Crow Country (5 page)

S
adie jolted awake. Her head whirled. She was still sitting by the stove, but her body ached as if she'd travelled a hundred miles and back.

John must have gone to bed. Mum and Dad were at the table, Dad reading one of his library books while Mum checked through the accounts, pencil in hand. With her dark hair freed from its scarf and her pinny hanging behind the door, she looked young. Of course, she was young, compared to Dad. Dad was old, grey-haired and stiff in the leg where he'd been wounded. He must have seemed like an old man to Mum even when he first came back from the War. She was nineteen then.
Not that much older than me
, thought Sadie.
Why on earth did she decide to marry him?

But even as she watched, Mum's hand crept across the tabletop, and Dad's hand captured it. He kissed her fingertips, and they smiled at each other, tender in the lamplight. Sadie looked away, knowing it was a private moment, but glad, in a peculiar, embarrassed way, that she had seen it.

There was a tap at the back door.

Dad pushed back his chair and limped to open it.

For an instant, Sadie thought that the night itself had come into the kitchen, breathing its chill breath over them all; she blinked and saw the black- feathered bird-figure from her nightmare. And then she relaxed back into her chair and laughed at herself, because it was only Jimmy Raven, the Mortlocks' stockman, who she'd known all her life. Jimmy was her friend, certainly no one to be frightened of.

He shook Dad's hand, nodded to Mum and flicked a half-smile to Sadie where she sat curled in her chair, hidden in the shadows. He saw her, though Mum and Dad seemed to have forgotten she was there. She wasn't entirely sure herself that she
was
there; perhaps she was still dreaming.

Dad pulled out a chair. ‘Care for a beer, Jimmy?'

Mum laughed. ‘You ought to know by now, Jimmy never touches the stuff. How about a cup of tea?'

‘Just being hospitable, Jean,' protested Dad, with a wink, and Sadie thought that Jimmy might laugh his deep rolling laugh that echoed halfway across the town. But he just grinned a little and sat down – too big for the frail chair, too big for the small kitchen – and laid his hat on the table.

In her dreamy, detached state, Sadie was aware of everyone's thoughts, even though they didn't speak a word. She saw Mum and Dad exchange a glance and knew they were wondering what Jimmy had come for; he'd never come calling after dark before. And she knew, watching Jimmy as he clasped and unclasped his big, calloused hands, his eyes cast down, that he wanted to talk over something important but didn't know how to begin.

Mum asked after Netta and the children, and received polite replies, and Dad fetched out the good teacups, the thinnest china with the ivy pattern round the rim. Sadie knew that there was no one else in town, in the whole district, who would bring out the best china to serve a black stockman a cup of tea, and a strange feeling struggled in her, between pride and shame.

The three adults sipped their tea and talked about the weather, and at last, long last, Jimmy set down his fragile teacup carefully on its saucer, and said, ‘I want to talk to you, Lofty.'

A shiver ran down Sadie's spine. Lofty had been Dad's nickname in the Army, because he was short. That was how soldiers' nicknames worked, Dad said. Blue for a bloke with red hair; Slim for a fat man. Jimmy and Dad had fought together in France; Dad said Jimmy had saved his life. They were mates in the War. That was why Dad brought out the best china.

And that was why Dad had fought the whole town council, when the war memorial was built, to have Jimmy's name put on it, too. They said it couldn't be done, because Jimmy hadn't enlisted in Boort; he'd joined up down in Melbourne. But Dad said he belonged in Boort as much as anyone, and deserved to have his name up there with the rest. After all, Bert Murchison had joined up in Melbourne, too, and no one said
he
should be left off.

At last, Mr Mortlock had backed up Dad, and that was the end of that. No one in Boort dared to argue with Mr Mortlock. He'd fought in the War with Dad and Jimmy, too. And, after all, he was the one who'd given Jimmy a job at Invergarry when the War was over.

Even so, Sadie was sure that Mr Mortlock had never given Jimmy tea in the best china. Only Dad did that.

But Jimmy was always very polite, and called Dad ‘Mr Hazzard', even if there was no one else around. This was the first time, the only time, Sadie had ever heard him call Dad ‘Lofty'.

Dad pushed away his cup. ‘Spit it out then.'

Jimmy hung his head, and his sigh seemed to come up from the bottom of his boots. ‘It's like this, see.' He was silent for a long moment. Then he said, ‘Suppose you're given something to look after. Something precious, something—' He glanced across at Dad. ‘Something sacred. And suppose you knew that a person was planning to do something that would destroy that sacred thing. What would you do?'

Dad considered. ‘I'd have to move that thing to somewhere safe, wouldn't I?'

Jimmy's grin split his face for a second, then he shook his head. ‘Can't move this thing.'

‘Well, what about—' Dad began, but he was interrupted by another knock at the back door. This time it was not a polite tap, but a peremptory rapping.

‘Excuse me,' said Dad. ‘It's like Flinders Street Station in here tonight.'

He opened the door and a tall, long-limbed man pushed his way into the kitchen, removing his hat to reveal wispy fair hair, high on his forehead. He stopped abruptly when he saw Jimmy seated at the table, and curved his lips in a cold smile.

‘Evening, Jean, Clarry. Didn't realise you already had company.'

‘You're welcome to join us,' said Dad. ‘Jeannie's just brewed up, there's plenty left in the pot.'

‘Wouldn't want to impose.' The man's mouth twisted, just short of a sneer, and Sadie knew who it was now, of course; it was Mr Mortlock, Gerald Mortlock, the boss of Invergarry. The boss of Boort, some said. Jimmy Raven's boss.

Jimmy rose to his feet, knocking aside the chair that seemed so spindly beneath his powerful body. He jammed on his hat and stepped to the door.

Clarry put out his hand. ‘Don't go, Jimmy.'

And Jean said, ‘Jimmy, there's no need to go. Stay and finish your tea.'

But Jimmy, head down, mumbled something about it being late, and an early start tomorrow, and before anyone could stop him, he'd slipped out into the night. The room seemed much emptier without him.

Dad was still standing, holding onto the back of his chair. But Mr Mortlock dragged a chair toward himself and swung it around one-handed. He sat down with his boots stretched out in front of him and began to roll a cigarette.

‘Hope Jimmy's not making a nuisance of himself,' he said.

Dad said, ‘Jimmy's always welcome here.'

Mum said softly, ‘We don't smoke in this house, Gerald. Clarry's lungs, you know.'

‘Oh! Pardon me, I was forgetting.' Mr Mortlock made a great show of tucking away his silk tobacco pouch inside his jacket. ‘What was he doing here, anyway?'

‘Jimmy sometimes drops in for a yarn,' said Dad.

‘Jolly good, jolly good.' Mr Mortlock smoothed the back of his head. ‘But you do know, Clarry, the War's over. It's been over for a good few years. We're not in the trenches now.'

‘Thank God,' said Dad.

Mr Mortlock wagged his finger at him. ‘Now, I backed you over the Memorial, Clarry, because it was the right thing to do. He fought with the best of us, and I've never denied that. You know I've done what I could for him. He's a good man, a good worker, always said that. But
I've
always known where to draw the line, Clarry. Unlike some.'

He stared across the table at Dad, and Dad gazed back. There was a silence.

At last Mum said, ‘Was there anything particular you wanted, Gerald?'

Mr Mortlock smiled. ‘As a matter of fact,' he drawled. ‘I need a box of matches.'

Mum pressed her lips together. Then she hurried from the kitchen through into the closed, darkened shop at the front of the building. A moment later she was back, a matchbox on her outstretched palm.

‘Thank you very much,' said Mr Mortlock, and he rose and set his hat on his head. He touched the brim to Mum. ‘Lovely as ever, Jean. You're a lucky man, Clarry Hazzard.'

‘I know it,' said Dad. His knuckles were white where he gripped the back of his chair.

‘Hooroo,' said Mr Mortlock, and the door banged shut behind him.

Dad let out a long breath and sank into his chair.

Mum stood behind him and placed her hands on his shoulders. ‘He didn't pay for the matches. I'll put it on the Invergarry account.'

‘No,' said Dad. ‘Leave it.'

‘But—'

‘No!' said Dad. ‘Leave it be.' He laid his hand on Mum's. ‘We were all mates together, over there,' he said, in a slow, heavy voice. ‘The three of us. When did it change, Jean? Why did it have to change?'

‘That's the way the world is,' said Mum.

‘We made a promise in France, the three of us. We promised if we made it out of there alive, we'd look after each other.'

‘I know,' Mum whispered. She kissed his grey hair, and rested her chin on the top of his head. For a long while they stayed there without moving.

Then Mum seemed to shake herself awake. ‘Sadie? Are you still there?' She looked directly across at Sadie. ‘Are you feeling better, pet?'

Sadie stirred in the big chair, the first time she'd moved for hours, or so it seemed. She opened her mouth to say that she felt fine, that she was going to bed.

But before the words could leave her lips, the world darkened around her, and she felt a rush of wind. A sudden blinding light exploded around her. Sadie cried out and squeezed her eyes tight shut against the glare.

Sadie pressed her hands to her eyes, then cautiously let herself blink through her fingers.

It was broad day. She was sitting on the mud of the lake bed, her jeans and parka smeared with muck. The grey sky was drawn over the dried lake like a blanket tucked over a bed.

Sadie moaned. Her head was spinning.

A dead tree poked from the silt. A long scoop of bark was missing from its trunk, leaving a deep scar shaped like a vertical eye. A crow – the same crow? – perched on one empty branch, its head tilted down to Sadie.

She was staring at the scarred tree when the crow dived, a silent missile, straight for her head. Sadie ducked, flinging up her arms, and with a rush of feathers the crow spread its wings and swooped up and away, flapping steadily into the sky. Only the croaking echo of its laughter floated back to where Sadie sprawled on the yellow mud.

Your story!

Wah-wah-waaaaah!

S
adie stumbled home, grubby and chilled.

Ellie's mouth dropped open. ‘Where the
hell
have you been? I was worried sick! We're going to the footy, it starts at two-thirty. Are you all right?'

Sadie stood dumbly, not knowing whether to nod or shake her head. Ellie grabbed her, half- hugged, half-shook her, and thrust her into the bathroom. ‘You're filthy. Quick, have a shower. Only you could get covered in mud in the middle of a fifteen-year drought! What have you been doing, rolling in it?'

Under the spray of warm water, Sadie looked down at herself and shivered. For a few hours, she'd left this body; she'd inhabited someone else's body, someone else's life.

Already the events of the night were fading, dream-like, from her mind, but she clutched at the few facts she was certain of. Her father had been Clarry, her mother was Joan – no, Jean. Her own name had still been Sadie – hadn't it? She was sure they'd called her Sadie . . . She'd had a little sister and two brothers: Betty and John and baby Philip.

Ellie's grandfather was called Clarry. And her father's name was Phil.

Sadie could dimly remember Grandpa Hazzard – a gaunt, kindly figure with teeth too big for his mouth. Nothing like the pudgy, solid infant who'd sat, dribbling and vaguely damp, on her lap.

So the crow had sent her back into the past, to live one night in the history of her own family. But why?

Your story.

Sadie turned off the tap and pressed the towel to her face. Her head was still spinning.

The football match was in Wycheproof, forty minutes drive away. As soon as she stepped out of the car, Ellie spotted a group from the Boort footy club and headed over, smiling and waving. Sadie trailed behind her. She didn't feel like talking to anyone. She was relieved to see the Mortlocks on the far side of the oval, and Jules and the rest of the pool-playing gang over near the change rooms, a safe distance away.

Sadie leaned against the fence and stared blankly as the game began, letting her mind drift, stray thoughts connecting and separating. There had been a Mortlock in her dream – or vision, or whatever it was. Gerald Mortlock. Sadie saw a sudden vivid image of his long, pale fingers toying with a black silk tobacco pouch.

‘Hey.'

She turned, startled, as Lachie Mortlock draped himself over the rail beside her.

‘Hi.' Sadie revised her decision not to talk to anyone;
anyone
didn't include Lachie. She wished she'd worn her blue top, the one Mum said brought out the colour of her eyes. She poked her hair nervously behind her ear. ‘Jules and Nank and Fox are over there,' she volunteered, out of some insane desire to be helpful. She could have kicked herself. She didn't want him to go over there.

‘Yeah, thanks, I know.' Lachie directed a brooding glare at the middle of the ground where the tallest players were scrabbling for the ball. ‘Jules is all like,
oh, poor Lachie
!' He put on a whiny voice. ‘
Aren't you disappointed you had to play in the reserves this week?
' He kicked at the fence. ‘She doesn't get it, you know? I was lucky to get picked last week. Muz is back now, that's the way it goes. You can't whinge about it like a kid. And it's not my fault we lost today. Boort reserves team is crap. Just like the seniors.' He kicked the fence.

Sadie kept quiet.

Lachie heaved a sigh. ‘
Anyway
. . . You going to give me that game of pool some time?'

‘Um, yeah. Sure.'

‘How about right now? Better than watching the Magpies get belted again.'

‘Now
?' squeaked Sadie. ‘But we're in Wycheproof!'

‘They have pool tables in Wycheproof, you know.' The corners of Lachie's eyes crinkled when he smiled. He had the bluest eyes. ‘But yeah, you're right, they might not let us into the pub. Not you, anyway. How old are you?'

‘Fourteen,' said Sadie. ‘Practically.' She was mortified.

‘Yeah? Seriously?' Lachie kicked the fence again; the whole length of wire vibrated. ‘BALL!' he yelled without warning. ‘Oh, crap. BALL! I can't watch this,' he said abruptly. He turned his back and dug his hands into his pockets. ‘I'm going home.'

Sadie stared. ‘Your dad won't leave, will he? Isn't he the president of the club or something?'

‘I don't need Dad. I've got my bike. Come and look.' He strode away without a backward glance. Sadie followed, prepared to admire any old bicycle if it belonged to Lachie.

‘There,' said Lachie proudly. It wasn't a bicycle; it was a trail bike. ‘It's new. Birthday present.'

‘Wow,' said Sadie. ‘Don't you have to be eighteen to ride one of those?'

Lachie grinned. ‘Not on private property. I can ride it round the farm as much as I want.'

‘But – we're not on the farm now.'

‘Nah. But who's going to arrest me? The police round here all know me.' He patted the seat. ‘Want a ride?'

Sadie swallowed. ‘I don't think my mum . . .'

The scowl reappeared on Lachie's face. ‘Well, if
Mummy
won't let you . . .'

‘Where would we go?' said Sadie hastily.

Lachie shrugged. ‘I dunno. Know anywhere worth going?'

‘What about your lake?'

‘My lake? Yeah, jeez, it's great, isn't it. Real tourist attraction.'

‘What about the stones?'

The words were out of her mouth before she could call them back. Far off in the distance, she heard a crow's mournful cry.
Waaa-waaah . . .

Lachie frowned. ‘What stones?'

‘There's a circle of stones – big ones, with carvings . . .' Sadie's voice faltered.

‘Yeah? Where?' Lachie was interested now. ‘Can you show me?'

‘I – I guess.'

‘I'll bring you back before your mum even knows you're gone,' said Lachie. ‘You can wear my helmet.' He held it out enticingly, a round black fishbowl. Sadie lowered it onto her head and staggered under its weight. She thought her neck might snap; she could barely see. Lachie laughed. ‘I hate wearing that thing! I don't need it anyway. Up you get.'

A moment's scramble, and Sadie found herself on Lachie Mortlock's motorbike, her arms round his waist, her thighs wedged against his. She could feel him breathe; she could feel his muscles ripple as he moved.
Please God, don't let me fall off
, she prayed, not because she was afraid of getting hurt, but because it would be so humiliating.

Lachie revved the engine and then they were speeding down a dirt track, bumping over ruts. Trees flashed past; paddocks streamed by in a blur.

Sadie's arms ached, her bum felt bruised. Ellie would surely notice she was missing; she'd be in trouble again. The noisy drone of the engine vibrated through her head.

At last they reached the lake. Clots of yellow mud spurted under the bike's wheels. Lachie yelled something, but she couldn't hear. She guessed he was asking directions, and she flung out her arm. He swerved the bike, and Sadie leaned, terrified, almost parallel with the ground. Lachie straightened the bike, and though she couldn't hear it, she knew he was laughing by the way his ribs vibrated under her hands.

She managed to indicate the cluster of dead trees that surrounded the hollow. Lachie drew up the bike and killed the engine. Sadie clambered down, her knees knocking. She lifted off the helmet and suddenly she could see and hear and breathe again.

‘There,' she said shakily.

Lachie walked up to the ring of stones. He peered at one, then another. He walked slowly right around the circle.

‘Holy crap,' he said softly. ‘I never knew this was here. I never saw them before. Looks like an old burial site or something.'

‘Not a burial site,' said Sadie, surprised by her own certainty. ‘It's not for that.'

‘Yeah? What's it for, then?'

A secret place. A story place
, the crow had said. ‘I – I don't know,' said Sadie.

Her legs shook; her whole body was racked with shudders. She wrapped her arms round herself. Maybe she had motion sickness from the swooping journey on the bike. She was terrified she might throw up. She never should have brought Lachie here; she should have protected the secret.
Crow's place.

‘Lachie,' she said, with sudden desperation. ‘Listen, you can't tell anyone about this place.'

‘Secret women's business, is it? Secret men's business? Secret kids' business?' He was laughing at her. Then his face softened. ‘Okay, mate. It's your special place, is it? I won't tell anyone.'

Not my special place
, thought Sadie.
It belongs to the crows
. But she didn't say it aloud.

Lachie tipped up her chin and gazed into her eyes. Sadie thought she might faint. ‘So now it's our special place, okay? Our secret?'

Sadie nodded. She could hear crows cawing angrily somewhere in the distance, but she didn't care. Her heart was singing; she had a secret to share with Lachie Mortlock.