Switchback Stories (21 page)

It wasn’t the déjà vu that worried me, though. It was the feelings I was developing toward Bev Maddison and young Jamie. An impression that I understood, in a deeper sense than I realized, the nature of their plight. That inner voice, the one I trust so much, reminded me that these were feelings I’d always gone to great lengths to avoid.

It’s time to move on, that voice urged.

I slept badly that night.

The following morning I was sharp as a tack again and out there on the paddocks. It was Sunday and, as Bev pointed out, I was entitled to a day of rest. I decided to put in an hour or so and then knock off. The job was like a tonic for me. It had become important to me to make a real contribution to the farm.

The fencing along the southern aspect of the property was fully repaired now. I began work on the northern end. Once completed, it would stop the cows from wandering all over the neighbouring properties the way they currently did. Bev kept a dozen cows and the grass on the farm’s paddocks was more than adequate for their grazing.

The milk they provided was sold by Bev and was one of a few resources which helped her keep the farm going. The others were the chicken eggs and the rental of one of the fenced yards to a local family of greyhound trainers. It was a credit to the woman that she managed to turn a small farm’s limited assets into a modest income.

After I’d finished, Jamie and I went over to the nearby Trevathan farm. The Trevathan’s kept several horses and a couple of ponies and young Jamie had always been welcome to go over and do some riding.

He’d been urging me to go along with him and, with the Trevathan’s blessing, I rode one of the young mares alongside Jamie on his favourite pony.

These leisurely rides became a regular occurrence, two or three afternoons a week for the next few weeks. Sometimes Bev joined us.

We never said a lot on those rides. Just winked and smiled and nodded. When you’re cantering ‘round a paddock with the wind in your face and the sun on your back you tend to form a bond with the rider beside you.

So it was with Jamie and I. I was surprised to find it was a feeling as familiar to me as the déjà vu I’d always felt about this small town.

• • •

It was early Springtime and that means moderate weather in these parts. Most of the time.

The change to that was unexpected. The dark clouds came spreading out from the east, large and menacing, swollen with the threat of heavy rain. A blustery wind sprang up.

I was working on the chicken coop. A little earlier Jamie had gone up the back of the property to fetch some tools we’d left there the afternoon before.

When she saw the weather changing, Bev called for him. Again and again. Eventually she went off up the back to look for him.

I finished the wall I was mending and locked the gate. It occurred to me that Bev and Jamie were taking a long time and the wind was getting nasty.

The storm came suddenly, shaking the heavens with rolling roars of thunder and flashes of lightning, strobe like. I looked through watery swirls across the paddock and I could see Bev out there, a lone, windswept figure.

I could just hear the wandering echo of her voice, calling out, stifled by the sound of the downpour.

I ran across the field, taking the sodden ground in bounding strides. ‘Can’t you see him?’ I shouted as I approached her.

‘No sign.’ She turned toward me, the strength and determination flowing naturally from her. Some people are afraid of violent weather. Not this little lady.

‘You go inside. I’ll find him.’

‘I’m not helpless.’ She fell into step beside me and we pushed forward against the brute force of the wind. There was nothing else to see. I thought; Jamie must be lying on the ground, somewhere out of sight. My pulse quickened.

I remembered a small trough in the ground near the north-eastern corner of the property. I headed toward it, Bev in tow.

The trough wasn’t where I thought it was. Perhaps the wind and rain had confused my sense of direction. We followed the northern boundary further along.

When we did locate the trough, it was empty. Bev and I exchanged worried glances.

I tried to put myself in Jamie’s shoes. Once he’d collected the tools he’d come looking for, he may have decided to go a little further in case any other bits and pieces had been left behind. That was the kind of boy he was.

‘Let’s check a little further along,’ I suggested. Bev nodded. She was visibly distraught and, like me, fighting to keep her footing against the relentless drive of the wind.

We ran beside the fence toward the furthest edge of the farm. Then we heard his cry, just faintly below the roar of the downpour. We pressed on. A huge branch from one of the tall trees here had broken off and crashed down, pinning Jamie’s lower left leg to the ground.

He looked up, tears in his eyes. ‘My ankle. Can’t move it.’

The branch was heavy. I lifted it just centimetres from the ground and Bev pulled Jamie free.

I scooped him up in my arms and the three of us headed back to the homestead. Once inside, Bev examined the ankle and declared that it was just a sprain. ‘It’ll be as good as new in a couple of days.’

‘Okay. Who’d like a nice hot cup of cocoa,’ I offered.

‘Me,’ said Jamie.

Bev nodded silently, a soft smile breaking through the intensity. A little later we sat around the open fireplace with our drinks.

‘Thanks a lot for your help,’ Bev said.

‘No problem. I would’ve thought things like that are everyday occurrences when you live and work on the land.’

‘Well, maybe every second day.’ She laughed. ‘What about you, Mac? I suppose you’ve seen plenty of drama on your travels.’

I shrugged. ‘Quite a bit. I’ve probably forgotten more of it than most people ever see.’

It was getting late. Jamie went off to bed while Bev and I relaxed in the amber glow of the glimmering wood fire.

‘There was an incident in my family when I was just eight years old,’ she revealed all of a sudden. ‘A fire. My mother lost her life.’ I was surprised by her candour, no doubt brought forth by the drama of the afternoon. I flashed a concerned expression.

‘It’s alright,’ she said, understanding the language in my eyes. ‘I feel I can speak honestly with you about these things.’ She took a long, slow sip from the cocoa and then continued, ‘I’m told that my father had a serious drinking problem. It got worse as the years passed. Caused a lot of friction between my parents. One weekend while I was staying overnight with my aunt, my father went home very drunk. He knocked over a gasoline lamp on the porch. Then he fell back onto the ground unconscious. The home burnt down. The firemen got there in time to pull my daddy clear but it was too late for my mother. She’d been asleep inside.’

There was something about this story I recognized. I felt a sharp stab of fear in my chest. ‘Where was this?’ I asked.

‘On the other side of town.’

‘Here in Warnerdale?’

‘Yes.’

I relaxed a little. ‘That was a terrible thing to have to face at eight years of age.’

She nodded. ‘Even though I don’t remember my Mum all that well, I still miss her.’

‘And your father? What became of him?’

She looked away, fidgeting with her mug. ‘I’ve never known. My aunt told me he only stayed in town a few weeks after that. He couldn’t bring himself to face me. People reckon he became a drifter. He was last seen hitching a ride out of town with some other vagrant.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ I said. We were silent for a little while after that. Then I said goodnight and headed across the short stretch to the barn and my modest, makeshift room. A wave of nausea welled up inside me. I had always found this town too familiar for comfort. Now there was something about the tragedy of a fire that evoked a memory.

I paced the room, breaking out into a sweat despite the cool bite that the storm had brought.

I’ve never kept much track of time. It was twenty years, give or take a year, since they’d found me on the side of a northern New South Wales road. I’d been bashed senseless and left for dead, according to the police. I had no memory of that, or anything else for that matter.

Total amnesia.

I had no money, no identification. It seemed no-one cared for me as I hadn’t been reported missing either.

Before long I was back on the road. Drifting from town to town and I discovered I liked it. Twenty years. Crikey, where had they gone?

Throughout the years, my memory was always a little shaky from day to day. Except for town names. I never forgot one of those. Perhaps it was a subconscious way of helping me avoid visiting the same place twice.

I even remembered the names of places I must’ve been to before the bashing. As soon as I heard or saw the name I would know it and the place would have that familiar feeling to me.

From time to time, other flashes of memory came back. Nothing significant. Just bits and pieces that didn’t mean anything to me. One of the flashes was of an attractive woman and two small children. Maybe my family, maybe someone else’s.

Now here I was, thinking of tasting a bit of family life with Bev and Jamie, a kind of grandfather figure. Something stirred inside, something fearsome.

I decided it was time to move on. The quicker the better. I packed my things. I would rise early the following morning and leave quietly before the others were up. That was my way.

It was a clear morning, the day after the storm. The kookaburra cackled from afar.

With my pack slung over my shoulder I walked to the highway to thumb a ride. I didn’t look back. I never do. I knew it would be some time before I passed through this region again and the thought pained me. I thought: Leave it alone, mate. The open road is your real home.

A truck came rolling down the highway and screeched to a halt with a grace you wouldn’t expect from such a big ten wheeler. I clambered aboard.

‘Where you headed, fella?’ The driver was a sinewy, leathery looking character, middle-aged. I got the impression he wanted some company for the long haul ahead. They usually do.

‘Wherever we’ll be in about six hour’s time.’

‘Know it well,’ he quipped. ‘You been staying at Warnerdale?’

‘Matter of fact I have. Nice town.’

‘Sure is. I grew up there. But that was over twenty years ago, before they changed the name.’

‘They changed the town name?’

‘Something to do with altering the boundaries. They changed the borders and renamed the joint after one of those early mayors. That’s the trouble with these politicians. Always gotta go and change something that don’t need changing. Place was called Hungerfield when I was a boy. Better name, too, don’t you think?’

Hungerfield.

‘Always been one of those towns that was on the financial brink, and there were a few too many droughts in the area back then.’

‘And it got the nickname “Hunger Valley” as a result,’ I said.

‘Sure did. How’d you know that, you been talking to one of the old timers around here?’

‘Not exactly,’ I said.

‘One of the local rock musos, Horace J. Fairweather, wrote a song about the old town. Great lyric. I’ve got the CD here somewhere.’ He rummaged in the dashboard compartment, found the disc, placed it in the slot and pressed Play.

“My life’s a switchback story

Rollin’ down a winding track

Am I going anywhere

Or are the turns just leadin’ me back…”

I’d heard this song. It had a strong melody. The singer had one of those warm, gravelly, laid-back tones.

“…so take me away from Hunger Valley

let me ride your silver train

take me away from Hunger Valley

set me free from all this pain…”

Hunger Valley. The memories came flooding back. A torrent of images and feelings, some sharper than others and one in particular that stood out from the rest. I could hear my heartbeat pounding in my ears.

Hungerfield. Of course.

• • •

I got the truckie to let me off and I had a long walk back. It was warm. As I approached the house I saw a figure ahead, coming toward me.

When I got a little close I could make out the features. Jamie. I ran the final half metre between us. He threw his arms around me.

Then he stood back and looked at me with a puzzled expression. ‘You were gonna leave without saying goodbye.’

‘Yeah. S’pose I was.’

‘Why?’

‘That’s one question I’ve never been able to answer, Jamie. An old codger like me has to try settling down sooner or later. I guess this qualifies as later.’

He fell into step beside me and when we reached the front fence of the farm I stopped and leaned against the short, stocky timber palings. ‘Rest time,’ I said.

‘They say my granddaddy ran off and became a hobo. They say he’s out there somewhere wandering around.’

‘Who says?’

‘These things get ‘round. Kids hear ‘em.’

‘They certainly do.’ I laughed inside. The perceptions of the very young never ceased to amaze me.

‘Are you my granddaddy, Mac?’ He looked me straight in the eye, unflinching, so innocent, and we held each other’s gaze for several seconds.

‘I’d like to be,’ I confided and, goddam it, something that felt distinctly like a tear started sliding around the lower rim of my eye. ‘A man couldn’t want for a finer grandson than yourself. Or a finer daughter than that mother of yours. She’s a real gem.’ I reached over and ruffled the boy’s hair. ‘And so are you.’

We were silent for a while and then I ushered him to come closer and I placed my arm around him. I continued: ‘Of course I don’t know whether or not I’m up to the job. Got no actual experience being a granddaddy, you understand.’

‘You could learn real fast. You’re good at learning stuff.’

‘I’m sure going to try, Jamie. But first off I want to share a little secret with you. It’s about your granddad. You see, these stories you’ve heard have some truth in them. Your granddaddy did a bad thing, a stupid thing, and he couldn’t stay here where he belonged and live with it. He ran away. But no matter how far or how long he ran he couldn’t forgive himself. Let me tell you something. It takes a real good man to admit to having done something so wrong.’