Hills End (6 page)

And there was another thing. If the diesel really was out of fuel, there'd be a job to do, and what a beastly job! The pipe lines all full of air, sludge from the empty tank sucked into the cylinders of the engine. It'd take hours to get the brute started again. Only one thing to do. Get number two engine turning over and roll up his sleeves and strip down number one. Glory, old Ben would skin him alive!

He hurried from the office, across the heat of the sizzling yard, that yard that was inches deep in wood shavings, towards the engine house. What a place it would be on a day like this—galvanized iron walls, galvanized iron roof—a man would cook in his own juice!

He stopped then, suddenly disturbed. It was the feel of the yard, the feel of the heat, the stillness, the deathly calm, the suffocating atmosphere. He'd never felt anything quite like it. Sweat began pouring from him. Perhaps it was more than sleep that had made him squeamish.

Instinctively he looked up to the sky. Unclouded, but not clear. Great Scott! In the north-east it looked ghastly, glazed over with a bronze sheen.

He stared at it, couldn't understand it, had never seen anything like it; but he knew it was wrong.

He felt helpless, alone, isolated.

A man was equal to things made by men, but Nature was different. There were times when Nature could be tamed, but there were times when Nature couldn't be stopped.

He realized he was listening again, and the stillness that he had taken to be total silence was neither stillness nor silence. He could hear dogs crying and the River Magnus rumbling, and he could see a cat across the yard in the hot shade, standing erect, bristling. A flight of ducks winged across the valley at an hour that was unusual for them, heading south. He could hear the lowing of cattle—the bull and the five cows and the calves at Rickard's place. The milking of the cows for the coming evening was his responsibility. He could feel and hear and sense many things and all became one emotion—alarm.

It demanded a conscious effort to continue to the engine house. No matter what was heralded by the state of the sky, one engine or the other had to be started immediately before all the perishable food in the township was ruined. He was right about the fuel. Number one was sucked dry. Frank Tobias was disgusted with himself, because when he felt the engine he knew it had been idle for an hour at least. The exhaust pipe was comparatively cool. He started the emergency unit and got back into the yard.

He was restless and wondered how far the picnic convoy had gone. Probably most of the way. By now they'd be no more than thirty minutes' journey from Stanley, all going well, with no punctures or breakdowns.

He wondered about Miss Godwin and the children. They certainly would have reached their destination. Provided there had been no loitering they could have walked to the bluff in a little over two hours. There'd be no loitering with Miss Godwin. She bustled everywhere she went, as though her next hour were her last.

He mopped his brow and wondered about himself. He was a strong man and a good man, but even the strong and the good might feel uneasy at being alone, as he was now, in an empty township, with a mighty barrier of mountains standing between him and the next man. The women and the kids didn't count. If anything went wrong they'd be dependent on him. They'd be looking to him for help. He couldn't turn to them.

And something
was
wrong. He knew that more certainly than he had ever known anything. If he had been trapped at the rim of an erupting volcano he couldn't have been more alarmed. The feel of the sky, the feel of the heat, the feel of the air, were downright evil.

He stirred himself and paced down to the river. Old man Magnus was the weather prophet. Old man Magnus was the crystal ball that told the future.

He stood at the bank and shivered. The water was dark, running high, rumbling. Glory, the river was almost yelling at him!

He stumbled back to the mill across the flats.

 

* * *

 

The heat indeed was very trying and Miss Elaine Godwin shuffled up the face of the bluff, perspiring freely, shaking so much at the knees that she was sure they were knocking together. Dear, dear, dear! Why couldn't she act her age and admit it was too much for her? She was groaning for breath and her pulse was beating so hard in her temples that all she could hear was its thud-thud-thud.

She was such a fool. Here she was, condoning this danger, encouraging these children to risk their lives, when she should have forbidden this exercise. Exercise? Indeed no. It was a criminally foolish escapade which might leave her responsible for injury or death. Those dreadful parents sending their children after her! It was too much responsibility altogether. And, bless her soul, she'd have to get down again afterwards. That would be worse by far. It was this continual patter of little stones, and the times she slipped on wet rocks or slime, the times she looked down because the depths drew her eyes with a dreadful fascination, the times she groped for a foothold and sent a shower of fragments on the children beneath her. The times she was giddy and her head swam, the times she wanted to scream at the top of her voice, yet had to say so calmly, ‘Come along, children.'

Suddenly she was there, on the wide ledge that formed the opening to a cave, and Paul was smiling at her and Adrian seemed unusually subdued.

‘Well, well, well,' she said breathlessly. ‘Here we are.'

Harvey, Gussie, Maisie, and finally Frances came up on the ledge behind her. The girls were flushed and excited, full of their achievement because not too many girls had got as far as this before. They had been surprised to discover that the way up was far less dangerous than they had been told. Of course, they had had to be careful, but no more careful than in climbing a tree.

Miss Godwin was still fluttery and was finding it difficult to conceal her distress. All she wanted to do was sit down, and she never knew how she resisted the yearning. She was a brave soul and a far better leader than she gave herself credit for. They never dreamt that she was frightened, never imagined the state of her mind.

‘Now, Adrian,' she said, ‘we're in your hands.'

‘Have you brought a torch, Miss Godwin?'

‘Of course. Of course. Always prepared.'

Adrian wished most fervently that she hadn't been. That had been a possible way out for him—no torch—and even now perhaps if the torch were small enough he might contrive to flatten the battery; but no, Miss Godwin's torch was an electric lantern, six volts, and its power would last for days.

‘Is it very far in, Adrian?'

‘No, miss. So long as we find the right cave it's only a few yards.'

‘Goodness!' Miss Godwin was rather stern. ‘You have no doubt that you can find it?'

‘Oh, no. It might take a little time, but I'll find it.'

‘Very well. As I said, we're in your hands. Take the torch. We don't know how soon we'll need it. The sunlight won't last for ever.'

It was Gussie who was left behind. She was so enthralled by the great rock bed lying beneath her that these silly caves pitting the face of the bluff seemed unimportant. She had climbed high, right up here, and the view was the reward, the depth of space, the impression that she was sitting in an aeroplane looking over the side. She was sure she could see the pool where Butch had stopped, sure she could see him lying in the shade. She simply didn't notice the sky until suddenly there were no shadows.

She glanced up, and the sun had vanished behind the strangest looking cloud she had ever seen. It seemed to have reached out of the north like a big black arm and closed its hand round the sun.

‘Ooh,' she said. ‘Look at that.'

She turned, and there was no one to look. They'd all gone.

‘Oh, bother!' she said. ‘Wait for me.
Wait for me!
'

 

At a minute to twelve Frank Tobias switched on the wireless for the midday news. He was certain that if this great mass of ugly cloud meant anything at all there would be reports of its progress in other regions. Wireless reception was always difficult at Hills End and, despite the fact that the people had raised their aerials to considerable heights, it was the exception to listen in comfort. Short-wave transmissions from Radio Australia and from countries to the north of the continent were easier to pick up than ‘local' broadcasts. The nearest ‘local' transmitter was fully two hundred and fifty miles away. When Frank switched the set on he realized he was cut off even from that comfort. Reception was not marked by the usual fading but by an alarming crash of static. He hastily switched it off again.

Already the first gusts of cold air were swirling dust-clouds through Hills End, loose sheets of iron were clanking, windows were rattling, and everywhere dogs were wailing.

The foreman was now very ill at ease. There were too many things about this sky and the atmosphere that he didn't like. He had not been able to subdue his initial alarm. He told himself repeatedly that Hills End had weathered many storms in the past, but no matter how often or how earnestly he called himself a fool his fears welled up again.

He ran from the office up into the main street, and began racing from house to house, shutting every window and door.

 

Butch woke up with an uneasy, unhappy feeling. He felt cold, even frightened, and didn't know why it should be.

He sat up, realized quickly enough where he was and why, but couldn't understand the gloom. At first he thought he must have slept through to the evening and was hurt that the others had forgotten him, had gone home without him; he was even apprehensive of walking those miles back through the rugged bush, alone, in the dark.

Then something told him that he had not slept very long at all. He just didn't feel as though he had slept for hours, and the peculiar popping sounds that he had been listening to were enormous raindrops hitting the rocks. The sky was black and fierce and in the distance was the unceasing roll of angry thunder. That was why he was uneasy, and he was cold because an icy wind was blustering round him.

Butch scrambled to his feet because he could see that the sky was going to split apart. He knew that when the rain really started it would be a deluge. And as soon as he was on his feet he remembered his blisters and his new shoes and that it was almost half a mile to the bluff where Miss Godwin and the others would be. Butch didn't know which way to run. He had to get his shoes on somehow, because his feet had always been the tender sort, the sort that didn't take too kindly to carrying their owner without a good slab of leather between skin and ground.

He'd never get to the caves. If he went on he would be caught in the open. If he turned back he might have time to scramble into the shelter of the forest. Those huge raindrops were popping more often and he could see jagged lightning flashes striking between earth and cloud.

No. He couldn't go that way, because it was dangerous under the trees when the lightning struck; yet it was terrifying in the open. Each was as bad as the other. Why hadn't he hobbled on with Miss Godwin? Then he'd be cosy and safe inside the caves. Oh, why had he worn his new shoes? If only he'd changed into something old! He couldn't get them on. He couldn't stand the pain. Even his toes seemed to be swollen now.

He started whimpering. He might have been almost as big as a man, but in so many ways he was only a little boy. He tucked his shoes under his arm and first went one way, and then another, and then back to the rock beside the pool. Soon he was sobbing and he wriggled in hard against the rock on the sheltered side and down came the rain with a horrifying clap of thunder. In seconds he was drenched to the skin.

‘Goodness!' exclaimed Miss Elaine Godwin. ‘What was that?'

She knew what is was, really, but she was so accustomed to putting questions to children that she felt obliged to ask.

‘That was thunder,' said Frances.

‘Thunder, indeed. I hope we're all not going to get wet on the way home.'

She wasn't thinking that at all. Her only thought was her fear of descending the bluff. If rain came with the thunder the footholds would be like glass and somehow she was sure it was raining; although these caves were warm, there was in the air the touch and smell of water or ice.

‘Children,' she said. ‘I think we'd better go back to the entrance to see what's happening.'

‘I'll go, miss,' said Paul. ‘I know my way. I'll only be half a minute.'

‘Thank you all the same, Paul, but we must keep together. We have only the one torch, and I don't wish to be left in the dark, nor do I wish you to be stumbling alone in the dark. Lead the way, Adrian.'

‘Fancy a storm on a day like this!' said Gussie. ‘Ooh!'

‘Yes, Augusta?' said Miss Godwin. ‘What did you mean by that tone of surprise?'

‘I must have seen it coming. I saw a cloud. The funniest cloud you ever saw.'

Miss Godwin shivered. ‘What was funny about it, Augusta?'

‘It was like a big black arm, reaching across the sky, taking hold of the sun.'

‘You should have told me, child.' Her voice was so sharp that they were surprised. ‘Hurry on, Adrian. If there's to be a storm we must get out of here.'

They followed the beam of the torch, this way and that way, but Miss Godwin was bustling so busily on Adrian's heels that she confused him and he took the wrong turning. He wasn't certain in his mind that he was wrong, but the doubt was there, and Paul said, ‘Not this way, Adrian.'

‘We'll leave that to Adrian, shall we?' snapped Miss Godwin.

‘But he might be right, miss,' stammered Adrian. ‘I—I think he is right.'

‘Nonsense. I distinctly remember this chamber. Hurry on.'

But Adrian knew he didn't remember it, not from any of his journeys in here, and when the pale whiteness of old bones moved into the beam of the torch he was certain he'd never set foot in this cave before.