The Road by Catherine Jinks
‘Yes, that’s right,’ Noel interjected. ‘The worse thing we can do is argue.’
‘I’m not arguing,’ Del retorted, eyeing Ross balefully. Beside her, Mongrel shifted, and laid his ears back. ‘I just wanna know what makes him so right all the time.’
Ross raised both hands in a defensive gesture.
‘Okay, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said what I said,’ he sighed, without a trace of apology in his voice. ‘But before we start talking about miracles, I think we should look for the obvious answer, don’t you?’
‘Which is?’ Del inquired.
‘Well – that we should keep heading north.’ Ross didn’t add the word ‘naturally’, but it was there on his face. His expression suggested that he couldn’t understand why he was having to spell it out. Verlie knew that he didn’t mean to be rude – he was just anxious – and she winced as Del’s brow furrowed.
Fortunately, however, it was Noel who jumped in first.
‘The thing is, Ross,’ he said tentatively, ‘while pursuing the reasonable course would seem to be the obvious choice in normal circumstances, I would have to say that events haven’t exactly been normal, have they? I mean, I’m not implying that a miracle or some such thing has occurred, I’m merely pointing out that perhaps, in light of what’s been happening – which doesn’t seem to accord with the experience of the locals among us – we should at least consider trying to confirm or disprove Alec’s claims. If it’s not going to take a lot of time, or waste a lot of petrol.’
There was a long pause. Verlie, for one, was busy trying to interpret what had just been said. By the look of it, so was everyone else.
At last Del declared, with great assurance, ‘That’s right!’ And she fixed her clear blue gaze on Ross, who made a dismissive gesture.
‘Do what you like,’ he scoffed, turning away. ‘It’s your decision. I’m just telling you what we’re going to do – my wife and I. And we won’t be going south, unless it’s for a bloody good reason.’
He was making for the caravan. Verlie hurried after him, catching at his sleeve, wishing that he wasn’t so damned grumpy first thing in the morning. Maybe he was in such a bad mood because he’d slept with his dentures in. Or maybe he was getting worried and didn’t want anyone to know. ‘Ross,’ she said, ‘the kids aren’t awake.’
‘What?’
‘We can’t go in there, the kids aren’t awake.’
‘Oh, for –’
‘Ross,’ said Del, before he could give vent to his feelings. She stepped forward, her hands on her hips, every line of her posture indicating a willingness to negotiate. Verlie couldn’t help noticing the spare tyre around her tummy. ‘Will you hang on here until me and Alec check this out? Eh? Give us – I dunno – an hour, say, we’ll nip down the road, see if we can spot Alec’s truck. If we can’t, then he’s wrong about being able to reach it again in fifteen minutes, and we’ll take it from there. Whaddaya reckon?’
Verlie looked at Ross. Noel cleared his throat. A creaking noise announced that someone was pushing open the caravan door; Verlie swung around to see Linda emerging.
‘Oh. Hello,’ said Linda. ‘I thought I heard voices.’
She seemed a bit dazed, like someone who had slept heavily. Verlie envied her this. The younger woman had a remarkably resilient air about her, which stemmed partly from the way her hair bounced as she descended from the caravan, and partly from her fresh colour and vigorous stride. She was buttoning up an olive green cardigan. ‘What’s going on?’ she asked, with a yawn. ‘What have we decided to do?’
There was a brief silence. Verlie waited, and when no one responded she finally announced: ‘Well, I’m going to organise some breakfast. If you’d like to help me, Linda?’
‘And I’ve got some baked beans in the backa me bomb,’ Del added, before Linda could reply. ‘Emergency rations. Yiz can crack open a few of them, if ya want. I’ve got a tin opener and everything.’
‘Oh. Well – thank you.’ Verlie was touched. ‘That’s very generous.’
‘I’ll get ’em out, and then we’ll go.’ Del began to stride towards her station wagon. ‘You comin, Alec?’
‘What? Oh – right.’ Alec hesitated. ‘Couldn’t we – um – do you think we could have a bite to eat, first?’
‘I think we should all eat breakfast,’ Noel suddenly declared. He had wrapped his arm around his wife’s shoulders; Verlie realised, rather wistfully, that the two of them were often to be seen together in this particular pose, and remembered how Ross had once made a point of seeking Verlie out at parties so that he might reassure himself by placing his hands on her shoulders, or his arm around her waist. It was a long, long time since he had done anything like that. Twenty years, at least.
But that was the way things went. You couldn’t expect a fairy tale ending.
‘It won’t take more than ten minutes to eat breakfast,’ Noel went on. ‘Then Del can nip down the road with Alec, and the rest of us can pack up while we wait.’
‘Wait for what?’ his wife inquired. ‘Where’s Del going?’
While Noel explained, Del began to excavate among the blankets and boxes and tools in her vehicle for her collection of food tins. Mongrel watched her with pleading eyes. Ross disappeared behind the caravan (to empty his bladder, Verlie felt sure), and Alec approached Del hesitantly, asking if she intended to bring the gun with her.
‘Yup,’ Del replied. ‘And Mongrel, too.’ She scrambled out of the Ford, cradling against her generous bosom four battered tins with torn labels. Then she fixed Alec with a piercing look, one eyebrow raised and one eye narrowed. ‘But I’ll be ridin with it,’ she informed him. ‘And you can drive. Okay?’
Verlie was listening, and it occurred to her – with a pang of horror – that Del was perhaps not entirely satisfied that Alec posed no kind of threat. Or was it simply that she didn’t trust his marksmanship? Certainly he was a scruffy-looking fellow, with a somewhat unfortunate manner, but if he was dangerous in any way surely it would have become evident before now?
Oh dear, Verlie thought. This really is dreadful. What a dreadful situation. I don’t like this at all.
‘Maybe I should go with you, Del,’ Noel offered. He, too, must have caught the gist of Del’s remark, for he looked uncomfortable, and was tugging at one ear. ‘I mean, if you feel that you might need reinforcements –’
‘Oh no!’ Linda was obviously appalled. ‘You can’t do that, Noel, you agreed that the family shouldn’t split up!’
‘Yes I know, but –’
‘What will the kids think, if they wake up and find you missing?’
‘They won’t,’ said Del. She had crossed to where Verlie was standing; all at once Verlie found herself the recipient of three tins of baked bins, and one of dog food. ‘We’ll be fine, eh, Alec? I’m more worried about you lot.’
‘Us?’ Noel sounded puzzled.
‘If I take the gun,’ Del explained.
‘Ah.’
‘We don’t need the gun,’ Linda said firmly. ‘We’re fine without it. We can’t shoot it, anyway.’ She stepped forward, stretching out a hand as if to relieve Verlie of her burden. ‘What are you going to do with those, Verlie? Warm them up? On the camp stove?’
‘Uh – I’m not sure . . .’
‘I can build yiz a fire. Make some billy tea.’
‘Shh!’ Alec’s sharp hiss cut through their disjointed conversation. ‘Listen! What’s that?’
Everyone stopped talking. Through the chirrup of tiny birds and the rasp of Mongrel’s panting, Verlie thought that she could hear a distant noise – a kind of hum . . .
‘Is it a car?’ asked Noel.
‘Shh.’
It was a car. The sound was unmistakable. Suddenly Ross reappeared, his feet crashing on the roadside litter of loose stones and dead grass.
‘Someone’s coming!’ he said.
‘Where from?’ Noel’s head was swivelling from side to side. ‘I can’t tell . . .’
?
‘There!’ Linda pointed. In the distance, where the road met the horizon, a pinprick of light was visible. Headlights, perhaps – or the glint of low-lying sunbeams bouncing off chrome. Squinting, Verlie found that she could make out the colour red and even a rough shape as the vehicle drew near. Del hurried over to her station wagon.
‘I’ll wave a rag,’ she said. ‘Flag ’im down.’
‘Get off the road, Ross!’ Verlie was alarmed to see her husband straddling the centre line, as if daring the approaching vehicle to flatten him. He shot her an impatient glance and peered down the road again – a long, calculating stare – before he finally retreated. ‘Looks like it might be a ute,’ he observed.
‘Oh God, do you think we can get through?’ Linda asked, of no one in particular. The vehicle was now clearly identifiable, a ute, its roo bar large and threatening, its roof and bonnet bristling with aerials, its windscreen tinted, its headlights still on high beam, though they were leached of strength, pallid and feeble, in the pinkish morning light. Noel began to wave his arms. Del flapped a ragged green towel up and down, as if she were trying to scare away chickens.
Verlie found herself raising a hand, like a policeman. ‘Stop!’ she cried.
But the ute didn’t stop. In a flash it was upon them, rushing past with a rumble and a blast of hot air. It was going so fast that Verlie couldn’t see who was driving. She did notice, however, that there wasn’t anyone in the front or rear passenger seats.
‘Wait! Wait!’ Linda screamed.
‘Ya stupid shit!’ Del threw her towel on the ground with a smack. Alec seemed stunned. Verlie felt tears pricking her eyes – she obviously hadn’t had enough sleep – and blinked furiously.
‘Some people.’ Noel was shaking his head in disgust. ‘Couldn’t he see? Or didn’t he care?’
‘Thick as two short planks, more like,’ Ross growled. ‘Dammit!’
‘He won’t get anywhere,’ Alec mumbled.
‘Eh?’
‘He won’t get anywhere.’ Alec was slouching with his hands wedged into the pockets of his jeans. ‘He’ll end up stranded. Serve ’im bloody right.’
‘Yeah, well.’ Del’s tone was suddenly philosophical. ‘Ya meet a lotta bastards. Some get their comeuppance and some don’t.’ She took a deep breath, surveying all the crestfallen faces around her. ‘So – what are we doin? Buildin a fire or lightin the stove? We’d better get a move on, or it’ll be time for lunch before we eat breakfast.’
To the south, down the road, the whine of the ute’s departing engine slowly faded and died.
Col Wallace woke before his alarm went off. He had set it for seven, just in case, but he was up before six thirty, as usual. In the eight years since he had retired, he had not been able to shake the habit of a lifetime. He was always awake by six fifteen. Even after a night out at the club, his body clock refused to cut him any slack. Sometimes he found himself napping in the afternoon, but nothing on earth would change the pattern of his early-morning rest. Nothing on earth except the end of daylight saving, which pushed everything forward an hour when summer rolled around, and gave him the illusion of waking up later, though it put him to sleep later, too.
As a constructor of dams, tanks and reservoirs, he had often been required to drive long distances before starting work. It was for this reason that he had become accustomed to rising early. For years and years he had forced himself out of bed at sparrow’s fart – sometimes getting himself breakfast when Helen refused to budge – and the legacy of this punishing schedule was a set of unnaturally rigid biorhythms. Well, he could think of worse examples of work-related impairment. Asbestosis. Repetitive strain injury. Clinical depression.
You had to count your blessings.
Col frequently counted his blessings, because it was a way of reminding himself that he hadn’t had too bad a run. His health, for example, was pretty good. Though he had lost most of his hair and put on a few extra pounds around his waist (forget this metric business, he was too old to think in kilos), he was still chugging along. His blood pressure was perhaps a fraction too high, and he occasionally had problems with his right shoulder, but there had been no bypass surgeries or hip replacements or cataract removals for Col. His hearing was still serviceable, and he had retained most of his teeth. He had to wear bifocals, but that didn’t interfere with his driving. There was nothing wrong with his prostate. And his mind, thank God – his mind was unaffected by any signs of creeping senility. Even his memory was unimpaired, perhaps because he made a point of doing crosswords at least twice a week. It kept his wits nice and limber.
Then there was the house. Col was proud of his house. It was only fifteen years old, brick veneer, with two bedrooms, an attached garage, pure wool carpet, built-in wardrobes, a slow combustion stove and a separate laundry. The old house – the one that had been sold, after the divorce – had been a poky old thing full of Helen’s shag pile and needlepoint and ruffled valances. It had been impossible to heat, or protect from white ants. It had been in a handy spot, very central, but that in turn had made it noisy. And the garden had been full of high-maintenance flowerbeds, fruit trees, vines and bulbs.
Col’s new garden was easy to keep neat. There were lawns to mow, and a few shrubs to clip, but nothing much else. At his age, intensive gardening wasn’t an option. He no longer had the energy to weed and mulch and prune. Housework was easy too, when you didn’t have lots of ornaments and doilies and side-tables cluttering things up. Col had kept his furniture to a bare minimum. A couple of easy chairs, a dining suite, an entertainment unit, a bed – what else could an old bachelor need? Moira would often tease him about all the blank white walls and empty corners in his house, but he didn’t mind. It was a good joke, really; something to talk about when all else failed. Not that Moira had ever needed much encouragement, when it came to talking.
Moira herself was another thing to be thankful for. Her husband Phil had been dead for all of six years now, and Moira was beginning to stretch her wings again. She was good company – always had been. Col enjoyed getting together with her. Maybe some day they might progress to a more intimate arrangement, but maybe not. Col was quite satisfied with things the way they were. She only lived five minutes away, after all. And she had her friends, the way he had his. It wasn’t as if they were lonely.
No, things were pretty good in that department. There was nothing much wrong with Col’s social life. He kept himself busy. He exercised in the garden, and on the bowling green. He did his crosswords, and watched the odd game show, answering at least eighty per cent of the questions correctly. He didn’t allow himself to brood. He was fortunate, really, because he had never been one to fret or mope – he had a fairly placid nature. And brooding did you no good at all. If you didn’t concentrate on the good things, what was the point of life? You might as well be dead.
After hauling himself out of bed, Col shuffled into his slippers and padded to the bathroom. It was a terrific bathroom, glossy and sleek, with a separate shower stall. In the old house, he’d had to take his showers in the bath. He had always dreamed of possessing a separate shower stall, and now he had one. Now he had one thanks to his brother Ted’s bequest. Poor old Ted. Poor old Elspeth. But he didn’t want to think about Elspeth. Not until he’d had a cup of tea, at least.
After his shower, Col put on a short-sleeved shirt and his grey trousers. No tie. He made himself toast and a bowl of All-Bran, listening to the radio as he ate. Primmy chirped prettily in her cage, rattling her bell occasionally to attract his attention. He had bred budgies, once, but there was only Primmy now; she didn’t have much of a shape to her, but he liked her personality. He fed her some apple, replenished her water supply. Then the phone rang.
‘Hello?’
‘Col?’ It was Moira. ‘How are you?’
‘I’m just out of bed,’ he joked, ‘what time do you call this?’
‘I call it time to get up,’ replied Mo
‘Oh, Moira –’
‘I’m taking care of the present, don’t worry.’
‘It’s just that I can’t,’ Col explained. ‘I’m visiting Elspeth.’
‘Oh.’ Moira clicked her tongue. ‘How silly, I completely forgot. Silly me.’
‘I wish I could come, I’d love to, but –’
‘I know. You poor old thing. I’m sorry.’
‘She notices, sometimes. Or so they say. It’s been six weeks already, I shouldn’t put it off again –’
‘No, of course not. Of course not. I’ll tell Jill, and you take it easy. Don’t push yourself. Stay over, if you have to. You should, anyway.’
‘We’ll see.’ Moira had a bee in her bonnet about his driving to Broken Hill and back in one day. She said it was too much for him. Col preferred it though; he didn’t have money to spend on a motel, and his only other option was Elspeth’s daughter, Marion, who was nice enough but who had four young children and a dog to look after. Whenever Marion put him up for the night, Col had to sleep in a bunk bed, on a rather smelly foam-rubber mattress, and it always put his back out.
He preferred to drive for six hours. After all, there was a two-hour break in the middle.
‘Anyway, I’ll catch you tomorrow,’ he said. ‘You can tell me all about it.’
‘I will.’
‘Enjoy yourself. I hear the prawns are good.’
‘Oh, stop it,’ said Moira, with a high-pitched giggle. Ever since she’d accidentally dropped a braised prawn down the front of her dress at the club, there had been a long-running joke about her reaction to seafood. ‘Behave yourself.’
‘You too.’
‘I’ll save you some lamb’s fry in a doggie bag.’
Another joke – Col hated lamb’s fry. He laughed and signed off. It took him a moment or so before he remembered what he was supposed to be doing next: the dishes, he thought. That’s right. And he reassured himself with a mental reminder that Moira always did this to him, driving everything else out of his head.