afternoon.

Celeste phoned Henry Corbel late in the afternoon.

Henry Corbel picked up the phone. “Corbel”

“Mr Corbel, its Celeste Moon, could I make a time to talk with you?”

Henry’s reply was short. “I have time now.”

“I would rather speak to you personally Mr Corbel,” Celeste was firm.

“Can you tell me what this is about?” Corbel stalled.

“Yes Mr Corbel, it’s about my resignation from Financial and General.”

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Corbel fell silent, then recovered quickly. “Would you like to come to my office Celeste?” he asked.

“Yes, thank you, shall I come now?” Celeste pressed her advantage.

“Yes, now will be fine.” Corbel added, “You know where we are on Stokes Street?

“Yes.” Celeste didn’t waste words.

She hung up the phone, picked up her bag and the folder she had used with the detectives and walked to reception.

“I will be out for a short while,” Celeste informed the administrative staff.

The office manager looked up from her desk and said curtly, “Does Mr Gray know you will be out?”

“I don’t imagine so,” Celeste replied as she turned to leave.

“I will have to inform him,” the manager insisted to Celeste’s back.

“Good luck.” Celeste waved her arm without turning as she left the through the main doors and walked out onto the sunny street. She walked the two blocks to Henry Corbel’s office and announced herself at his reception desk. The woman behind the counter showed her to an office down the hallway and knocked tentatively before a male voice invited her in.

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Henry Corbel sat behind his large polished wooden desk with a pile of papers and a laptop computer in front of him. The office was sparsely furnished with two chairs set opposite each other on a beige rug. A small coffee table sat between the chairs. Behind Henry a painting of a European city hung in the rim of shadow created by the desk lamp that sat at his elbow. The painting seemed sad, Celeste thought.

Corbel waved her to a chair as he stood up and came around the desk. He sat opposite Celeste in the other chair and asked his secretary to bring a pot of coffee. He wore a well- tailored brown suit with a cream shirt and striped brown tie. He stretched his legs before crossing one leg over the other and sitting back in his chair. His polished tan shoes, neat clipped moustache and clean fingernails made Celeste think of the army. Celeste leaned forward and placed an envelope on the table.

“This is my resignation from Financial and General,” she announced. “I have sent copies to the other board members and to Mr Gray.”

“Well Celeste, this is something of a surprise,” Corbel began. “It seems to be a week of surprises,” he continued.

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Celeste remained silent. There was a knock at the door and the secretary entered with a tray of coffee and biscuits with two cups in ornate saucers and a matching milk jug. She poured the coffee and quietly left. Corbel picked up his coffee and chose a biscuit from the plate.

“Please help yourself,” he gestured to Celeste.

“Thank you but I’ve just had a coffee,” she replied.

Corbel finished chewing the piece of biscuit and placed the remainder in his saucer. “Now Celeste,” he began again slowly, “have you thought about this resignation? It’s a big decision.”

“Yes I have,” she replied matter of factly.

“What made you decide?” Corbel asked.

“It’s time for me to move on,” Celeste responded.

“You know you are a valued employee Celeste,” Corbel continued. “I’ve always thought it’s a pity you didn’t make more of yourself in the company, you seem to have the talent; your work has been quite solid I’m told.”

Celeste felt the blood rise to her face. She looked at the rug and the polished tan shoes and felt an urge to upend the coffee table and the flowery cups and biscuits. She took a deep breath and looked squarely at Corbel.

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“How do you imagine I would know I am a valued employee Mr Corbel?” Celeste began in a quiet tone.

“Well Celeste, you have been with us a long time, we’ve kept you on because we value your work.” Corbel sounded confident, even amused. A small smile played about his face.

“Are you suggesting I should be grateful because you’ve ‘kept me on’, as you say?”

“Well no, no not really, we of course employed you because your work was satisfactory.” Corbel was puzzled.

“How do you usually reward an employee whose work is satisfactory Mr Corbel?” Celeste could barely contain her sarcasm. She watched Corbel’s face closely.

He avoided her gaze and busied himself with his coffee. Annoyance crept into his voice.

“The usual way is promotion, my dear.”

“I have worked for this company for twenty years, Mr Corbel; I have never had a promotion. Why is that?” Celeste queried.

Corbel was clearly annoyed at the questioning. He shifted in his chair and straightened his tie. “Well,” he began with a patronising note to his voice, “there were talented young men coming up the ranks and new blood is good in our trade.”

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“Are these the same talented young men who have stolen thousands of dollars from the company? Or the mates who have covered for them?” Celeste was warming up.

Corbel’s face flushed, he was not accustomed to anyone challenging him. He forced a smile to his face. “Oh I wouldn’t put too much stead in that little office incident; clearly someone has made a few errors,” he chided.

He went on. “Robert Gray will deal with that; don’t worry your little head about it. It will all calm down and we’ll go on as before.”

Corbel leaned back in his chair and smiled at Celeste. “Now, what do you need to know about your resignation?”

“Oh, I need in writing my superannuation payment and an agreement on calculated interest accrued and a certificate of service. My solicitors have drawn up the papers,” Celeste replied firmly.

Corbel looked surprised but did not allow his chagrin to show. “Of course you will receive all your entitlements as appropriate.”

“I would like that done today,” Celeste pushed on.

“I will inform the accountant today.” Corbel felt triumphant. “The quicker we get this formalised the better,” he added. Corbel rose to his feet to signal the meeting had ended. 238

Celeste stood up and indicated to the folder of papers. “The accountant has a copy of everything in there that is needed,” she said. “He’s working on it now.”

Corbel could barely contain his anger. He ushered Celeste to the door and as they walked up the hallway to the entrance, he attempted to reinstate his authority. “It’s not the best time to leave right now, we are thinking of floating the company on the stock market. You probably wouldn’t know this Celeste, but the company made a tidy little profit this year.”

Celeste turned to Corbel as she left the building and smiled. “You’re going to need it,” she said, as she walked away.

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12.

Sunday dawned with a clear blue sky and the air already warming. Jason awoke and stretched. He lay thinking about the day then realised he had to go to church. He got up and showered and dressed in casual light slacks and t-shirt. He threw a pair of shorts and sneakers into a bag along with his swimmers and a towel. His parents were up and having breakfast when he came into the kitchen. Jason’s mother put toast in front of him at the table and took some scrambled eggs from the stove.

“Want them on the toast love?” she asked.

“Yeah, thanks mum,” Jason replied as he poured coffee from the pot on the table.

“Looking forward to the trip love?” his mother asked.

Jason nodded at her, his mouth full of food. He continued eating. He didn’t want her to ask about church.

“Do you need lunch, love?” His mother looked for an opportunity to engage him.

“Nah, all supplied,” Jason answered.

“Got your togs, love?” she persisted.

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Bruce Davis looked over the top of his newspaper and snapped at his wife. “For God’s sake Pam, he’s not a baby; the boy knows what he needs.”

Pamela Davis poured herself another cup of tea from her own pot and sat in silence for a while. Jason winked at her and she smiled back, pulling a face in the direction of Bruce.

“I might not be back til late,” he said to no one in particular.

“Will I keep your dinner love?” his mother asked.

“Let him catch a bloody fish,” Bruce snapped in exasperation.

Jason laughed, he flipped the bottom of his father’s newspaper and asked, “Whose team got thrashed then?”

“Yeah, alright, alright smarty pants.”

Pamela sighed. She leaned forward to read the back of her husband’s paper.

Jason got up from the table and disappeared into the bedroom. He returned a few minutes later with his bag and said goodbye to his parents before banging the front door behind him. He walked the short distance to the bus stop and sat on the seat. He tapped his foot incessantly on the pavement and checked his bag several times to reassure himself of its contents. He checked his image in the reflection from his mobile phone

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screen and ran his fingers through his hair. The bus arrived and Jason boarded. He sat beside an elderly man who talked about his knee operation all the way to the terminal.

Jason arrived at the Great Assembly church and was welcomed in the usual manner by a middle aged woman.

Joshua was waiting for him inside the porch and he greeted Jason with enthusiasm. “Hi Jason,” he shook Jason’s hand. “Put your bag out the back mate, you’ll see the others there.”

“Thanks Josh,” Jason said.

Jason walked to the front of the church and up the steps to the little room at the side of the stage. He opened the door and saw several sports bags lined up against the wall. He dropped his bag beside them and returned to the main hall. A small group of young people were standing at the foot of the stage. He recognised Rhianna, the girl from the gym. She turned and smiled at him as he approached.

“Hi Jason, isn’t it?” she said.

“Hi Rhianna.” Jason remembered her name.

Rhianna introduced Jason to others in the group and they talked together briefly before the service began. They took their places in the pews at the front of the hall and the band began a rocky instrumental that continued until the warden announced the presence of Cameron P. Gordon. Rhianna sat beside Jason. 242

He glanced at her from the corner of his eye. She had long blonde hair that was pushed over one shoulder and hung over her breasts. She was suntanned and looked very fit. She wore a white top tucked into her tight green skirt. The CGA logo was sewn onto the pocket and the buttons on the top opened to reveal a suntanned cleavage. Jason could feel the warmth of her body down his side and a faint waft of perfume drifted now and then into his space.

Rhianna leaned close to his ear and whispered, “Can’t wait to be on the boat.”

Jason smiled at her and nodded. He wasn’t sure whether it was OK to talk or not. People were clapping as Cameron walked on stage and took up his customary position; legs apart in tight black trousers and hips thrust slightly forward.

“Good morning friends, who are you here for today?” he boomed.

Jason did not remember the sermon or who was drawn from the congregation onto the stage. He could only feel Rhianna beside him and think about the coming boat trip. After the service they gathered together in a small group outside the building.

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Josh called out their names from a list on his mobile phone. “Rhianna, Toby, Jason, Brett, Joanne, Tia, Damian, Brent, Amanda.”

Josh looked at each person as he called the name. When he was satisfied that all were present, he said, “Great, let’s go guys.”

They carried their bags through the carpark to a minibus parked behind the church. Jason followed Rhianna on board and they sat opposite each other in side seats. Rhianna smiled at Jason as she chatted to the other young women. There was an air of excitement as they proceeded onto the road, Josh expertly steering through the church traffic and onto the highway to the coast.

Jason turned to Brett who sat in the next seat and asked, “Where’s Cameron?”

“Oh, he drives his own car down,” he said.

Rhianna looked at Jason and joined the conversation. “More importantly,” she laughed, “he brings all the goodies.”

There was something in what she said that made some of the others laugh. Jason smiled, a little uncertain as to what the joke was.

The journey to the coast was uneventful and the group chatted to each other in an easy relaxed manner. Jason was 244

included in the conversation and he warmed to the group energy and anticipation. Josh swung the bus onto a bypass and they travelled over a long bridge across a waterway that opened into a small bay. Boats were moored in neat rows at a long marina. Further out in the bay yachts floated in long rows at their moorings. The bay looked serene and sparkling in the morning sun.

They alighted from the bus onto the marina carpark and followed Josh along a pier to a large modern power fishing boat. It had the name Lady Dianna written in gold on the bow. Josh ushered them on board and they stowed their bags in lockers below the deck. A second below deck section was elaborate and elegant with polished wood floors and a large lounge area with leather furniture and a cocktail bar set in front of a very large drinks cabinet. The wall contained an extensive wine rack filled with bottles. Behind the bar Jason could see a commercial size fridge filled with food on one side and a variety of beer and wine on the other. The group climbed back up to the deck and made their way to the front of the boat where Cameron was waiting for them. He was dressed in white slacks and t-shirt with a nautical motif on the front. He had a small white and blue cap set at an angle on his head.

“Welcome aboard,” he boomed, “Everyone set to go?”

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Josh answered for the group as he picked up the mooring line and dropped it back around the mooring post. He pushed the boat off the pier with his foot as the motor started. The big boat reversed slowly out of the mooring and turned slowly out into the bay. They idled across the bay until the sea opened out before them.

Cameron steered the boat into the open water then called over his shoulder. “Hang on folks.”

He opened the throttle on the panel in front of him and the boat rose up out of the water as a deep throated roar came from the exhausts. Jason was thrilled with the acceleration and the feeling of being in some powerful company. He hung onto the decking rail and felt the wind and the spray in his face and on his safety jacket. He looked across at Rhianna hanging on in like fashion and they both laughed out loud. Rhianna took one hand from the rail and waved to him. Jason hung on with both hands and nodded back to her.

The boat ploughed on across the open water until they reached an inlet where the shoreline stood stark against the bright blue sky. Cameron throttled back and the boat moved into the shore and pulled up alongside a wooden jetty that ran far out into the water. The jetty rested on giant wooden piles that held up a thick logged boardwalk with a rusted narrow rail

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line in the centre that ran its length. The white shore was deserted.

The group changed into their swimmers in two small rooms off the main lounge. The room where Jason and the men changed had a bunk bed and towel racks and various hooks to hang clothing. He could hear the women laughing in the other room. One by one they emerged from the rooms and climbed back to the deck where they stepped from the boat across a small clip-on gangplank Josh had placed against the jetty.

They made their way to the beach and threw themselves into the surf, laughing and splashing each other and diving into the small waves. Jason felt exhilarated in the company of his new friends; the sun on his pale skin was warm and the sea inviting. When Cameron arrived on the beach he carried a bag of oranges and drink containers in an Esky that he invited them to share. A short time later he walked down to the water’s edge and they splashed him and pushed him into the waves and romped around him like children. Cameron joined in the fun and dived to grab both Jason’s feet and upend him into the surf. Josh came to Jason’s aid and they pummelled Cameron with rugby type tackles until they dragged him down under the water. He came up spluttering and called to the women for help. The young women put up a mild battle on his behalf until they all

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called it quits and headed to the sand where they collapsed onto their towels in the warm sun.

Rhianna placed her towel diagonally opposite Jason and lay with her head on the small of his back. “I’ve got my pillow,” she said.

Jason could feel her warmth through her wet hair and he lay still. He didn’t want her to move.

“You’re going to have an interesting shaped suntan, Jace,” Toby called, tossing a piece of his orange peel at Rhianna.

The others laughed and the conversations turned to other matters. Tia was lying with her head on Cameron’s legs and Jason noticed that he pushed her hair back from her face and later stroked her head a couple of times. Jason was surprised. Tia was talking about her uni exams and what she had chosen to study in second semester.

Joanne joined in, “Do you have to do any criminal law subjects?”

“No, not ’til final year,” Tia replied.

The conversation wavered between study and sport and the coming concert by the band Hot Fish. Jason listened to the conversation looking for an opportunity to add something interesting but the sport they talked about was tennis; Hot Fish was unknown to him and the last time he studied was more than 248

five years ago. He remained silent feeling Rihanna’s head on his back. Rhianna came to his rescue.

“Do you drive Jace?” She asked.

Jason was able to tell them about the loss of his car and his rescue by the SES. He became the centre of attention as they listened and asked questions about what it felt like to be inside the sinking car. Jason wished he had the photo of him standing beside the sleek black vehicle but his wallet was still on the boat. Toby made jokes about water skiing and army ducks and the group joined in banter about the flood. They all agreed Jason should take them out in his new car when the insurance came through. He felt a new level of inclusion and basked momentarily in this membership.

Rhianna sat up and shifted her towel to lie alongside Jason. She leaned over and whispered to him, “I hope you’ll take me for a ride first Jace.”

Jason smiled at her without moving his face off the towel. His heart thudded. “Okay,” was all he could manage.

The sun was almost overhead when the group decided on a second swim. Cameron declared that he and Tia would go back to the boat and get lunch ready and they could come and eat at one o’clock. He suggested they might like to take a walk along 249

the cliffs and show Joanna and Jason and Damian the walking track and the lighthouse.

They swam and frolicked in the sea before taking the walk to the lighthouse. A small track from the beach led uphill through stubby banksias and grevillea ground-covers before the start of wooden sleeper steps that wound around a hill to a steel fence that enclosed the lighthouse. The walk was steep and demanding and they sat at the top to get their breaths back.

Rhianna stood beside Jason looking out over the ocean. “Great isn’t it,” she said.

“Yeah, you can see the boat from here if you look down there,” Jason replied, looking down at the boat far below them.

He felt her brush against his side and he leaned slightly towards her. She didn’t move away and they stayed close for a few moments before Toby joined them.

“Who’s gonna jump?” he said and laughed out loud.

“You first!” Rhianna was quick off the mark.

The trio all laughed together and the moment Jason was savouring was lost to the sound of the waves crashing on the rocks below. The others stood beside them now and all marvelled at the view. Overhead seagulls circled the lighthouse and disappeared below them into the cliff face. They stood

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leaning on the fence and chatting for some time before beginning the return journey.

On the walk down the cliff path Jason was acutely aware of Rhianna walking in front of him. He watched the back of her neck and the backs of her smooth suntanned legs; and once when she turned to look back, he caught sight of the rounded bare edge of her breasts against her bikini top. He wanted desperately to press himself against her, to kiss her, to touch her breasts; his breath sharpened.

When they reached the end of the path they ran as one to the water and plunged in. The climb to the lighthouse and the refreshing relief of the sea increased their hunger and everyone was ready for lunch. Josh looked at his watch and as it was almost one o’clock they decided to head back to the boat. Jason and Rhianna were still in the water and Joanne was drying herself by the water’s edge. Rhianna swam to where Jason was floating and splashed water in his face. He sprang to life and lunged at her as she attempted to swim away. Jason caught her and they sunk under the water together amid flailing arms and legs. He felt her smooth body against his chest as they surfaced, spluttering and laughing. They were closer to the shore now and Jason sat in the shallows as Rhianna dog paddled up beside

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him. She sat up in the shallow water, her leg resting against his. She looked towards the shore to where the group were getting their belongings to return to the boat. Jason felt her hand take his and before he could respond she had drawn his hand down between her legs and placed it on her crotch. She pushed her crotch against his hand and looked into his face.

“You’re cute,” she said, and jumped up out of the water and ran to the shore.

Jason felt himself harden in his swimmers. He couldn’t stand up in the water, so he sat for a moment looking at the others. This had happened so quickly; he was shocked and excited. Rhianna was on the beach rubbing her hair dry with her towel. He finally stood up and walked slowly to the beach. He followed Rhianna onto the jetty and walked beside her along the boardwalk.

She walked close to him and said in a low voice that the others could not hear, “There’s more for you if you want it.”

“I want it,” Jason blurted out.

Toby turned around and looked over his shoulder at him then at Rhianna.

“Lunch, yeah me too,” Rhianna said. “I’m starving.”

Toby turned back and continued walking with the group

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Jason held his towel in front of his shorts and walked the rest of the way in silence. Rhianna chatted to the others as they speculated about the lunch menu.

The lunch, which was served on the deck under a shaded striped awning, was a fine spread of grilled chicken pieces in an Asian marinade and hot potatoes in foil wrappers with butter and sour cream and a sprinkle of chives. Huge salad bowls were filled with green salad loaded with olives and tomato and fetta cheese. There were slices of rockmelon and watermelon and mango on large plastic plates and trays of warmed bread rolls.

A man who introduced himself as Stefan and who was dressed in a striped apron with a chef’s cap on his head served the dishes and pointed out where to get the plates and the utensils.

The grouped tucked into the food in an atmosphere of conviviality and fun. Cameron appeared belatedly from below deck and seemed surprised at the delicious spread. Tia appeared a short while later in a tank top and shorts with her hair tied in a ponytail. She too looked surprised at the food. Cameron encouraged the group to enjoy themselves and then called Stefan to his side. Stefan disappeared below deck and reappeared a short while later with a tray of glasses filled with

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beer and wine. He walked amongst the group offering the beverages to each.

Jason and Rhianna both took a beer from the tray and toasted each other. They leaned together over the rail and peered at the ocean below as they ate and drank. Some of the others had taken their food and drink below to the billiard room. Joanne and Tia were lounging on banana beds placed strategically in the sun at the front of the boat.

Cameron was standing at the back of the boat within Jason’s view and was watching a fishing trawler out to sea.

A small motor boat was heading in to shore. Jason watched as the boat came in to the jetty and tied up behind the Lady Dianna. An Asian man wearing faded jeans and a striped T- shirt climbed onto the jetty carrying a plastic shopping bag. He waved to Cameron and Cameron moved out of sight to the other side of the boat. Jason turned and looked through the windows to the jetty. He watched as the man handed Cameron the bag. They chatted briefly and Cameron patted the man on the shoulder before he walked back to his boat, jumped on board from the jetty and a short while later throttled away back towards the trawler. Cameron went below with the bag.

“Who’s that guy?” Jason asked Rhianna.

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“Oh Cameron sometimes gets fish from the trawlers,” she replied. “Some of his mates are fishermen.”

Jason watched the little motor boat until it arrived at the trawler. A while later the trawler left the area towing the boat behind.

“Hey,” Rhianna leaned over to Jason, “wanna go downstairs?”

Jason nodded and they walked down the internal stairs to the lounge. Cameron passed them on the stairs and he winked at Jason. The pair spread themselves on the lounge and finished their beer.

Rhianna asked about his work and his car and in the middle of his second answer she kissed him on the mouth. Rhianna stood up from the couch and took Jason’s hand and led him into one of the small change rooms and locked the door behind them. She pulled him down onto the bed with her. Jason was beside himself with excitement, his erection pushing his swimmers out in front of him. Rhianna slipped out of her swimmers and helped him pull his off. She lay back on the bed and manoeuvred him between her legs. He felt the smoothness of her as she helped him slide his cock into her. His body had taken control of him and in an instant it was over. His only words were “Aaagh!”

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* * *

Detective West had no patience for Robert. Gray. He had evaded questions and seemed to be very out of touch with his staff. After hours of questions and statement taking West told Robert he was free to leave. No charges were laid. Detective West tossed the statement onto Detective Sergeant Fontaine’s desk.

“Fuckin’ wanker,” he said.

“What’s his story?” Fontaine asked.

“Too busy rootin’ his secretary wouldn’t have a clue,” he replied.

“Do you think he knew the money was missing?” Fontaine asked.

“Well, he knew right at the end because Celeste found the discrepancies, but I think he’s just slack. He tried to blame her too, just like Robinson,” West said emphatically.

“Seems Celeste is the only one at that place who knows what she’s doing,” Fontaine replied, looking briefly at the report.

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“Well, the auditors will find that out. She was kind enough to send them copies of all the records she gave to us,” West chuckled.

Detective West returned to his desk and picked up the brief for Robinson. “We’d better get a long adjournment,” he said, looking for confirmation from his boss. “We gonna oppose bail?”

“Yep,” Fontaine looked up from his computer. “He’ll get bail but we can ask for strict conditions. Get his passport and make him report downstairs every couple of days, that’ll keep the dopey prick on his toes.”

The two men went on with their work in silence.

When Robert left the police station he felt exhausted, harassed and angry at the world. He made the choice not to go back to work but turned the car in the direction of his home. The house was empty and cold. He felt angry that there was no-one to greet him, angry that he had no-one to talk the matter through with and outraged by the police questioning. He felt he had been treated like a common thief.

He cursed Robinson aloud. “Fucking idiot lump of lard.”

He went to the fridge and looked for something to eat but

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nothing in the meagre supply appealed. He had forgotten to shop again. The boys didn’t seem to remember either. He resented being responsible for the running of the household. He took bread from the bread crock and made himself a vegemite sandwich; then opened a stubby of beer from the fridge. He took the food and beer to the verandah and sat in the sun staring into the back garden.

The bread tasted stale and he pushed it to one side of the plate and took another sip of beer. He thought about the police interview and his anger returned. They had showed him reports of discrepancies dating back years. He knew the business would be in trouble when they told him Robinson had been charged. He thought about newspaper reports when Robinson attended court. Robert thought about his reputation; he was in charge, he was manager; would they name him too? He walked into his office and flicked on the computer and checked his email. There was a message from Henry Corbel asking him to phone.

Robert reluctantly picked up the phone and dialled Corbel at his office. He was put through to Henry Corbel’s extension.

“Corbel,” Henry said.

“Robert Gray Henry, returning your call.”

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“Ah yes, Robert, I’ve had that batty Celeste woman in my office. She’s resigned; got the letter on my desk. She prattled on about never having had a promotion and other such rubbish.”

Robert took in the news and remained silent.

Henry went on, “She started going on about Robinson, but I soon put her straight on that one. Anyway I accepted the resignation and you’ll have to arrange her entitlements. She’s only a jumped up clerk isn’t she? Shouldn’t be too much.”

Robert was taken aback. Celeste did all his mentoring of new recruits. She was also by far the best at figures in the office. He quickly recognised this meant a huge extra load for him. He was irritated by Corbel’s dismissal of Celeste without knowing anything about her and without consulting him. It seemed that Henry was usurping his position of manager.

“She’s been with us for over twenty years Henry, she probably knows more about the company than anyone,” Robert retorted.

Corbel maintained his position. “Well I think we’re well rid of her if she’s going to start making demands, we’re not a charity.”

Robert felt rising irritation with Corbel and the way the conversation was going. He’d had enough for one day. The board shouldn’t interfere with his daily business or personnel 259

issues. He forced an abrupt change of subject. “I presume you know then that Robinson has been charged with larceny and fraud. The police estimate there’s around a quarter of a million missing. The books are with the auditors now, it could be more.”

There was a period of silence then a shocked Henry Corbel bellowed into the phone,

“What are you talking about? What the fuck do you mean quarter of a million? Who told you this?”

“I have just spent the morning at the police station being interviewed. Celeste handed them years of reports and figures that prove he did it.”

“When were you going to fucking tell me Robert?” he shouted.

Robert covered himself. “I’ve just now come back from the police station; I called in home to pick up some papers on my way to the office.”

“Do you understand what this means Robert? We are floating the company on the stock market this month. Who the fuck will buy shares when this gets out?” Corbel was losing control. “How did that fucking loony bitch get hold of this? Didn’t you know what was happening? We’ll have to call a

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special board meeting for tonight, you get onto that now!” Corbel slammed the phone down.

Corbel’s rapid fire questions and his rage unnerved Robert. He hung up the phone and sat down. He took a swig of the beer and looked at his watch. It was almost three o’clock. He sent an email to all board members and then proceeded to phone each one in regards to the meeting. He avoided questions by stating that Henry Corbel had called the meeting due to an incident at the firm that needed urgent discussion.

Robert thought about the meeting. He was tired and unnerved by the events of the day. He wished Judith was at the office. She would know what to do. He couldn’t think what he would need to take or what they might ask him. He remembered Judith ordering catering. He rang the office and asked reception who would know how to cater for the board meeting.

A young woman’s voice told him that Leanne would know. She put him through. Leanne answered politely and said she would order the catering. She would organise the meeting room and the agenda.

“What needs to go on the agenda Mr Gray?” Leanne enquired.

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“Nothing,” Robert snapped. “This is a special meeting, we don’t need an agenda. Oh and Leanne,” Robert softened. “Could you order me a hamburger and a coffee straight away, I haven’t eaten today. I’ll be back shortly.”

Leanne was curious; her imagination knew no bounds as she described the requests to the other administrative staff.

“It’s obviously about Celeste,” she crowed. “I bet she’s going to get the sack.”

The others crowded around this newly important person and hung on every word.

“Mr Gray has requested me to organise the catering,” she said. “It’s a special meeting called to make important decisions. Poor Mr Gray, he hasn’t eaten all day, I’m going to get him a hamburger and coffee, just so he can keep going with this terrible ordeal.”

“What a good idea, Leanne,” someone in the group offered.

Leanne busied herself from her desk, ordering the food, talking loudly within hearing of the others.

Robert hunted around in his mind for what might be needed for the meeting. He thought about Judith, who always had his meetings organised and ready with documents and flow charts

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and every detail taken care of. He looked at the phone and thought for a few seconds, looked at his watch then picked up the receiver and dialled her number.

“Hello, Judith Sumner,” Judith answered.

“Hi Judith,” Robert said in a quiet voice.

There was a short pause before Judith answered. She looked out the window and checked the street. “Hi Robert,” Judith said, then waited.

Robert plunged in and told her the events of the last few days and finally paused.

“Are you coming back to the office?” he asked.

“Robert, you haven’t even asked how I am,” she reproached.

“Sorry, how are you? I’ve had a helluva day,” he continued.

“No Robert, I’m not coming back to the office. I’ve had an offer from an old friend to work for him and I’m going to take that up. Larry and I have decided to stay together and work it out, so I won’t be seeing you again,” Judith said.

“Of course, Mr Nice Guy Larry, I forgot,” Robert retorted.

“Yes, he is a very nice guy. He’s the nicest guy I’ve ever known. Goodbye Robert, I hope things work out for you,” Judith hung up the phone.

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Robert slammed the receiver down and ran his fingers through his hair. He walked to the bedroom and pulled a clean shirt from the wardrobe. Put on a tie and a suit and changed into a pair of black leather shoes. He brushed his hair back in front of the mirror and went into the bathroom and cleaned his teeth. He left the unfinished beer on the bathroom shelf and left the house. A soft, grey rain had begun to drizzle as he backed the car onto the street.

When Robert arrived at the office his hamburger and coffee were waiting on Leanne’s desk. He took the food into his office and shut the door. He rifled through papers on his desk and found copies of the documents Celeste had given to the police and the record of the accounts. He ate the last of his hamburger and tossed the empty coffee mug at the bin. It missed and rolled onto the carpet and Robert got up from his desk to retrieve it and throw it in the bin. He checked his face in the office mirror. He felt a wave of fatigue sweep over him. He sat back at his desk and checked the documents again before placing them in a folder.

The phone rang and Leanne announced some members of the board had arrived. Robert directed her to show them into the meeting room. He straightened his tie before picking up his folder and walking to the meeting room.

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Henry Corbel was standing in the corner helping himself to a biscuit and cheese. With him were David Tregowan and Richard Brandt, the company auditors. Their unusual attendance put Robert even more on edge. A short while later the other members arrived, shaking water from their umbrellas and standing them to dry in the foyer. The group greeted each other and settled around the table with biscuits and coffee for the discussion.

Three hours later Corbel requested that Robert leave the meeting so that the board could have further discussion on the future. Robert was exhausted. Being interviewed by police and then a tirade of condemnation from Henry Corbel had left him drained. He turned the car out of the carpark and into the flow of late evening traffic. He mulled over the questions put to him by the board members. He felt belittled, inadequate, embarrassed and angry at his inability to come up with credible answers and his endless, pathetic excuses, as David Tregowan had named them. He was infuriated that he was questioned about his personal relationships and his relationships with his staff. It was insinuated that his mind was not on the job.

He felt depressed by the prospect of returning to the empty house and angry at Caroline for not being there. A drift of rain washed across the windscreen as he accelerated from the lights onto the highway. He heard the screech of brakes before he saw 265

in an instant the truck a few metres to his right and in that instant too, he saw that the lights were red.

He reacted slowly, ever so slowly like the images that rolled past in slow formation, headlights glaring like giant beacons, fireflies of debris, dust and papers floating all around him, a loud roaring in his ears and jolting fence posts tumbling one after another; then momentary silence before voices shouting.

* * *

Shorty Novak got the call from Redbrooke Police just as he sat down to dinner. There was a guy trapped in a car and they needed the Jaws of Life to get him out. He phoned Larry Sumner and Ben Carrillo and two other SES men and then headed for the equipment shed. The SES team arrived at the crash site with the cutting equipment and were directed by the police patrolman to a white statesman with a caved in driver’s side door and roof; it was tilted against the fence and surrounded by ambulance officers and paramedics.

Traffic was being directed around the site by several police officers and despite the drizzling rain, a crowd had gathered by the roadside. A tow truck driver was attaching a hydraulic lift to a silver utility with a pushed in bull bar and shattered

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windscreen that had spilled its load of pipes and trade equipment over the road. A paramedic attended the driver who stood looking at the car, his hands shook as he wiped his face with a cloth.

Shorty shouldered the cutters to the car and handed them to Larry. The ambulance officer pointed out the difficulties and explained what they needed to do to prevent further injury the driver. Larry began cutting the door frame away from the main body and Ben Carrillo held the door in gloved hands. Shorty issued instructions from the other side of the car from where he had a clear view of the driver and the cutters.

Shorty came around to Larry’s side. “It’s him,” he said.

“Who?” Larry looked up.

“Robert Gray,” Shorty said.

“Shit,” Larry exclaimed.

He picked up the cutters and began again working his way through sections of the doorframe.

Shorty went back to his position. “Nearly there mate,” Shorty called. “Take it steady.”

The door dropped away in Ben’s hands and he dragged it onto the grass to make space for the ambulance officer. The

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paramedics lifted Robert from the car and lay him on a gurney on the ground to attend to his bleeding legs.

Larry heard Robert’s muffled voice. “Caroline, Caroline wake up.”

The paramedics lifted the gurney into the ambulance and pulled the doors closed from within. The siren began to wail as the ambulance pulled out onto the street and the lights flashed red and blue against the faces of the crowd.

Larry thought about what he would tell Judith as the team drove in silence back to Shorty’s home.

* * *

After she received the letter from the Redbrooke city council Celeste phoned Ted. The letter was a formal notice to all residents of Jubilation Road that the city council had declared the area a Non-Recoverable Flood Zone and the residents would be re-housed in another part of the city. The zone would be closed and left to revert to the flood plain that it originally was. This had been decided due to the new levee bank now protecting the central business district redirecting flood waters into the flood plain.

Residents would be compensated by new housing in the Pandanus Garden estate; and by arrangement with the Southern 268

Hills Credit Union, a low cost housing loan would be available to them for any extensions to the size of existing houses. Removal costs would also be met by council.

The notice to quit would come into effect immediately and residents would be expected to have completed removals to their new location within three months of the date of the letter.

Celeste read the letter to Ted and they argued the legalities of it before Ted came up with a suggestion. “If you’ve gotta move house Cel, why don’t you put it to them to move your house up here instead of a new house there?”

“You’re not just a pretty face Ted,” Celeste replied. “What a great idea, it’s worth a try.”

Celeste spent the next two days negotiating with the city engineers’ department to move her house to the Ridgeback Mountains. After initially hearing from them that the cost was far too prohibitive, Celeste took the morning to cost the whole operation including the installation of the house pad, plumbing, electricity and solar power panels. She presented the engineer with the entire costing, complete with figures of comparison quotes. To his surprise the engineer found that the council would in fact benefit financially from the operation.

Celeste assisted by talking to numerous electricians, plumbers, house removalists, concreters and builders. She

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learnt a lot about removing and relocating a house. She made copious notes on the computer and filed it all under House Removal.

A week later the council agreed the removal was legitimate under the conditions of the re-zoning and Celeste began preparations for her new status as a resident of Ridgeback Mountain.

The workman visited the selected site on her land where she and Belle had talked. She planned with the engineer which way the house would face and they accepted her suggestion that a driveway would make it easier for the tradespeople to drive to the site. A grader from the local quarry of Belle’s friends Bill and Barbara Monmeith duly arrived and ploughed a new road along the fire track beside Ted’s fence. The road went as far as Celeste’s proposed gate then turned into her proposed driveway. The fire track continued on into the bush.

A gravel driveway with a turnaround for trucks was soon in operation and a shower of rain and the traffic of heavy vehicles combined to harden the road base gravel into a fine driveway that led from the new road to the house site.

Trades people arrived and began to lay the foundations for the house. They soon learnt to bring their lunches and smoko as

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there were no shops from which to get a pie and a coke. Celeste kindly brought sandwiches and cakes on some days and made big urns of tea in an urn borrowed from Belle.

She checked each section as it was completed and based on her research, supervised the insertion of the septic tank into its concrete sleeve in the ground. The weather stayed dry and the work progressed quickly. The expedience of the completion was more to do with the travel required, the lack of facilities and Celeste’s vigilance than any incentive upon the part of the tradesmen to finish early.

In between her trips to the house site Celeste was packing her belongings into cardboard cartons. She borrowed Ted’s cattle truck and after hosing it down and lining it with tarpaulins she employed two men to load her furniture and any heavy items. She managed to empty the house in two trips and her goods were safely stored in Ted’s shed. Both Ted and Belle had offered for her to stay until the house was finished and as Ted’s house was closer to the site, she chose to stay with him.

Celeste returned to retrieve her pot plants and some plants cuttings from the garden and to say goodbye. She felt saddened at leaving this place with its wildlife and birds and the lovely summer breezes that swept from the creek. She loaded the plants onto her Ute and checked the yard and the shed for any

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missed items. She stood in a moment of stillness to remember all her wild friends,

“Goodbye,” she whispered, and waved at the trees along the creekbank.

As she walked down the driveway for the last time, she heard a soft rustling of the grasses along the creek. A magpie carolled above them. Celeste had the distinct feeling that her memories were clambering amongst themselves for a place in the back of the Ute. She started the motor, backed out of the driveway and turned onto the potholed road. When she reached the corner she stopped on a whim and walked to the street sign. She rocked the sign post backwards and forwards until it came out of the ground and she tossed it onto the Ute and drove away.

When the foundations had cured and the stumping preparations finished, the removalists phoned with a date for the house to be delivered. Celeste didn’t want to watch her house being cut in half for the journey to the mountain, so she waited in a state of nervous agitation for it to arrive at the farm. A huge crane had been unloaded near the house site and men were clearing the way for the delivery.

Celeste scanned the road from Ted’s yard and felt a leap of excitement when a utility with a Wide Load sign and flashing

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yellow lights appeared over the rise. She hurried down to her driveway and waited on the road. Three crows sat in the gum just inside her fence observing in silence. Celeste watched in awe as a long slow yellow low- loader carried her house, in two pieces, down the road and into her driveway.

After several hours of manoeuvring and shouted instructions, the house was correctly placed on its foundations. Celeste marvelled at the precision of the crane driver. The supervisor warned Celeste not to enter the house until she got the go ahead from the builders. The house sat at least a metre and half off the ground so there was little hope of that. There were no steps installed as yet but Celeste was content to walk around her house overjoyed at the fact that it was safely ensconced on her land.

She welcomed the house and told it that everything would be restored and in order soon. Not necessarily, she warned, in the way it had been. Celeste was beginning to understand that the world was unpredictable. The house creaked..

Celeste was surprised when the builders arrived to commence work on the house immediately. Two Utes filled with building materials, ladders and workmen appeared a week after the house was delivered. They measured and hammered and drilled to the

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sound of loud music from a tinny radio as they toiled to remake the house.

The building supervisor appeared from time to time to check that both he and Celeste were satisfied with the results. It was as if the council was afraid she might change her mind and opt for a new house in the estate. Celeste made the most of this opportunity to have one side of the verandah extended into a larger deck and to install a new bathroom and kitchen with large cupboards. She also asked for an ensuite in her bedroom.

She read books on sustainability and energy and spent large amounts of time on the internet finding the best way to heat and cool the house. The carpenters built around the old design of the Queenslander and reinstalled the breezeways that were part of the original roof. She would never need air conditioning but opted for a potbelly stove for heating as the property had loads of wood and she liked the idea of a fire in the winter. Celeste spent some time each day collecting the offcuts and leftover wood for her future fire. Finally the carpenters took away their temporary construction for entry to the front and back of the house and installed elegant wooden steps with ornate railings on either side. One of the astute builders had found them in a skip at another building site. Her beloved house was whole again.

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She had negotiated with council to extend her shed replacement into a large barnlike structure with a toilet and shower at one end and room for an office. Celeste had never imagined that Ted’s idea would turn into her dream of many years. The work was finished, her house painted and shining in the sun, her shed ready for whatever she wanted to put in it; her land stretching out behind the house and falling gently down to the creek. She stood on the deck and looked out to the mountains.

“I don’t have to ever go to that office again,” she said aloud to the house. “You and I will be farmers.”

She opened her arms wide and laughed with a sense of joy and abandonment that she could not remember feeling before.

“Welcome home to us, she called to the valley.

* * *

On the day that Russell Robinson appeared at Redbrooke court it was grey and humid. He had not wanted Tracy at the court and had arranged for his parents to drive him home after. He sat hunched and sweating in his suit, his eyes cast at the floor. He had not been able to make eye contact with his parents since he told them of the charges. His mother’s expression ranged from

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sad and frightened to puzzled and his father remained disgusted and angry with him.

Mavis and Trevor Robinson sat with him in the court waiting area in one of the rows of seats taken up by the fallen of Redbrooke. Those who had committed larceny and theft and drunkenness and assault; those who were tattooed and adorned with studs through their noses and ears and mouths; those who belonged in a world not frequented by the Robinsons’ senior; took their leave to have yet another cigarette on the courthouse steps, while they waited to be called to retribution.

Trevor Robinson was embarrassed at being placed in the situation and at having his wife crying in public almost every day. His empathy with her was extensive but he was at a loss as to how he should act. He felt numb and useless and he wondered how he had failed to instil in his son the values he had lived by all his life. He watched the courtroom door and hoped Russell would be called soon. Russell, he thought was very lucky to have received bail.

Mavis felt a deepening sense of doom as she watched her son and the others in the waiting room. He was not one of these people, she thought. He was a good boy. He had made a mistake. The solicitor they hired seemed confident that Russell would receive a good behaviour bond. Mavis worried that he

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had lost his job. She worried about the children and Tracy; she wished that Trevor was not so angry.

She began to cry again.

Russell’s solicitor, Troy Felsdown, arrived and held a brief conversation with the Robinsons before disappearing into an office in the hallway. He wore a smart grey suit and blue tie and spoke with an air of confident authority.

The clerk who had been calling the names of each next appearance came to the door of the court and called in a loud voice,

“Russell Robinson.”

Russell stood up and followed the clerk; his parents followed both into the courtroom. The magistrate sat behind his bench at the top of the room. To his right there was a small octagonal witness box and on the left side of the court, rows of seats for the jury. The public gallery was sparsely populated with people waiting for their cases to be decided. At the back of the courtroom several journalists sat with pens and notebooks on their laps. The room was mostly polished wood with wooden bench seats like church pews. The commonwealth coat of arms sat on the wall above the magistrate’s head, on a large ornate plaque. In front of the magistrate’s bench a group of men 277

and women sat at a long table facing the bench. The whole room had an air of austerity with pictures of past magistrates hung in a row along the walls. The severe faces of these learned men in their wigs and gowns stared down accusingly at Russell.

Mavis and Trevor took their seats behind the solicitor’s table and Russell was ushered into the witness box. A flush of red was creeping from his neck to his face and he sweated profusely.

The magistrate invited him to sit down before calling his solicitor. “Mr Felsdown, this is a plea I believe.”

Felsdown stood up to address the magistrate. “Thank you your honour, yes my client wishes to plead. My good friend on the left here your honour has agreed that two of the charges of fraud be dropped in the light of the other twenty-seven of larceny.”

The magistrate indicated to the prosecutor who also stood.

“We concede that your honour,” the prosecutor responded.

The magistrate wrote on his papers for a few minutes then called again to Felsdown.

“Mr Felsdown.”

Felsdown stood up and cleared his throat. “Your honour,” he began in a serious voice tinged with drama. “This is a tragic

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case of a man who became caught up in his own addiction. A man from a very respectable and community-minded family who is the father of two small children and the husband of a devoted partner. He has been a loyal employee of his firm for ten years. He has made a safe home for his children. He belongs to his community football club and serves on various committees in relation to sport. This is a man your honour, who has tragically been influenced by the readiness of gambling venues in our society. He did not mean any harm to anyone, in fact your honour he is a bit of gentle giant. He is filled with remorse your honour. Remorse your honour, not only for the crime he readily admits he committed, but remorse for the shame and embarrassment he has brought upon his family.”

Felsdown had warmed to his role now and looked around the court for dramatic effect. He paused momentarily and shuffled some of his papers before continuing. “Mr Robinson, as I said earlier your honour, has never done anything like this before. He regrets his actions and wishes only to make recompense to his family. He has, your honour already booked himself into a Gamblers Anonymous group and will agree to any conditions the court might apply for his rehabilitation. I wait upon your honour’s lenience in this matter.”

Felsdown sat down and waited.

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The magistrate wrote notes for a short time without looking up then looked over his glasses at Felsdown. “Are there any other witnesses Mr Felsdown?” he asked.

Felsdown jumped to his feet. “His parents are here your honour.”

“Not quite what I was looking for Mr Felsdown.” The magistrate turned back to his papers and handed a document to the clerk.

The clerk asked Russell to stand in the witness box for sentencing.

“Mr Robinson, it appears despite the good character Mr Felsdown has us believe; you succumbed to a pattern of behaviour that happened not only once; but has continued for three years. You have stolen numerous times from a trusted employer; an employer who now has the task of rebuilding the reputation of the company. You have not considered your employer or your family in this at all.”

The magistrate looked at Mavis and Trevor and at Russell before continuing. “I have taken into account your guilty plea and your remorse; however, I have no choice but to sentence you to two years imprisonment. I take into account your good record and I will make the sentence eligible for parole after twelve months with conditions. Upon your release from prison

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you will attend counselling with a registered psychologist and attend any programs that person may require. Take him down.”

The magistrate stamped Russell’s papers and handed them to the clerk who indicated to the court officer to take Russell out of the court through the door behind the witness box.

Mavis and Trevor Robinson sat stunned as they watched Russell being led through the door. There was no opportunity to speak with him and he didn’t look at them as he disappeared out of sight.

Felsdown was collecting his papers and he turned to them and shrugged. He was not anxious to engage but he walked with the Robinsons from the court into the hallway.

“He was lucky to get the parole,” he began.

Neither Mavis nor Trevor could see the luck he was speaking of and neither understood what had happened. Mavis asked when they could see Russell and Felsdown suggested they speak with the court administration office. He thanked them for coming and hurried off down the hallway.

They stood lost and bewildered until Trevor realised they should leave and make their way to the court office. An hour later they left the building after waiting to be told their son was in a prison van on his way to the regional prison at Mortingdale, three hours’ drive from Redbrooke. 281

* * *

Vincent and Susan decided to make Carlo’s Saturday lunch a day for planning the barn renovations. They spread the plans out on Carlo’s table in the living room and called him from the kitchen when they were stuck for a solution. Caroline held a pot of pasta for him as he drew lines through one of Vincent’s drawings. They shared the lunch of steaming bowls of pasta with smoked chicken in a creamy wine sauce topped with fried sage leaves.

“Yummo,” Susan enthused, “delicious Carlo; what do you think about the wall in this room?”

“Well it’s got a false façade in front of what could be a fireplace; we will need to pull those bricks out,” Carlo said.

“How do you know that?” Caroline asked, dishing more food into everyone’s bowl.

“The stone is not the same as the old wall,” Carlo smiled at her.

The day wore on into early afternoon without the quartet noticing. The red wine flowed and the sheets of drawings and plans and scribblings grew. They decided Caroline should start

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the next day by organising the builders. Carlo gave her a list of numbers and phrases in Italian.

A few minutes later as she practised Carlo interrupted. “Well so far,” he laughed out loud, “you’ve asked for a bag of logs with a truck wheel.”

Caroline threw a screwed up ball of paper at him. He caught it easily in one hand and batted it back to her. She missed the ball and it rolled away across the floor.

“Fifteen love,” he called.

Caroline looked at him, “You’ll keep,” she said.

“Ooh I hope so,” he teased.

Susan stood up from the table and they all prepared to leave. Caroline picked up the dishes and walked through to the kitchen with them balanced on top of each other. Carlo followed with the empty wine bottles and stood beside her at the sink.

“Why don’t you stay on and I’ll phone those builders today. We could have it all done by dinner time. I can drop you home later.”

Caroline hesitated and looked at Carlo.

He smiled and said, “No pressure. I can also phone them Monday.”

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“Is that what you’re asking me?” Caroline’s frankness took Carlo by surprise.

It was his turn to hesitate. He put his hand on her arm for a moment.

“I’ll start again,” he said quietly. “Stay and have dinner with me.”

Caroline smiled at him and called to Susan and Vincent. “I’m going to stay on a bit Susan; Carlo will drop me home later.”

Susan looked surprised and Vincent was already walking to the door.

“Oh okay,” Susan replied and raised an eyebrow at Caroline. “See you later Car, thanks Carlo, lovely lunch, I’m excited now about the barn. Enjoy.”

Susan followed Vincent out the front door and into the car. They waved together as they drove away and Caroline could see Susan was bursting to talk to Vincent about the turn of events.

She laughed and waved to her sister as the car disappeared down the driveway.

Carlo held the door for her and they went back into the lounge. Caroline felt a vague nervousness now that she was alone with Carlo. He walked to the kitchen and made a fresh

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pot of coffee. Caroline examined the handiwork of their afternoon.

She called to Carlo in the kitchen, “It would be great if the fireplace is intact behind that wall.”

It was more by way of something to fill the silence and to calm her than to renew a focus on the plans. Carlo didn’t answer but came into the room carrying two coffees. He placed them on the coffee table and sat beside her on the sofa. He leaned back into his seat and placed his hands behind his head.

“It’s been fun having you here today,” he said smiling at her. “I really enjoy having you around.”

Caroline relaxed. Carlo’s easy manner and warmth set her at ease and they sat talking about the plans for a short while before Carlo said, “I need to be outside for a while, would you like to see the old wine cellars, there’s still time before sunset.”

“I’d love to,” Caroline replied.

They finished their coffees and walked together into the late afternoon sun. Carlo told her the history of the cellars as they walked towards an ancient looking sandstone coloured building. The walls were strapped with rusted iron trusses riveted to the stone with large bolt heads that protruded like rounded bald monks heads. Some of the walls had iron loops that hung about

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a metre from the ground. They were not unlike the iron hooks in Vincent and Susan’s barn Caroline thought.

Coloured stone showed through in places and Carlo explained how his forbears had carted the stone from the nearby hills on horseback and carts. They walked to the arched entrance and stepped down into the cool dark cellars. Carlo flicked on a light near the door and Caroline followed him down a dim, narrow passageway and into the cellar proper. There was a faint vinegary smell in the air.

The walls were lined with huge wooden barrels on wooden shelves held up by rounded piles sunk into the stone floor and secured into the ceiling by a tongue and groove joint. Caroline marvelled at the craftsmanship of the structure. High above them huge grey and dusty spider web hammocks hung like drying fishing nets.

Carlo followed Caroline’s gaze to the ceiling. “We don’t remove them much anymore,” he said, anticipating her question, “they help absorb the dust.”

Caroline stared at the giant webs. She felt some ancient memory wafting through her mind, as though she had seen them before. The dim light perhaps, the stone floor, its hardness pushing up through her legs, the faint smell of wine, like a peasant’s taverna, the red wine splashing onto the stone bench

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tops, the clang of iron gates behind her. The cold; cold seeping through the cracked stone, cold, damp and the scrabbling of rats in the dark. Then later, much later, the miracle of light, and the warm, rough hands reaching down to her; the babble of voices, the coarse warm coat wrapped around her shoulders.

She shook her head at the strange memories and feelings and refocussed on the cellars.

“Are there still spiders in there?” she asked, pulling herself into the present.

“Yes, but I think they are modern day ones, maybe the webs are from their ancestors, I don’t know,” he added.

“What on earth do they eat,” she queried, now fully engaged.

“I think they only drink,” he whispered, “Shiraz, and Chianti for the women.” He continued to whisper. “My grandfather told me they often found the barrels with the bungs out. After the weekends, the webs, he said, took on rather crazy patterns and they found spiders on the floor, unable to walk straight.”

Carlo paused. Caroline was listening intently. He leaned towards her, “You’d think,” he whispered, “with eight legs, at least four would get it right.”

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Caroline suddenly realised she had been completely hoodwinked.

Carlo threw his head back and roared with laughter that echoed throughout the cellars.

In that action she imagined that he was some kind of lord of the manor, that his decisions held sway, even over the spiders. She seemed in that moment somehow connected to him irrevocably. It was pleasant; she warmed to his wide reaching energy, his humour, his warmth and the way in which he included her in all ways, particularly in his humour.

She laughed with him, at herself, at her life as it was, at the smallness of the universe in which she had been trapped for so long. She longed to be held by him, to feel the warmth of his body, the warmth of life, of love, of the now fading warm Italian sky. She felt she was home; home in this foreign, elegant, surprising land – home in her heart.

They walked together up the steps and out into the warm air.

“Would you like to meet the grandmothers?” he asked.

Caroline looked puzzled. “Grandmothers?” she queried.

“Yes, they’re just around the corner,” he smiled and took her hand.

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They walked around the cellar building to a vineyard on a slope of land that fell into the valley below. At the peak of the hill where they stood there was a small patch of vines that grew separately on a little flat plateau. They were enclosed on three sides by a low rock wall. An old cane chair and a small table sat against the wall.

The vines were old and gnarled with thick, twisted trunks enclosed in curling grey bark. The canes shooting from the top were wound around a supporting wire held up at each end of a small row by two equally ancient posts. The vines had been neatly pruned and the canes rolled onto the wire reflected the orange-pink evening sky.

Carlo had not let go of Caroline’s hand and they stood together in the quiet surrounds each lost in their own thoughts before Carlo said, “My Nonna brought me here when I was a little boy. She told me to always care for le nonne and to tell them my problems and they would help.”

“How old are they?” Caroline asked.

“No-one knows, they were the only survivors on this property when Europe’s vineyards were wiped out by Phylloxera. Every generation of my family has cared for them,” he added.

Caroline leaned over and touched one of the vines.

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“How beautiful,” she stood back, “to think they may be hundreds of years old. They would have known so many changes.”

“Did you know that there are some very old vines in the Barossa Valley? The oldest Shiraz possibly in the world is still producing wine there. They are recorded as being one hundred and sixty seven.”

“I didn’t know that,” Caroline exclaimed.

“They were planted by German settlers,” Carlo continued, “and there are vines in Germany that are claimed to be four hundred years old.”

“They must be very wise,” Caroline mused.

“My nonna used to say, Old wine and friends improve with age,” he paused then added, “Look at us.”

They both laughed.

Carlo turned and pulled her close to him; he looked into her face before kissing her gently on the mouth.

“See,” he said, “we are improving already.”

Carlo blew a kiss to the vines, “Ciao nonnas,” he said.

They walked back to the house as the evening air began to chill. Carlo draped his arm lightly across her shoulders and Caroline could feel the warmth of his hand through her jacket.

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She was surprised at how comfortable she felt and at the tinge of excitement in the pit of her stomach.

Banjo ran to greet them as they reached the house. He jumped up at Carlo and pranced around their feet.

“Oh, did you think we had left you, boy?” he said, bending down to ruffle Banjo’s head.

They entered the warm house and Carlo went straight to the kitchen and pulled a container from the fridge.

“I’ll feed him or he’ll drive us crazy,” he said.

“What can I do?” Caroline asked, hanging her jacket in the hall.

“What about finding some nice music for us?” Carlo pointed to the stereo and the extensive collection of CDs stacked neatly on the bookshelf.

“Bach?” she queried.

“Perfect.” Carlo placed Banjo’s food in his bowl on the floor.

He rinsed and dried his hands at the sink then walked into the lounge up behind Caroline. He put his arms around her and kissed her gently on the back of her neck.

The soft first notes of a cello swept through the house.

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She turned to face him and he pulled her against him and kissed her with a long, slow kiss. Despite her warm response and her rising excitement, Caroline began to question herself.

“Carlo, does this need some discussion or something?” Caroline queried.

“Yes of course,” Carlo responded smiling. “I have just the place for a discussion.”

He let her go and went into the kitchen again and returned with a cold bottle of champagne and two glasses. He handed her the glasses, turned her around, then placing his hand on her waist he propelled her down the hallway to his bedroom.

As they reached the door he stopped and said in a serious voice, “There is a strict rule for this discussion,” he paused as he ushered her in and closed the door behind them. He put the champagne on the bedside table and turned to her. “Discussion can only take place if we’re not wearing clothes.”

He paused again, “I never break the ancestors’ rules,” he said, as he began unfastening the buttons on her shirt.

* * *

Jason was excited. He had taken delivery of his new car and although the company could not replace the black colour he was

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happy to accept a red one. He turned the radio up as he cruised down to the gym.

Cameron Gordon was in the office leaning on a desk and talking with the female staff. “Hi Jason,” he called as Jason passed, “drop by later and we’ll catch up.”

Jason smiled and nodded as he went into the gym. He could show Cameron his car, he thought as he put his gym bag in the locker. He felt very pleased with himself and cheerfully greeted several regulars as they worked out on the machines. He couldn’t wait to take Rhianna for a ride in his car. He was disappointed she was not at the gym but he realised he had not asked her where she worked. He could hang around with Cameron for a while, he thought, she might come in later.

Jason finished his workout and wiped himself down with his towel in the locker room. He bought a coke from the drink machine and stood sipping the drink and watching the entrance.

Cameron appeared from a door behind the office and motioned to Jason to join him. The receptionist opened a small gate and let him in behind the desk. He followed Cameron through a door behind reception that he had not noticed before. Cameron motioned him to a chair and asked, “Want something a little stronger than that?”

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He pointed to a small fridge against the wall that was filled with beer and cans of mixed drinks. The room contained a table with papers in an in tray on one side and several small statues of weightlifters and body builders on the other.

Jason sat in a large armchair and Cameron sat across from him in another, his stubby of beer on a low coffee table between them. A sofa sat against one wall and several wooden chairs that matched the table were lined up against the far wall. The room had no windows and there was no noise from the gym or even reception just outside the door.

“Ah, I’ll stick with this for now,” Jason replied, holding up his coke.

Jason recognised the Lady Dianna with Cameron at the helm in a photo on the wall opposite him.

“How are things Jace?” Cameron asked.

“Really good,” Jason enthused. “I’ve just got my car replacement; do you want to see it?”

Cameron smiled. “Maybe in a little while,” he said. “I wanted to ask you something Jace. You know some of the kids down at Redbrooke South High, don’t you?”

Jason was surprised. “Yeah, a couple of kids, I don’t know them very well,” he replied.

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“I wondered if you would mind delivering a little parcel down there to a kid named Jasper Sykes.”

“No problems,” Jason replied. He looked at his watch. “They won’t be there now though. School finishes at four.”

“I know,” Cameron looked at him. “You could drop it off tomorrow. I’ll get Jasper to wait for you.”

“Oh okay,” Jason said. “How will I know him?”

“I’ll get Rhianna to point him out to you,” Cameron watched Jason’s face.

“Rhianna?” he questioned, looking confused.

“Yes, they’re mates, both in year ten,” he added, still watching Jason’s face.

“Rhianna?” Jason repeated. Looking confused, he shifted in his chair and leaned forward. “Rhianna is still at school?” Jason looked incredulous.

“Yes, she finishes year ten this year.” Cameron emphasised the year ten and sat back to watch the result. “Yeah, I was a bit worried when you gave her one on the boat, mate. You know you could be in a bit of trouble if anyone reported it.”

“Reported it?” Jason parroted. “What do you mean?”

“Well, you know, mate, she’s underage. You could be charged if anyone reported it.”

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Jason’s face turned pale. His mind leapt around in confusion. At one level he understood what Cameron was saying, but he felt like couldn’t keep up, like he had missed some pieces of the conversation. He began to protest his innocence.

“But I didn’t know she was underage,” he said, using Cameron’s word. “She looks about eighteen or something.”

“Yeah, she’s a stunner alright, but it makes no difference to the cops,” Cameron added.

“The cops?” Jason was alarmed. “How would the cops know?”

“I’m not saying the cops would know, but if they did you’d be a goner, mate.”

“What am I going to do?” Jason asked, looking at the ceiling.

The question hung in the air for a moment and Cameron took his time. “Look mate,” he said finally. “No-one will know if we keep it quiet.”

He paused, then added, “Us brothers have to stick together.”

It occurred to Jason that he didn’t know how Cameron knew this information.

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“Did Rhianna tell you?” he asked.

“No mate,” Cameron pretended to laugh. “I accidently left the video in the room on record.”

“The video?” Jason almost shouted. “What video?”

“Well, I’d been in there trying to get my video to work before you came back on board. Must’ve accidentally left it on.”

Jason felt sick, embarrassed and shocked. He sat in silence for a moment and put his head in his hands. He felt like he had entered a nightmare again.

“I didn’t know. I didn’t know about her,” he repeated. Then fell into silence.

Cameron leaned forward and put his hand on Jason’s head. Jason sat up and looked about the room as though to find some answer in the space between him and the walls. He shook his head slowly from side to side.

“Now look mate,” Cameron began in a low voice. “I’ve got friends in high places. I think we can square this off if anything happens. I might ask you to do me a few small favours but I know you will do that won’t you Jace?”

“Yeah,” Jason nodded staring now at the floor.

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“You know Jace, you could be a rich man if you stick with me.”

Jason looked up at Cameron without speaking; he was still processing the former conversation.

Cameron continued, his voice seductive, “You know some of the kids around here; you could interest some of them in the gym. I give them a few incentives from time to time, you know, a little bit of fun for their parties and stuff.”

“How do you mean fun?” Jason was curious now.

“It’s nothing much, just a bit of the green stuff.”

“Dope?” Jason was surprised.

Cameron sat back and took a sip of beer. “You know Jace you could own your own boat in twelve months. Take your mates out to the island,” he smiled.

Jason was listening now. There was a strange seductiveness to what Cameron was saying. He struggled to get the meaning but the tone of Cameron’s voice played him along into a lulled sense of security.

“Some people have done very well, “Cameron continued. “Joshua drives a beemer; Tia goes to Bali for the uni holidays with her friends.”

“What do they do?” Jason asked.

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“Oh, they just deliver a few packages for me, talk to the kids, you know, get them to come to the Assembly.”

“Hasn’t Joshua got a job?” Jason was puzzled.

“Ah,” Cameron paused, “Of course, they all do something; we are respectable people.” He laughed. “But there’s plenty of time to do a few little jobs in other places.”

Cameron could see Jason’s confusion. He tried another tack. “You know Jace, I care about the local kids; nobody wants them on the streets ending up junkies. They smoke dope and stuff anyway. This way we keep it all clean, they go to school; they get jobs, no harm done. A lot of them even come to church. We are looking after them really, letting them have a bit of fun.”

Jason could see his point of view, it all sounded feasible. It was true about the kids, he knew they smoked dope. He remembered how many young kids were at the church. Maybe it was better for them. His mind whirled around the possibilities.

Cameron pressed home his point. “Well my mate, let’s go and see this motor of yours.”

Jason was eager to leave the topic behind. He stood up and put the empty coke can in the bin. Thinking of his car made

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him feel in control again. He followed Cameron out the door and into the car park.

“Oh very nice, very smooth my buddy,” Cameron patted the car bonnet.

“Want to come for a spin?” Jason glowed with pride.

“Can’t right now, mate, but I’d love to sit in it and have a look.”

Cameron opened the door and sat in the passenger seat. Jason pointed out the various features and the two men spent a few minutes pushing buttons and watching lights flicking across the dashboard. Cameron opened the glove box and put a thick envelope from his pocket into the compartment.

“Won’t forget my parcels will you, mate?” he casually asked.

“No, ah, no,” Jason replied.

“Well, thanks for showing me mate,” Cameron said. “You’re going to go a long way buddy.” He patted Jason’s shoulder.

Cameron got out of the car and waved to Jason as he turned to go back into the gym.

Jason started the motor and turned the car out of the carpark. He was comfortable now; music blared from the radio

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and he could hear the throb of the motor bubbling in the exhausts. He accelerated down the street.

He had a lot to think about. Much of what Cameron had said made sense but some of it remained confusion for him. He thought about Rhianna and remembered Cameron’s warning about her. He puzzled over Cameron’s role as a pastor and his involvement with the high school kids. He couldn’t shake the feeling that something wasn’t quite right but neither could he clearly identify it. He liked Cameron and felt he couldn’t let him down after all his support. Delivering an envelope to Jasper couldn’t be all that hard. His mind returned to Rhianna.

Jason swung the car into his driveway and stopped, he gave the accelerator one last push to hear the motor rev before turning the car off and going inside. His mother greeted him in the kitchen.

“Hello love,” she began. “Was that what I think it was?”

“Yeah mum, do you want to see it?” Jason was pleased.

The two walked outside to the car and his mother exclaimed, “Oh, Jace it’s red.”

“Yeah they couldn’t get me a black one,” Jason replied.

“Ooh isn’t it lovely, and so clean,” his mother enthused.

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“Do you want to go for a ride mum?” Jason asked.

“I can’t right now love,” his mother lamented. “I’ve got to watch the dinner.” She opened the door and sat in the car.

Jason pushed the controls and lights flashed on the dashboard.

“Oh, would you look at that!” she exclaimed.

Jason smiled. He felt powerful with his new car. They closed the doors and went back inside the house. Jason flopped on the lounge and picked up the TV remote. His mother busied herself in the kitchen. He thought about Rhianna. He would see her tomorrow. He felt a faint nervousness. He thought he might ask her about her age and what had happened. He still wondered if Cameron could be wrong.

He avoided thinking about the envelope. He remembered that he had not locked the car so he went outside with the keys. He took the package from the glove compartment and turned it over in his hands. It was plain brown with no name or address on it. He felt the envelope contents through the thick paper. It was not soft as he had expected but seemed to contain small, round, hard shapes. Pills, he thought and put the envelope back in the compartment. Pills. Cameron had lied to him.

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He went to bed early, telling his parents he was tired, but lay awake most of the night wondering about Cameron P. Gordon, Rhianna, Joshua, Tia and the kids at the high school. He was too scared to sleep. His only comfort was the sleek red car sitting in the driveway.

The next morning his mother called him from the kitchen. “Jason, get up you’ll be late for work.”

He showered and dressed and found his mother in the kitchen poring over the newspaper.

“Isn’t that your workmate?” She pointed to the front page.

Jason looked at the photograph and read the caption underneath.

‘Man gaoled for theft from localaccountancy firm.’

The photograph showed a picture of Russell Robinson being loaded into a prison van in a courtyard. He was handcuffed. The story, relegated to page three, contained pieces of the court transcript and the story of Russell’s gambling habits.

“Shit,” Jason exclaimed.

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“Don’t use language dear, isn’t this dreadful,” she said.

“The cops were at work a few weeks ago questioning everyone, then Russell didn’t come back to work,” Jason told her. “We were supposed to be having a meeting with Robert Gray but he hasn’t been back either,” he added.

“Was he part of this?” his mother asked, looking alarmed.

“No, they just told us he was sick, they’re not telling us anything yet. We might find out today.” Jason took the lunch his mother had prepared and headed for the door.

He pulled into the carpark at Commercial and General and parked close to the building, the car facing away from the river.

As he went through reception Leanne called to him. “Hi Jason, there’s a meeting at ten for staff. Everyone has to be there.” She was enjoying her new authority. “Mr Corbel and the auditors are going to talk to us.”

Jason walked through to his desk and saw Bradley Campbell and a group of other workers in the kitchen. He hurried in to join them. The newspaper was open on the table and the group was discussing Russell’s fate. The general unsympathetic feeling was that he brought it on himself. They speculated about the effects on the company and the coming meeting and eventually drifted back to their desks. Jason felt 304

uncomfortable about Russell; he wondered if he might be questioned further about his knowledge of Russell’s gambling habits. He placed his coffee on the desk and pulled papers from the in tray.

Henry Corbel arrived with Tregowan and Brandt and the manager of human resources, whose name Jason could not remember. The staff sat in rows in the meeting room in silent anticipation. Leanne sat at the table ready with her note pad; she had elected herself to take the minutes.

Henry Corbel, who was attired in his usual brown striped suit, looked haggard. The sagging bags under his eyes held a faint blue tinge against his pale face. He began by introducing the personnel manager and the auditors.

“I have two major matters to discuss with you,” he continued. “The first is that your manager Robert Gray has been involved in a serious car accident and will not be returning to work for some time. He is presently in hospital recovering and I am informed that he is out of danger but has considerable injuries that will take time to mend.”

He glanced at the paper in front of him and went on. “The second is that a fraudulent practise has taken place and a large theft from the company has been discovered. You have no

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doubt seen today’s paper. Russell Robinson, the culprit, was immediately dismissed and of course was formally charged and subsequently gaoled. A complete audit has taken place and we now have the odious task of rebuilding the company reputation. Our float on the stock market has been postponed. A number of accounts have already been withdrawn and we will expect that more may be closed.”

He paused and coughed as though to dispel some unpleasant taste. He continued on in a now flat and irritated manner. “There will have to be a tightening of belts and some major changes to the company. I will hand over to Charles McAlister to inform you of those.”

Henry turned to the personnel manager and motioned for him to begin.

McAlister looked nervous; he stammered through the first few sentences and didn’t look at the staff. “There ah, there ah, some ah, changes to be made to ah, staffing levels. Two positions that have become ah vacant will not be filled. We are obliged to ah, downsize our, ah, clerical positions and other positions may become ah, redundant in the future. Two clerk grade three positions can no longer be justified and those , positions will become ah redundant. Staff affected by these changes will be notified this week and will receive all

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entitlements accrued. Whilst Mr Gray is away there will be a temporary replacement manager. Advertisements for that position are on the internet and will be in tomorrow’s newspaper. Are there any questions?”

There was a shocked silence in the room. McAlister picked up his folder and moved aside.

Bradley Campbell raised his hand, “What are the two positions that have become vacant?”

McAlister looked quickly at Henry Corbel and raised his eyebrows.

Henry nodded.

“Celeste Moon and Judith Sumner have resigned their positions,” McAlister announced.

Leanne looked surprised and almost forgot in the moment to record the information. The clerical staff began discussion amongst themselves.

The auditors then began a discussion of future security measures and tracking methodology. The staff however, had switched off to any further information and was pondering the possibilities of the changes. Leanne saw herself at the new manager’s side, her importance unbounded. Several clerical staff sat silently.

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When the auditors had finished, Henry called the meeting to attention again and told the staff not to talk to the press. The meeting closed and Leanne quickly offered the visitors morning tea. Henry requested a coffee and use of Robert Gray’s office. The rest declined and left the building. Henry then asked Leanne to point out who Jason was.

As Jason left the room with the others, Henry called him aside.

“I’d like a word Jason, could you come in to Robert’s office now please.”

“Of course, “Jason said, surprised.

Jason’s heart thumped as he walked to Robert’s office and waited outside the door for Henry to catch up. Leanne arrived with Henry’s coffee and placed it on Robert’s desk. She left the room and Henry closed the door behind her.

“Well Jason,” he began after they had sat down. “The auditors have looked closely at your work and we believe you have done a very good job despite not picking up the Robinson discrepancies.”

Jason did not respond but waited for Henry to continue, his anxiety rising rapidly. Henry continued, “We understand you had very little to do with Robinson’s work, so you can’t be blamed for that.” He smiled at Jason. “The new manager is 308

going to need some support to settle this place down and get things in order again. We think you are the best person for that job.” He looked at Jason.

Jason hesitated, he knew his position was junior to a number of people, he immediately thought that Henry Corbel might not know this.

“Mr Corbel,” he began, “Kylie Waite is senior to me, I think that would be a problem.”

“The auditors have made their judgements on this,” Corbel’s face darkened. “I’ve had enough of whingeing women, I want you for this job; the decision’s made if you want it.”

Jason was surprised and pleased. He hadn’t expected this. He responded in a respectful tone. “Yes Mr Corbel, I do want the job, thank you.”

“Good, well then, personnel will be in touch with the details.” Corbel said. “And don’t take any nonsense from those women.” His irritation was obvious as he stood up.

Jason went back to his desk but couldn’t settle to his work. He rang his mother but she was not answering. He fiddled around on the computer and shuffled various papers for a few hours. The office was abuzz with speculation and gossip. He

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didn’t want anyone to ask about his meeting with Corbel. He left the office early to drive to Redbrooke South.

The high school was located in a wide street with bus layovers in front of the gate. School children were beginning to flow from the school ground and spill into the street. Jason parked opposite the bus stops and watched the crowd. A group of older boys slouched by and looked at his car. Queues were forming at the bus stops and two small boys pushed and shoved each other for the first place. Other cars were beginning to arrive. Jason watched as a young girl kissed a woman through the car window then climbed into the car with her backpack still attached to her back. He was startled when there was a tap on the passenger side window. Rhianna peered in at him.

He leaned over and opened the door.

“Hi Jason,” Rhianna flopped into the front seat. “Gonna take us down town?”

Jason stared at her. The change was a shock. She had a short school uniform and a backpack that she flung onto the floor. Her face was freckled and tanned without makeup and her hair was pulled back into pony tail. She looked about fifteen.

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“Uh, sure,” Jason recovered then remembered the envelope. “I have to give something to Jasper,” he said.

“I know,” Rhianna replied. “Give it to me; I’ll give it to him.”

She took the envelope Jason gave her and pushed it under her sweater. She ran across the road to a tall blond-haired boy leaning on the fence smoking a cigarette. Rhianna spoke to him for a few seconds then Jason saw him pick up his bag and unzip the front pocket. Rhianna dropped the envelope in and turned back to cross the road. Jasper threw his bag over his shoulder and walked slowly away. Rhianna opened the door and climbed back into the car.

“Hey this is mean, Jace.” She clipped the seat belt into place. “Let’s go then.”

Jason was torn. He was flattered by her attention and wanted to show off his car but he was aware of her age. He wasn’t sure he should be seen with her. He glanced down at her legs; her uniform was shortened by sitting in the seat and revealed her long bare thighs.

Jason pulled the car away from the kerb and drove carefully through the school traffic before accelerating towards town.

They cruised downtown and did a couple of circuits of the main street. Rhianna waved to her friends when she saw them 311

and asked Jason to drive her to various places in the shopping centre. He started to get the feeling that he was a redundant part of the exercise.

“Would you like to go to the gym?” he asked at last.

“Nah not tonight,” Rhianna replied, “my boyfriend’s coming around. You could drop me home though.”

Jason looked across at her. “You have a boyfriend?” he questioned.

“Yeah.”

“Why did you have sex with me then?” Jason blurted out.

“Because you wanted it,” she replied.

“But you’re only fifteen,” Jason was getting flustered.

“So what?” Rhianna looked at him. “It’s you gets in trouble, not me.”

“Are you going to tell anyone?” Jason was nervous now.

“What for?” she said.

“Well, Cameron knows,” Jason said.

“Course Cameron knows, he gets me to do it.” She laughed and added, “He’s a dumb prick, just like the rest.”

“What do you mean?” Jason asked.

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“You don’t know nothin’, do you Jace?” Her voice changed. “You know Jace, I like you, you’re different, but you are a dumb dick sometimes. You haven’t guessed what’s goin’ on have you?”

Jason was becoming disturbed by the conversation. He started to realise there were many things he didn’t understand. He wanted to know more but didn’t know the questions to ask. He pulled into a park by a football oval and drew up beside a boundary fence.

He turned to her. “What’s going on?” He asked.

“If I tell you, you can’t tell anyone,” she said.

“Okay,” Jason agreed.

“Cameron runs drugs at school and at the gym,” she began. “He gets kids to recruit other kids for the church and then he gets something on them. Then he threatens them with something and they have to do what he wants.”

Jason stared at her. It was beginning to fall into place. The boat trip, the gym membership, the video with Rhianna, it made sense. He thought about the others.

“What about the church group?” he asked.

“Most of them don’t know but Joshua and Tia are the main ones. Tia deals at uni and gets kids from there. Joshua works in

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a video store so he gets gamers and kids who go there.” She paused. “He gives then free games and stuff and porn.”

“What about Jasper?” Jason asked.

“Jasper’s gay,” she said, “Joshua found out through kids at the video shop and they threatened to out him to the kids at school and to his parents.” Rhianna looked down the street. “He hates Cameron, he told me when he finishes year twelve he’s going to leave here but he takes stuff himself now. He’s nice,” she added.

Jason was listening intently. He was amazed at what she told him but he believed her.

“Aren’t you scared of telling me?” he asked.

“No, you’re different. You won’t tell.” She was emphatic. “You’ve got to get away from them Jace, Cameron is a real fuckin’ prick.”

“But he has a video of me and you on the boat,” he said.

“He keeps all his stuff on the boat, all the videos are in the locker in his room. He’s a fuckin’ wanker; he watches them all the time.” She paused and stared out the window. “Well he won’t have them for long,” she mused, almost to herself. “Me and Jesse have got plans.” She stopped.

“Who is Jesse?” he asked.

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“My boyfriend,” she said.

“What plans?” Jason asked.

“Nothing, don’t say I said that ever,” she begged him.

“It’s okay, Rhianna, I won’t,” Jason promised. “Have you ever told your parents?” he asked.

“My parents don’t give a fuck. Mum left us years ago and as soon as she left Dad tried to have sex with me, I hate them. We lived with our auntie for years, I loved her, but she got really sick and had to live in a home. She let us stay in her house for a few years. When she died they sold the house. My brother lives somewhere in Queensland now. Then I met Jesse. He got the flat for me and he pays the rent. I live there now. He’s good to me Jace, he doesn’t hit me or anything.”

Jason nodded. He had no idea how to respond to this information but he liked Rhianna.

“Just don’t go there, to the gym. Don’t go to church. Cameron won’t touch you, you’re older, he knows he can’t get you, if you stay away,” she suggested.

“I don’t know about that,” Jason replied. “He has a brother on the Golden Beach, I met him, and I’m scared of him. He pretended he didn’t have a brother.”

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“I know he does,” Rhianna looked at him. “Toby is gay too; Cameron made him have sex with some old guy on the boat. When Toby told them he was going to the cops, they took him to Golden Beach and he was beaten up by a bloke who was a security guard. Toby told me he looked just like Cameron.”

“What did Toby do?” Jason asked hopefully.

“He hates him; he told me he’s going to get him one day,” Rhianna said as she looked at her watch. “I’ve got to go Jace; Jesse will be waiting for me.”

Jason started the car and asked her the address. They drove out of the park and Rhianna directed him to a small block of flats in a cul de sac off a street a short drive from the school.

Jason pulled into the kerb and said, “Can I talk to you again?”

“Yeah Jace, but don’t say anything to any of the others.” She shut the car door and walked towards the flats.

Jason watched as she walked away. As she approached the driveway a man stood up from the low wall and greeted her. She kissed him and they walked together up the drive. The man wore a biker jacket overlaid with a denim sleeveless shirt that had the word “Avengers” in fiery letters across the back. A large black Harley Davidson motorbike with flames painted on

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the petrol tank was parked in the driveway. Jason turned the car around and accelerated quickly out of the street.

Over the next week Jason tried to busy himself with his work as the office settled into a new routine. He was not successful and kept an ear for any new gossip circulating the office. Leanne whispered to him in the kitchen that another thirteen accounts had been closed. Margaret and Beverly had received notice of their redundancy and would be leaving in the next fortnight. Jason felt unsettled.

He discussed the issue with his parents. The three sat around the dining table after dinner and Jason told them the about state of the company.

“But Jace,” his mother protested. “You just got a promotion.”

“Sounds to me like they’re just getting him to settle the new bloke in then they’ll get rid of him,” Jason’s father propositioned.

“It doesn’t feel right,” Jason agreed. “Why would they give me that job when there are three people senior to me?”

“Well love, you’ve got to go with your feelings, but you can’t leave without another job,” Pamela offered.

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The discussion continued for a while until Jason began to feel tired. He went to bed and lay thinking about his father’s warning. He went over the events with Rhianna and thought about the threat of Cameron P. Gordon. Nothing in his life was certain. He wondered if his life would ever get back to normal. He thought that maybe he had to make it normal. He mulled over this for some time. In the early hours of the morning he made the decision that he would not go to the gym again. Nor would he go back to the church. He would look for another job.

The next day at work he completed an application for a bookkeeper’s position with a trucking company in Shell Cove, an hour’s drive from Redbrooke. The job was split between the two towns. Jason posted the application on his way home from work.

As he wove his way between the traffic Jason flicked on the news. The last details about a boat catching fire in the bay were given. Jason switched back to music and picked up his phone to check a message alert that had just sounded. It was a text from Rhianna.

‘All fixed Jace

Some boats don’t float LoL 318

R xx

Delete.’

Jason didn’t understand the message but he felt glad that Rhianna had contacted him. He deleted the message and threw the phone onto the passenger seat. He would phone her tomorrow from work.

He pulled into the driveway beside his father’s car and turned off the motor. His father was pruning trees in the garden.

Jason walked over to his father and said, “Ready to get thrashed again tonight, mate?”

“Dream on, boy,” Bruce replied. “Tubby Reynolds is out with a sprained ankle.”

“Shit,” Jason exclaimed. “When did that happen?”

“Apparently at a run this morning.” Bruce laughed. “Now let’s see who gets thrashed.”

The two men went into the house together and Jason got beers from the fridge for them.

“Going to watch your team get thrashed, Mum?” Jason asked.

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“Your father says we are going to win tonight,” Pam replied.

Jason and his father walked to the lounge and Bruce flicked on the television news. The newsreader read the headlines.

“Police today are investigating the destruction of a luxury boat that last night exploded and burnt after leaving the Westside Bay marina. Police say the boat may have been stolen and the fire deliberately lit. Water Rescue Fire units were unable to save the boat which was completely destroyed. A witness who was in the Westside Yacht club car park told Police he saw a ball of fire rise into the sky after hearing a loud bang. No-one was injured in the fire. Police have confirmed that the boat was registered to the Church of the Great Assembly.”

Jason leaned forward and stared at the screen. There were pictures of blackened debris floating on the water and the empty bay where the Lady Dianna was once moored in the marina. Police tape was tied across the entrance to the space and several police in yellow wind jackets were examining the scene. The witness, a grey-haired, rotund man in cream slacks and a too tight navy skivvy was talking into a microphone held by the

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reporter. Jason didn’t hear any more. The meaning of Rhianna’s text slowly sunk in.

A week later Jason was asked to attend an interview at Benson Brothers Haulage. He took a sick day from work and in a smart charcoal suit and red tie he attended the Benson Brothers office.

The interview in front of a panel of three men seemed to Jason to go well. Roger Armstrong, the finance manager, asked the final question. “I see you are employed at Financial and General Jason, they’ve had had a bit of trouble recently. Is that why you applied for this position?”

“To be honest Mr Armstrong,” Jason lied, “I have been looking at other positions for some time. I’m looking for a new challenge and this position appealed to me.”

Jason didn’t add that his father had told him to say this if they asked and not to criticise Financial and General.

Armstrong posed another question. “What sort of outfit were they, Jason? Problematic by the sounds of it?”

“Well for me I wanted to move on, but I think they were a bit unlucky with the embezzlement, Mr Armstrong. No-one knew he had a gambling problem,” Jason added for good measure.

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Armstrong seemed satisfied with the answer and jotted a few notes on his paper. Later that afternoon the company offered Jason the job.

As requested, Jason went back to the Benson Brothers office to complete his personnel details and to get a start date. As he walked through reception he noticed a young blonde office clerk reaching to place folders on a shelf. Jason looked at the back of her legs where her skirt had ridden up.

“Can I help you with that?” Jason offered.

The girl turned around and looked at him,

“Oh, you’re the new guy; I’m Jenny, yes thank you I can’t quite reach.”

“My name is Jason,” Jason said as he leaned over her to place the folders in the shelf.

He walked from the building and as he opened his car door he glanced back to see if she was watching. This job was looking good. He revved the motor a little and drove slowly from the carpark.

* * *

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Carlo and Caroline climbed out of bed at ten pm and made cheese toasts and mugs of hot milk chocolate and took them back to bed. They sat up against the pillows tucked around with doonas talking the night away. They told each other their histories, their mistakes and disappointments, their griefs and their dreams. They and kissed and talked and finally snuggled down into the bed curled around each other and slept.

As the new moon slid away and the first pale light streaked the horizon the phone rang with all the charm of a jackhammer. Carlo struggled to untangle himself as he reached for the phone on the bedside table.

“Carlo,” he said.

He held it for a few seconds before he turned to Caroline.

“It’s Susan for you.”

“Hello Car,” Susan’s voice was strained. “Nicolas rang. Robert has had a car accident, he’s in hospital but he’s going to be okay. I’m sorry it’s so early but I thought you would want to know. Nicolas sounded a bit fraught and he wants you to phone him.”

“Oh my god,” Caroline exclaimed. “When was this?”

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“Nicolas didn’t say, but he’s been at the hospital, he said. I told him you were away but I would phone you,” Susan replied.

“Oh thanks Susan,” Caroline said. “I’ll phone him now and call you back later.” She put the phone down.

Caroline turned to Carlo, her face strained. “Robert has had a car accident, he’s in hospital,” she grimaced. “I must phone the boys, do you mind?”

“Of course not, you must phone straight away. I will make us coffee.” He rolled out of the bed and pulled on a dressing gown from behind the door. He headed for the kitchen and called over his shoulder as he went. “Use my phone, the code for Australia is in the book by the lamp.”

Caroline wrapped the doona around and dialled her home number.

Nicolas answered.

“Hello darling,” Caroline said. “I just got your message. What’s happened?”

“Dad hit a plumber’s truck on the way home from work, he’s got two broken legs; they say he’ll be okay but he will be in hospital for a while.”

“Where is he?” Caroline asked.

“Redbrooke Base.”

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“Are you sure he’s okay?” Caroline asked.

“Well, he’s still a bit out of it, Mum, but the doctor said the operation on his legs was a long one and he’ll be a bit groggy for a while.” Nicolas’s voice broke. “The hospital asked for his Medicare number and his private insurance, Mum, I didn’t know where to find it.” His voice broke again. “I’m sorry Mum, I don’t know what to do. Can you come home?”

Caroline felt a pang of remorse and guilt.

“Now listen darling,” she said, slipping into a familiar role. “It’s okay; I’ll get the next flight home. Just tell the hospital staff at the office that everything will be sorted when I get there. It’s no big deal, it is a public hospital; they will look after him for as long as he needs. You have done all you can.”

She could hear Nicolas’s breathing in an effort to recover.

“Nicky darling,” Caroline began again. “I will try and get through to the hospital before I leave. Do you have the number?”

Caroline jotted down the number on her hand with a biro she pulled from an address book on the table.

“Are you okay, darling?”

“I was scared Mum. I thought he was going to die,” Nicolas replied, his voice shaky.

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“Where is Adam?” she asked.

“He’s moved in with Maria. He’s been to the hospital once but he doesn’t want to go back.” Nicolas tailed off.

“So you’re in the house by yourself?” Caroline was surprised.

“Yeah, but I’m okay, Mum. Auntie Irene and Ric came around last night to check on me.”

“Why doesn’t Adam want to go to the hospital?” Caroline was concerned.

Nicolas’s voice dropped. “He hasn’t spoken to Dad since you left.”

Caroline paused whilst the information sunk in. She felt worried about Nicolas and wished she was there with him. He sounded scared and abandoned.

“Nicolas,” she began, “if I phone Irene, will you go there and stay until I get back?”

“I’m fine, Mum.” He didn’t sound convincing.

“Yes, I know that, I just think it would be better for you to stay there until I get back,” Caroline repeated.

“Okay, Mum.” Nicolas sounded relieved.

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“Darling, thank you for all the things you’ve done to help Dad. I’ll phone or email you with the flight details depending on the time.”

“Yes Mum,” Nicolas replied.

“Love you darling, see you soon,” Caroline finished.

“Love you Mum, see you.” Nicolas hung up the phone.

Caroline put the phone down and walked through to the kitchen to find Carlo. Coffee was bubbling on the stove and Carlo appeared out of his office.

He held out his arms and enfolded her.

“You alright?” he asked.

“Not really,” she said, “But I’m getting there. Robert had a car accident and is in hospital with broken legs.”

“I couldn’t help hearing your talk with Nicolas,” he said. “Is he going to be alright?”

“I don’t really know but Nicolas thinks he is.”

“Well I have booked your flights,” he continued, a business tone creeping in. “You can leave from Rome tonight to Sydney and connecting flight to Redbrooke, all done.”

She stood apart from him and looked at his face.

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“Oh, thank you, Carlo,” she said. “I feel I must be there for the boys.”

“Of course you must. Would you like me to come with you?” he asked.

Caroline looked surprised. She felt uncomfortable about the situation but had not expected this. “You are so kind Carlo, but I think the boys have a lot to deal with at present. A new person in their lives just now might be too much.” She paused. “Thank you though,” she added.

They sat in the kitchen and drank their coffees. Carlo was quiet and Caroline preoccupied with events. Carlo finished his coffee and rose. “Well, I insist on taking you up to the airport,” he said. “You can’t refuse that.”

“You are a darling Carlo; yes I will take up that offer.” Caroline replied. “I’m so sorry this has spoilt our time together.”

Carlo looked upset. He stood up and walked to Caroline and put his arms around her.

“Nothing can spoil our time together,” he said. “Caroline, I don’t want to add to your concerns, everything is fine with me. I have my own concerns and I have let them show. I am selfish,” he finished. 328

“What are your concerns?” Caroline looked at him.

“That you might not come back. It’s selfish I know, but I can’t help it. I want you here with me, not just for a weekend, Caroline.”

“I feel the same Carlo, but I have a bit to sort out with my family first. I’m sorry; I am so worried about the boys.”

“No, I should be sorry,” Carlo responded. “There is no pressure, truly. I know what it is like to have children; I will be here. Whatever happens I will be here.”

Caroline was torn between the call from Nicolas and her feelings for Carlo. She somehow could not equate them. They seemed two very different worlds. One she had left behind or not quite left behind and one explosive one she had ventured into. She felt tired and fragmented. Her heart felt raw and exposed and too painful. She burst into tears and held her face in her hands and sobbed. Carlo moved immediately to guide her to a chair. He wrapped the doona around her and disappeared out of the kitchen but returned with a check fleecy shirt that he put over her head and pulled her arms through the sleeves until the shirt was fitted around her. He helped her from the chair and guided her to the sofa where he held her in his arms until her sobs subsided. He kissed her hair and her face and wiped her cheeks.

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Caroline allowed the attention because she didn’t have the strength to resist. She leaned against him and felt his warmth; she wanted to stay against his chest forever; to let it all go, to sink into the warm feeling of being cared for, of not having to make decisions, to have the boys safe, to have separation from the world of caring for Robert. To trust implicitly in her feelings; in love, in a future that she could trust as well; that was not a trick. She began to sob again.

Carlo held her until the tears subsided.

Caroline blew her nose and got up. “I’m so sorry,” she began.

“No, no,” Carlo replied. “It has been a long time coming.”

Caroline looked at him and remained silent. She thought about what he had just said, she realised she had been holding on, not allowing her emotions since she left Robert. Maybe she was not thinking straight about Carlo. It had all been too easy. She looked at his handsome face watching her with concern. She burst into tears again.

He sat and waited for her to recover before offering to get some breakfast.

Caroline was not hungry so he refreshed the coffee.

“Just tell me when you want to go,” he said.

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“What time do we need to leave for the airport?” she asked.

“We’ll leave about three; that way we’ll have time to have dinner before you board.”

Caroline nodded blankly; her mind was on the daunting prospect of returning home. Carlo took the empty cups to the kitchen and came back to sit beside her.

“I had better go home and get organised,” Caroline said.

“Of course,” Carlo said and smiled. “I think perhaps you should get dressed first.”

Caroline smiled despite her distress. She headed for the bedroom to get dressed.

When she arrived back at Susan’s house she telephoned Irene and after apologising for the late hour she asked Irene if Nicolas could stay until she got back.

Irene was her usual calm self.

“Hi Car,” she said. “It’s all in control here, I’ll collect him today. When are you coming home?”

“Leaving tonight,” Caroline replied. “I should be back Tuesday morning.”

“Then I’ll make up a bed for you,” Irene said.

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Caroline had not thought about where she would stay. Irene’s suggestion came as a surprise to her. She decided maybe that was best. She could then go to her old home in her own time.

“Thanks Irene, I would like that,” she replied.

“I’m really looking forward to seeing you,” Irene said.

“Me too,” Caroline said. “Bye darling and thank you.”

“Nothing to thank me for, you know me Car, love a drama. See you soon, bye.”

Caroline and Susan sat for a while comforted by the warmth of the fire, discussing the possibilities in relation to Robert’s recovery.

“Need any washing done for the trip?” Susan asked.

“No, I’m only taking a skeleton wardrobe. It will be hot there now,” Caroline replied.

“How was your night?” Susan couldn’t resist any longer.

“Wonderful,” Caroline smiled. “Really wonderful.”

“I’m glad Car; he’s such a nice man,” Susan said.

“I shouldn’t say this,” Caroline began. “But do you think he’s too good to be true?”

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“No,” Susan said, “I don’t. He’s always been the same with me. Maybe you are not used to European charm.”

“He’s just so considerate,” Caroline said. “I guess I’m not used to that.”

“Not all men are like Robert,” Susan said.

Caroline looked at her sister with raised eyebrows. Susan had never criticised Robert before. Susan was wiping down the kitchen bench and she had her back to Caroline. She turned around with the dishcloth waving in her hand. “You know just after Emmenia died, Vincent and Carlo had a big argument. Carlo accused Vincent of taking people for granted. He was probably right, y’know, and he was upset at the time. He shouted at Vince that he would not know until he lost someone. I think Emmenia’s death made him see the flaws in his own his ways with people, particularly with Emmenia and the girls.”

Susan put the cloth in the sink and rinsed her hands under the tap.

“Vince was very angry at the time too but I think that reminder changed him. I was still in Australia then and there was the expectation that I would just drop my career and follow him when nothing was certain about the business.” She went on, “Vince rang me a few days after the argument with Carlo and we had a long conversation about how I felt about leaving

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everything and coming to live here. Apparently he and Carlo had talked about the argument and their decision-making processes in a very open way. Vince has never made any big business decision without consulting me since then. I think it changed Carlo too.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Caroline asked.

“Because you are going back to one of the most selfish men I know.”

“Well I’m not going back to him,” Caroline emphasised. “I’m going back to make sure the boys are okay. And I can’t just leave Robert in hospital without support.”

Caroline tried to hide her shock. Susan had not expressed her thoughts about Robert until now. She felt slightly teary and fell silent.

Susan looked at her. “Look Car, I didn’t mean to imply it’s somehow your fault,” Susan began. “But Robert has taken you for granted for years.”

“I know,” Caroline replied. “I just didn’t think leaving would be such a wrench.”

“Do you think you will come back?” Susan questioned.

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“Oh yes, I want to, but I’m worried about Nicolas, it’s not like him to be so uncertain. He asked me to come home.” Caroline looked teary again.

“Don’t worry about it now, Car, it will be okay. You could always bring him back here if he’s not coping.” Susan felt guilty about her comments.

Caroline stayed silent.

“I love having you here Car, it’s been great for me and of course I know you have to make up your own mind.”

“Yes,” Caroline responded. “But I don’t have to do it right now.”

The two women went to Caroline’s room and began throwing clothes on the bed. After the suitcase was packed and ready on the floor, Caroline slept for a couple of hours then showered and changed for her flight. She looked at her face in the bathroom mirror and groaned to Susan, “God I hope I can get some sleep on the plane.”

Susan offered to email Nicolas and Irene the flight arrival times whilst Caroline added the final touches to her face.

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When Carlo arrived at three, Susan and Vincent both held her in a long hug before Vincent put her suitcase in the boot. Carlo steered skilfully through the small villages and eventually onto the motorway to Rome. They drove in silence for a while. It reminded Caroline of when Carlo had driven her home from the airport when she first arrived. So much had happened since then. He reached across and took her hand.

* * *

Robert stared at the picture on the cream hospital wall. It depicted a sweep of beach on an island with a row of palm trees that faded off into the distance. In the background a purple mountain loomed over the scene. It was garish and cheap and Robert had looked at it for hours now as the other walls had nothing on them. The television monitor above his bed was turned off as daytime television irritated him. He was feeling sorry for himself. His legs were still propped up in some kind of frame and his back hurt. The nurses kept asking him if he was comfortable when he clearly wasn’t and when he told them he wasn’t they took no notice.

He had seen Adam only once. Nicolas didn’t seem to know anything and Caroline had not contacted him to see how he was. Robert was frustrated and angry. The night nurse told him that

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his mood could sometimes be a result of the medication and he shouldn’t worry too much. He wanted to hoist the frame out the door but as every small movement was painful he lay still and fumed.

Nicolas came to see him and brought some clean pyjamas and a bag of fruit. He seemed relieved that Robert was awake.

“How are you dad?” he asked.

“How do I look son?” Robert snapped.

Nicolas looked lost.

“Is there anything you need dad?” Nicolas tried again.

“Yes, to get this friggin’ cage off my legs and to go home.” Robert snapped again.

“Mum is flying home tonight. She will be here tomorrow morning,” Nicolas informed him.

“Well it’s about time,” Robert looked interested. “Finished her little holiday has she?”

Nicolas looked at him and his voice dropped. “Don’t upset her again, Dad.”

“What do you mean, don’t upset her? What about me?” Robert raised his voice.

Robert looked at Nicolas and changed the topic. “Why hasn’t Adam been in?” he asked. 337

“I don’t know,” Nicolas replied.

“Well you tell him to come and see me,” Robert ordered.

Nicolas stood up to leave. “You tell him yourself dad, you’ve got his number.”

“Are you going already?” Robert was surprised.

“Yes, I’ve got exams this week, I’ve got to study.” Nicolas walked to the door.

Nicolas spoke to the nurse at the nurse’s station on his way out.

“How long is my father Robert Gray likely to be in here?” he enquired.

“At least a couple of weeks love,” the nurse responded. “But don’t worry sweetie, he’ll be okay, just takes time.”

She smiled at Nicolas, who thanked her and left the hospital. As he walked down the steps he phoned Adam.

“Adam Gray.” Adam sounded formal.

“Are you practising your new business voice?” Nicolas said.

“Ah hi Nick, what’s up?” Adam laughed.

“Mum’s coming home in the morning.”

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“Oh wow, good, do you want me to pick her up?” Adam asked.

“No, I’m staying with Irene tonight and we’ll go to the airport in the morning,” Nicolas said.

“Haven’t you got exams?”

“Not til later tomorrow.”

“Ah okay, I’ll come around home in the morning,” Adam said.

“Mum’s going to stay with Irene,” Nicolas replied.

There was a pause, then Adam said, “You see dad today?”

“Yeah, just came back.”

“Does he know she’s coming?”

“Yeah, I told him not to upset her again,” Nicholas said.

“He better bloody not upset her,” Adam warned. “Thanks for letting me know, mate. I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”

Nicolas clicked off the phone and put it in his pocket. He felt pleased his mother was coming home tomorrow and pleased that he had stood up to his father. He headed toward Irene’s house.

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Caroline stood blinking in the glare of the sun at Redbrooke airport. She walked into the arrivals lounge and Nicolas threw himself at her. He hugged her and stood back.

“You look great Mum,” he exclaimed.

Irene stood back and waited until Nicholas had greeted his mother then she embraced Caroline in a warm and welcoming hug.

“Hello Car, don’t you look good,” Irene said.

“Oh God, it’s good to see you, Irene.” Caroline said and hugged her friend. Nicolas collected her suitcase and they walked to the car talking non-stop.

Adam was waiting at Irene’s house and they all sat around the breakfast table with Ric, eating toast and catching up on news and the current situation. Adam and Nicholas eventually left for uni.

Caroline and Irene were left alone when Ric went to meet with a client. They sat facing each other at the table and Irene immediately began. “You look very tired, Car, would you like a sleep before I grill you for every detail?” She smiled.

“Just a couple of hours in a bed would be wonderful,” Caroline said.

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She woke at midday to the sound of Irene singing along with the radio in the kitchen. It was a happy sound and Caroline lay for a few minutes listening to her friend and thinking about her family. The boys were very pleased to have her home and the same twinge of guilt intruded on the pleasant feelings. She climbed out of bed and pulled some clothes from the suitcase. She padded to the bathroom and took a clean towel from the linen press. She and Irene had cooked and washed and nursed their children in each other’s homes for years; the house was as familiar to her as her own.

When she sat down in the kitchen Irene put a mushroom omelette and salad in front of her on the table.

“Food for talking,” she said.

“Beats QANTAS,” Caroline quipped.

The two women settled later on the verandah with coffee. Caroline began with her concerns about Robert and how to handle the situation.

“Have you seen him?” she asked.

“Of course,” Irene replied. “I went up to the hospital as soon as Nicholas told me. Robert wasn’t awake then but the doctors told me at Nicholas’s request that he would be operated

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on and they thought he would be fine. He did look awful though.”

“I’ll go today and see him and find out what he wants me to do,” Caroline sighed. “I feel guilty about the boys Irene.”

“They’re fine, Car, Adam is doing really well, he’s happy with Maria and now he’s living there he seems really settled. He drops in now and then for a chat.”

“Yes I know,” Caroline continued. “They told me. Thanks for being so supportive. I don’t really want to see Robert, but I don’t feel I can leave him without some support.”

“Then don’t,” Irene replied. “He’s covered by insurance isn’t he?”

“Yes,” Caroline said. “Both health and loss of work.”

“Then why not use that to organise what he needs.” Irene continued, “He will be in rehabilitation for some weeks the doctor said.”

“Oh I feel such a coward not wanting to face him,” Caroline said. “I’ll have to do that at least.”

Irene looked at her friend as she put her coffee down and leaned both arms on the table.

“Something else is going on isn’t it,” she said.

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“I haven’t had time to think about it clearly Irene, but yes, I think I want to stay in Italy and spend time with Carlo.”

“Wow, you sure know how to deliver news,” Irene laughed.

“I have so many things to sort out, I can’t think straight, but I do know this, I want to spend time with Carlo. He’s amazing Irene.”

“At last the details!” Irene said.

Caroline talked about her time over the last weeks; the plans for the barn, her growing relationship with Carlo and her dilemma about the futures of her children. Finally she decided she should go to the hospital and see Robert. She borrowed Irene’s car and set off. She thought about her conversation with Irene. Her feelings for Carlo had somehow solidified in her expression of them to someone else. But doubts in her own judgement were lingering. It had all happened so quickly, maybe it was just a rebound thing. She found a car park and prepared herself for the visit.

Caroline walked into Robert’s room to find him propped up with pillows, his legs resting on some kind of support under the sheets and face looking pale.

“Hello Robert,” she said. “How are you?”

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“Ah, the traveller returns,” he said in a false hearty voice. “Well as you can see I’m about to run the marathon.”

“It looks painful,” she said.

“It’s bloody painful. But you look well; your little holiday in Italy must have been good for you.”

Caroline steeled herself when responding. “It’s lovely thank you, but I haven’t come to talk about that. Apparently the hospital doesn’t have your Medicare card or insurance details, would you like me to organise that?”

Robert looked surprised.

“I thought Nicholas sorted that,” he said.

“He couldn’t find them,” she said.

“Yes,” he said, “you could sort that for me and could you bring my mobile phone?”

Caroline breathed in and paused. “Where is it?” she said calmly.

“With the things they took out of the car,” he said.

“Where are they?” Caroline remained calm.

His voice rose with irritation. “How would I know, I haven’t been home.”

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“Is there anything else you need from the house?” she asked.

“Not for now,” he said. “I’ll let you know if there is.” He paused and looked at his bedside table.

“You could take this washing with you,” he said, reaching down to pull up a bag from the drawer.

Caroline took the bag and prepared to leave. As she reached the door she turned and said, “Hello Caroline, how are you, so good of you to come home and look after things, you must be tired after travelling. How are you feeling?”

Robert looked angry. He rolled his eyes, then looked at her and said, “Well you might not have noticed but it’s me who’s in hospital, it’s me who’s injured. I can hardly get up and do things for myself.”

“It’s good to know nothing has changed,” Caroline said evenly as she left the room.

She phoned Irene.

“Do you need the car for a bit Irene?” she asked. “I just need to go to the house and pick up Robert’s Medicare and stuff.”

“No, take your time darling,” Irene said. “How was he?”

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“Well enough to be a complete arse as usual,” Caroline replied.

Irene laughed. “See you later,” she said.

Caroline pulled into the drive of her old home and searched around in her handbag for her keys. She let herself in and walked into the kitchen. The house looked surprisingly tidy. There was very little food in the fridge and the radio had been left on.

Caroline found a pile of Robert’s possessions on the sideboard and searched through them for his card wallet. She sorted through his filing system in the office and found the insurance policy numbers he might need. She wrote them down and put everything in an envelope. She made copies for herself of the insurances, house insurances and title deeds and their marriage certificate. She took her birth certificate and any other papers and documents pertaining to her and bundled them into a large envelope for herself. She didn’t want to be doing this when Nicholas was around.

She sat in the lounge and looked about. The house had a familiar tired smell to it; even the air felt stale. She looked at the ornaments and rugs and little reminders that told her this was also her house. She had a sense of everything having

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faded. The rugs looked worn and washed out; the paintings on the walls did not appeal as they had done and she had an urge to take them down. She walked into the bedroom and sat on the bed. She felt stifled, as though the room would close in on her.

She sat down again in the lounge and imagined that if she were to leave, what she might take with her. She thought about the barn at Susan’s as a new empty space, but could not imagine one item from her house that might be suitable. A sense of fatigue swept over her and she felt the burden of decisions weighing her down. She didn’t go into the boy’s rooms but sat thinking about the past; the house, Robert, their lives together with the boys; and the conversation at the hospital today.

She felt like she had spent most of her life with the house and Robert strapped to her back, pulling it along, dragging it through the mire of their lives, dragging Robert reluctantly behind her. She stood up and walked to the kitchen; her potted fern above the sink had shrivelled and was dying in its pot. She took the pot into the garden and tipped the fern out. She returned to the kitchen, picked up the envelopes from the sideboard and left the house, closing the door firmly behind her.

Caroline looked at her watch. She had time to go back to the hospital before the office closed. She walked into reception and took the documents they needed for Robert out of the

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envelopes. She was directed to the Physiotherapy and Rehabilitation Department where she spoke with the social worker for some time about Robert’s options. She was assured that arrangements for home nursing would be part of his rehabilitation under his insurance and that he would be transported to the hospital for physiotherapy and any other services.

She left the hospital and drove slowly back to Irene’s. She threw Robert’s washing into the machine and poured herself and Irene a glass of wine. They took their glasses and a plate of biscuits and cheese onto the verandah to sit in the warm evening air.

“I’ve hardly had time to hear about you, Irene,” Caroline said.

“Oh we’re fine Car,” Irene began. “Ric likes his job and being his own boss. I do most of the paperwork so it suits us both. We want to take a break around the middle of winter and visit his mother in Chile, she’s very old now. His brother is coming out in a few months. Ric thinks he might want to stay.”

“That will be good for Ric, he must miss his family,” Caroline replied.

“Well, we made a decision the other day to go back each year for his mother.”

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“And the boys?” Caroline asked.

“The slump in the housing market is making things a bit slower but Damian seems to think it’s all a rumour. He has been selling houses like hot cakes. They’re doing very well. He and Amanda get married about three weeks before we go to Chile so it’s going to be a bit hectic. So what’s the prognosis with Robert?” Irene asked.

“He’ll be fine. He’ll have a few weeks of rehab before he goes home then he gets home nursing if he needs it.”

Caroline refilled the glasses and took a sip. She paused and looked at Irene. “I’m going to divorce him Irene,” she said, her voice even.

“I thought you might,” Irene said. “Well, I’ve hoped you would.”

A family of eastern rosellas landed squabbling and bustling to drink at the water bowl.

“I have finally realised I don’t need to keep carrying him.”

“Good,” Irene said. “I know that feeling.”

“I thought I had to stay for the boys and it was just me somehow being ungrateful,” Caroline said.

“Oh don’t we all do that,” Irene said, “I stayed for years for the boys and look at them now. Do you know what Damian

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said to me when I first told them about Ric? ‘I’m glad mum’. I was amazed; I’d been feeling so guilty.”

Caroline nodded. “I’ll have to talk to the boys, but that can wait for now. I have a few things to do before then. I realize I don’t have to make any immediate decisions about what I do in the future; I just know I want a divorce.”

Irene held up her glass and looked at the wine.

“This is nice wine Car, but we should be drinking champagne.”

“I’m so glad I’ve got you, darling,” Caroline smiled.

The next morning Caroline made an appointment to meet with Damian to evaluate the house. She asked him to make it confidential and not to discuss it in front of the family. He gave her a ball park figure and promised to send it in writing later. Next she went to her solicitor and set her divorce in motion. She requested the papers be sent to Robert at the hospital. She walked from the solicitor’s office with a feeling of exhilaration. It was done at last. She could hardly believe it. She would phone Susan tonight.

She phoned Adam and asked him to meet her for lunch. Adam greeted her as he unhooked his backpack from his

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shoulders and put it under the table. He sat across from Caroline and looked at the menu board.

“I’ll have a chicken focaccia, thanks Mum,” he said.

Caroline ordered the focaccia and a Greek salad for herself and coffees. They sat in the sun under an umbrella away from the crowd and chatted generally for a bit, then Caroline said, “Why haven’t you been back to see your father?”

“Because he is a self-centred prick,” Adam replied.

“Yes, that’s true,” Caroline smiled. “But that’s not different.”

“I went there with Maria the other night mum and he didn’t even acknowledge her, just ordered me around as though I was in the room by myself. She was very upset.” Adam was defensive.

“What did you say?” Caroline asked.

“I said, ‘didn’t you notice Maria is here too, Dad?’ He just ignored that and went on talking at me,” Adam said.

Adam stopped eating and looked at Caroline. “He’s not going to treat Maria the way he treats you, Mum, I won’t let him get away with it.” Adam went on. “Maria won’t either, she’s pretty feisty, she didn’t know what was happening and it took her by surprise. It’s his way of having power over people.”

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“Yes it is,” Caroline said. “Good for Maria.”

“I’m not going to see him until he apologises to Maria,” he said.

Caroline took a breath and looked at her son. He had a handsome face and a steely line to his jaw. She was glad he didn’t use that determination against women.

“Adam, I am going to divorce Robert,” she said, watching his face.

Adam put down his coffee, raised his fist and punched the air. “Yes!” he said loudly. “Yes! Yes!”

He got up from his chair, came around the table, put his arms around Caroline and kissed her on the cheek.

Caroline had not expected this outburst. She thought at least he would be shocked, or want to question her. He laughed at her expression and sat down again.

“I thought you might be upset,” she said. “I haven’t told Nicholas yet. I wanted to tell you first.”

“Nick will be happy too Mum, we’ve talked about it. We always wondered why you didn’t divorce him,” he said. Adam looked serious again and leaned over the table. “Dad has been giving Nicholas a hard time since you left, Mum. Nick

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didn’t want to tell you because he thought you’d worry, but he doesn’t want to live in the house with him anymore.”

“What do you mean a hard time, Adam?”

“He’s just riding him all the time,” Adam said. “About uni, about cleaning the house, about his clothes, anything. Nick came and stayed with Maria and me for a few days last week because he couldn’t study.”

Caroline felt a rage rising in her stomach. She drew in her breath and let it out slowly.

“I will talk with Nicholas when he gets home,” she said.

“There’s something else Adam,” she began again. “I will be going back to Italy to live.”

Adam looked a little disappointed then he brightened.

“Better for you than being here, Mum,” he said. “Maria and I want to travel before we settle down. She finishes this year too, so we’ll be free to go. We want to work overseas for a while.”

Caroline thought about Nicholas being left without Adam’s support. Now another problem had presented itself. She would discuss it with Irene tonight. She looked at Adam.

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“Irene thought we might have a bar-b-que tomorrow night, why don’t you ask Maria too, I’d love to see her. Damian and Amanda are coming.”

“Yep, we’ll be there. Maria said yesterday she wants to catch up with you.”

Caroline kissed him on the cheek as they parted. “Thank you darling, see you tomorrow, love to Maria.”

Caroline arrived back at Irene’s to find Nicholas and Ric peeling vegetables in the kitchen. Two stubbies of beer were open on the bench. Strips of beef were sliced on a board beside an array of spices.

“Hi Mum, I’m learning to make a Chilean thingo,” Nicholas laughed. “Or I’m learning to watch really well.”

“Hi Caroline,” Ric said. “He’s going to make a fine cook if he stops eating the raw ingredients.”

Caroline laughed with them and went into the bedroom to change and deposit her bag. She came back to where they were cooking. “When you’ve finished Nicholas, I just want to catch up for a bit,” Caroline said.

“I have to get permission from the head chef,” he replied.

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“You can go now but be ready to serve in an hour,” Ric said throwing his hands in the air. “It’s so hard to get good help these days.”

Caroline and Nicholas sat on the verandah. Nicholas looked relaxed and happy.

“How was your exam?” Caroline asked.

“Wasn’t too bad really,” he replied. “I think I will pass that okay.”

“Nicholas,” Caroline began. “I need to tell you something serious.”

Nicholas looked apprehensive. He sat back in his chair and looked at her. “You’re not sick are you Mum?” he asked.

“Never been better,” she said. “No it’s nothing like that. Nicholas, I am going to divorce your father.”

Nicholas stared blankly at her for a moment then his eyes welled with tears. “Oh Mum,” he said, “that’s the best thing I’ve heard this year. That is so cool, that is the best Mum, just the best!”

Caroline watched his face and as he quickly wiped his eyes with the back of his hand.

“Nicholas darling,” she said “We are going to have to talk about how we will plan for you.”

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“As long as it doesn’t involve Dad I don’t care what we plan,” he said and took a swig of beer.

Caroline was surprised at the reaction of both boys.

Nicholas put his bottle down and looked at her. “Does Adam know?” he asked.

“Yes, I told him earlier,” she said. “He was pleased.”

“There’s something I have to tell you, Mum,” he began. “I don’t want to stay at uni. I don’t like what I’m doing and I don’t want to stay with Dad. I hate him.”

“Would you like what you are doing at uni if you didn’t live with Robert?”

“No Mum, I’ve thought about that,” he said. “I’m just finding marketing really boring. I want to do something more hands on, you know.” He watched her face.

“Will you finish your exams?” She asked.

“Yes Mum, I’ve got one left. I’ll defer after the holidays, and then I can think about it.”

“Nicholas, I will be going back to Italy to live,” she said.

Nicholas looked at her and said, “I thought you might.”

“Would you like to come back with me for the holidays and we can think about what you might like to do?” she asked.

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Nicholas looked relieved and pleased. “Could I Mum? That would be great!”

“You might have to do a bit of work on the barn with me,” she added.

“I don’t care if I have to pick up elephant poo,” he said, “as long as I don’t have to stay with Dad.”

They both laughed.

“I’ll see what Susan says tonight.

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14.

The chicken shed took longer to build than Celeste had imagined. Sinking the posts into the rocky ground was made easier with the help of Ted’s post-hole digger after she had given up on the crowbar and shovel. She also used it to put in rows of holes for fruit trees on the side of the hill that would become the connecting orchard.

The chook shed was completed with fox proof and python proof wire and walls sunken into the ground to prevent any other digging predators. It had an enclosed roosting place under cover of the tin roof at one end and large open space at the other. She had followed the instructions of the builders to bolt all the beams and posts together and Ted had helped her put the roof on. Celeste was pleased with her work. She screwed lightweight hanging chains into the ceiling beams to hang the water and feed containers on. All it needed now was the roost perches and the nesting boxes. She looked forward to furnishing the chook space.

Her muscles stiffened with the new work and she was relieved when Belle rang to invite her for a trip to the market at Thornhill the next day. She packed the tools away in the shed and headed to the house for a hot shower.

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On market days in the mountain town of Thornhill, the saleyards were busy with truckloads of cattle, barking dogs and the voices of shouting auctioneers. The farmer’s stalls on the outskirts of town were filled with fresh fruit and vegetables, bread, cakes, dairy produce and artefacts. Several take-away food vans served hot coffee and a variety of delicious-smelling food. Poultry, goats, pigs and other small livestock were displayed in permanent pens under a long tin roof that stretched back from the road like an aircraft hangar. The crowds ambled through them all.

Belle and Celeste made their way to the vegetable stalls and stocked up on fresh produce. They loaded the goods into Belle’s car and headed to the coffee stall.

“I want to show you a great place to shop,” Belle said as they drank their coffees.

The two women finished their coffees and walked through the shopping centre to a large barn-like building at the end of a lane running off the main street.

Belle greeted the staff like old friends and headed for the clothes section at the back of the building. This was a horsewoman’s emporium. Everything related to saddles and boots and helmets and straps and clips and pieces of leather with

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buckles and belts and things that helped with horses or riding was displayed.

Celeste looked about her; the smell of new leather and the polish and shine of the goods appealed to some deep coming- home feeling. She felt alive amongst the paraphernalia. Elegant soft felt and rabbit fur hats hung in rows on pegs along the wall. Rubber slip-on boots for the stables in winter, lined jackets with high collars and deep button down pockets, oilskin coats and japaras, stretch jodhpurs, cream moleskin slacks and rows of check shirts and coloured neckties hung on racks.

Belle shunted her towards another clothes section where she pulled several pairs of blue jeans from the hangers and flung them at Celeste.

“Go and try those,” she ordered. “I’ll bring some shirts.”

Celeste took the clothes in good humour and tried them on. She was surprised at the effect.

“See,” Belle said as Celeste appeared from behind the curtained dressing room. “You look gorgeous.”

Celeste looked at herself in the mirror. She agreed with Belle, she did look good in the pale blue jeans and the fine navy checked shirt. Before she could discuss it, Belle disappeared and returned with more shirts and slacks and jeans.

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An hour later they left the shop with several large bags of clothes and boots and a fine leather belt with an ingrained pattern of entwined Celtic knots. Celeste was exhausted and still wondering what she had done when they deposited the goods in the car.

Belle looked at her. “Some advice my darling, act like you’re worth gold; dress like you’re worth gold and gold will fall into your hands.”

Celeste was inclined to believe whatever she was told at this point. She had never shopped like this. It appeared her persona had been completely changed in an hour with Belle and the day wasn’t over yet.

“Could we go and see the animals, Belle,” she begged politely.

“Of course darling,” Belle replied. “That’s what we’re here for.”

They walked through the livestock shed and looked at the animals. They examined the extensive range of poultry and Celeste was unsure about the different breeds. She decided she needed to know more about their habits. They passed on to the pigs and goats. Belle stopped frequently to chat with people she knew and to greet friends.

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Celeste wandered on her own amongst the pens of animals and came to a stall where two tiny kid goats were huddled together in the straw at the back of a pen. They had black faces and streaks of black down their legs and chests. Celeste thought they were the most beautiful kids she had ever seen. The card on the pen read, “Newgate British Alpine and Toggenberg Stud.” The card had a phone number.

Celeste was writing down the number when a male voice behind her said, “Can I help you with that?”

Celeste turned to find a man with fine creased lines around his blue eyes and tanned face smiling at her. He looked at the goats and turned back to her. “Lovely little girls aren’t they?”

“Beautiful.” Celeste replied. “What are they?”

“Well, that’s a good question,” he said. “They seem to have a number of characteristics that baffle me. They don’t have the right colours or shape for either of the breeds I have. They are some kind of throwback; very pretty, but in terms of breeding they are no good to me.”

Celeste felt affronted for the goats but knew this man had a real feeling for them and she contained herself. “Is that why you are selling them?” she asked.

“Yes,” he replied. “Breeding is my business, sadly I can’t keep them. It’s just not viable.” 362

“How much are they?” Celeste asked.

“I’m sorry,” he said, turning to Celeste. “I’m John Fullerton, I own Newgate Stud with my wife Estelle.”

“Celeste Moon,” Celeste said, shaking his outstretched hand.

“Celeste,” he repeated. “The thing is I would like them to go to a good home. I need to recoup my costs but really, where they go is more important. My wife would never forgive me if they went somewhere where they were not looked after.”

Celeste was surprised to hear this from a farmer. She smiled at him and said, “You can absolutely rely on them being looked after,” she continued. “No animal on my farm will ever be neglected.”

John looked at her and saw the set expression on her face. “My wife would like you,” he smiled.

“And what about you?” she asked.

“I would be very happy for you to take them,” he said.

They entered into the fine details of the care of the kids, breeds and breeding and Celeste was fascinated by the amount of information John held. They chatted for some time before John gave her his details and said, “I’m sorry if I insulted you

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Celeste, as you know, people sometimes take animals home without thinking about their care. Contact me if you need any information, happy to help.” He held out his hand again. “Why don’t you come out and visit us?’ he added. “Love you to see the farm.”

Celeste felt included in this interesting community. She wanted to be a part of it, to be one of the people offering knowledge to others, offering help and companionship. She smiled at John. “I would love to see your farm John, I’ll be in touch,” she said.

They exchanged payment and Celeste looked around for Belle. She had no idea how they would get the goats back to her place.

When Belle saw the goats she laughed out loud. “I knew I shouldn’t have left you alone,” she said.

Belle promptly borrowed a large fruit crate from a stallholder friend and put it in the back seat of the Mercedes. She then lifted the little goats into the crate on top of a pile of newspapers.

“There,” she said in a satisfied tone. “All set to go aren’t you my pretties?”

Celeste rescued the clothes and vegetables and put them in the boot. With the goats bleating and the radio playing through 364

the open car windows they wheeled out of the market and headed for home.

They argued all the way down the mountain road over names for the goats and finally agreed that being twins didn’t mean their names should start with the same letter. As they reached Celeste’s driveway Belle turned to Celeste. “Where are you going to put them tonight?’ she said.

“In the chook shed of course,” Celeste replied.

“Of course,” said Belle.

Daphne and Iris were duly unloaded and introduced to their new sleeping quarters. Celeste retrieved her goods from the boot and waved Belle goodbye as the car pulled away.

Celeste deposited her shopping in the house and went back out to bring a bale of hay for the goats’ bedding and a container of water. She spread the hay thickly on the floor under the covered area and put the water in the yard. The two kids followed her about as she worked and she sat with them patting their soft hair and talking to them before she left them to their nibbling of grass in the yard.

“Goodnight girls,” she said. “See you tomorrow.”

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She was exhausted by Belle’s enthusiasm and the shopping but excited about her purchases, especially the goats. She tried the clothes on again, taking time to look at herself in the long mirror. She liked the image. Belle was right. The clothes did make her feel like gold.

The next day Celeste started on a new enclosure for the goats. She was pleased to see they had drunk some water and seemed happy enough in the chook yard. They had also eaten a fair amount of their bedding, but only around the edges where they hadn’t slept. She hadn’t progressed much when Ted rang and asked her if she could do some fencing with him. She walked across the paddock to find him hard at work straining wires to reach the replacement posts. They worked together for a couple of hours talking cattle and farming and Celeste told him about the trip to the market. She had to confess she hadn’t taken much notice of the cattle prices.

“I walked across last night to have a drink, Cel, but I guess you were too tired; the lights were out; it was a bit late,” he added. “I did the markets with Belle once,” he went on. “Never again; I ended up with a whole lot of fancy outfits and a bloody great crate of turkey chicks.”

They both laughed.

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“By the way,” he said, “you’ve got some pretty weird chooks in that chook shed.”

Ted tilted his hat back and scratched his head then pulled his hat back into place over his forehead. Like farmers had done for generations, Celeste thought. He wiped his hands on the seat of his pants and waited.

“That’s Iris and Daphne,” Celeste said. “They’re going to keep the grass down for me.”

Ted smiled. He shook his head. They worked on. By lunch time they had fixed the fence. As Celeste got ready to leave Ted said, “You’re going to need goat fencing for those two.”

They discussed the fencing and finally Celeste said, “I’m planning on going into Redbrooke tomorrow; let me know if you need anything.”

Ted gave Celeste a small verbal shopping list before she made her way home across the paddock.

The day dawned with early warmth and the feel of impending Spring. Celeste had breakfast and after refreshing Iris and Daphne’s food and water and replacing the bedding; she locked the shed gate. They needed to roam a little, Celeste thought as they watched her leave. She backed the Ute from the carport

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and turned down the driveway to the road. She would make a temporary enclosure for them tomorrow.

Celeste felt happy to be busy with the farm. There were many tasks to complete and she had been researching crops and trees and small farm enterprises. She would need to make the farm earn a profit at some time; but for now she was comfortable making it self-sufficient. The tranquillity of the farm and the silence of being in her own space with only the sounds of the land and the weather and Ted’s cattle was a soothing balm. She was beginning to recover from the torment of Commercial and General and the daily shadow boxing with bullies, manipulators, shysters and critics. She felt for the first time in her life at home in a community. Her community of friends and animal companions; the sounds and silences; the music of the land. She rounded a bend and braked hard. A small four wheel drive wagon was balanced precariously on the verge; its front wheels hanging in mid-air over the embankment. A woman stood on the roadside waving at her. Celeste parked off the road on the opposite side. She walked back to where the woman stood.

“You okay?” Celeste asked.

“Yes, swerved to miss a wallaby and hit the loose gravel,” the woman replied.

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“Well, we had better get you out of there,” Celeste said. “Doesn’t look like a good place to park.”

The woman smiled and Celeste noticed her hands were shaking. Celeste put her hand on the woman’s arm. “Would you like some water?” she asked.

“Yes please,” the woman replied. “I do feel a bit shaky.”

Celeste got her water bottle from the car and handed it to the woman. “I’m Celeste,” she offered her hand.

“Moira Mahoney,” Moira took a sip of the water and wiped her mouth. “Thanks for stopping,” she added, her hand holding Celeste’s.

The two women examined the wagon. Then Celeste walked back to the Ute and backed it up to the wagon. She took a tow rope from behind the seat and attached it to the tow-bar on the wagon. She then inched the Ute slowly forward, pulling the wagon back from the edge. Moira stood aside and watched. Loud scraping sounds came from beneath the wagon as it dragged behind Celeste’s Ute the short distance from the edge of the embankment to the roadside. Celeste alighted from the Ute and unhooked the tow rope. Both women peered under the wagon. Oil leaked onto the road and the exhaust pipe hung down onto the gravel.

“I think you’ve hit the sump,” Celeste said. 369

Moira groaned. “I’d better not drive it then.”

“Well, I could tow you back to my place and we could get someone to have a look at it for you,” Celeste suggested.

“Thank you, Celeste,” Moira began. “There’s a mechanic in Thornhill, I could ask him to come up but it would take a while.”

“I’m afraid I’ll still have to go to Redbrooke today, but you could wait at my place for him,” Celeste offered.

“That’s extremely kind of you,” Moira said, looking relieved.

Celeste took some wire from the back of the Ute and tied the exhaust pipe up off the ground. There was a pool of oil under the car.

She looked at Moira. “Are you feeling OK to do this?” she asked.

“Yes.” Moira didn’t sound convincing.

“Have you been towed before?” Celeste queried.

“No,” Moira said, looking a little nervous.

“Well,” Celeste began, “just remember not to brake unless you have to. Don’t touch the gears as it will be out of gear. All you really have to do is steer; just make sure you keep directly

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behind me. If you get too close to me down the hills just brake very lightly if the rope is slack; you okay with that?”

“Yep will do,” Moira said.

“There’ll be enough oil in it to turn it around Moira,” Celeste said.

Moira started her car and turned it to face the way they had come, pulling up behind the Ute. Celeste connected the tow rope to both vehicles and they started slowly towards the farm.

As they moved up the driveway at the farm Celeste could see Ted’s tractor in the yard near the goats. She towed the wagon over onto the grass off the drive and stopped.

Ted came over and greeted them both. “Hi Cel,” he said looking at the wagon. “What’s up?”

“Moira ran off the road trying to miss a wallaby, looks like the sump’s had the gong,” Celeste answered.

“Moira, hello,” Ted said, smiling. “I couldn’t see you properly with the sun on the windscreen.”

“Hi Ted,” Moira said as she climbed out of her car.

“You know each other then?” Celeste sounded surprised.

“You find out up here everyone knows everyone,” Ted laughed. 371

Ted knelt down and looked under Moira’s wagon. “Yep,” he said, “sump looks cactus alright.”

“Ted,” Celeste began, “could you make Moira a cup of tea; she’s had a bit of a shake-up. I need to get going again. I’m sorry Moira, I can’t stay but I know Ted will look after you. Make yourself welcome in the house until I get back. Phone the mechanic from there,” Celeste said as she rolled up the tow rope.

“Thank you Celeste,” Moira said again. “I’m really grateful.”

Celeste turned the Ute around and headed down the driveway again. She looked in the rear vision mirror to see Moira and Ted walking towards her house. Celeste felt grateful for Ted’s appearance. She realised he hadn’t said why he was at her place. She thought about Moira. She seemed like a nice person albeit that she had not had much of a chance to get to know her. There was something grounded about Moira, no histrionics, happy to just get on with the job. Celeste liked her. She hoped for some reason Moira was still there when she got home.

Celeste picked up her fencing wire and supplies at the rural trading store and loaded the bags of dog food onto the Ute. She bought some wine and beer from the wine cellars and took some

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time out to have a coffee and sandwich at a little café in the main street. As she drank her coffee she noticed Judith Sumner at the counter.

Judith looked up and came over to Celeste. “Hi Celeste,” she said. “You look great, how are you?”

“I’m really well,” Celeste replied.

Judith put her hand on Celeste’s arm. “Celeste,” she began. “I’ve wanted to tell you I’m really sorry for any part I might have played in what happened to you at Commercial and General. I feel very remiss that I didn’t stand up for you against those creeps.”

Celeste was taken aback. She looked at Judith and smiled. “Thanks Judith,” she said. “I appreciate your honesty.”

Judith sat on the edge of a chair at the table and said, “I made a lot of mistakes at that place, but I’m back on track now, I’m working for Jim Robertson again and I’m really happy there. I heard you left too, Celeste.”

“Yes,” Celeste replied.

“Are you working now?” Judith enquired. “Because Robertson’s need someone.”

“I bought my own farm on the Ridgeback range,” Celeste said. “I’ve never been happier.”

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“Fantastic Celeste, how brave of you,” Judith laughed. “I’m glad for you. You know, ever since you left they have been going down the gurgler rapidly. They replaced Robert with the new manager but people tell me the clients are dropping off like flies.”

“Couldn’t have happened to nicer people,” Celeste said and they both laughed.

Judith looked serious for a moment and said, “I know you knew about me and Robert and you never said anything; thank you for that Celeste. Larry and I have made a fresh start and we are still having counselling but it’s all going really well. I’m lucky he stuck by me. I guess I wanted you to know that.”

Celeste didn’t answer.

Judith continued. “I heard that Caroline left Robert and has gone to Italy to live.”

Celeste began to feel claustrophobic. The café was suddenly shrinking around her. She could hear the voices of office gossip and mindless chatter and snide criticism. Nausea rolled in her stomach and a wave of anxiety enveloped her. She stood up to leave.

“I have to go now Judith,” she said.

“Oh,” Judith said looking puzzled. “Okay, good luck with the farm.” 374

“No, it’s not luck Judith, its choice,” Celeste said as she walked away.

Celeste hurried to the Ute and drove through town to Jubilation road. She stopped on grass overlooking the site. The ground had been levelled and the place where her house had stood was flattened into a low strip of sand that led down to the creek. She felt glad that the creek could spread again through its original reed beds and wetlands. A family of wood ducks were nestled together on the creek bank. Further down the creek a natural billabong had formed in the wetland space and two swans were gliding over its still surface. A patch of new bulrushes had taken hold at the water’s edge from where a chorus of Banjo frogs plunked. She took a deep breath and let out a sigh. She drove out of the road and headed for home.

Celeste pulled the Ute to a halt beside her shed. Moira’s wagon was still in the yard. Celeste noted immediately that the goats were not in the run. She got out of the car and listened. She could hear the goats not far away. She hurried to the back of the house and was surprised to see Iris and Daphne frolicking on the rocky outcrop down the hill from the house. Moira was sitting on a chair with an easel in front of her and a pencil in her hand. The two kids jumped down the rocks to the grass and came leaping and dancing to meet her as she walked down to Moira. 375

“How come they are not running away?” Celeste asked as she approached.

“They won’t go far from these,” Moira replied, pointing to a bag of apples on her lap.

“I hope you don’t mind Celeste but I wanted to wait for you and I thought they might need a little fun.”

“No, I’m glad. I wanted them to have a run outside but I was a bit nervous they might run away as I haven’t got the fences ready yet,” Celeste replied.

“I always keep a little treat in my pocket when I’m sketching animals; they learn to come when they’re called,” Moira continued. “Do you mind me painting them?”

“Not at all,” Celeste replied, “I’m glad you waited. Did you get the car sorted?”

“Yes, the mechanic put some kind of sealant or something so that I can drive it back to the garage. It’s not as bad as it looked. He’ll fix it for me tomorrow,” Moira said.

Daphne chewed on the cuff of Moira’s jeans until Moira pushed her gently away. The two kids chased across the hill and up to the top of the rocks. They were momentarily silhouetted against the pale sky, standing together, their noses pointed upwards. Moira picked up her pencil again.

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Celeste said, “I’ll have to put them back in shortly, it’ll be sundown soon.”

“Yes of course,” Moira said. “I lost track of time. Would you mind if I came back and got some more drawings at some time?”

“I would like that,” Celeste replied. “They are very enchanting, aren’t they?”

“Miniature mad hatters,” Moira laughed. “I could watch them all day.” She smiled at Celeste.

Celeste noticed the crinkles around her soft hazel eyes. She felt drawn to this warm woman. Celeste surprised herself. “Would you like to stay and eat with me?” she asked.

“I would love to,” Moira said. “But only if you let me help put the girls to bed.”

Moira packed up her easel and handed the apples to Celeste. Celeste called the kids. They came prancing across the grass to her and held up their noses to sniff the pieces of apple before nibbling a tiny piece each. They followed the two women up the hill to the chook shed and Celeste put them in the yard. Celeste unloaded Ted’s dog food from the Ute and put it in a bin in the shed before she and Moira walked back to the house together chatting about the goats as they went.

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Celeste prepared a plate of cheese and biscuits and a bowl of olives and placed them on the table.

“Would you like a drink?” Celeste asked, pulling a bottle of red wine from a rack in the pantry.

“Thank you,” Moira said. “How can I contribute?”

Celeste surprised herself again,”by joining me on the verandah to watch the sunset.”

They collected the food and their glasses and moved to the verandah. Celeste pulled two old cane chairs up to the battered wooden table and poured the wine. “Cheers,” she said, raising her glass to Moira.

“Cheers,” Moira said. “And thank you for saving me today and letting me play with Daphne and Iris.”

They relaxed into easy conversation.

Celeste asked Moira about her paintings.

“I’m very lucky,” Moira began. “I have a small gallery and arts shop in Thornhill that my sister Tilley loves to run for me. Her husband was killed three years ago in a farm accident and it has been very therapeutic for her. She gets a small salary and I get time to paint. The tourists love the shop and I sell quite a few paintings there. Tilley sells some other artists’ work on

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commission so it suits all of us. I bought the building years ago so there are very few overheads.”

“Does Tilley paint too?” Celeste asked.

“No, but she has a fine eye for art. She knits beautiful scarves that she sells. I trust her judgement on what she puts in the gallery. We try and support local quality artworks.” Moira looked out to the paddocks. “I have waited a long time to support myself so I could paint full time. I suspect you have waited a long time too, Celeste,” she added, turning back to Celeste.

“Yes, I have,” Celeste said. “Now I’m learning lots and I feel really happy that I’m still a learner. I love the farm.”

“It’s very beautiful land, Celeste. You chose just the right spot for the house,” Moira said. “What were you doing before farming?”

Celeste briefly told Moira about Commercial and General and for the second time that day she felt like she wanted to be free of conversation about her recent history. Anxiety tightened her chest and she stopped talking. Her eyes watered with an unexpected rush of tears.

Moira looked at her and leaned forward, covering Celeste’s hand with her own. “Celeste I didn’t mean to intrude, I can see that this is upsetting for you. I read the account of the fraud in 379

the Thornhill Gazette. I heard through a friend in Redbrooke that a top woman employee had been bullied for a long time and had left after that. They said her clients left with her. Do you mind if I just ask this; was that you?”

“I guess so,” Celeste replied.

“I’m not going to ask you anything Celeste. I’m going to tell you something if you want to hear it.” Moira sat back in her chair.

Celeste was uncertain; she didn’t want any more discussion of her life at Commercial and General. She just wanted some peace, some quiet to move on with her life. She looked at Moira. “I don’t want any lectures,” she said.

Moira smiled. “No lectures, just a little history that you might find interesting,” she replied.

Celeste looked out to the pink sky. The outline of the mountains was stark against the horizon. Long shadows were falling across the grass and on the creek she could hear the first whirring calls of the tawnies. There was stillness in the air. The earth was holding its breath. She was holding her breath. She felt suddenly scared. The chill of the evening drawing in crept around her. Far away on the mountain she could hear a dog howling. Wild dog? Dingo? Not here; she thought her mind

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frantically seeking distraction. She heard Moira’s voice from far away.

“Celeste, Celeste, it’s okay. I’m going to talk about me, not you.”

Celeste felt numb. She could no longer perform her acceptable social functions; fill the glass, listen to the conversation; make small talk. She felt like an animal must feel as a python squeezes the breath out of it. She sat without responding.

Moira watched Celeste and she leaned forward again. She took Celeste’s hands in hers and looked into Celeste’s face. “Celeste,” she said her voice low. “I was a social worker in the Department of Health for a very long time. I had a particular boss, a woman, who set about systematically trying to destroy me. My work was good, very good; I got results for clients that nobody else got. I was on time, correct, neat, well ordered, and politically very well informed. None of that was ever good enough. Other people got promotions, higher duties, accolades, privileges and power. I got criticism. I got derision. Oh, it was subtle mostly. Comments about how I looked. Comments about how others really knew their work. Comments about my inability to grasp a concept. Anything really. Nothing substantial. I watched others going up the ladder. The friends;

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the brown-noses, the downright idiots. I didn’t understand the dynamics. I despaired. I tried harder and harder to be better. I wore myself out. I became very depressed. Finally I began to consider suicide. I went to work each day with dread. I decided one day to end my life. I drove to a park out of town with a packet of pills and a bottle of Johnny Walker and I sat and looked at the lake in front of me. I saw nothing but my workplace, the boss, my failure and my miserable life. I sat for a long time. Then a strange thing happened. Two pelicans landed on the water. They started to swim back and forth in front of me. I watched how they were. Totally calm on the surface, but I could see their legs under the water paddling like hell. I thought maybe that’s how we all are. They didn’t show any fear or concern. They just kept paddling along, graceful, elegant, occasionally diving to fish, coming up with nothing but still going on. Paddling, paddling, coming up with nothing. But they had complete faith that dinner would come.”

Celeste listened, intent on the story. Occasionally she nodded recognising some point Moira had made.

“I drove out of that park and went straight to work. I walked up to my boss and handed in my resignation. She tried to pretend concern but I kept it subtle enough for her to think that she might be at fault. I walked out of that building a free woman. I had no job, no money in reserve and no idea how I 382

would survive but I have never felt more alive. The senior management called me in for an interview and I told them the lot. I don’t know what happened to her and I don’t care. I know it was important for me to say it though.”

Moira paused and looked at Celeste.

Celeste had tears streaming down her face. She sat riveted to her seat, not speaking, not moving.

Moira got up from her seat and knelt beside Celeste. She enfolded Celeste in her arms and held her.

Celeste began to sob, great muscle wrenching sobs that rocked her body and sucked her breath away, sobs that told their own story, sobs that dredged up memories and hurt and pain, that washed through her mind like a monsoon, a tropical downpour, and finally a soft rain that left her exhausted and spent in Moira’s arms.

Celeste was stunned. She had never experienced such an emotional reaction to anything in her life. She was exhausted, confused and also aware that she needed to make this stranger comfortable in her home.

Celeste suggested she make dinner. Moira laughed at her and suggested equally assertively that Celeste sit back and relax and that she Moira would make dinner. Celeste was overwhelmed by such warmth and care and she felt suddenly 383

too tired to refuse. She pointed out the vegetables and chicken in the fridge and sat in a lounge chair and sipped on a glass of wine that Moira had poured for her.

Moira later walked up to Celeste sitting in her chair and bent down and kissed Celeste on both cheeks. “This is the beginning,” she said in a gentle voice. “Only the beginning.”

She walked back to the kitchen and continued cooking. Celeste sat in quiet contemplation for some time. She thought about the staff at Commercial and General; the jokes about her, the comments and the years of hard work without reward. She tried to think why she had not moved on long before; why she hadn’t asserted herself, defended herself. The memory of her father popped into her mind. She could see him standing in the kitchen of her childhood home; his fist raised above his head, her mother cowering at the sink.

For the first time she could think about it without feeling sick. The memories seemed to have shrunk; moved into some smaller, more distant place in her mind. She realised the new open spaces where nothing had settled yet. A feeling of freedom and hope swept over her. She stood up and walked to the open door to look at the stars hanging above the pale glow on the horizon.

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The two women talked long into the night after establishing that it would be foolish for Moira to drive to Thornhill in the dark with only a temporary repair. Celeste made up the spare room for her and then fell into her own bed into an exhausted sleep.

Celeste felt a slight pang when Moira left the next morning. She watched the wagon move along the road and out of sight. She thought about their conversation of the night before as they walked down to the goats.

“Do you know you are being painted?” she said to Daphne and Iris as she let them out into the yard. Daphne was more interested in the carrots in her pocket than the conversation and Iris was skipping and prancing her way down to the rocks. Celeste walked behind them as they played at butting each other and running around on the grass.

Celeste stepped out the measurements for the enclosure and began bringing the equipment down to begin work. She kept an eye on the twins who were now happily sitting atop the rocks in the sun. She used the Ute to haul the rolls of wire down the hill and commenced hammering the star pickets into the ground at set intervals. Her mind returned constantly to her conversations with Moira.

Moira had suggested that Celeste needed a house warming to mark the start of a new era. Celeste liked the idea, more for

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the chance to see Moira again than the actual party and as she worked she began mentally planning the event. She soon realised she needed someone to help her plan; Belle came immediately to mind. She would phone Belle tonight.

The fence progressed through the hard slog of hammering pickets into rocky soil. She had only the corner stays to build before the wire went on and she needed Ted’s expertise for that. The fence now ran around the rock outcrop as a small separate paddock and into a laneway that ran back to the shed. She called Daphne and Iris who came running to get a small piece of carrot. They followed Celeste to the house and nibbled on the grass whilst Celeste ate her lunch on the verandah.

Bill Monmeith’s truck pulled into the yard. Daphne and ran to Celeste’s side, pushing against her legs as the driver swung down from the cabin and greeted Celeste.

“Brought the organic soil you ordered,” he called from the driveway.

Celeste gave instructions and the man backed the truck up to the side of the house before dumping the soil in a large pile beside the neat rows of garden beds Celeste had built.

“Give my regards to Bill and Barb,” Celeste said as the man climbed back into the cabin.

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“Will do love,” the driver said. “Lookin’ good eh?” He waved his arm in a semi-circle indicating the house and garden.

“Thanks,” Celeste nodded in agreement.

The truck drove away and the goats began to explore the soil. Celeste decided filling the beds might be easier than digging fence holes in the hot sun; so she spent the rest of the day shovelling layers of soil and hay and manure in preparation for planting. Daphne and Iris delighted in the new playground by leaping in and out of the beds and eating the hay. When Celeste had done enough work for the day she put the kids in their yard and went back to the house.

She showered and changed and phoned Belle before taking a bottle of wine and driving the short distance to Belle’s place. She parked the Ute in the sweeping drive and was met halfway to the entrance by an old horse who snuffled at her pockets. Belle opened the door and tossed Celeste a piece of apple.

“Here honey, that’s Olive, give her this and she’ll leave you alone,” Belle called.

Celeste caught the apple and offered it to the horse in the flat of her hand.

Belle stepped outside and hugged Celeste. “Well don’t you look good,” she said to Celeste, “and you too,” she added, patting Olive on the nose. 387

Celeste handed Belle the wine and they went into the house. She led Celeste through to a large living room spread with coloured cushions in deep cane chairs. The floor was covered with an intricate Persian rug and a large vase of Strelitzias blazed in a corner of sunlight. Belle poured the wine into two elegant crystal glasses and served a tray of cheese and dolmades as they sat back to talk.

“I want to have a house warming Belle,” Celeste began, “but I’m not much good at that sort of thing, would you be able to help me plan it?”

“Can a duck swim?” Belle asked, reaching for her inevitable pad and pencil from the sideboard.

Celeste looked up to see Olive looking in at them from the window.

Belle followed her gaze. “Mention the word party and she’s right there,” she said.

Celeste laughed.

“Let’s do the guest list first,” Belle suggested.

“Well I haven’t thought about that really, ah, you and Ted of course,” Celeste paused. “Moira Mahoney,” she said quickly.

“Moira Mahoney?” Belle looked at Celeste with interest.

Celeste blushed and paused again.

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Belle continued on but watched Celeste’s face. “Oh, I didn’t know you knew Moira,” Belle said, then added without hesitation, “Yes we must have Moira and what about the Monmeiths?”

Celeste recovered and they named people from the valley and discarded them just as quickly. They then moved on to the food and Belle suggested a bar-b-que as the easiest option with the contingency of the shed if it rained. The plans were written on the notepad along with lists of guests and food. The date was set for three weeks ahead.

Celeste and Bell discussed the progress at the farm and Belle said, “How are our girls?”

“They’re very happy and naughty and I started their fencing today,” Celeste replied.

“I must come and see them again,” Belle said. “How long have you known Moira?” she added in a casual tone.

Celeste looked about the room for somewhere to escape. She drew in a breath and said,

“Her car broke down the other day and I helped her out.”

“Oh good,” Belle said. “I like Moira, she’s a lovely woman.”

“She’s going to paint Daphne and Iris,” Celeste continued.

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“Wonderful,” Belle responded. “She’s a brilliant artist. I’ll show you something she did.

Belle took Celeste through to a sunroom overlooking the stables and training grounds. Hanging on the wall opposite the windows was a painting of Olive looking in through the window. It captured the very soulful eyes of the horse and the light behind her. It was a beautiful painting.

“I’m aware that this painting may be all I have of her soon. She’s twenty three now and my great first love. She’s the mother of my stables,” Belle said. “Moira doesn’t just paint animals; she listens to their spirit then puts it on paper.”

The women walked back to the living room. Belle picked up her glass and stood looking out to the garden through the large window.

Celeste could see Olive in the shade eating yellow roses from a large bush.

Belle turned to her and said, “I think the house warming is a great idea. I can see in your face Celeste, that you are happier. You must take whatever chance you have for happiness and live it, regardless of what others may think. Overcoming adversity is what we are meant to do. Finding what you love is a fabulous gift.”

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Celeste thought Belle was giving her permission for something but she felt a little uncertain as to what exactly it was. Belle raised her glass to Celeste and smiled. They moved on to discuss potential crops and Belle was interested to know that Celeste had applied for organic certification for the farm.

They talked about the processes for a while and Belle said, “While it’s still light would you like to see my new baby?”

Belle led the way out through a side door to the stable area. The horses were being led into their enclosures for the night by young men and women in jeans and boots. The horses hung their heads over the stable doors, watching as Celeste and Belle passed. Belle spoke with a stable hand about a water hose being left across the drive and moved on. The young man moved quickly to pick up the hose. They walked to a large open shed enclosed by a fence and gate. Inside stood a mare and the most beautiful foal Celeste had ever seen. He had a pale, creamish sandy coat with a black tail and mane and the flared nostrils that denoted Arab ancestry. He nuzzled his mother and pushed into her side as they came closer.

“Isn’t he beautiful,” Celeste exclaimed.

“Bound for glory,” Belle replied,an absolute bloody triumph.”

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Belle patted the mother. “And you have done a wonderful job my darling,” she said to the mare.

They walked back through the yards and Celeste stopped to pat a black mare standing by the fence waiting to be stabled. The mare sniffed Celeste’s face and clothes as Celeste rubbed her neck.

“She’s been a bit lazy lately,” Belle said. “You should come over and ride her for me Cel, she needs some exercise and I don’t have time.”

“Love to,” Celeste replied. “What’s her name?”

“Her name’s Mountain Breeze but we call her Sissy,” Belle said.

“I’m a bit rusty,” Celeste warned.

“So is she,” Belle quipped.

They walked back to the house. Celeste was pleased with the invitation to ride Sissy. She hadn’t ridden for years and she knew Belle wanted her to start again. She marvelled at how easily Belle arranged things without one noticing.

Celeste looked at Belle and thought about how strong she was. “Do you ever get lonely Belle?” Celeste asked.

“Don’t get time to be lonely darling,” Belle replied. “I always have something to do, someone to see. Which reminds

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me,” she went on, “I have a tall dark and handsome buyer from Bahrain arriving tomorrow. He’s going to stay a couple of days to look at two horses working out.”

“Can you be trusted in the house alone with a tall dark and handsome stranger?” Celeste joked.

“Absolutely not,” Belle replied. “But I never mix handsome men with horse sense.”

They both laughed.

Celeste drove home thinking about Belle and the conversation. She resolved to contact Belle more often and invite her over. She pulled under the carport and walked down to lock the goats in their shed.

Her back ached from the day’s work as she walked to the house and she was glad to be home. She threw together a salad and boiled eggs and sat in front of the television with her plate on her lap to watch the news. The phone rang.

“Hello,” Celeste said.

“Hi Celeste, Moira. How are you?”

“Oh good, I’ve had a productive day, and you?”

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“Me too,” Moira said. “I just rang to say my wagon is all fixed and it wasn’t too expensive and to thank you for your hospitality and kindness.”

“Oh no,” Celeste protested. “It’s me who should be thanking you. I have to say,” Celeste went on, “I have not stopped thinking about things since you left.”

Moira chuckled. “Then it sounds like we haven’t finished our conversation.”

Celeste didn’t know what to say and she paused. She didn’t want Moira to hang up. Moira saved her. “I need one more sitting with Daphne and Iris, would you mind if I came over tomorrow for a while?”

“No, they’ll be very pleased to see you,” Celeste replied.

Celeste knew as soon as she said it that it wasn’t what she wanted to say. She felt foolish.

Moira chuckled again. “And you?”

“I’ll be very pleased too,” Celeste replied.

“Then I’ll be there in the morning so I can catch the light, is that okay?” Moira asked.

“Yes, that’s fine, see you then.” Celeste hung up.

She sat down on a kitchen stool and wondered at herself. Why did she make it sound so formal? So stupid, she thought.

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Why did it matter so much? Celeste finished her meal, turned off the television and went to bed early.

Celeste was up early and took particular attention with her hair and clothes, albeit that they were her work jeans and shirt. She had an early breakfast and started her tasks by loading the Ute with posts, wire and tools. She could see Ted out in the paddock moving some cattle so she drove over to ask for his assistance with the end stays on the enclosure. She watched as Fraser and Curly put the last of the cattle through the gate. Ted walked towards the Ute; his slight limp and ragged hat as familiar to her as her own image.

She greeted him with fondness. “Hi Ted,” she called. “Good thing you’ve got a good dog to help you.”

“Curly, yes she’s a great help,” he shot back.

Celeste laughed and got down from the Ute. The pair chatted about the cattle and the weather and Ted agreed to assist Celeste later in the morning. Celeste hoped as she drove back across the paddock that Ted would come over early. She felt a nervous excitement about Moira’s visit and the fence was a good distraction. Celeste realised the work made her feel more in control of her life. It was solid and predictable. She swung down out of the Ute near the enclosure and felt the crunch of

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earth beneath her boots. The sun was lifting in the sky and already the warmth on her back promised a hot day. She lifted the heavy posts and dropped them on the damp grass beside each corner of the fence. This is what she could trust. The morning dew, the thick clods of red soil on the shovel, the thud of each post as it dropped into the hole. She looked up to see Moira, Daphne and Iris coming down the hill towards her.

Celeste’s heart leapt. She put down the shovel as the twins frolicked up to her and snuffled at her pockets.

“Hi,” she greeted Moira. “I’m a bit of a disappointment for them; I forgot the treats.”

“They can only have them when they’re called,” Moira scolded, as she came up to Celeste and kissed her on the cheek.

“Well,” Moira said as she surveyed the fence posts. “You can come and work for me anytime.”

“I hope to get this part finished today,” Celeste said. “Ted is going to help me do the corner stays. I’m not sure how to do them,” she added.

The goats were leaping and bouncing around the rocks in a breakneck chase.

“My subjects await me,” Moira said. “But I’m not sure how I’m supposed to paint something travelling at the speed of light.” 396

Celeste looked up to see Daphne suspended in the sky above the rocks and Iris bunched behind her ready to follow. “I should have called them Tenzing and Hilary,” Celeste said.

Moira laughed out loud and picked up her equipment. She walked towards the goats and Celeste watched as she unfolded her chair and set up her easel on a flat piece of ground below the outcrop.

Celeste turned back to her work. She was relieved when Ted arrived and she had to concentrate on his instructions as they lifted and pulled the posts into place and tightened the stays. Ted showed her how to fix the wire to the posts then stood back as she twisted each join into place.

“That’s great Cel,” he praised. “You must have done this in another life.”

“I wished I’d finished it in that life then,” Celeste replied.

They finished the four corners of the run together and Ted left with the promise to return and inspect the rest later. Ted waved to Moira as he turned to go. “Put your hat on,” he called.

“I’m scared I’ll end up looking like you,” she called back.

Ted chuckled as he walked up the hill.

Celeste stopped for a rest and looked down at Moira and the goats. Daphne and Iris were lying in the sun on the rocks.

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Moira leaned around the easel to look at them. The sun dazzled on the handle of the brush as she swept it in the air. The morning light fell across the side of her face and she looked like some ethereal being lit by the sun. She turned and smiled at Celeste and made a half wave with the brush. Celeste knew at that moment that all would be well; that the fence would be perfect and that she wanted Moira in her life.

Celeste worked on the runway to the shed for the rest of the morning. She threw herself into the work with renewed vigour, occasionally glancing up to watch Moira and the kids.

By lunch it was too hot and she walked down and called to Moira, “I think it’s a bit hot for them now, I’d better take them in?”

“I was just thinking that,” Moira replied.

She folded up her easel and put the work in a rolled container. She then called the goats and they came running to her. The group walked together to the chook shed where Celeste locked Daphne and Iris in the yard.

She turned to Moira, who was putting her equipment in the wagon. “Would you like some lunch?” she asked.

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They sat on the verandah and discussed the house warming after Celeste told her about her visit to Belle.

“Will you come to the party?” Celeste asked.

“I wouldn’t miss it for quids,” Moira smiled.

“I would love to stay and chat,” she said, “but I want to keep on with this today, whilst I’ve got the feel. Thanks for lunch,” she added.

Celeste felt a little pang but also wanted to finish her project. She walked to Moira’s car with her and the two hugged before Moira drove away with a wave from the car window.

Celeste filled the next two weeks with planting and building in the garden. The goat shed was finished and a shelter belt of clumping bamboo and shade trees lined the western end of the enclosure fence just outside the reach of the twins. Her vegetable beds were planted with lettuce, roquette; mizuna and Asian greens. The herb garden was set at the back door nearest the kitchen. The Thornhill nursery had delivered a box of lemon-scented gums for the road fence line and Celeste planned an avenue of Firewheel trees and eucalypts for the driveway. The little trees stood crowded together in the tubes and would need to be planted before the wet season and summer heat; there was much to do. 399

Daphne and Iris followed her during the day as she worked on the projects and she found their company constantly amusing if not always safe, as tasting things it seemed to her, was their main occupation.

The orchard was her next main concern. As with the other jobs, Celeste researched every aspect of the venture. She spent hours on the internet and talking to horticulture departments and organic growers. She planned on running both her chooks and native bees in the orchard and ordered the bees as the waiting list for hives was considerable.

She also spent a lot of time thinking about Moira.

The week of the party Belle suggested they drive to Redbrooke for supplies. Belle bounced down the mountain road in her Mercedes as though being chased by demons. More than once Celeste steadied herself against the dashboard; but knowing it would change nothing, she didn’t comment. They arrived in record time and set about filling Belle’s extensive list. Finally, except for the wine and beer, their shopping was complete. Celeste had one last chore to do so Belle set off for the wine cellar.

Celeste hurried down a lane off the main street and into Joffre’s pawn shop. She searched at the back of the store in a

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section of paintings and prints piled against a wall. She looked behind a pile of dusty framed paintings and found what she was looking for; the Criccelli print from the office wall. The pawnbroker wanted only a few dollars. She went around the corner to an art store and the assistant helped her select a frame that suited. They framed the print while she waited and Celeste left the store with her new purchase under her arm.

She and Belle met for lunch at a smart Japanese café beside the river and chatted over the food. Belle revisited the shopping list and filled Celeste in on the alcohol she had purchased. Celeste was alarmed at what the cost might be but her face remained inscrutable. The pair left the café and Celeste packed the goods securely in the boot. Thinking of the journey home she took care to tuck one of Belle’s horse rugs around the shopping. Belle chatted in a happy banter as she roared around bends on the winding mountain road that were seemingly invisible to her.

“Moira coming to the party?” she enquired as she skirted around a cattle truck.

“Yes, she said she’ll come,” Celeste replied.

“I saw Bill and Barb yesterday, they’d love to come,” Belle said. “Any friends from town coming?”

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“I’m going to phone Nuncia and Frank tonight,” Celeste replied. “Other than that, no-one else.”

“Ahmed stayed on for a few days, do you mind if he comes?” Belle timed it beautifully.

“Not at all,” Celeste said. “Is that the tall dark and handsome Bahrainian?” she queried, smiling.

“Well sort of,” Belle said.

“Sort of?” Celeste exclaimed

“Well Ahmed is the buyer’s stable manager, the buyer went back early for his daughter’s birthday.”

“What do you mean, ‘he stayed on for a few days’?” Celeste teased.

“Ah, we had a lot to talk about,” Belle laughed. “You’ll like him, he loves horses; he lives in the Hunter and manages the sheik’s polo stables from there.” Belle swung the car around a rock fall on the road without blinking and continued the conversation. “I meant to tell you if you don’t have enough room for anyone to stay over they can stay at mine. I’ve got plenty of room.”

“Thanks Belle,” Celeste said. “Nuncia and Frank will probably stay with me.”

“Just in case,” Belle said.

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Celeste didn’t want the conversation to go further so she asked Belle about the sale of her horses and they remained on that topic until Belle pulled up in a cloud of dust beside Celeste’s house.

The day of the party dawned with a blazing yellow sunrise behind gold fringed clouds. Celeste was too nervous to stay in bed. By lunch time the bar-b-que was ready and the house spotless. Her list had been ticked off several times and Daphne and Iris had run for two hours on the rocks before she brought them back to their shed yard.

Belle arrived at three and supervised the food preparation before going home to change. Ted delivered his bar-b-que as a spare and set it up before he too returned home. Celeste made up spare rooms and beds and put flowers in all the rooms. There were plenty of chairs outside and in, and the lounge looked big and open and spacious. The wine and beer was on ice. There was nothing more Celeste could busy herself with.

She showered and changed into three outfits before choosing a soft maroon and cream checked shirt and beige slacks. Her hair hung around her face in soft short curls. She checked her face in the mirror several times and finally poured herself a glass of wine and sat down to wait.

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Nuncia and Frank arrived and Celeste hugged them both and showed them their room before she poured a glass of wine for Nuncia and a beer for Frank. Nuncia had brought a tray of Italian sweets and a parcel that revealed two bright and elegant hand-painted Italian bowls.

“Oh,” Celeste said, as she kissed Nuncia on both cheeks. “They’re beautiful, thank you both.” She kissed Frank.

When Nuncia went to the kitchen with the sweets Celeste whispered to Frank to hide the Criccelli print with its little gift card in the boot of their car. Celeste then invited them to a tour of the farm closest to the house and Frank was very impressed by the goat run.

“Celeste,” he said in his heavy accent. “You remind me of my mama, always busy, always with the goats and chooks, always with the garden.”

Celeste laughed. “Do I look old?” she asked.

Frank tried to explain until Nuncia came to his rescue. “His mama was very good at farming.” She threw Frank a black look.

Celeste laughed again. “It’s okay you two, I take it as a compliment.”

They walked back to the house. Celeste noticed Belle and Moira’s cars in the yard and another unknown Ute. Her heart thudded. They walked into the house and Celeste saw Moira 404

offering two men she’d never seen before a plate of food. Belle was in the kitchen with a tall good looking man with dark hair greying at the temples. He was immaculately dressed in pale grey slacks and a navy shirt open at the throat. He smiled at Celeste and she understood immediately why Belle looked so happy.

“Ahmed,” he said, offering his hand.

“Celeste.” Celeste looked at his smiling face and was glad for Belle.

“Would you like a drink? Ah, I’m sorry, I, ah wasn’t sure,” Celeste stammered.

“It’s okay,” Ahmed replied. “Although my parents wouldn’t agree, I was born an Aussie with a beer in my hand.”

Celeste disentangled herself from the conversation and stepped into the lounge. Moira turned from the two men and looked at her. Moira’s face glowed as she smiled, then Moira gave a ‘who are these guys?’ look.

Celeste shrugged. They both laughed. The men wolfed the plate of food.

Ted arrived with a couple that Celeste didn’t know.

“This is Barry,” Ted said. “And Pauline. They’re old mates from the cold side of the mountain.” He laughed.

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“Welcome,” Celeste offered her hand and invited Ted’s friends to grab a drink.

“Thanks love,” Barry offered and headed for the esky.

Pauline said, “Lovely to meet you Celeste. Ted has talked about you often. Welcome to the valley.”

Pauline asked for a beer and moved off to talk to the two men in the corner. More people arrived. The Monmeiths brought their cousin Dave and his wife Andrea who taught at Thornhill High School. Belle’s head stable hand Mitcham and his partner Julia made a shy entrance.

Mitcham shook Celeste’s hand, “Welcome to the valley,” he said, “I hear you ride.”

“I haven’t for a while,” Celeste said.

“Then come and see me, we’ll fix that,” Mitcham smiled.

“Nice to meet you,” Julia said.

Celeste began to wonder what Belle had told them all. She scanned the room for Moira. Moira was deep in conversation with one of the two men in the corner who she later learned was the tractor mechanic who had worked on Ted’s tractor that afternoon. More people that Celeste had never seen in her life arrived. They shook her hand and kissed her cheek and welcomed her to the valley. There was a university lecturer

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and his wife who grew bonsai and a scientist expert in solar sustainability with a girlfriend half his age who giggled at everything he said, including his weather forecast for tomorrow. Margie and Bran, two women friends of Moira’s from Thornhill, served food. Celeste had never seen them before.

Margie hugged Celeste. “Welcome home,” she whispered in her ear. “Come and visit us.”

The wine flowed and the food somehow arrived from the bar-b-que onto people’s plates. Later Belle took the floor and clapped her hands. People fell into silent expectation.

Belle began to speak. “I want to welcome to our valley my friend and Ted’s, and soon to become yours, Celeste Moon, who is unique, interesting, loves the land, loves animals and has been a loyal supporter of the valley for many years. She has now come to live with us, please make her welcome.”

The walls resounded with loud applause and Celeste found herself thrust into the middle of the room with the expectation that she would respond. She looked around desperate for a cue.

“Thank you,” she said. “Thank you all for your very warm welcome. I hope I get to know you all better and to become part of the valley community. Thank you for sharing this night with me. Please enjoy.”

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Loud applause and clapping subsided into the noise of conversation and laughter. The room grew louder with the lubrication of alcohol.

Frank left the room and returned a few minutes later with a piano accordion. He sat in a chair and fiddled with the instrument. The first notes struck out above the noise and everyone turned to watch. Before long the party goers took to the floor in many weird interpretations of Frank’s Tarantella.

Nuncia danced with Ted who seemed to be following some mad spirit of the original spider victim. She threw her head back and laughed as she tried to instruct him. The tractor mechanic was obviously more accustomed to the drone of the tractor and swayed to some tune exclusive to his hearing alone. Belle and Ahmed hardly moved in each other’s arms and Julia and Mitcham galloped around the room clinging to each other’s waists as though they were on a training run at Flemington. Bran, Margie and Moira were standing with Frank, singing along to Frank’s lyrics that they neither knew nor understood but Frank seemed pleased with the chorus of “la-la-la lala lala lala”.

Celeste stood and watched the dancers. People were happy, these were her possible new friends; ordinary people, people of

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good will, this was her valley too. She smiled at Frank lost in his music making, tapping his foot, and singing in Italian.

As Belle danced past Celeste she whispered, “Someone on the verandah wants to talk to you.”

Celeste walked out to the verandah but there was no-one outside. She stood for a moment looking out over the valley. The music inside stopped and Moira appeared beside her.

“You wanted to talk to me?” she asked.

“No, you wanted to talk…” Celeste stopped and they both said at once. “Belle.”

They laughed together.

Moira stood beside Celeste and looked out over the valley. The mist was curling around the foot of the mountain. A Tawney sat in a tree not far away watching the ground outside the shed. Stars were scattered across the velvet drape of dark sky.

“We have plenty of time to talk,” Moira said. She turned to Celeste and touched her face,

“I’m here for the long haul Celeste, if that’s what you want.”

Celeste thought her heart would thud right through her shirt and out onto the verandah.

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“It’s exactly what I want,” she replied, taking both Moira’s hands in hers and enfolding them against her breast.

“Then let’s party,” Moira laughed and kissed her lightly on the lips.

She took Celeste by the hand and led her back into the lounge.

They were surprised to find the party had stopped and everyone stood in a circle or sat in chairs that had been pushed against the walls.

Ted held the floor. “As you know folks this is a house warming and it’s traditional to give presents to the house owner. For those of you who didn’t know you were coming to this party you are excused. So I’ll kick off.”

He walked out through the lounge into the kitchen and came back holding a tiny red kelpie pup curled up in a rug inside a fruit box.

He handed the box to Celeste. “The first born daughter of Fraser,” he said.

Tears sprung to Celeste’s eyes; she picked up the puppy and held her against her face. Everyone applauded and raised their glasses.

“To the daughter of Fraser,” they chorused.

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Celeste recovered enough to put the puppy back in her box and wrap the rug around her. She took the puppy to the kitchen and returned to find Belle holding the floor.

“For our darling Celeste,” she shouted. “You are all invited to come outside.”

The gaggle of celebrants grabbed their glasses and wobbled to the verandah. Ahmed turned on the outside lights. They revealed a shining black mare with a yellow ribbon tied around her neck standing in the goat enclosure grazing on the grass.

“Sissy welcomes you to the valley,” Belle announced.

“To Celeste and Sissy,” the partygoers drank the toast.

Celeste was overwhelmed. She couldn’t believe Belle had done this. She hugged Belle and thanked her but before she could elaborate Belle turned her around and propelled her back to the lounge.

When everyone had returned to the room the lights were turned off. They waited in silence. The lights were turned on again and Moira had the floor. She turned to the circle of friends and said, “This is for the person I have only known for a very short time, but who I intend to spend a lot more time with; Celeste.”

She turned and waved her hand towards a painting hanging on the wall. Celeste turned around and drew in her breath. The 411

painting was of the goats on the rocks, Daphne leaping into the air and Iris following with two feet off the ground ready to leap. A pale mist swirled about them and into the mauve shadows of the mountain. The scene was washed with the soft pink of last light and the shadows on the rocks gave the effect of there being a line of coloured goats walking into the sky.

The painting took Celeste’s breath away. She was drawn into it; as though the mountain spoke her name; called her into the misty sky with the goats. Moira had named the painting “No Limits.”

Celeste walked to Moira’s side and kissed her on the cheek as the circle toasted the painting. Various other gifts were presented and the party grew louder and drunker as the valley community toasted and laughed and danced the night away.

Moira, Celeste and Margie and Bran sat on the verandah talking until almost dawn. Bran suggested that some kind of ritual was needed to announce the farm. The women crept off to the shed and loaded Celeste’s Ute with the Jubilation Road sign post, a bag of quickset cement, some buckets of water and a shovel. Moira grabbed several bottles of champagne from the esky and they set off on a circuitous route, across the paddock to the road.

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They took turns to dig a hole at the corner of the intersection and mix the cement before erecting the signpost which would remain perpetually leaning, due to the slowness of the quickset cement and the amount of champagne poured onto it. They then drove to the end of the driveway where Margie tied a piece of hay band across the gateway. With great ceremony Moira took Bran’s pocket knife and cut the string, announcing as Margie poured champagne onto the gate posts,

“We now declare Whistling Creek Farm, Lot 1, Jubilation Road, open.”

The four women raised their glasses of champagne to the golden ball of rising sun.

“No limits,” they toasted.

***

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An Exegesis to Accompany ‘Jubilation Road’

What can I say that I have not said before?

So I’ll say it again.

The leaf has a song in it. Stone is the face of patience.

Inside the river there is an unfinishable story

and you are somewhere in it

and it will never end until all ends.

(Mary Oliver)

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Introduction

Narrative

My love for landscape began in a childhood spent on a fruit growing property in Irymple in Victoria’s north. Summer brought searing heat, red dust, the drone of tractors, the sweet vinegar smell of grape harvest and the vines in their full splendour. Autumn was cloaked in a quiet of glorious colours as leaves fell with the beginning frosts. It was a period of rest for “blockies” (farmers) before the bitter frosts and cold winds of winter and the pruning season. Spring came suddenly, it always seemed, with the first black-faced cuckoo shrikes in scalloped flight, their mewing calls travelling across the green buds of vines. The seasons began again in spring with a spectacular show of blossoms of almond, peach and plum, and the noisy nestings and pairings of birds and animals.

Our lives were attuned to the seasons and as a child I constantly saw and heard the voices of the land, the water, the seasons and the weather. We woke to roosters boasting across the farmlands and went to bed with the evensong of blackbirds, magpies, a late kookaburra and the frequent rumblings of distant storms. It seemed to me the land was speaking to us constantly. Ann Whiston Spirn (1998) contends that we are ‘imprinted with the landscape of our early childhood’ and that the ‘principal

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language’ in which she now ‘thinks and acts’ is the ‘language of landscape’ (pp. 5-10). The ‘language of landscape’ that dictated my childhood experiences also influences this exegesis and artefact.

The common denominator in all horticultural pursuits is water; and water certainly dominated the thinking of the farming community in which I grew up. Whether it was water that needed pumping onto the orchards and vineyards, water that might fall from the sky at the wrong time of year, or the height of the great Murray River that flowed through the region; water was the underlying current of our conversations and a recurring theme for most Australian rural communities.

Water, posit Martin Mosko and Axle Noden (2003), ‘gives the perception of movement’, and in its most esoteric nature it is the element of ‘connection and compassion’ (p. 45). It is sometimes symbolised in literature and myth by the image of powerful women such as mermaids and sirens who entice away sailors. The sea, the mother of all life, is often depicted as a spiritual mystery, as infinity, death and rebirth, as timelessness and eternity, and as the unconscious. Rivers are frequently depicted as the source of death and rebirth, as the waters of baptism and as the movement or flowing of time into eternity. This allusion

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could be seen to regard water as the ‘animating force’ that unites ‘life and active consciousness’ (pp. 45-51).

Indeed, water has many representations in literature, and floods are often positioned as holding the dual identities of creator and destroyer (Bachelard 1965). In this project, I have attempted to explore how the relationship between water, connection, and compassion can be represented in fiction. Following the method of practice-led research (PLR), the exegesis is made up of five chapters that stand as a thematic organisation of how my thinking and writing process around the production of the novel Jubilation Road developed. I discuss PLR more fully later but indicate here that the two elements of this project are complementary. Together they reveal my interest in shamanism and scholarship intrinsic to and arising from the writing of the artefact. Such research and creative production are well- documented in scholarship (Candy 2011; Krauth 2011; Ings 2014).

I commenced by exploring the common perceptions around landscape and nature. Wishing to step outside my own subjective responses to the natural world around me, I realised I needed to explore scholarly thinking about what landscape is and means, and to evaluate how writers have historically depicted the natural environs that surround them. Recognising that responses to landscape can be culturally driven (Whyte 417

2002), I considered how and why we apply meaning and value to the natural world. As I engaged in this process, I sought ways to represent these ideas through fiction. This led me to investigate how my findings about common representations of landscape, including the vernacular landscapes of the urban everyday, can be reflected through character and various character types.

Ecocriticism

As I researched and wrote further into my artefact and exegesis, I realised I was beginning to enter into debates about ecology that were both critical and engaged. For example, David Curtis (2009) says that by providing an emotional affinity or empathy for the natural environment, art can have a major role in influencing pro-environmental attitudes (pp. 174-184).

Once I realised that scholars label these debates ‘ecocritical’, I turned my focus to revising my work and discussion through an ecocritical lens. As I further investigated ecocriticism, I found it to resonate with my way of thinking about the environment and how we read literature. Ecocriticism confronts what many scholars see as fear of the land - ecophobia - that has developed in many urban dwellers (Estok 2009). It builds a concept of love of the land - ecophilia - that is a relevant scholarly framework

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for my thinking and writing in the artefact. As Ruyu Hung (2008) states, ‘Central to one’s understanding of nature is one’s understanding of oneself and the world…our current environmental problems are related to our non- understanding of nature’ (p. 355).

I was struck by how the ecocritical could, at times, engage with a very shamanic way of thinking about nature and our interactions with the natural world. This echoed for me the similarities between the shaman and the writer, particularly the way both accessed other realms of the imagination to bring knowledge, healing and other benefits to their communities. The stages of initiation and journey of the shaman also suggested to me the stages of my main protagonist’s journey of transformation and healing in the novel. I discuss shamanism more fully in section three.

Deliberations on these similarities guided me to think about the writings of magical realism and how ‘magical’ happenings are inserted into fiction; the devices used by other authors and whether these are culturally orientated. Examining the historical development of the theories of magical realism that I discuss more fully later assisted me in exploring where my character Celeste stood in the scheme of cultural argument and gave me a

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niche for the novel. This also raised for me the ethical issues of integrity to the reader and to the novel; and pushed me into a creative resolution whilst maintaining an ethical stance throughout the novel on the ‘magical’ nature of Celeste’s character.

Reflection on Celeste’s place in the story was a natural invitation to look at the other characters and how they interacted with the novel and each other. To do this I drew on the writings and insights of screenwriters and novelists such as Linda Aronson (2010), Craig Batty (2012) and Blake Snyder (2005) to explicate techniques and best practice theories and practices for creating a multi-protagonist narrative. This proved to be a challenging labour and served to be highly instructive in the many variables in character development. For example McKee (1999) reminded me that ‘what characters say about each other is a hint’ (p. 377) and Amanda Boulter (2007) says ‘words trail their history behind them’ (p. 149). To this end my knowledge and creativity as a writer has been expanded and enhanced.

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Section One Ecocriticism

The flood

In my novel, Jubilation Road, the flooding of a creek, the river and subsequently the city of Redbrooke bears a great impact on the plot and on the characters.

Like many literary representations of flood, from the bible to popular fiction, the forceful flow of water brings with it change to the land, lives and the society it touches. Of particular interest to me was the notion that a flood could wash away not only physical items, but that it could bring to the fore the deceptions inherent in the characters’ lives or enable the ‘washing out’ of the hidden. As Mircea Eliade (1957) says of the symbolism of water, ‘Emersion repeats the cosmogonic act of formal manifestation; immersion is equivalent to a dissolution of forms. This is why the symbolism of the waters implies both death and rebirth’ (pp. 130-132). The idea of disintegration, reintegration and resolution first came to me when I observed the behaviour of people during a flood on the Northern Rivers region of NSW. Floods commonly expose the vulnerabilities of the populace; the washing out of the hidden seemed to me to be an echo of the ‘washing away of sins’ in the writings of many of the religions

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of the world. As Eliade (1957) posits, ‘In whatever religious complex we find them, the waters invariably retain their function; they disintegrate, abolish forms, “wash away sins”; they are at once purifying and regenerating’ (p. 132).

In addition to functioning as a literary device enforcing revelation and change, I wanted to make my audience more aware of the manner in which a flood or other natural catastrophe affects the fate of all non-humans. For instance, farm animals become stranded in floodwaters if they are not moved to higher ground. Wild animals such as koalas, possums, bandicoots, foxes, rabbits, kangaroos, snakes and goannas become trapped in trees and on pieces of ground without food or shelter from sometimes devastating storms. Trees and other plants are uprooted and left to die.

I wanted to remind my readers of the language of nature; the manner in which nature communicates impending danger and other message to us in the face of disasters. Apart from heavy consistent rain, or flash storms, there are many and varied signals from nature that a flood can be expected. Many are folklore and can only have anecdotal verification.

However, a study conducted by the United Nations Environment Program (UNEP 2007) found that all around the world there were instances of indigenous peoples using their

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local knowledge and observation of nature to predict disasters or severe weather. They found examples from snow dogs rolling on their backs before a blizzard in Russia to alligators in Kenya building their nests on higher ground to indicate an impending flood. In Indonesia, the Simeulue community (population 80,500) of farmers, fishermen and traders close to the epicentre of the 26 December 2004 tsunami, survived by rushing to nearby hills in response to long held indigenous knowledge of the behaviour of their buffaloes. Only seven people from the community lost their lives, compared to 163,795 that died across the rest of Indonesia’s northern Aceh province (UNEP 2007, p. 2). It is this ability to read the signs and warnings of nature that gave Celeste, the main protagonist of the novel, the advantage when the floods arrived in the city of Redbrooke. As Stephen L Talbott (2007) reminds us, we inhabit a world that ‘can only be understood in speech or text’ and that our communication depends upon ‘the word-like character of the world’ (p. 21). He further contends that, ‘nature presents us, not with blank, mute, disconnected objects, but with expressive images; and images are the native elements of story, song, and poetry’ (p. 21).

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Humans as nature

Upon deeper reflection, however, I realised that the creek and its flooding had a greater significance than I had initially communicated. Its presence and use as a plot device in the story represents the values and perceptions that I hold about the relationship between nature and humans. With this realisation came the need to undertake further investigation into what nature and landscapes mean to us both culturally and personally. I began my investigation by considering the various definitions of landscape and how my own thinking about landscape interacted with these.

It may be that we interact with nature as our cultural codes determine. Ken Taylor (2013) argues that owing to the ‘manipulation of landscape’ (p. 56) by humans, ‘all landscape is cultural landscape’ (p. 61). He further contends that our view of landscapes is a result of our ‘shared system of beliefs and ideologies’ (p. 61) and he evidences his remarks with the examples of the changing of landscape with human occupation, as in ancient indigenous Australia and the use and manipulation of land with fire. The concept of cultural landscape is further elucidated by the idea that humans seek a sense of identity and community. Taylor posits that the human attachment to land is a result of the landscape being a ‘repository of intangible values and human meanings that nurture our very existence’ (p. 1). 424

The ‘picturesque’ has dominated many cultural views of nature. For example, Alison Byerly (1997) supports this argument with an historical view of landscape that originated in England and America in the eighteenth century as the aesthetic of the ‘picturesque.’ The word ‘picturesque’ was adopted by art, specifically paintings of nature by artists Salvator Rosa and Claude Lorrain, whose paintings were seen by travellers who returned to England from France and Italy and attempted to replicate their European experiences in the English countryside and Scotland, by making these places fashionable destinations for the elite. The practice was to use a convex mirror that the tourist used by standing with his or her back to the landscape and looking at the scene framed in a mirror. This became a picture of landscape and eventually ‘picturesque’ became associated with a certain pleasant view. That view ‘was then translated or transposed onto nature in many forms’ (Byerly 1997, p. 54). Byerly (1997) asserts that this practice was, ‘less an appreciation of nature itself, than on the secondary image of nature that they themselves constructed’ (p. 54). This view of nature as a personal and cultural construct can be seen as contributing to ecophobia.

Idealised landscape descriptions and experiences mean that nature is forced and controlled rather than being experienced. Ian D Whyte (2002) suggests that ‘unconscious cultural 425

conditioning’ would make modern respondents select such landscapes as ideal (p. 19). Research suggests that the ‘ideal’ landscape scene is preferenced as ‘savannah/parkland views with scattered trees, groups of trees and open grassy areas’ (p. 19). These are the landscapes depicted by Claude Lorrain. It is no surprise that early settlers in Australia expected, painted and depicted in other ways, a landscape that suited the Lorrain/English model despite that the Australian landscape confronted with its foreignness (Beinart & Hughes 2008, pp. 1177-1193).

Humans and landscape

The arguments of both Byerly (1997) and Whyte (2002) fitted with the notions I am trying to bring attention to in the novel. I wanted the reader to understand that there are other living entities all around them and that a catastrophe like a flood is a catastrophe for all living things, not just humans.

I have attempted to illustrate the landscape as it is and not as we construct it to suit our notions of comfort. Examples of our English or European constructions abound: in Australian gardens, where we see replicas of cottage gardens totally unsuited to our climate or wildlife; or in plantings of English and European trees in parks and gardens that do not feed Australian native birds and animals but have a ‘picturesque’

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look and feel to them that is reminiscent of, for example, a European winter. My argument is not that we should not have these trees and gardens but that they are constructs given to us from another continent. They are facets of imagined scenery that is often somehow considered superior to or more fashionable than our native scenery. This is like holding a mirror backwards to England or France whilst standing in a country of eucalypts. In my novel writing this has meant maintaining the integrity of naming trees, plants and animals and depicting the environment as a living entity with its own tragedies and triumphs; i.e. the regrowth of the wetlands habitat after the flood.

Simon Schama (1995) contends that landscape is a facet of human thinking and memory and is a product of the human imagination. He argues that, ‘Before it can ever be the repose for the senses, landscape is the work of the mind. Its scenery is built up as much from strata of memory, as from layers of rock’ (p. 6). These arguments all include the overriding view that landscape is a cultural experience. The ‘external world mediated through subjective human experience’, as Whyte (2002) argues, is a human construction of that external world borne out of race, class and gender that ‘diminishes’ other ways of experiencing the human relationship with nature (p. 17). Any simple definition of landscape, for example ‘scenery’, is likely the one 427

most people think about when ask to define landscape. Indeed, scenery is the usual term for the landscape that conjures up for most people some pleasant place to look at.

Scenery can be the backdrop to a place, a film, a painting or any other artefact or living area and is viewed through the social, cultural and emotion/psychological lens of the viewer. However, scenery is problematic in its confinement of landscape to a geographical feature of the earth, seen by the eye. Virve Sarapik (2002) echoes Taylor (2013) when he contends that, ‘The meaning of the picture depends on the traditions of rendering meaning to it, and can be changed via these traditions’ (pp. 183-200). The ideas of Susan Sontag (1973) around the framing and interpretation of images can be seen to come into play here and helped me more deeply understand the relationship between landscape and my own imagination. Sontag argues that when a photographer is deciding how a photo should look, in the preference of one exposure over another, they are influenced by their social and cultural milieu, She contends that the ‘presumption of veracity’ of photographs that gives them their ‘authority’ means they suffer from the same subjectiveness as other art forms (p. 4). She suggests that, ‘Even when photographers are most concerned with mirroring reality, they are still haunted by tacit imperatives of taste and conscience’ (p. 4). Photographers, she further argues, ‘are 428

always imposing standards on their subjects’ (p. 6). This resonated with me, as through my experience as a photographer I have learned about many aspects of the landscape that are not immediately visible to most people. What has been previously mentioned as the ‘emotional or cultural landscape’ (Taylor 2013), is visible through the camera lens through the effects of agriculture, horticulture, design, weather and the cultural imprint and stories of all living creatures including humans upon the geographical landscape.

A simple example of this is a recent experience I had when sitting on my front verandah looking out over the garden. There is a Satin Bowerbird’s bower across the road from our house and I had left a few small pieces of blue plastic in the garden as an experiment to see if it would attract the shy male into the garden so I could more easily photograph it. A female bower bird landed on the ground and picked up one piece of the plastic and hopped to a patch of grass where she placed the plastic under the grass. She appeared to be hiding it. She then flew off across the road and I watched her disappear into the bower. A minute or so later the black male bower bird landed in our garden on a tree above the grass. He scrutinised the ground for a few seconds then flew down to the patch of grass and retrieved the “hidden” piece of plastic and flew away back to the bower

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with it. There were a number of pieces of plastic exposed on the ground that he could have chosen.

Here the simple garden landscape was producing an intriguing story. What it offered me was a possible story of bird communication, of animal reasoning, of resourcefulness or perhaps even of gift-giving. In the photographer’s perception, the landscape offers many such stories. These sorts of stories, suggests Thomas Berry (1988), remind us of what we have lost, ‘…our capacity to communicate with the natural world… is a language we have forgotten’ (p. 12). H. Porter Abbott (2012) also argues this point and he contends that most humans have read texts and heard the meaning of speech and so understand words as ‘bearers of meaning’. This speech is ‘vitally supplemented by physical gestures of every sort’; these gestures are themselves ‘outward bearers of inner meaning’ (p. 21). Nature too ‘presents us with word-like gestures’, however we fail to notice them and consequently, ‘we never learn the language of the world we inhabit’ (p. 23).

What stories, I wondered, could I make the landscapes in my novel tell? To answer this, I had to move past the simplistic definition of landscape as a piece of scenery to be viewed and move towards the idea that landscapes might have culturally complex implications. With no wish to appropriate or further

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colonise their knowledge, I found indigenous relationships with the environment offered the most insightful place to start.

Aboriginal Australians and the landscape

For Aboriginal Australians the landscape as described by David Mowaljarlai (1995) might present a story that aligns their entire heritage to a certain place in the country; it might involve being a caretaker of that country and it might define whether or not they can travel, visit, hunt or even mix with others in that area of country.

We all have symbols for land. And I don’t own the land, but the land owns me. That is the strong thing in Aborigine law and culture. It’s about the land. I’m only a servant, we all Aborigines are servants, we serve nature. That’s why it’s so important for us, because the land owns us (Mowaljarlai 1995, p. 12).

Mowaljarlai (1995) further explains the connections to land: ‘We have the power there, the images in the rock and the paintings in the cave. And these are sacred places that give our energy, it comes from there. It’s very important’ (p. 131). Contemporary Aboriginal author Alexis Wright (2006), in her novel Carpentaria, captures this relationship between land and people. In describing her character Normal Phantom’s

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relationship with the river she says ‘The Pricklebush mob say that Normal Phantom could grab hold of the river in his mind and live with it as his father’s father did before him…Normal was like ebbing water he came and went on the flowing waters of the river right out to sea’ (p. 10).

The idea of the land being a story as opposed to telling a story was inspiring as it has endless possibilities for environmental sustainability, art, writing, science and numerous other knowledge bases. The management of land by fire being one story that is visible still in Australia, particularly in outback northern, arid areas where fire management has been practised for thousands of years by indigenous peoples.

Tex Skuthorpe (cited in Sveiby & Skuthorpe 2006), a Nhunggabarra man from north-western New South Wales, in partnership with Professor Karl-Erik Sveiby of Finland, illustrated this symbiotic relationship between land and narrative when they mapped the stories of the Nhunggabarra people and way of life. Tex’s role was to teach the traditional law through storytelling. The stories he tells are contained in the learning tracks and songlines of the landscape in which he was born. When he was asked by Professor Sveiby what the Aboriginal word for knowledge was he replied:

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We don’t have a word for it. Our land is our knowledge, we walk on the knowledge, we dwell in the knowledge, we live in our thesaurus; we walk in our bible every day of our lives. Everything is knowledge. We don’t need a word for knowledge (p. xv).

Skuthorpe explains that certain geographical features of the landscape may represent a boundary, a sacred site, a women’s place or a men’s place, a story, song, dance or sound that may represent where that person or group stands in the hierarchical structure of the family, kinship (skin) group or tribe. The more law that has been learned or understood the better the interpretation of stories: ‘A story is always linked to learning tracks, parts of the land and often also to animals’ (Sveiby & Skuthorpe 2006, p. 55).

The land is knowledge

This idea that the land is knowledge fired my imagination. My question of what story a landscape might tell began to develop into a further set of musings: what happens when we lose this relationship between knowledge and land? What if a typical small town by a rising river did not see the impending signs of flood? What were these signs? What type of person would be

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one of the few to notice, and what type of person would not? Spirn (1998) reminds us that, ‘signs of hope, signs of warning, are all around, unseen, unheard, undetected’ (p. 4). The indigenous belief systems that depict the land as story, as knowledge, are different from the notion of the land as something seen, or moved through, or lived upon and came closer to the manner in which Celeste perceived the land and its inhabitants.

Spirn (1998) further contends that, ‘many have forgotten the language and cannot read the stories the wildflowers, the saplings on the vacant lots tell of life’s regenerative power’ (p. 11).These questions called to mind an experience I had that I consider to be symbolic of the way a person can feel the linkage between land and knowledge.

Whilst working in Aboriginal communities in the Pilbara region of north western Western Australia, I contracted a bad dose of influenza. Despite my protestations of being too ill to travel, an Aboriginal friend of mine drove me out to the grass plains some fifty kilometres from town where she picked a special type of grass reminiscent of wild oats. She boiled the grass in an old pot on the campfire. She then dipped a towel in the cooled liquid and wrapped the wet towel tightly around my head. The towel was left on for about thirty minutes and then we returned home. The next day, apart from a slight feeling of nausea, the flu had 434

gone. The following day I was completely recovered. This old woman was very in touch with her land and her medicinal knowledge.

Diane Bell (2012a) seems to be capturing this notion when she speaks of a ‘web of connectivity’ that ‘enmeshes’ teller and listener in the land, story and people and warns of the inherent dangers in ‘severing those relationships’ (p. 18-22).

We can see the dangers of this severance through political effects. This was borne out when the Ngarrindjeri Aboriginal women of South Australia, whom Bell supported, were not listened to when they tried to convince the government and private developers that the country around Hindmarsh Island, South Australia was sacred to them and disturbing the site to build a bridge would bring great trouble if not death. Certainly trouble ensued when the bridge went ahead. The government and the developers became embroiled in expensive compensation claims that divided the community. Great hostility was shown to the Aboriginal community by the news media and a tide of opinion turned against them. The ‘severing of relationships’ with the land, the story, the teller and the listener was clearly demonstrated and much has been written since about the issues.

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The western anthropocentric notion of land could not be further removed from Mowaljarlai’s cultural view. As Timothy Clark (2011) warns, ‘the very legitimacy’ of institutions and laws are being eroded to the point that the industrial economy and the modern state ‘are committed to the process of endless capital accumulation’ that will only end in either ‘political overthrow’ or ‘environmental catastrophe’ (p. 3).

A story about a character or characters who could read the land as knowledge suddenly seemed to have exciting potential. Favel Parrett (2011) does this in her novel Past the Shallows, the sea being the ever-present character, both beautiful and deadly, that was carefully read by the family whose tragic lives depended upon it. Harry, the farmer in Carrie Tiffany’s (2013) Mateship with Birds, has an extraordinary knowledge of kookaburras and other birds that inhabit his farm. As a dairy farmer his awareness of the land and animals introduces the land and his knowledge as an interactive character that influences almost every page.

There were also other aspects for consideration. A character may see the signs of a river building to a dangerous state of reclamation, but what of the other aspects of nature such as animals and flora? Was I unintentionally privileging the human over the non-human aspects of nature and landscape? We are reminded of the difficulties of indigenous people when 436

encountering our anthropocentric world view. Hannah Rachel Bell (2012), while writing about the impossibilities for indigenous children in the classroom trying to adapt their cultural view to a western, logical analytical viewpoint when both indigenous languages and outlook are diametrically opposed to western ways of thinking, remarked that:

In the hunter-gatherer worldview, humans are not a privileged species atop an evolutionary ladder; human persons and non-human persons are integrated within the whole pattern of life (p. 24).

Such integration of a wholistic view of the landscape as Diane Bell’s ‘web of connectivity’ also applies in many cultures, including the ancient Indian, Japanese and Chinese societies who revered many geographical features such as mountains, rivers and lakes that remain sacred to this day. Tobar Nalt Holy Well in Sligo, Ireland, the Ganges River in India, Mt Fuji in Japan and Uluru in Australia are just a few. Similarly, Charles Von Essen (2007) tells us there is a tradition in Japanese scholastic society of keeping the ‘scholastic rock’ that originated in China, whereby the great calligrapher and sage Mi Fu (1051-1107) was invited to take up a government appointment. Upon arrival he walked forward to the Emperor but instead of greeting the Emperor, he bowed reverentially to a great rock that stood at the entrance to the city. He is venerated 437

as a great and wise elder and scholars to this day keep unusually shaped rocks on their desks in memory of this man and as a reminder of the consciousness of all things (p. 110).

These examples offered many streams of thought that swirled in my imagination. I began to imagine a character who might enter my story with a stock of this knowledge, having been born with an innate sense of connectivity and understanding of how nature and landscape worked, or perhaps having developed it quite early in her life. I looked to what others have said about character as a way of furthering my knowledge regarding this character’s construction.

Developing character in the novel

Malcolm Bradbury (2001) contends that, ‘the elements that compose a significant representation, are central to writing and the human sympathy and recognition on which literature depends’ (p. 117). The character of Celeste in the novel fits with what I was coming to understand of the landscape in both a physical and cultural context. She exists largely in a world of her own making. She rescues and cares for animals and has an innate and well-honed skill in understanding the language of nature and the land. She listens to the signs and signals and indicators she hears, sees and feels in nature and acts upon them

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as others would act upon advice from a friend or authority. The message on the wind told her of the impending flood; the activity of ants, crows and other animals all warned her. As Helene Cixous (1994) reminds us, ‘I and the world are never separate; the one is the metaphor for the other’ (p. xix).

To understand the character of Celeste we must have what Bradbury (2001) describes as, ‘the power to understand the potential of character’ (p. 117). This understanding of potential, Bradbury says, is what modern television drama, media and film are dependent upon (p. 117). Celeste is a reader, an observer of both nature and human character and it is the potential of how she may use this gift that I hoped would act as a tool of anticipation and tension. Adding to this tension is that fact that she tends to live her life without company; preferring to go about her business seemingly alone. Her companions are the landscape, the weather, animals and plants and it is this unity with nature that I hoped would arouse the reader’s curiosity. Celeste is the product of her background, having lived with an abusive alcoholic father and suffering a partial estrangement from her mother. This experience of family leaves her without confidence in herself or her abilities and has the side effect of making Celeste obsessive and determined to get everything right. This translates for Celeste as a high degree of competency in all that she does and shows she has the potential 439

under the right circumstances to go on to higher achievements in her life, but she lacks the confidence to do so. The representations of character, argues Cixous (1994) are all the ‘I’ in the writer:

To rise above the interior chaosmos each of us gives ourselves a spokesperson I, the I who votes, the I who represents me, I have an I who teaches, an I who escapes me, I have an I who answers for me. The I who writes gives speech to all the other ‘I’s (p. xix).

Mikhail Bakhtin (cited in Amanda Boulter 2007) suggests that, ‘the self cannot have an identity in isolation’ and that the character can only exist in relation to other characters (p. 141). The ‘I’, Boulter (2007) contends, is ‘the position from which we look out onto the world’ and that because ‘no-one can stand where I am standing’ unique in time and position; characters, thus argues Boulter (2007), ‘fill the “I” with ‘the meaning of themselves’ (p. 142).

I had to make Celeste both an unusual and an understandable character in the novel. To do this I gave her unusual connections to the natural world, with normal or usual connections to her work, farming and some friends. The “I” in Celeste plays many roles. Celeste is familiar with the duties and constraints of farming as she has an established relationship

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with her farmer friend Ted Duncan and spends time regularly with him on his farm, not only visiting but actively assisting Ted to complete farm tasks. She is realistic about farming but nevertheless ultimately throws herself head-first into the challenge of building her own farm and becoming a member of the farming community.

The exposure of the corruption within her workplace comes not as a planned attack or revenge upon her colleagues or the company, but as a consequence of Celeste’s way of being in the world. One gets the feeling that change will always happen around Celeste because of Celeste herself rather than any action she might precipitate. As Boulter (2007) says:

You allow your character to react to the situations you have created for them, rather than forcing them into certain behaviours and this allows you to observe the way the character changes as a result of the experiences they have been through (p. 140).

Celeste in this sense is a change agent. She is like a windmill standing in a field doing nothing but turning its sails; but the effect acts to redirect the wind, pump water and be the cause of changes to land and lives. Celeste simply acts herself and life changes around her because of it. Living in a small town that was inundated with rain, she would observe, and perhaps feel,

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that nature was simply playing its usual part. She knew by her observation of both the natures of her colleagues and her understanding of the landscape that a disaster was pending. She would have understood that her colleagues would not have noticed the signs and warnings from nature and would not act upon the information. H. Porter Abbott (2002) says of character that, ‘it is a way we have of knowing ourselves.’ He asks, ‘what are we after all if not characters?’ (p. 123).

Plot, character and landscape

Satisfied that I had a sense of who my main character might be and what story she might be seeing unfold around her, I moved on to evaluate how other characters might interact with the landscape. In order to do this, I first had to consider which broader schools of thought might be useful frames for thinking about how I could use the idea of landscape in my fiction.

These arguments all include the overriding view that landscape is a cultural experience: the ‘external world mediated through subjective human experience’, as Whyte (2002) argues, but more so, a human construction of that external world borne out of race, class and gender that, ‘diminishes’ other ways of experiencing the human relationship with nature (p. 17).

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The idea of landscape as a reflection of cultural experience resonated with me. I liked the idea of having a particular character or set of characters whose interactions with their environment represented their culture’s way of seeing the landscape around them. For example when Jason Davis goes to meet Cindy at the beach hotel he is reflecting one of the western views of going to the beach; he wears what he thinks is beachwear of ‘cool’ clothes that will impress Cindy. He notices not the beach nor the sea, nor the waves, but the young women and young people in the street at the beachfront. Albeit that Jason is preoccupied with his meeting with Cindy, he is buoyed by ‘the fresh sea air’ but has no thought for why the air is fresh or where he is in the landscape. He has a ‘notion’ of the beach. It would certainly not enter into Jason’s thinking as to how he arrived at this manner of ignoring his surroundings. His Christian beliefs inherited from Judaic theology hold the key to an historical view of the subservience of animals and nature to be exploited for the good of man. As Lynn White Jr (1995) argues, ‘Christianity is the most anthropocentric religion the world has seen’ (p. 8). Moving from the Zoroastrian view of animism (every tree and living creature has a guardian spirit and must be negotiated with before any change is made) to the destruction of animism by Christianity made it possible for the Christian religion to exploit nature without guilt or with

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indifference to the feelings of nature (p. 10). White (1995) posits that Western science was ‘cast in a matrix of Christian theology’ (p. xxvii) and therefore modern science is a result of former Christian theology; and that the views of modern scientists are still coloured by the Christian theology. Westerners still treat the environment as something to be exploited and nature to be dominated (p. xxvii).

Of course, not all characters in Jubilation Road had a definitive relationship with their landscape. Sometimes we ignore the world around us, and I experiment with this idea in the character of Robinson and the manner in which he is entirely consumed by his gambling. The only time he notices the landscape in any way other than for his own purposes is when he is at the Golden Beach racetrack looking out over the calm sea. The sea is ‘unbearably calm’ as he is waiting to hear the race; but even this is more about reflecting his nervousness than his attention to the environment. Like most people the landscape is something he lives upon for the purposes of survival. He is not aware of it for any other purpose.

With the characters of Caroline and Robert, I first attempted to show them as a modern middle-aged couple involved in busy lives. It was not until their marriage breakdown that I introduced their surroundings, for example, the roses in the garden. This became problematic however, as it was particularly 444

related to memories of their early romance years. It was obvious that Robert was preoccupied with his affair and was not noticing anything much outside of his sexual proclivities, including that his firm was being embezzled. I felt that Caroline was a more sensitive character and later solved the problem of her lack of awareness when she goes to Italy, where she is entranced by the Italian country landscape. She feels ‘at home’ and comfortable and notices for the first time the ancient buildings and vineyards. As Frederick Turner (1995) suggests, the Europeans have managed to avoid the demise of the natural world by its inclusion in all things cultural, to ‘mediate between culture and nature’ with the great gardens of Hadrian, of the Medicis and Bourbons, music, landscape painting, fine cuisine, and the arts generally in ‘inventive ways’ (p. 48).

Whilst this is a view that comes from another culture and a different culturally constructed landscape, it places her firmly in her environment with a heart connection to the land. Whilst cities and built environments are also landscapes of one kind or another, the novel is set in a rural area and the small city of Redbrooke. It has no image to sell to tourists as do some of the great cities of the world like Venice for its waterways, Paris for its boulevards and romantic cafes and streetscapes, and Sydney for its magnificent harbour. Redbrooke is a rural supply city, its income based on the farming industry that surrounds it. It is a 445

dull, insular, and inward-looking society that inhabits Redbrooke, with the problems of rural cities across Australia: drug-taking by its youth; high unemployment for its citizens; sport as its entertainment, and a Christian religious ethic as its guiding principle.

The other characters inhabit parts of this city in an habitual way: Jason frequents the gym and the streets, Robinson is a regular at the hotels, bars and gambling venues and Robert Gray is an active member of the golf club. The workplace of Financial and General Offices is the common related venue for those three characters. Once having created these senses of habit and the tendency for character to stay within the comfort of known landscapes, I was able to use change as a dramatic foil that highlighted the way we are mired in sceneries of comfort. Introducing Jason to a new gym allowed me to highlight his discomfort in new and unfamiliar landscapes in which he has no history, or ability to control and which he cannot ‘read’ successfully. This disruption to the landscapes of comfort also enabled me to show a number of interwoven themes. In terms of Jason’s relationship with landscape, I wanted to show the young man’s sense of belonging to sanitised and mediated environments, such that Jackson (1984) termed the ‘vernacular landscape’. These are the everyday places that people inhabit as part of the built environment. I also wanted Jason to inhabit a 446

place of legitimate carnality and narcissism, a situation that aligned with his personality; where rooms are used to show off parts of the body in tight-fitting Lycra, where competition and body image take precedence. I wanted to put him a place where he would succumb to the corruption of the church that owned the gym and be controlled by the corrupt and narcissistic minister Cameron. His own vanity blocks him from understanding the true nature and in-built deceptions of this new landscape. Hence, as Jackson (1984) suggests of the ‘vernacular landscape’, it is representative of the “symbolic as well as the material’ (p. 41).

Similarly I wanted to use the character of Robert Gray to explore what happens when someone has limited ability to move beyond his everyday landscape: his affair is with someone from his office; the one place he goes to frequently is the golf club. His imagination only stretches to that part of his environment so he meets his lover in the golf club car park. The golf club in a small city would offer him some status; somewhere other managers might be seen. Yet it is the innate close proximity of this landscape and its elements that brings about his downfall. Frederick Turner (1999) asks us not to reject these places as landscape but to see them as the inevitable growth of landscape, as cultural growth. Whilst our choices may be finally (and ultimately) limited, for Americans he 447

argues, ‘true freedom is not the choice at the ballot box’ but the ‘opportunity to create a new world out of nothing’; like Robert Gray’s golf club, this may mean, ‘a Beverley Hills, or a Disneyland’ (p. 48).

In comparison, I wanted the character Carlo’s innate knowledge of his landscape to show someone who is more culturally embedded in his surrounds and who has a complete understanding of it: he talks with the old vines and calls them ‘the grandmothers’, he knows their history and the intimate history of the wine cellars and the house. He knows his family’s history and the land that they owned. His protection of the land is what allows it to continue in the form of vineyards. He has what Wylie (2007) calls ‘interconnectivity of self, body, knowledge and land’ (p. 106).

I wanted the novel to have at least one character who had a completely alternative or shamanistic view of nature and the landscape. To this end Celeste lives in and views nature and the landscape as an extension of herself. She talks to her house, hears messages in the wind, reads the signs and sounds in the landscape as warnings of impending danger and considers the wellbeing of animals in the flood as equal to her own wellbeing. She places the python in the roof cavity knowing that it will feed on the mice and apologises to the mice that live there (‘Jubilation Road, p. 27). She also leaves meat out for the crows 448

on the roof and sets up a safety net for the animals she knows will be washed down the creek in the flood.

Landscape and culture

Albeit that this construction of Celeste demonstrates a view that is still culturally constructed, it is a perspective that attempts to echo the very integrated, mystical and philosophical understanding of the landscape that is held by many indigenous peoples. As Paula Gunn Allen (1996) posits, the differences in the Western (linear and sequential) and American Indian (cyclical and spherical) ways of measuring time and space is indicative of the cultural distances in beliefs about the universe. She suggests, ‘The linear model assumes some points are more significant than others. Whereas the “circular concept” assumes that all “points” that make up the “sphere of being” have equal significance’ (p. 246).

It follows, then, that the Western model of the landscape and nature presents us with a vast separation between the two; with humans at the top of the hierarchical ladder and animals and plants in various subservient positions beneath them; that nature is, ‘over there while humanity is over here’ (Gunn Allen 1996, p. 246). This Judaic-Christian model of the universe is anathema

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to the American Indians and to other indigenous peoples. Allen (1996) states:

The American Indian sees all creatures as relatives (and in tribal systems relationship is central), as offspring of the Great Mystery, as co-creators, as children of our mother, and as necessary parts of an ordered, balanced, and living whole (p. 247).

This manner of seeing all creatures as equal is how Celeste views the world. I wanted to show that Celeste Moon has an inherent knowledge and ability to understand and interpret the language of the natural world. She needed to portray in the novel the understanding and knowledge of the cultural landscape. She has what Berry (1988) postulates as the ‘shamanic personality’ that might be needed to bring back the ‘vision and power’ needed by the human community to create a new future for the earth’s damaged environment and humanity’s salvation from self-destruction. She also understands the language of the natural environment around her; what Berry prescribes as the ‘intimacy’ with the environment that is needed.

More than any other type of human types concerned with the sacred, the shamanic personality journeys into the far reaches of the cosmic mystery and brings back the vision and power needed by the human

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community at the most elementary level. The shamanic personality speaks and best understands the language of the various creatures of the earth (1988, p. 54).

Celeste is the quiet heroine, the unsung liberator and the unassuming warrior. She appears as insignificant and almost mousy but her underlying qualities are in her strength and resilience. She protects others in the workplace, she upholds truth and righteousness and she’s not afraid to expose wrongdoing. She is neither fearful of her boss nor cowed by the bullying of her colleagues. Her role in the novel is as the major protagonist who is the catalyst for the exposure of the corruption in the company she works for and as the heroine who leads the way in resilience and courage to change her life and take risks. She does these things in an unassuming way as she is not accustomed to putting herself forward. She has suffered years of invisibility in her work place and has been passed over for promotion in favour of younger men. She is, however, someone who does not suffer fools gladly and will stand up for herself when pushed. Because she is very honest and ethical she simply stands her ground and goes about her life in an ethical and honest manner. She doesn’t know how to do otherwise; cheating on the system or manipulating her position is just not

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in the equation. Celeste lives as her personality and morals dictate; as a human part of the landscape.

In thinking about literature and the landscape I felt I needed to explore further how the landscape is depicted in literature and how other writers have viewed landscape, nature and natural phenomena. I turned my attention to ecocriticism in order to progress this investigation.

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Section Two Ecofeminism

Theories, society and nature

One of the accepted definitions of ecocriticism is that it is the study of the relationship between literature and the physical environment. Ecocriticism in its many variations is based on the premise that human culture is interconnected to, affected by, and impacts the physical world that includes the entire ‘ecosphere’. Cheryll Glotfelty (1996) argues that this ‘ecosphere’ distinguishes ecocriticism from other critical theories that deal with writers, literature, texts and the world; as the world is usually ‘synonymous with society’ (p. xiii).

David Carter (2006) agrees with Glotfelty when he notes, that ecocriticism ‘is a tenet of theory’ that studies the relationship between ‘literature and the physical environment’. He further states that at its most reductive it is ‘writing around the theme of nature’ (p. 139). Timothy Clark (2011) states that the phrase ‘nature writing’ has a ‘misleadingly cosy feel’. One of the most interesting aspects of ecocriticism is its diversity of approach and thought; due to its broad theoretical approach, there is ‘no single agreed upon definition of ecocriticism’ (p. 6).

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Clark (2011) questions whether the term ‘nature’ has ‘incompatible meanings’. He argues that in the big picture, nature encompasses the ‘sum total of the structures, substances and causal powers that are the universe’; this argument necessarily makes humans part of nature. He suggests the term nature as it was used by such writers as Thoreau may be better served by using the term environment. So-called nature, that place unaffected by human activity, no longer exists on the planet (p. 6). To take this argument further, Timothy Luke (cited in Clark 2011) states nature is now almost ‘completely ensnared’ in what he terms, ‘megamachinic grids’ of ‘global production and consumption’. He says that vast tracts of the earth are now built environments ‘re-engineered’ by biotechnology (p. 6). This asks us to evaluate our own writing in relation to nature and whether we ignore nature or whether we include nature in our writings. Luke discusses how our writing might affect and or perpetuate how we think about and explain our exploitation of natural resources in the world (p. 6).

The importance of this is that it adds a new perspective to the study of literature and writing, locatable alongside the theorists who explore the concepts of place, space, and cultural constructs. The landscapes that we reside within and move through and, most importantly, write about, are environments upon which we project our emotions (place), environments that 454

we may not invest in and that change according to our demands and desires or with which we coexist in an objective rather than subjective way (space), and sites that each of us might ‘see’ differently according to what our various cultural situations project upon them.

I wanted to portray these ‘spaces’ in a way that was inclusive of all life. I particularly wanted to highlight those rural ‘spaces’ that are the natural environments of animals and birds and other wildlife. Places that farmers might meet and talk in; or sell cattle in, or work in. Just as some city ‘spaces’ perform the task for city dwellers, as Carolyn Beasley (2015) posits, such spaces may give strangers a place to share a ‘point of conversational or geographic convergence from which a relationship can be initiated or nurtured’. She argues that such a place or ‘point of connectivity’ could be ‘a sporting event, a department store…and or sites of coffee consumption’ (p. 2).

Whilst these landscapes will change in time with human influence and natural climatic conditions, I could see how ecocritcism allows us to examine some of the assumptions and consequent attitudes that sanction certain use or abuse of the world around us. Andrew Bennett and Nicholas Royle (2009) posit that these include the application or designation of the female gender, the maternal and motherhood to nature, the separation of humans from nature and paradoxically, a history 455

of humanising it (p. 17). Simon Malpas and Paul Wake (2006) remind us that another contribution of ecocritcism is to bring into the literary canon, genres of writing that were previously seen as not worthy of literary attention (p. 9).

Others like Clark (2011) cite various nature writers of former eras as having implicated the reader in ‘glorious spectacles’ that set the reader as only a ‘detached spectator’. His major criticism of both nature writers and ecocritism is the failure to talk about the issue that may ‘overshadow all the others’, the fact of climate change and global warming. Clark states that whilst global warming is prominent in ‘scientific and other disciplines’ writing’, including some fiction and science fiction; literary criticism ‘rarely directly addresses this’ and related topics in its interpretation of literature and culture (p. 10).

This made me aware of the need to set the scenes with nature as an interactive character in the story and to ensure that I did not fall into gender stereotyping when referring to nature, attaching no human qualities to landscape, and to refrain as much as possible from granting the environment a role as nurturing ‘mother’ or beleaguered ‘other’. To do this I had Celeste and Belle interact in a natural way with animals, water, wildlife and flora. As Gary Snyder, cited in Clark (2011) argues, ‘the natural world is full of indicators, signs and communications’, such as animal tracks, and he further states this animal 456

signification is ‘written into the world to be read and literally followed’ (p. 53). It is this vista of indicators, rather than views, that Celeste and Belle ‘read’ and inhabit.

Early theorists posed questions of connections between physical settings and plot in the novel: what representations of nature are present in a poem, the difference between male and female depictions of nature in literature and what role the science of ecology might play in literary studies (Glotfelty 1996; Kolodny 1996). These questions emerged from the study of environmental approaches to literature and began to take academic form in the mid-eighties. In 1985 Frederick O. Waage edited the first academic course description in the US; the purpose of which was to foster a greater awareness of the environment in literary disciplines. Thomas Berry wrote Dream of the Earth in 1988 and America’s first Nature Writing newsletter was established by Alice Nitecke in 1989. By the early nineties academics and writers began discussing the place of the environment in literary works generally. Cheryl Glotfelty and Harold Fromm edited the first Ecocriticism Reader for publication in 1996 in order to present a collection of essays on the various aspects of ecocriticism. Glotfelty (1996) lamented in her introduction to the book the lack of environmental insights in literature. She stated that if our knowledge of the late twentieth century relied on literary publications we would 457

‘never suspect that the earth’s life support systems were under stress’ (p. xvi).

Nature writing: a feminist perspective

Emerging from this growing awareness, feminist writers such as Annette Kolodny (1996), Val Plumwood (1993) and Ariel Salleh (1997) argued for a feminist approach to what had traditionally been the domain of western male writers who saw nature as the feminine/maternal, and animals as subordinate. These same dominant attitudes of men allowed the commodification of nature and animals as resources for food and materials and placed women on equal footing with the exploited ‘other’. Plumwood (1993) argues that western male culture has treated the ‘human/nature relation as dualism’, and by doing so created many of our present environmental problems and crises. Such thinking has contributed a ‘great deal to the links’ between ecofeminism and theories that put women’s oppression and the domination of nature as interconnected (p. 6). Ursula Le Guin (cited in Glotfelty 1996) says of story, that the plot has traditionally been of the ‘hero’ and the use of the spear, arrow and various other ‘long, hard, pointed’ objects to ‘kill’ animals (p. 152); that women have always been ‘other’ in this story, despite being the real

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collectors and gatherers of food (p. 151). The novel, she states is, ‘a medicine bundle, holding things in a particular, powerful relation to one another and to us’ (p. 153). The rightful ‘shape’ of the novel should be as a bag or sack: ‘A book holds words, words hold things’ (p.153).

The tradition of male writers’ propensity to assign gender and ‘other’ to nature is best known in North America, which has a long history of established nature writers. In 1854 Henry David Thoreau had published Walden, Aldo Leopold published A Sand County Almanac in 1949 and Sigurd F. Olson in 1963 had published his classic Runes of the North, which included stunning literary pictures of the Canadian north and Alaska. These writers were the forerunners of a literary tradition of nature writing, and many others such as Rachel Carson, Wendell Berry, Annie Dillard, Barry Lopez and Mary Oliver were to follow; some with dire warnings of environmental destruction interlaced in their intimate descriptions of nature. Australian writer Mark Tredinnick (2003) suggests that this genre is wrongly named as nature writing and is more rightly ‘a literature of place’. Through careful listening he says, the poem or the prose is, ‘a choreography of words’ that will allow us to experience or listen to ‘the place express itself’ (p. 12).

I began to think that Tredinnick’s poetic theory may lead me to ecocriticism’s hidden value in that ecocriticism asks us to give 459

consideration to the unintentional assumptions we may be creating along the way to our main narrative. All good works of literature are nuanced and considered. Just as a responsible author considers the effects of their portrayals of race, culture, and gender, so too they should evaluate the message they are sending about their character’s relationship with the physical world. Ecocritics, explains Carter (2006), can begin by asking questions such as: ‘How is nature represented in a particular sentence or paragraph?’, ‘what linguistic oppositions or privileges are we setting up in relation to humans and nature?’ and ‘does our gender affect how we write about nature?’ (p. 139).

Tredinnick’s words and Kolodny and Plumwood’s feminist perspective on the representations of nature as feminine/maternal, as passive and to be conquered, as full of promise, beneficent and virginal, all left a deep impression on me. I realised that I desired to create a strong female character who has an intense understanding of the landscape and at the same time would use it for her own purposes of farming without the need to conquer. This character’s interaction with the land would be more akin to a partnership. Ecocriticism appealed to me because it spoke to these elements and reminded me that a novel could be about more than just human society.

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Gender, nature and culture in literature

Taking note of Glotfelty’s interconnections between nature and culture, language and literature as the guiding principle I then looked to other writers for examples. One of the problems that presented was that in women’s fiction writing, the dominant male paradigm still influenced most of the language. The language of most fiction externalises ‘nature’ as something we look at, go through, or have as a background to the ‘real’ story. However, in her examination of three female writers Justyna Kostkowska (2013) found that Virginia Woolf, Jeanette Winterson and Ali Smith were all ‘embedding’ themselves/stories with nature as partner/equal. She argues that in Jacob’s Room, by ‘foregrounding’ non-human subjects Woolf ‘connects the oppression of women with the oppression of nature’. Her narrators are frequently female as opposed to the dominant (traditional) male narrator. Woolf’s multi-centred worldview presents humans as ‘embedded’ in the natural ‘animate and non-animate environment’ (p. 12). The following two quotes from Woolf’s Collected Essays demonstrate Kostkowska’s point of the language as simultaneously animistic and human, the ‘multi-centred’ worldview of Woolf:

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1. Then comes the terror, the exaltation; the power to rush out unnoticed, alone; to be consumed; to be swept away to become a rider on the random wind; the trampling and neighing wind; the horse with brown-black mane; the tumbling the foraging; he who gallops for ever, nowhither travelling, indifferent; to be part of the eyeless dark, to be rippling and streaming, to feel the glory run molten up the spine, down the limbs, making the eyes glow, burning, bright, and penetrate the buffeting waves of the wind (Woolf, cited in Fleishman 1977, p. 171).

2. The rooks too were keeping one of their annual festivities; soaring round the tree tops until it looked as if a vast net with thousands of black knots in it had been cast up into the air; which, after a few moments sank slowly down upon the trees until every twig seemed to have a knot at the end of it. Then, suddenly, the net would be thrown into the air again in a wider circle this time, with the utmost clamour and vociferation, as though to be thrown into the air and settle slowly down upon the tree tops were a tremendously exciting experience (Woolf 1942, p. 9). 462

Winterson takes the form further by having a genderless narrator in Written on the Body (1993). By doing so, Kostkowska (2013) argues, she ‘shifts the reader’s focus from gender to other human issues’ (p. 62) and allows the reader to question gender, ‘to examine how gender governs the way we “read” the world and how the reader forms opinions based on curiosity rather than on the objectification of the character through the usual “rigid, hierarchical binaries” ’ (p. 62). Julie Rajan (cited in Kostkowska 2013) posits that, any ‘transgressive gender identity’ is a threat to the ‘very fabric of patriarchal society’ (pp. 63-65). If the use of textual strategies to create a gender free world is employed, as Winterson does, then Kostkowska (2013) argues, a ‘re-evaluation of other related binaries’ is needed for the constructs that we refer to in the world around us (p. 62). Rajan concludes that, ‘The stability of gender norms for a certain culture resides in the support of those norms by a significant majority of the citizens of that culture’ (cited in Kostkowska 2013, p. 63).

The characters of Celeste and Belle in the novel do not conform to the stereotypical roles of women in a heterosexual society. Whilst the slight tension of a possible relationship between Ted and Celeste is always framed in the farming background, it is in fact a woman that Celeste chooses. Likewise Belle more than holds her own and is an astute and successful businesswoman 463

and horse breeder in the very male dominated world of polo horse breeding. Both women deny the male dominated culture of their upbringing; not in an obvious way, but in a way that quietly announces their competency and independence from the dominant male paradigm. Both of these women relate to the environment as part of who they are rather than as something upon which they ‘hang’ their lifestyle. We see them both accepting events of the natural environment as something in which they participate as equals. Belle waits for the swallows to raise their young before cleaning up the droppings on her pathway or disturbing the nest. She ‘loves to watch the young learning to fly’, like any grandmother would watch her grandchildren learn to walk. She praises one of the mares for the beautiful foal she has produced and treats her old horse Olive as a special friend and ‘the mother’ of the stables, attributing her success to the old horse.

Celeste likewise feels joy at the restoration of Whistling Creek, noting the new plants and the birds, like familiar friends returning. The manner in which she mapped her life by the seasons and the sounds of the creek and her conversations with animals, the elements and her house all point in the direction of her not following the male paradigm of the conquering of nature; not as subservient woman/nature; not as means of production/resources for exploitation, but as partner and 464

sustainable friend/ally/equal. She is not Clark’s ‘detached spectator’ or ‘ensnared’ in Luke’s ‘megamachinic grids’ of production as many farmers are, but aware in her processes of organic farming and living that she is ‘nature’ or ‘environment’ or ‘ecosphere’ as much as any part of her environment.

Environmental awareness

By ‘embedding’ both Belle and Celeste in their environments and having them relate to animals and ‘other’ as equals I wanted to create in the reader’s mind the naturalness of what Kostkowska (2013) termed the ‘symbiotic coexistence’ of the human and non-human. ‘Symbiotic coexistence is figuratively invoked when the male and the female, heterosexual, bisexual, and lesbian, human and nonhuman exist side by side in the reader’s mind’ (n.p.). Jeanette Winterson (1994) acknowledges the ‘other’ in this shift from a human centred view where the narrator in Written on the Body is walking through the countryside at night:

The cows reserved for me the incredulous look that animals give humans in the country. We seem silly, not a part of nature at all. The interlopers upsetting the rigid economy of hunter and hunted. Animals know what’s what until they meet us (p. 185).

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Similarly, Gary Snyder (2010) tells us, ‘The world is watching: One cannot walk through a meadow or forest without a ripple of report spreading out from one's passage’ (p. 20), and that, ‘The information passed through is intelligence’ (p. 21)l).

Kostkowska (2013) argues that having these writers build up in us an awareness that there is more than the ‘self-centred universe’ that we are accustomed to, may be one of the most ‘groundbreakingly environmentalist habits of thought’ that we could develop as it ‘coerces’ us into taking notice of what exists outside of ourselves and our reality for its own sake and ‘not solely as a reflection on us’ (pp. 12-26). Clark (2011) argues further that our attitudes ‘demand a rethink of the material and cultural bases of modern society’ and that the underlying problem for human kind is the underlying ‘anthropocentrism’ that he names as the ‘almost all-pervading assumption that it is only in relation to human beings that anything else has value’ (p. 2). It is how we may break that ‘habit of thought’ and witness that ‘ripple of report’ that my novel aims to explore and, hopefully, achieve.

From my investigation of ecocriticism I have, like Timothy Clark, (2011) questioned the term ‘nature’ as it has been known by the great nature writers of the past and agree with his assertion that the term ‘environment’ may better describe the situation of all living things as it necessarily includes humans 466

alongside, but not superior to, all the other organisms in a habitat. The literary shifts that would then by cultural necessity embrace an eco-feminist, eco-critical perspective of the ‘environment’ may truly reflect the world we share with flora and fauna and all the elements. As Clark (2011) reminds us: ‘Far from being the sacral spectacle of some wilderness preserve or the object of human “construction” this is nature acknowledged as an agent in its own right, capricious, awesome and easily capable of wiping humanity off the face of the earth’ (p. 202).

This critique of how to describe, represent and inhabit ‘nature’ gave rise to further questions about how to capture and explain Celeste’s sense of unity with the world. Was it enough to portray her as environmentally aware or as instinctively observant of nature? Or did I need to further understand exactly what her connection to her surrounds might be in order to ensure the novel had sufficient internal logic? In order to resolve these concerns, I moved on to investigate the various ways in which unity with the environment might be encountered and how these could be represented.

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Section Three Shamanism

Healing and seeing

Michael Harner (1982) says of shamanism that it is a ‘remarkable body of ancient techniques’ that is used by indigenous cultures throughout the world for the healing and wellbeing of their communities (p. xiii). The shamanic methods of ‘healing and seeing’ have similarities despite vast cultural differences and despite oftimes existing in different continents. The key to shamanic practice is the journey to other worlds with the aid of spirit helpers, or power animals, to learn the solutions for various health and wellbeing problems of individuals and communities (p. xiii). As John Matthews (1991) states, ‘Shamanism is very probably the oldest known spiritual discipline in the world’ (p. 1). Mircea Eliade (1964) calls the body of knowledge ‘archaic techniques of ecstasy’ (p. 3). These techniques include possession, trance, or other forms of visionary experience involving spirits, familiars and ghosts of various kinds. After his review of the literature, Eliade found the shaman characterised in manifold roles: ‘priest, sorcerer, physician, magician, exorcist and political leader’ to name a few (p. 7). Stanley Krippner (2002) defines shamanism as ‘a body of techniques and activities that supposedly enable its practitioners 468

to access information that is not ordinarily attainable by members of the social group that gave them privileged status’ (p. 962).

Like the ecocritic who rests his/her theories in the interconnectedness of all things and the human and nonhuman interactions, the shaman has similar theoretical beliefs. Glotfelty and Fromm (1996) highlight the shamanic aspects of ecocriticism when they states,

Ecocriticism takes as its subject the interconnections between nature and culture, specifically the cultural artefacts, language and literature. As a critical stance, it has one foot in literature and the other on land; as a theoretical discourse, it negotiates between the human and the nonhuman (p. xix).

Jeanne Achterberg (1985) says of shamanism that it is ‘the oldest and most widespread method of healing with the imagination’ (p. 15). Although she argues for the measurement of shamanism to be scientific, she also suggests that the ‘shaman’s own wisdom’ is not be ignored. She states: ‘The shaman’s work is conducted in the realms of the imagination, and their expertise in using that terrain for the benefit of the community has been recognised throughout recorded history’ (p. 15). Achterberg (1985) also notes that the state of ecstasy or

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trance ‘is agreed upon as a universal aspect of shamanic practice’ (p. 13). However, the specifics of the shamanic trance are related to the intention of the shaman and the ability to move in and out of the trance state at will. The accompaniment of ‘guardian spirits’ to be used to heal others is another important aspect that Achterberg argues defines the shaman. The shaman ultimately, ‘is defined both by practice and intent’ (p. 13).

Matthews (1991) determines shamanism to transgress all faiths and religions and states it is more of a ‘spiritual practice’ and ‘primal belief system’ (p. 1). He says:

Because it is not an organized religion as such, but rather a spiritual practice, shamanism cuts across all faiths and creeds, reaching deep levels of ancestral memory. As a primal belief system, which precedes established religion, it has its own universal symbolism and cosmology, inhabited by beings, gods, and totems, who display similar characteristics although they appear in various forms, depending on their places of origin (p. 1).

Likewise Claudia Muller-Ebeling, Christian Ratsch and Bhahadur Shahi (2002) found in their research around the world on shamanism that ‘shamanism is a science based on empiricism’ (p. 14). They found that whenever a shaman goes

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into a trance state that the ‘access to knowledge’ is different from the western access to knowledge, however, ‘the same facts are brought to light’ (p. 14).

This notion of a primal belief system that joins human and nonhuman elements of nature helped me theorise elements of Celeste and make clearer in my mind what role she should play in the story. As discussed in detail in the next section on magical realism, there were limits to how shamanic I could make Celeste if the readers were to sustain their suspension of disbelief through the journey of the story. I wanted to demonstrate Celeste’s communion with the ‘other world’ without drawing too much attention to elements of the supernatural. My intention was to critique how as a society we have lost unity with and respect for nature rather than represent Celeste as a freakish figure. With this in mind and as discussed in more detail below, I pulled back her shamanic moments and positioned her own inner quietness and repose as akin to a shamanic state.

The shamanic state

The shamanic journey is performed in an altered state of consciousness, named by Harner (1982) as the OSC ‘Ordinary State of Consciousness’ and the SSC, ‘Shamanic’ or ‘Non-

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Ordinary State of Consciousness’ (p. 62). These states are usually brought about by rhythmic drumming, rhythmic rattles or other musical instruments, humming, chanting or dancing. In many parts of Africa, chanting is used to accompany the shaman into the other world. Composer and musician Robert Gass (Gass & Brehony 1999) found that the indigenous Africans had chants for most daily activities, including the shamanic chanting. In Zimbabwe and other regions, chanting evokes altered states of consciousness used to allow ancestral spirit possession and for healing (p. 79).

The drumming or music is often accompanied by rhythmic dancing or movement, for instance foot stomping or tapping, swaying or other mesmeric actions that induce an altered state. Trance dance as depicted by the Paiute Indians in the American Southwest was often involved in the induction of the trance, the central events and the finalisation of the ritual, according to Diana Riboli (cited in Walter & Fridman 2004, p. 247). Eliade (1964) warns however that ecstatic states alone don’t constitute the definition of a shaman. The shaman he says, ‘specializes in a trance during which his soul is believed to leave his body and ascend to the sky or descend to the underworld’ (p. 7). Caitlin Matthews (1995) also reminds us that a shamanic journey involves altered states of consciousness and other worlds: ‘Soul- journeys to other worlds, are fuelled by use of rhythm, sound 472

and movement which propel the shaman’s soul into subtle reality’ (p. 42).

Harner (1982) states that other methods for the altered state of consciousness, particularly in South America, are the use of sacred psychotropic plants and drinks from plants, for example Ayahuasca or ‘soul vine’, known and experimented with by many westerners. The altered state of consciousness then allows the practitioner to move about in ‘non-ordinary’ reality (p. xvi).

For the purposes of my story, many of these methods were too physically dramatic and intrusive to be included and would have felt out of kilter with Celeste’s calmness and control. Hence, rather than overt devices such as rocking and drumming, I had her focus on naturally generated sound as a transition point between worlds. This can be as diverse as bird calls and office machinery.

Shamanic scholarship states that the worlds or places that are journeyed to are usually referred to as the Lower, Middle and Upper worlds (Eliade 1964; Harner 1982). The method of arriving at these ‘worlds’ is as varied as the cultures and the people that perform the journeys. One common thread in commencing the journey that is present in many cultures is the use of an opening in the earth, a hole or burrow in the ground, a

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tree root that can be followed down, a hollow log, a stairwell leading down or a tunnel of some kind.

These holes in the ground are frequently depicted in indigenous art and artefacts and sometimes appear as a small mound of earth with a hole in the top (Harner 1982, pp. 31-32). The spirit ‘helpers’ or ‘power animals’ that are co-opted by the shaman vary equally with culture and can be animals, humans, plants or some figurative representation that suits the person and/or culture (Harner 1982, pp. 89-98). The spirit helper is usually ‘called’ to the person either in a dream or as part of a journey to find a spirit helper. When the spirit helper reveals itself, the shaman usually dances or sings to the spirit helper with some appropriate action that tells the spirit helper that it is respected and needed by the caller. This may take the form of a dance or action that represents the movements of that creature, for instance a brolga leaping or a leopard hunting prey or an eagle in flight. Other types of dances may be performed that are purely individual and representative of the dancer’s imagination of that creature. Insects are not generally used unless they are an integral part of the culture and represent some strength for that community (Harner 1982, pp. 89-98).

I felt that the stages of the shamanic initiation, the shamanic methods of ‘healing and seeing’, could be used as an organising principle and thematic connector for the novel. The use of the 474

shamanic initiation and journey is becoming more widely accepted and used in literature, with a body of research and creative output emerging from the academy in the form of higher research study and accompanying creative artefacts. In order to explore possible interactions between the shamanic initiation and journey and my novel, I undertook an investigation of the stages of shamanic development.

There are several stages of initiation of a shaman: In the world of the beginning shaman, the initiate may be thrust into some kind of crisis or illness or some kind of spiritual crisis and cannot find a solution. Often a ‘little’ death is experienced in this period. This, John Matthews (1991) says, is the death of the former self and an acceptance of a ‘rebirth or transformation’ (p. 86). The shaman enters the otherworld state through illness or near death experience. Harner (1982) argues that a person from a different cultural perspective may be an equally effective shaman and have the same experiences. There is a time when the shaman becomes ill or ‘dies’ through some process to her/his way of life. A transformation takes place and the former life, or knowledge from the former life returns. Those who ‘die’ are usually ‘restored to life’ and changed forever (p. 86).

Eliade (1989) compares the ‘typical death and resurrection sequence’ of the initiation to other rites of passage, ‘whether tribal or other secret society initiations’ (p. 64). The shaman 475

must visit, or get some other to intercede in, the other world on his/her behalf to be restored to health or life. Or as a child there may be a birth defect or ‘mark’ that may indicate to the family/community that the child is marked out to be a shaman/healer. Alternately, as in many societies the child is born into a healer/shaman family and may learn from his/her parents or relatives (Matthews 1991, p. 10). In Australian indigenous society Elkin (1977) notes that initiations were secret business and separate for medicine men although inherent in the societal knowledge of the cosmology related to the Rainbow Serpent (p. 22).

The shamanic journey

Aspects of the psyche may appear in frightening/challenging forms. Frequently in indigenous societies during the initiation of young men and women they are taken into the wild and have to endure nights alone or in a cave to face the ‘demon/spirits’ of that place. This is the first test of strength/resilience. The arctic explorer Knud Rasmussen (1979) was told by a Caribou shaman named Igjugaruk that, ‘all true wisdom is only learned far from the dwellings of men, out in the great solitudes; and it is only to be attained through suffering’ (Rasmussen, cited in Halifax 1979, p. 69). Joan Halifax (1979) says: ‘The inanimate sermon

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of pristine desert, mountains, high plains and forests instructs from a place beyond ideas, concept or construct’ (p. 6). As the skills of the shaman come to fruition; the initiate may be drawn to the outdoors or the natural world. Some heal, some are psychic/clairvoyant, some problem-solve through divination, some are guided by dreams and visions, some practice herbal or alternative medicine via shamanic guidance, some counsel. All consult the inner realms, gods, goddesses, spirits and inner beings for guidance. In communion with the otherworld, new concepts are given birth (Halifax 1979, p. 5). Matthews (1991) posits that ‘one of the first qualities that define a shaman is the acquisition of non-linear thought’ (p. 29). He argues that it is not necessary to ‘believe in a linear progression’ through life but rather, to ‘see life as a spiral rather than a straight line’ through which we can venture into the ‘true realm’ in which we live (p. 16). The shaman, he argues, does this because he/she can travel within the natural world and the ‘realms of the spirits’ (p. 16). The Huichol Indians of South America have a word for this place between worlds; they call it Nierika. Prem Das states that, ‘Nierika is a cosmic portway or interface between so called ordinary and non-ordinary reality’ (cited in Halifax 1979, p. 241).

Having successfully overcome the opposition and fears thrown up by the consciousness, the shaman experiences an awakening 477

of the spiritual centres, a stage of receptivity when the shaman must embrace the vision. Matthews (1991) states that ‘the awakening may be accompanied by caution or fear given what has previously happened to her/him’ (p. 87). The first journey is undertaken in the otherworld to meet and gain the assistance of a totem animal/ familiar/helper who will become the shaman’s inner companion from here on. The ‘power’ totem acts as a guide, counsellor and guardian in all subsequent travels/experiences in the otherworld. Now the shaman journeys with the totem as guide through unknown worlds to learn to seek, track, find and heal for the benefit of her/his community. The totem and the inner shaman guide the shaman through further travels in the spirit world; encountering the beings of the inner realms with greater understanding and confidence (Matthews 1991, p. 52). Harner (1982) states that the connection between animals and humans is essential in the shaman’s world, ‘the shaman has to have a particular guardian in order to do his work’ (p. 74). Matthews (1991) shows in his studies of Celtic mysticism that this experience, common to shamans around the world, is documented in the stories of Taliesin, Fionn, and Mabon. For example, Mabon is the youthful god of the Celts, who after being imprisoned beneath the earth, is rescued by King Arthur’s heroes and their totemic animals (p. 3).

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The shaman will collect/make items for her/his shamanic pouch or tool kit. These are personal empowerment symbols, objects emblematic of individual gifts and skills and could be seen to fall under what Achterberg (1995) might call the cultural addenda. These may consist of feathers, stones, carvings, masks, scarves, sacred plants/artefacts, and in the modern age, candles, photos, religious icons, flowers, and computer generated objects d’art. The shaman may also learn/compose songs, dances and poems in honour of his/her totem or for use in healing. As Achterberg (1995) notes, ‘whatever local resources’ are present as ‘medicine’ or to serve as the ‘vehicles of medicine’ or the ‘material symbols of the healing state’ (p. 50).

The community now begins to recognise the shaman’s ability and may ask for help. The shaman will accept the changes within and will be accepted by the inner world beings with whom he/she will work from now on, as Rasmussen (1979) posits, two things are ‘integrally connected in most versions of shamanism’ that of ‘curing soul loss’ and ‘mystical flight’ (cited in Walter & Fridman 2004, p. 165)

To the outsider the shaman appears to lead an ordinary, well- adjusted life. A true shaman is one whose work is fully integrated into daily life and the ‘join’ doesn’t show. Halifax (1979) says of the shaman that, ‘it is the shaman who weaves

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together the world that is lived in and the philosophical cosmos that is thought of’ (pp. 4-6).

I intended to create a novel that represents the shamanic journey, albeit that the main protagonist Celeste does not make shamanic journeys as such, but rather the story is her journey. This journey, in a sense, functions as a plot-ordering device and a guide to the evolution of the narratological devices of character and the narratological function of these characters. This approach has been applied to similar journey structures such as the hero and heroine’s journey as expounded by Joseph Campbell (1973) and Maureen Murdock (1990), and the writers’ journey as adapted by Christopher Vogler (1992). The weaving together of the lived-in world and the cosmos of the imagination and spirit reminded me of the complex weaving of the worlds in magical realist writing and that idea led me to explore what magical realism may hold and how that might relate to the shamanic.

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Section Four Magical Realism

Shamanic characterisation and magical realism

As discussed in the last section, when I looked at the shamanic journey and the manner in which a shaman in many cultures becomes initiated into shamanism, I found that although Celeste has many of the qualities and experiences of the shaman, some of them were too overt to use in the construction of Celeste. To make her too obviously shamanistic would risk alienating the reader. It seemed unlikely that my audience would relate to a protagonist who entered a trancelike state and journeyed to other worlds. What felt more comfortable was for me was to allow her some of the gentler qualities of the shaman, for example clairvoyance, prophetic visions, an understanding of the language of nature and a relationship with wild things and weather that is as natural as relationships with humans. She is then able to translate these into her everyday life just as the magical realism of Isabel Allende or Gabriel Garcia Marquez translates the fantastical into cultural normalcy in the lives of their characters. There is, suggests Patricia Hart (1995), ‘a continuous campaign during the novel… to place magical realism in trivial settings’ (cited in Zamora & Faris 1995, p. 295). These, I realised, were qualities common to many of 481

Gabriel Garcia Marquez and Isabel Allende’s characters and stories. With this in mind, I investigated the possibility of drawing on the ideas of magical realism as a way of shaping Celeste

In 1925 Franz Roh first used the term magic realism to forge a new direction for the new style of painting that differed from the Expressionism of the time. Lois Zamora (1995) explains that Roh used the term to indicate a return to a realistic and figural form or representation in art that had been steeped in religiosity and surrealistic motifs. Whilst Roh’s original use for the term was meant to get away from the fantastical and surreal religiousness of the art form; the later use of the term to define a literary genre has come to mean the expression of the fantastical and surreal as ‘ordinary’ and believable in literature (Zamora & Faris 1995, p. 493). Wendy B. Faris (Zamora & Faris 1995) states that magical realism frequently ‘facilitates the fusion or coexistence of possible worlds, spaces, systems that would be irreconcilable in other modes of fiction’ (p. 120). Faris says of Franz Roh that he used the word ‘magical’ rather than ‘mystical’ and in so doing he emphasised that the ‘mystery does not descend to the represented world but rather hides and palpitates behind it’. (Roh 1927, cited in Zamora & Faris 1995, p. 123). Luis Leal (1967) argues that magical realism cannot be identified with psychological literature, or with the surrealists, 482

because it doesn’t use dream motifs, distort reality nor create imagined worlds (as in science fiction). Magical realism, he argues, is ‘more than anything else an attitude toward reality’ that can be expressed in ‘popular or cultured forms’, in ‘elaborate and or rustic styles’, in ‘closed or open structures’: its aim he says, ‘unlike that of magic’, is to ‘express emotions, not to evoke them’ (p. 120). I was reminded by the characters of Clara in House of Spirits (Isabel Allende) and Melquiades and others of One Hundred Years of Solitude (Gabriel Garcia Marquez) that the ‘magical’ was oftimes imbedded in the ‘real’ or ordinary.

Interestingly, Mary Overton (1999, cited in Walter & Neumann Fridman 2004) suggests the application of a shamanic perspective to Latin American literature serves to clarify the magical realism controversy. She argues that, ‘When the shamanistic content of a fictional narrative is sufficient to support a cogent world view, is set within a realistic context, and is presented in the form of a resolved antinomy, it can be considered to be a work of shamanic realism’ (p. 414). This was an exciting discovery for me, as it flagged that my own dilemmas about the role of the shamanic in my story and in Celeste herself could be resolved to some extent through drawing on the techniques and representational tropes of magical realism. Overton (1999) posits that the ‘cryptic and 483

enigmatic nature’ of Latin American storytelling is related to the origins of shamanism in its ‘characters, elements and symbolism’ (p. 414). These origins can be found in the world view of three foundational cultures: African, Native American and Iberian. Overton suggests that a more realistic term for the genre is shamanic realism. She argues that certain elements in Latin American texts only acquire meaning within the context of a shamanic framework. Taken literally they have no meaning. She notes trees, animals, blood, ghosts, and inanimate objects, ‘of themselves reveal little of their esoteric significance when considered literally’ (p. 414).

Shamanic realism

Overton’s thinking resonated with my own ideas about the representation of objects, particularly nature. My investigations into the ecocritical perspectives had made me extremely conscious of the role and presences I gave to nature. As I had worked hard to ensure that the environment was not merely backdrop, but a various range of characters that had an equal role in the forwarding of the narrative, Overton’s emphasis on the importance of a shamanic framework made immediate sense to me. The signs in nature, for example, the ants storing food, the scuttling of creatures in the garden and the wind on

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Whistling Creek, bore the omen of the flood to Celeste. I toyed with the idea of making objects meaningful to one character and insignificant to another. As a consequence of hearing nature’s messages Celeste acts to save the office equipment and data by packing up everything and storing it on a higher level. This was the way Celeste’s grandmother had taught her to listen to nature. To the men at the workplace she was an object of ridicule and considered slightly mad. It was not until an emergency services (SES) member (the male voice of authority) came and ordered them to leave that they took the threat of a flood seriously. In another context Carlo tells Caroline at his Italian vineyard that he talked to the vines and took his problems to them. They were a special group of vines that he called the ‘nonnas’ or grandmothers and every generation of his family had cared for them.

Taken out of the shamanic context they become ordinary literary objects that have no significant meaning; the ants are just ants, the wind just wind, and the vines just vines in a vineyard. In context they are the spiritual voices of nature and they herald the difference between the perceptions of Celeste and Carlo and the other characters in the novel.

In reading Isabel Allende’s (1985) House of Spirits one is struck by the normalcy of the extraordinary in the events as depicted by Allende. When her character Alba, the grandchild of Clara 485

the matriarch of the story, is remembering her grandmother, the author states the extraordinary as though it is the usual in one sentence:

Clara taught her how to how to take care of birds and to speak to each of them in its own language, as well as how to read the premonitions in nature and knit chain-stitch scarves for the poor (p. 324).

As Overton (1999) describes, one reality is juxtaposed with another and a certain suspension of belief is needed on the part of the reader. Overton argues that shamanic realism is not the result of the author’s imagination but rather ‘a system of beliefs of cultural origin’ (p. 414).

In the case of my novel, ‘Jubilation Road’, Overton’s term shamanic realism fits perfectly for Celeste and for the elements of the novel. Although Celeste is from a largely Anglo culture, she has learned at the feet of her mixed-blood grandmother the ancient shamanic arts of the healer and soothsayer. The rising of the flood in the town of Redbrooke is preceded particularly by warnings from nature and from the spirits of the wind and Whistling Creek that were telling Celeste of the coming danger:

A thousand river spirits were shrieking and whistling in every crevice and cleft of the creek. Whipping the trees and spiralling up and down the banks, the

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frenzied melee of the wind sounded its urgent message of alarm (‘Jubilation Road’, p. 3).

Just as the shamans of world cultures bring prophecies to their communities, Celeste was able to warn her friends and colleagues of the pending flood, albeit that they did not listen. Again later Celeste sees her house being borne along on a yellow low-loader and realizes that such a vision will come to fruition.

Further on in the novel her house is moved from its location to the farmland on a yellow low-loader. The reader must accept Celeste’s clairvoyance as ‘normal’ within the context of a novel that incorporates shamanic realism according to Overton. Overton (1999) also asserts that the reader is ‘presented with other personages’ whose perceptions are congruent with the reader’s own ‘likely responses’ (p. 415). Like the guests in Allende’s, the characters in Clara’s house have to suspend disbelief when the salt shaker at the dining table moves of its own volition around the table. This device is employed in assisting the reader to suspend belief, just as the character Nuncia in ‘Jubilation Road’ assists the reader in believing Celeste’s ability to read the weather and have foreknowledge of the impending flood by following Celeste’s instructions to pack up the office and take everything to higher ground in what seemed a normal rainy day. 487

They discussed Nuncia’s family, her husband Frank’s health, the missing Criccelli print, Celeste’s neighbours and finally the weather, which Celeste insisted was going to deteriorate. Nuncia nodded, looking out through the window in search of evidence. The sky remained impassively bleak, the drizzle continued and Nuncia could detect no change (‘Jubilation Road’, p. 20).

As Lois Zamora (1995) reminds us, ‘the supernatural is not a simple or obvious matter, but it is an ordinary matter, and everyday occurrence - admitted, accepted, and integrated into the rationality and materiality of literary realism’ (p. 3).

Prior to this instance Nuncia had already questioned Celeste’s sanity and whether she (Nuncia) might lose her job. This also allows the reader to question such things and to feel equally with Nuncia the questionable motive for Celeste’s actions that have no credible evidence. Scott Simpkins (1995) contends that magical realists present ‘familiar things in unusual ways’ to highlight their ‘innately magical properties’ (cited in Faris and Zamora 1995, p. 149). By so doing, he argues, they are able to ‘radically emphasize’ elements of reality that are often present but have become ‘virtually invisible because of their familiarity’ (p. 150) Simpkins further contends that these textual strategies seem to produce ‘a more realistic text’ (p. 150). 488

I applied this concept to Celeste’s knowledge that the weather indicated a flood was imminent. As I imbued the common with a greater sense of spiritual presence, I was concerned that at times in early drafts these representations would break the reader’s suspension of disbelief. I thought about re-ordering Celeste’s knowledge from her childhood to have birds or animals speak to her but decided that this was too obvious and lacking in credibility for the reader. However, in using the subtle ordinary conversational topic of the weather for example, I pulled the representation back to being a humorous dip into her clairvoyance and with Nuncia’s assistance simultaneously helping the reader to suspend disbelief.

Literary ghosts

This led me to consider the line between presence, spirit, and ghost. Zamora (1995) claims that literary ghosts in their many guises in prose fiction play a host of roles to inform us of the nature of a multitude of factors. They are, she asserts, ‘crucial to magical realism as a literary mode (p. 495). She argues that they ‘foreground’ magical realism’s ‘most basic concern’, the ‘nature and limits of the knowable’ (p. 495). Some ghosts tell us about the author’s ‘metaphysics, politics and poetic’. Others, she argues, ‘carry the burden of tradition and collective memory’,

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others still are ‘reminders of communal crises, crimes and cruelties’ (p. 495). Illustrative of this, The Famished Road by Ben Okri (1991) is filled with spirit life albeit that it is a story of a spirit child; Okri manages to intermingle the earthly folk with their spirit counterparts in a fluid narrative that distinguishes neither. Azaro the spirit child is lost and wandering through a market and he says:

That was the first time I realized it wasn’t just humans who came to the marketplaces of the world. Spirits and other beings come there too. They buy and sell, browse and investigate. They wander amongst the fruits of the earth and sea (p. 16).

Zamora (1995) contends that the literary ghosts and spirits of magical realism ‘are deeply metaphoric’ and ‘bring absence into presence’, maintaining at once the ‘is’ and the ‘is not’ of metaphoric truth. The western assumption that reality is ‘knowable and controllable’ is turned on its head by magical realist’s ghosts in their ability to ‘float free in time, not just here and now but then and there, eternal and everywhere’. In looking beyond the limits of the knowable, Zamora states, ‘ghosts are often our guides’ (p. 497). Zamora identifies ghosts as ‘a spiritual force that enters the material world of the fiction and expresses itself as such’ (p. 498). In this broad interpretation we might recognise the owl that sat on Celeste’s 490

grandmother’s verandah as one such spirit and the beings that inhabited the wind in Whistling Creek as others. Their function in Zamora’s terms is a rejection of western reductivism and ‘is to propose a model of the self that is collective’ (p. 497). The grandmother’s interactions with the landscape and its creatures signify another device to assist the reader to accept Celeste’s shamanic abilities in the cultural context of an Anglo environment.

We do however, suspend disbelief on a daily basis as part of Christian teachings in a largely Christian nation and relate shamanic experiences in biblical and religious terms. Barbara Wilhelmi (2004) argues that the Old Testament stories about Moses and Joshua as told in Numbers 11:16 and the First Book of Samuel, of groups of people using musical instruments to put themselves into ecstatic trances and to prophecy, are shamanic acts (p. 38). The gospel of Matthew in the New Testament gives numerous occasions of Jesus healing people by touch or voice or command. Many of these parables of healing or exorcism could be termed shamanic. When the disciples of Jesus were afraid of a storm at sea Jesus ‘checked the winds and the sea, and there was a deep calm’ (Mathew 8:26). Jesus made a fig tree instantly wither away when it bore no fruit (Mathew 21:18). When Jesus was asked what he did he replied that he ‘cured illness and cast out devils’ (Luke 13:32). We suspend 491

belief and accept these parables not just as teaching metaphors but as reality that occurred at that time. Wilhelmi (2004) posits that the gospels ‘ascribed many shamanic roles to Jesus’ (p. 38). Perhaps the ultimate shamanic role that Jesus played was to intercede with the assistance of angels and spirits to mediate with the higher powers, on behalf of the people. Generally we have no trouble accepting these intercessions and many expressions of this can be found in common use in the language, for example, ‘It’s gospel truth’, ‘walk on water.’ Further proof of our belief system in relation to this can be found any day in our courtrooms where we are asked to either ‘affirm’ our evidence is true and correct or ‘swear’ our evidence is true and correct. The ‘swearing’ is done whilst holding the bible. The bible being a book full of tales of what Overton (1994) would call shamanic realism.

In relating this to my novel I couldn’t help but explore the notion of a sometime religious fanatic and the character Jason suited this purpose; Jason who was one of Celeste’s tormentors and like the others in the office thought her ‘weird’. It is Jason who has the conversion to fundamentalist Christianity and holds many of the beliefs listed above.

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Shaman and artist

The more I investigated the role of the shamanic and the mystical in my novel, the more interested I grew in how my own creative process had many similarities to the shamanic, the shamanic journey, and the magically real. With this in mind, it resonated with me as I read the works of Robert B. Sweet (1990) and found he likened the writer to the shaman. He argues that, like the writer, the shaman travels to other realities to capture messages from the spirits and bring them back to this reality for others to use for healing, among other things: ‘The artist is both shaman and scapegoat’ (p. 2). Sweet argues that ‘our personalities are like an iceberg: three fourths lies buried under water. That which shows is individual and idiosyncratic’ (p. 3). It is this ‘buried’ part of the world that the shaman and the writer bring to consciousness. The shaman in his altered state of consciousness journeys to capture information to make public (p. 3). I likened my own process to this in that I felt I had to expose those parts of Celeste that were scared and spiritual and shamanic and bring them to light in the ordinariness of the everyday.

Kenneth Smith (2008) calls the imagination ‘one of the most powerful tools of human consciousness’, as it allows connection to the world whether ‘conscious or unconscious’ and shows us the ‘perception of potential’ and subsequently ‘produces the 493

worlds to come’ (p. 66). ‘Our social world develops through an enormous number of entraining influences that combine to form what we consider to be reality’ (p. 66). As Smith argues the ‘culture of your upbringing’ dramatically influences your perception (p. 66). The role of both the writer and the shaman via their heightened perception is to imagine on our behalf; to bring to fruition other realities and to produce the worlds to come.

Anthropologist and author Joan Halifax (1993) says the manner in which we learn our culture is through story. The hearing of ‘myth and story’ is the way we are ‘initiated’ into ‘traditions and truths of nature and culture.’ Story, Halifax posits, ‘prepares us for the future and guide us in the present’ (p. 105).

Many writers agree that storytelling is the oldest form of education. Jean Houston (1987a) goes further and states that story ‘engages all manner of human function’ and while ‘seducing us with promise and passion inherent in the narrative’ becomes more effective than ‘volumes of didactic and theoretical material’. She argues that television interrupts story because of advertisements and interludes of other information. That story is ‘aborted or abbreviated’, causing the listener to become bored and to possibly lose the meaning in their lives. Story, she posits, ‘is accelerating’ and because of television,

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‘little local stories, have an almost revolutionary way of ending’ (p. 100).

When one thinks of all the electronic ways of receiving stories now in 2016, Facebook, Twitter, Instagram and 24 hour news services, to name a few, this process of the ‘byte’ has no doubt been extended. Writing in 1987 Houston reminded us that the ‘hearth and campfire’ were the traditional sites of storytelling ‘for millennia’ (p. 100).

The shaman and the writer bring news or story or information to the community for our welfare, learning, interest and healing. The shaman and writer also sometimes reveal the ‘three fourths’ of Sweet’s ‘iceberg’ (the unconscious or psyche) hidden below the surface that we may not want identified. Both writer and shaman may become the public scapegoat for the information that they bring to light; however, Sweet (1990) encourages writers and shamans to remain true to themselves in their tasks. He suggests the ‘true shaman’ assists us to cope with the truth of what is, what exists in the waters below the tip of the iceberg. Likewise, the ethical writer will write about those parts of society or self that we would rather not recognise’ (p. 3).

Further, Sweet (1990) says:

The writer, when functioning as a shaman, pursues both societal and personal fidelity. In our particular

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culture – whose avoidance of the mythic, the unconscious, the immaterial is well established – art may remain the essential means for discovering and communicating what sagacity people are capable of bearing (p. 3).

This has exciting implications for my own writing practice and for my desire to make a statement about our relationship with the environment. It signals a recognition that my writings can contribute a message or observation about the world without being overly didactic.

Optimal experiences

Much has been written about ‘the zone’ or ‘flow’ found in optimal experiences such as in writing, painting, sport, craft making or other skilled activity, whereby the participant experiences a level of concentration that disallows thought of any other matter. The words, or art or skill, ‘flows’ onto the page or field and a sense of time is lost. Mikhail Csikszentmihalyi (1990) calls this the ‘autotelic experience’. ‘The autotelic experience or flow lifts the course of life to a different level’ (p. 69). In so doing, ‘psychic energy works to reinforce the sense of self, instead of being lost in external goals’ (p. 69).

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It is in the so-called period of the ‘flow’ that the writer – like the shaman – transcends ordinary reality. Both act as intermediaries between what is known and what is unknown. Magical realism writes both sides. It brings the fantastical imagined and the known together in one narrative that suspends belief and pushes the reader into the unknown; into Smith’s ‘worlds to come’.

I felt that in the creation of the novel and most particularly in creating the characters of Celeste, Belle, Ted, Nuncia and Jason that much came automatically to me. I seemed to have little control over how those characters presented themselves and what they did with their lives. Particularly in the writing of Celeste I seemed to just ‘follow the pen’ (or in this case the computer) as she went about her business, her trials and triumphs. The creation also of nature not as backdrop but as an interactive character came naturally onto the page and probably originated from my own deep relationship with the natural environment. This seemed to me to be an unconscious creation; one that put me in the ‘zone’ of creativity and therefore made for me a problem in later unpacking or analysing what I had written.

Magical realism, according to P. Gabrielle Foreman (1995) ‘presumes’ that the individual ‘requires a bond with the traditions and faith of the community’, with whom they are connected (p. 286). Allende herself ‘has asserted that magic 497

realism relies on a South American reality…’ (cited in Foreman 1995, p. 286). Faris (Zamora & Faris 1995) notes that the ‘incompatibility’ of magical realism with the more established genre systems, in other words English or European texts, should be a focus for some attention, as she posits that magical realism is found mostly in the literature of cultures ‘situated at the fringes of mainstream literary traditions’ (p. 3). However, she clarifies this by noting magical realism’s long history and cites the examples of The Decameron, A Thousand and One Nights and Don Quixote as being the forerunners to a long tradition (p. 2).

Dilemmas met in writing shamanic realism

The above would seem to me to restrict the understanding of the person not having access to that culture and would present a natural barrier to the cognizance of the inherent shamanic realism within the text. Perhaps this is the dilemma of all magical realist writers. Faris (Zamora & Faris 1995) posits that the ‘characteristic manoeuvre of magic realist fiction is that its two separate narrative modes never manage to arrange themselves into any kind of hierarchy’ (p. 4). Toni Morrison (1981) once said in an interview regarding magical realism: ‘I don’t know why I should be asked to explain’ (p. 1). On the

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face of it, Maggie Ann Bowers (2004) argues, ‘they are oxymorons describing the forced relationship of irreconcilable terms’ (p. 1). Whilst Bowers argues the latter point, Brenda Cooper (2002) contends that magical realism is perhaps the tool of third world writers to oppose the regimes of imperialism, ‘magical realism at its best opposes fundamentalism and purity; it is at odds with racism, ethnicity and the quest for tap roots, origins and homogeneity’ (p. 22). This is the key to its recent popularity as a mode of fiction, particularly in Latin America and the postcolonial English-speaking world (p. 22).

In the case of Celeste, who belongs to the dominant Anglo- Saxon, English speaking culture, as do the majority other characters in the novel, the cultural context was not as important as the understanding of her different belief system. The argument in favour of the cultural divide that allows for belief in the mystical, psychic or magical seems to imply that postcolonial modern cultures have outgrown such writing and the stories of third world cultures are a remnant of pre-industrial, pre-colonial thinking. One has only to note the popularity of J.K. Rowling’s Harry Potter series of novels and films in the last 10 years to question this argument. In Celeste’s case and to a much lesser extent in one instance Carlo, it is a way of thinking that combines the ‘realist’ with the ‘magical’ to form a fluid narrative that doesn’t discriminate. Just as Celeste ‘sees’ her 499

house being borne along on a ‘yellow low loader’ or a ‘line of coloured goats walking into the sky’ so too does Carlo ‘speak’ with the old vines and addresses them respectfully as ‘nonnas’ or grandmothers. It is a way of life or a way of being more than a way of thinking and implies connectivity between the place, the environment and the human heart. As a ripple is part of a river.

Amanda Zucker (2007) contends that, by giving a place meaning, we change the way we think about that place: ‘A place changes from being a space to a place because the individual assigns meaning to it. By giving a place meaning, you are therefore giving the place a reason to be remembered’ (p. 1). In the novel I had to have Celeste assign such meaning to the farming valley long before she moved to live there. She knew from her visions and promptings that she would leave Redbrooke. The arrangements to go were a formality and therefore happened quickly. The catalyst, like many in human life that force change, was the flood and its consequences. Using the devices of magical realism allowed me to readily find a path of escape for her and to have the house and the farm fall into place quickly. The three crows sitting on the branch in the tree when she arrives at the farm are not only part of a prophecy but they also signal that her magic has come with her.

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Section Five The Multi-protagonist story

Plural characters: plural voices

My story features five key protagonists who give to the story what Bakhtin calls a ‘polyphonic’ structure, or a ‘plurality of independent and unmerged voices and consciousness’ (cited in Boulter 2007, p. 148). Bakhtin posits that ‘voice’ and ‘point of view’ happen simultaneously and that this polyphony gives fiction its distinct revelation of the consciousness of the author (p. 148). The idea that voice and point of view happen simultaneously was exciting for me as I was unsure of which protagonists should be given the greater narrative weight and how that would affect the ultimate ‘voice’ of the novel. This led me to consider the literary concept of voice and to evaluate how it might interact with the narration of the novel. Voice felt like an elusive concept. Amanda Boulter (2007) argues that ‘we cannot fully understand voice’, unless we also know point of view. Voice, she suggests is the answer to the question of ‘who speaks’ and point of view, she continues, is the answer to the question of ‘who sees’. The narrator’s voice in the story, she goes on to the say, ‘carries with it a certain perspective’ (p. 148). It is in Carmel Bird’s (2007) terms ‘the writer’s fingerprint’ or ‘the identifying hum of that particular writer’ (p. 501

196). While I loved the poetics of having a ‘hum’, I wondered how it would work if I had five characters each possessing a different story. Could each narrate their own story or version of events or could I use a single narratorial voice to relate what was happening to and in the heads of each of the five characters?

Point of view

I wondered if perhaps I had placed the notion of voice ahead of the seemingly simpler concept of point of view. With this in mind, I investigated the nature and role of point of view, attempting to find insight into how many points of view I could use and if each needed to be treated equally; I began with the term itself. Boulter (2007) says that many critics of the term ‘point of view’ think it too vague because in its description of ‘who sees’ it fails to identify ‘who speaks’ (p. 148). Was there then, a more appropriate term than point of view? The alternative use of the term ‘focalisation’ to describe how a story is both seen and told was coined by the French theorist Gerard Genette. Lucy Guillemette and Cynthia Levesque (2006) forward the notion that ‘focalisation’, while not as commonly used as ‘point of view’, suggests a greater flexibility in storytelling: “Whilst a point of view implies a single gaze, the

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term ‘focalization implies an articulation of meaning’ (p. 41). Genette’s theory posits that there is an underlying structure to the narrative that is contextual and can be identified in many different narratives. He argues, ‘all narrative is necessarily diegesis (telling), in that it can attain no more than an illusion mimesis (showing) by making the story real and alive’ (Guillemette & Levesque 2006, p. 41). The implication for Genette is that regardless of what techniques the author may use, every narrative has a narrator.

Three main aspects of ‘focalisation’ as identified by narratologist Shlomith Rimmon-Kenan (2001) are the perceptual or ‘how much the narrator sees’, the psychological, or the ‘idiosyncrasies of the narrator’ and the ideological, or the ‘world view of the narrator’ (cited in Boulter 2007, p. 77). According to Rimmon-Kenan (2001) the two coordinates of perception are space and time. In the spatial aspect the focaliser ‘takes the form of a bird’s eye view versus that of a limited observer’ (p. 77). This bird’s eye view is often found in the opening of a chapter, suggests Rimmon-Kenan (2001). The time aspect allows the external focaliser to have at his/her disposal, ‘all the temporal dimensions of the story, past, present, future’ (p. 78). The psychological concerns, ‘mind and emotions’, again are with two determinants; ‘the cognitive and emotive orientation of the focalizer towards the focalised’ (p. 503

78). The ideological aspect of Rimmon-Kenan’s theory as depicted by Boulter (2007) ‘represents the world view of the narrator’ (p. 151). And in the words of Rimmon-Kenan (2001), ‘norms are presented through a single dominant perspective’ (p. 78).

I reflected on how this might be represented in my novel and found that the narrator’s world view is most strongly represented by the character of Celeste. It is via Celeste that we see the workings of the office in which she is employed; the unfolding of the dramas in the lives of the office workers and the consequences for others that are a result of the flood.

The multi-protagonist narrative

Creating a multi-protagonist story has a distinct set of challenges that requires research drawn from screenwriting studies and narrative theory. With this in mind, I investigated what theorists determine a multi-protagonist narrative to be. The most generic definition is that the multi-protagonist story is a group or macro story. The macro story is considered to be a ‘chain of events’ that unifies the overall story. Linda Aronson (2010) puts it succinctly when she says of the multi-protagonist form: ‘it is your lifeline because it holds everything together’. The multi-protagonist story is usually a group conflict, group

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adventure or group siege/battle. Aronson states that it gives the characters action towards a goal and can form the ‘spine’ of the film or story (p. 222).

Alan McKee (1998) defines the multi-protagonist narrative as one in which ‘characters pursue separate and individual desires, suffering and benefiting independently’ (p. 116). Multi- protagonist narratives are effectively multi-plot narratives that use a number of smaller stories, each with its own protagonist, to create a dynamic snapshot of a particular society, place, or time (p. 116). There is usually one character, claims theorist Blake Snyder (2005), who carries the theme of the book or movie (p. 62).

I considered how these definitions might apply to my work. Whilst the novel is a story about a group of people with disparate needs and morals, beset by the same circumstance in the form of the flood and so it seems to meet Aronson’s ideal, the group does not work together to resolve conflict or to offset the flood with good works or a team effort. In fact, many of the characters could be seen as lacking in what Aronson terms as ‘goals’ or are aimless and disorganised in their approach to life.

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The catalytic event

Certainly they are disorganised in their actions towards the flood, the key event that initially affects all of them. This sense of aimlessness for some of the characters was deliberate, as I wanted to illustrate how people can overlook and underestimate the impact that nature can have on them. The character of Celeste, however, was an exception to this as she is the only character whose goal is to work to prepare for, and with, a natural event. With this in mind, Celeste’s role moved my novel more in line with Snyder’s image of the multi-protagonist story, in which a major protagonist carries the theme of the novel. This I interpreted to mean that while many characters may have their own stories to tell, undertake actions to move the shared story world forward, and may face the key moment of the novel alongside their co-characters, it is Celeste we look towards for anchorage or identification with the actual theme of the work.

This does not mean that the other characters are not relevant or illustrative of the theme of the work. Jason, for example, also plays a large part in carrying the story into other areas for exploration. He is, however, a character who does not seem to be moving towards a goal. Likewise the character of Caroline, whose journey takes the reader away from the flooded city to pursue her own independent life, does not articulate a goal to which her actions are leading. Rather, she is undertaking a 506

journey away from her Redbrooke life and towards an abstract solution to the problem of an unsatisfying relationship. Whilst these are not goals, I do see them as fitting with McKee’s (1998) ideas of a group story where characters, ‘pursue separate and individual desires’ (p. 116). This notion of a collection of people interconnected in some way yet each striving to pursue not a goal but an urge of some kind was closer to my vision of the characters and story than were Aronson’s ideas about the purpose of multi-protagonist narratives. Certainly Jason is on a journey to satisfy his desires, in his case blatantly carnal or narcissistic. In the case of Caroline, to assuage some of her grief and loss at the breakdown of her marriage, she leaves her husband for the solace of her sister’s care in the hills of rural Italy.

Whilst the notion of the characters being interconnected in some way but each following their own desires resonated with me, I wondered how the multi-protagonist plot structure could account for each of these desires and how their rises and falls would work together and separately across the length of a novel. The key principle in the multi-protagonist story, argues Craig Batty (2012), is that the protagonists ‘each have their own emotional arc’, but largely share the physical journey (p. 77). Batty resolved the first step in this dilemma around how to balance their differing journeys when he suggested that the 507

characters should belong to the ‘same story world’ and what makes a multiple protagonist story as opposed to a parallel story is that the characters are brought together by the same ‘catalytic event’ (p. 77). This catalytic event, whatever it may be in a story, is a tool that can serve as one of the first key emotional high points in a story. Like all high points or turning points in a story, it can be built up to and approached through the device of suspense, a writerly tool that I shall return to later in the exegetical discussion.

In the case of my novel, ‘Jubilation Road’, the catalytic event is initially the flood, and later at a turning point in the story, the threat of a company collapse due to the bad press after Russell goes to court for fraud. The flood closes the company temporarily and the employees are asked to work from home until the water subsides. It is in this period that each character’s ‘own emotional arc’ presents and is visible as well underway. Jason’s life is set on another path when his car skids into the flooded river and he almost drowns. Robert’s infidelities are revealed through his sloppiness with a USB flashdrive that he leaves in his desk at home. His wife Caroline comes to see the futility of their marriage. Russell’s theft from the firm and hence his gambling addiction is revealed via Celeste’s diligent book keeping and a police investigation. Celeste foresees a dire future and begins to question her life in the company. All of the 508

main protagonists are set on a journey or ‘sequence of events’ in the same ‘story world’.

Multi-protagonist narrative forms

Maria De Mar Azcona (2010), in her study The Multi- Protagonist Film, suggests that there are a number of different terms for the multi-protagonist film, such as ‘ensemble’, ‘sequential’, ‘tandem’, ‘polyphonic’, ‘parallel’, ‘daisy-chain’ and ‘network’ (p. 1). Other theorists, however, give each of these their own distinct qualities that separate each from the other. In this section, I explore some of these, specifically the tandem narrative, the parallel narrative, and the sequential (now known more popularly as the consecutive) story, and test out how each form contributed to my thinking about my own story. Linda Aronson and Craig Batty are the key theorists drawn upon when examining the workings of these structural aids and narrative styles.

In examining the commonly called ‘tandem narrative’ I began to ponder that Jason’s story, Caroline’s story and Robert’s story, despite being intricately linked by the group story, were tandem narratives alongside and connected to Celeste’s story.

Aronson (2010) argues that, ‘successful tandem narrative films consist of equally important stories (each with its own

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protagonist and each on the same socio-political theme)’ (p. 182). Importantly, Aronson’s definition of the difference between a multi-protagonist story and a tandem narrative is clearly emphasised when she says, ‘Message wise, tandem narrative is interested in the group for what it tells us about society, whereas multi-protagonists form is interested in the group for what it tells us about individuals in a group situation’ (p. 220).

This brought me back to the idea that my novel may have more of the ingredients of a tandem narrative than a multi-protagonist story. I then looked to Craig Batty for his interpretation of the tandem narrative or parallel story. Batty (2012) posits that in the parallel story the characters don’t necessarily have to come from the ‘same story world’ (p. 79). He suggests that the difference between the multi-protagonist story and the tandem or parallel narrative is that the protagonists in the parallel story don’t necessarily react to the ‘same inciting incident’. He states: ‘They each experience their own catalytic event, either before they all come together, if it’s a parallel group story, or within their own narrative if it’s a story that jumps between time frames and worlds’ (p. 79).

I perceived this as adding to the strength of the ‘tandem narrative’ interpretation of my novel. Each of the characters experiences ‘their own catalytic event’. As outlined above; 510

Jason faces death in the flood, Russell’s theft is discovered, Robert’s extra-marital affair is exposed and Caroline leaves her marriage. All of these events sets off another story for each character whilst they remain tied to the ‘macro’ in the form of the flood and the demise of the company they work for, or are connected to.

The story world

This section also examines a number of multi-protagonist novels and films in order to evaluate the effects of this storytelling and how they may be integrated or modified for my own narrative. These texts include the film The Lemon Tree (1997) by Eran Riklis Productions, and the novels Past the Shallows (2011) by Favel Parrett and The Idea of Perfection (1999) by Kate Grenville.

Parrett brings her multi-protagonist story together by having a family of people struggling to stay together after the death of the mother. The father, bitter and suspicious, pits himself against the sea and cruelly, his own children. The children struggle to survive against all the odds, but stay loyal to each other. The ‘macro’ is the family’s struggle with the memory of the mother and her mysterious death, the father’s suspicion and the consequences of his anger and cruelty to his children, and the

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children’s struggle for survival. All this is set against the background of the ever-present sea. Each of the characters, including the sea, play out their stories within the same ‘story world’, which is a family imploding.

In looking at Parrett’s method I used the more benign threat of the rising floodwaters as the background to placing my characters in the ‘same story world’ at the financial services company. The trigger for the events to come is the rising floodwaters and the subsequent temporary closure of the office/workplace. The office closure in turn sets off a series of events for each character, who ultimately must make choices that will change their lives. I realised in looking at Parrett’s method that my group of characters are not fighting together for survival or battling a common enemy. Rather, I see that the catalytic event sets each on his or her own separate journey connected by the workplace.

Kate Grenville’s (1999) novel The Idea of Perfection is set in a small country town that is triggered into action when an historic bridge is due for demolition and re-construction. The town’s population is divided about the bridge renewal and the arrival of a construction engineer from the city sets off a chain of events that reveals the foibles and secret intimacies of the townsfolk.

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Aronson (2010) calls this type of multi-protagonist story the ‘double story’. The two main protagonists are really the same person telling their story often in a hostile or oppositional setting (in this case the village) from a different or opposing point of view. Aronson suggests the ‘double story’ of the main protagonists often challenges or criticises the social convention or taboo that is troubling the central characters, in this case the retention of the old bridge or the building of the new (2010, p. 248). Similarly the film The Lemon Tree (1997) follows this principle; presenting the story of the Israeli/Palestinian conflict through the lives of two women from opposite sides both geographically and politically via the battle over the survival of the lemon grove that separates them (Eran Riklis Productions). The wife of a powerful Israeli politician who lives beside the lemon grove owned by a widowed Palestinian woman watches as her neighbour is forced to cut down her lemon grove upon the orders of her husband so that no-one can hide close to his house and bring him harm. The story represents the political struggle between Israel and Palestine on the personal level. The wife’s observation of her neighbour’s oppression by the Israeli government and law brings her to consciousness about both her situation politically and her personal situation of the oppression in her marriage to the politician. Both women are oppressed by

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the politician, both are telling the story of their own powerlessness.

Challenging social conventions

I examined where in my story the challenge to social convention might fit and found that Celeste challenges convention on a number of levels. She does not fit into the social milieu of the office or social life. She has more interest in animals than humans and ‘speaks’ with the animal/natural world. She also challenges the male dominated work environment by calling the men on their work practices. However I found that her story does not fit with Aronson’s ‘double story’ as she is not on the same trajectory as the rest of the office staff. She is in effect the ‘outsider’. Because she doesn’t ‘fit’ with the image of the conventional female office worker, she is bullied and vilified by the male staff. Aronson’s ‘double story’ requires at least one other protagonist to be telling their story from the opposite view. Kate Grenville (1990) says of point of view, that every piece of writing has a point of view, ‘point of view isn’t an optional extra in a story’ (p. 59).

As I progressed with my enquiries I investigated the voices of the characters and whether or not they had equal standing in the novel or whether indeed they needed to have equality. The

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novel is essentially the story of a small part of society in crisis; how individuals deal with the crisis on a micro level and how the manner in which they deal with the crisis reveals their personalities, strengths and weaknesses. On a macro level it is the story of women’s plights in a largely male dominated society and the solutions individual women find to their immediate problems. Hence I decided that it is essentially a feminist authorial voice that dominates the novel.

Martin McQuillan (2000) names the narrator’s attitudes; psychological, ideological, sociological, as the ‘slant’ which, he argues, may be expressed ‘explicitly or implicitly’ and should not be confused with the character’s comments (p. 98). When the narrator’s ‘slant’ is expressed it is not necessarily the ideology of the character expressing it. Neither, McQuillan further argues, might it match the ideology of the ‘implied or real author’ (p. 98). The word ‘filter’ is preferred by McQuillan as a more suitable term for describing the function of a ‘character’s consciousness’. He argues that events are experienced from within the ‘story world’ by the narrator who sits ‘inside’ the character’s consciousness and ‘strained all events through the character’s sense of them’ (p. 98). McQuillan prefers the word ‘filter’ as it clarifies the choices made by ‘the implied author’ over which ‘areas of the story world’ he/she wants to highlight to enhance the narration. McQuillan posits 515

that this is ‘a nuance missed’ by other descriptors such as ‘focalization’ and ‘point of view’ (p. 98).

I wondered about McQuillan’s ‘filter’ when applied to the circumstances that Celeste faces in her workplace. Are these the ‘character’s consciousness’ or are these circumstances that women across the world face; that of inequality, oppression and bullying by male colleagues and lack of opportunity for advancement. This is evidenced by Global industry consultants McKinsey and Company who reported in their 2013 report Woman Matter, that although women are 53% of the entry level professionals in corporate America, they hold only 37% of middle management positions and only 14% of seats on executive committees. In other countries such as India these figures are even less for women (McKinsey 2013). The expression ‘the glass ceiling’ is well known for expressing the plight of women’s lack of advancement in corporate management.

Plot and character

In listening to the voices of the characters I wanted to have strong female characters who made decisions that enhanced their lives and made them independent of their male counterparts; not female characters whose lives and

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circumstances were dictated by the dominant paradigm of patriarchy. Therefore in balancing the various voices of the characters they have only been given enough strength individually to tell their particular story within the ‘same story world’. Although his comment relates to film, it seems relevant when Craig Batty (2012) laments that:

The hierarchical organisation reflected in classic storytelling’s privileging of one character and his point of view over the rest has led to concepts such as one protagonist, one perspective, causality and linearity which are taught and practised as if they were the Bible (p. 82).

This was an exciting thought for me because in film as opposed to the written word the audience is aware of all of the inflections of voice and facial expressions and background scenery that tell the story. The novelist has to create these. The ‘settings’ and the ‘scenery’ in my novel are the situations of the mostly male protagonists who by their attitudes and behaviours allow me to juxtapose the heroic journeys and triumphs of the women characters such as Celeste, Belle and Caroline.

Planning the plot as Aronson (2010) suggests, ‘is always a process of logic trying to impose a shape on material from your unconscious’ (p. 141). The writer is trying to bring about a

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plausible story and at the same time struggling with the clichés and images that hang about in the subconscious mind and frequently impose themselves on the story. The most likely result is that the writer draws upon something remembered to put in the plot, causing the plot to drift away from its theme: what Aronson calls ‘writing in code’, in what she says is the writer ‘going straight to the memory bank’, and finding something obvious, ‘to fit the general theme’ (p. 142).

By asking myself frequently what the character is doing in the plot, what role they are playing and what they are meant to do, I have reined in the characters to perform the role they are supposed to play in carrying the story forward in logical, episodic fashion and to reach the goal, in Christina Kallas’s (2012) words, ‘to transfer the human experience’ to the page (p. 83). By structuring the plot in movements that expose both the physical and emotional journey of the characters, the writer becomes what Batty (2012) calls the ‘composer of story, character and theme’. In so doing the writer is able to ‘orchestrate’ a ‘sense of emotion in the audience’ (p. 84). The plot of my novel therefore follows the ‘unravelling’ of each character’s life as a result of the flood and the temporary closure of the office of the financial company. At this point the characters are left to their own devices and the story follows each person’s separate journey before they are brought back 518

together, or not, when the office re-opens. This reflects Batty’s ‘parallel group story’ and Aronson’s ‘tandem narrative’.

Vernacular screen writing texts such as those discussed above by Aronson (2010), McKee (1999) and Batty (2012) offered essential insights into the purpose, nature, and structure of multi-protagonists stories. Whilst these helped me work through questions around the nature of the structure of my novel, they tended to focus on technical details of timing and order of events against the frame of pace.

Literary multi-protagonist works by their nature as novels present a wider range and number of protagonists than screenplays do and a number of questions arose for me around the role of secondary characters. I concluded that one of the main functions of the secondary character is to give us greater insight into the nature of the character they are supporting or most familiar with. McKee (1999) contends that ‘what other characters say about a character is a hint’ (p. 377). In my novel, Shorty Novak provides this insight when he accompanies Larry Sumner to the coffee shop where Larry uncharacteristically punches Robert Grey in the nose. Shorty’s thoughts about Larry reveal much about Larry. Amanda Boulter (2007) succinctly sums up the writer’s dilemma when she says:

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It is for us to understand that all the well-worn words we use trail their history behind them. All language has already been spoken and all language already belongs to other people (p. 66).

I concluded that while Celeste should function as the key anchor point or thematic vessel for the work, each character’s nature, dilemmas and decisions could add weight to the central theme and contribute towards buildings a picture of the other protagonists. Just as Bolter suggests that words trail their history behind them, so too do the characters, both human and nonhuman. Their lives intersect and create collisions that force them to change course in ways best recounted by the device of multi-protagonist plotting.

Conclusion

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The flood metaphor

Throughout history floods have commonly represented change, retribution, cleansing and renewal. By using a flood in a small rural city as the setting for my novel, ‘Jubilation Road’, I found myself on a meandering journey much like that of Whistling Creek, the waterway that is particularly interwoven with the life of my main character Celeste Moon.

Of particular interest to me was the notion that a flood could wash away not only physical items, but that it could reveal the deceptions inherent in the characters’ lives. The setting for the flood was important because I wanted to bring to the fore the idea of landscape as character, as living entity and not just backdrop or setting. However, as I investigated this notion further, I found the matter of landscape to be multi-dimensional

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and very complex. This led me to further investigate the many dimensions of landscape and led me to other important theories that assisted in the explication of my novel.

Landscape and characters

As Whyte, (2007) suggests, landscapes are the results of ‘attitudes as well as actions’. By also exploring Taylor’s (2000) theories that the landscape is the result of ‘beliefs and ideologies’ and that all landscape is ‘cultural landscape’, and Byerly’s (1997) ideas of the ‘picturesque’ or manufactured or chosen view of landscape, I was able to show the manner in which humans view the landscape either consciously or unconsciously and to introduce different types of landscapes such as Jackson’s ‘vernacular’ landscapes’ (1986). I was also able to call on White’s (1996) identification of religious influences on landscape and animals to critique their use and exploitation.

By having my characters Celeste and Belle demonstrate what Wylie (2007) calls the ‘interconnectivity’ of self, knowledge and land, in a more shamanic version of landscape I enacted Berry’s (1988) assertion that the human community needs to find what we have lost in our shared language with landscape and animals.

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I also wanted to make my audience more aware of the manner in which a flood or other natural catastrophe affects the fate of all creatures. To do so I had to create a character who could intimately present that from a point of view that was inclusive of creatures and humans. For this reason ecocriticism appealed for its broad explication of the connections between literature and the physical environment and for the opportunity it offered my writing to comment on the exploitation of nature. I looked at how I presented my characters and heeded Carter’s (2006) warning to ‘evaluate’ my writing for its depictions of nature and noted as Carter suggests, ‘what our linguistic practices do to perpetuate this’ exploitation of nature. I took note also to shape my main protagonist as a feminist and ecocritical model of a farmer who avoids what Luke (2011) posits as living ‘re- engineered’ by biotechnology.

A feminist model of nature literature enabled me to develop awareness of the historical path that nature writers have taken in ‘humanising’ nature by applying the female gender to nature, by separating nature from humanity, and by linking nature to motherhood and the maternal (Bennett & Royle 2009). I also had to be familiar with, and to combat the assumptions of, the dominant male paradigms in literature, and of animals as subordinate and on equal footing with women as the exploited ‘other’ (Plumwood 1993). To do this I developed strong, 523

independent, female characters who forged their own way in the novel and peopled the landscape in a manner that allowed what Tredinnick (2003) describes as ‘a literature of place’. I looked to authors like Jeanette Winterson, Virginia Woolf, Favel Parrett and Kate Grenville to name a few, to see how women were, in Kostkowska’s notion, ‘embedded’ with nature (Kostkowska 2013). This fitted for me into the ecofeminist arguments of Kolodny (1996) and Glotfelty (1996) that the interconnection between nature, culture, language and literature should be the first presentiment of writers whose duty it is to be aware of how their language and representations affect the way readers might view their environment.

Environment and shamanism

Ecocriticism led me to think about the shamanic nature of my main protagonist’s role as ‘seer’ in the environment and the novel and to this end I delved more into the nature of shamanism. The guiding principle in Celeste’s life is the symbiotic coexistence of human and nonhuman in the landscape. She prioritises the care of animals and the land and is non-discriminatory in her beliefs and values of the equality of all of beings in the ‘ecosphere’. She holds what could be seen as the principles of shamanism.

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Shamanism followed on naturally in the literature to the tenets of ecocritism. It is what Harner (1982) calls ‘a remarkable body of ancient techniques’ or what Eliade (1964) described as ‘archaic techniques of ecstasy’ that are used by mostly indigenous communities for healing and the gathering of knowledge or guidance from other realms whilst in a trance-like state. Achterberg (1996) notes that the shamans’ work is conducted in the ‘realms of the imagination’ and that their expertise in negotiating those realms has been ‘known throughout recorded history’ (p. 15).

It seemed to me that the writer and shaman have much in common in negotiating the realms of the imagination. Although Celeste does not enter trance-like states or journey to other realms she does have many of the attributes of the shaman, including clairvoyance, visions, psychic abilities and an understanding of the language of nature. I likened Celeste to the shaman who brings knowledge back to the community, and recognise my own practice as a writer in this, for as Sweet (1990) argues, the writer like the shaman ‘travels to other realities’ to bring messages back to this reality for others to use.

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Magical realism and shamanism

My exploration of shamanism led me to recognise similarities with magical realism and I needed to find the niche for my novel. Some of the qualities of shamanism were too overt and I thought might alienate the reader. The abilities of clairvoyance and psychic vision aligned with the characters of the novels of Gabriel Garcia Marquez or Isabel Allende, and magical realism appealed. I examined the history of magical realism and found Overton’s (1994) argument that elements in Latin American literature only acquire meaning ‘within the context of a shamanic framework’, and that a more realistic term would be ‘shamanic realism’ (p. 414) That fitted for Celeste and the representation of nature in my novel. With this model in mind I looked at the devices employed by other writers such as Ben Okri, Isabel Allende, and Gabriel Garcia Marquez to suspend disbelief in the reader’s mind and to present the ‘familiar thing in unusual ways’ as Simpkins (1995) says of magical realism.

Voice in the multi-protagonist novel

In so doing I had to consider the nature of the multi-protagonist novel and in the final chapter I examined the challenges I met when trying to execute a story with this structure. My novel features five key protagonists in what Bakhtin (2007) calls a

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‘polyphonic’ structure that gives ‘voice’ and ‘point of view’ simultaneously. As I was unsure of which protagonists should be given the greater narrative weight and how that might affect ‘voice’, I investigated ‘voice’ to try and solve this problem and looked to Boulter (2007), who argues that voice is the answer to ‘who speaks’ and point of view being the answer to the question of ‘who sees.’ I became somewhat disoriented by the plethora of arguments for voice and point of view and turned to Genette, and Guillemette and Levesque (2006) to try and deconstruct the notion of how ‘every narrative has a narrator’. I finally turned to Boulter’s idea of ‘the world view of the narrator’ (2007) and found that Celeste best represented the world view of the narrator.

I then looked to screen writing and the theories of Aronson (2010) and Batty (2012) and found that although many of my character’s stories fitted the many models of screen writing, they did not have an overall fit with the models put forward. Whilst I was not convinced of one model or another for my novel I did learn the enormity of the challenges of writing a multi-protagonist novel. I did, however, ask myself if my characters were carrying the story forward with their role in the plot and managed, as Christina Kallas (2012) would call it, the ‘goal’ of transferring ‘the human experience to the page’.

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My project unites ecocritical theoretical approaches and fiction in order to contribute to the growing field of ecocritical literature. Its new contribution is the way it casts a shamanic and an ecocritical eye on the interactions of characters with built-in and interior environments rather than merely within traditional nature and landscape environments. It explores the notion of vernacular landscapes through fiction and how these impact on the way we think about ‘nature’ and ‘environment’.

In recapitulation of the issues involved in discovering the many paths to community thinking about landscape and how we read it in literature, how we understand it, and how we are influenced through our reading and writing society’s attitudes to landscape, I have arrived at a much deeper understanding of influences both seen and unseen that dictate how we present our writing to the public and the moral and ethical issues involved. These discoveries will help me determine how I write in the future and my responsibilities as a writer to present humans, animal and the landscape as having equal importance. This has been an enriching journey for me and has also given me permission to write in the manner that I have always believed possible: to invite the reader to take up the challenge of recognising the shamanic nature of fiction writing and the equality of all sentient beings.

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Reference List

Abbott, HP 2002, The Cambridge Introduction to Narrative, Cambridge University Press, Cambridge.

Abbott, HP 2012, Real Mysteries: Narrative and the Unknowable, Ohio State University, Columbus, Ohio.

Achterberg, J 1985, Imagery in Healing: Shamanism and Modern Medicine, Shambhala, Boston.

Allende, I 1982, House of the Spirits, Bantam, New York.

Aronson, L 2010, The 21st-Century Screenplay: A Comprehensive Guide to Writing Tomorrow’s Films, Silman- James Press, California.

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