The Waterhole, page 7
The kid nodded, but Jack wasn’t sure he’d say anything to Daisy. He was pretty sure he’d never see the boy again.
He might have to do something about Daisy. Push a bit. She was a good sort, Daisy Target, and she’d always listened to him before. There was a respect there.
And Jack wasn’t shy when it came to pushing something that had to be done.
10
‘You want me to tackle those big aggressive dogs or should I leave that to you, Detective?’ Brigit asked him, straight-faced, as they drove the squad car to the front of a weatherboard house that had the look of a place that’d been there forever and wasn’t going anywhere fast.
‘I think I can handle them, thank you, Winger.’
‘Do shout out if you need a hand.’
Two scruffy white mutts, tails waving like flags in a hurricane, barked at them from the safety of the top step. The only things moving about the place were those dogs, their tails, a bunch of scratching chickens, and the puffs of smoke billowing from the chimney.
Brigit parked in an open space beside a corrugated-iron shed.
‘They take care of the place,’ she said as they climbed out of the car and looked around.
The iron on the shed was so shiny it must have been new. There were vegetable beds in circles of corrugated iron sprouting silverbeet and parsley, and tomatoes struggling to hang on into autumn. The beds were weeded. Irrigation pipe tied neatly to the side.
Two cars crammed the lean-to carport, a newish white sedan and an older-model yellow-brown Landcruiser, must have had a recent wash too, or otherwise they hadn’t been out of the carport since the rain. The gravel road up the hill had been riddled with corrugations and potholes that splashed mud all along the side of the squad car.
‘Megsie. Gus! You silly buggers. Shut up now!’
Marley turned to see a tall man in khaki trousers and a blue long-sleeved shirt, thick crop of white-grey hair, admonishing the yapping dogs.
Marley hitched up his pants as he and Brigit approached the cottage. Brown hens clucked at him as they headed for the open gate of an airy coop, pecking at their last meal on the way.
‘Bill Ross?’ Marley asked.
‘That’s me. What can I do you for? It’s a very long time since a police car’s been up here. I don’t think I’ve got any speeding tickets or parking fines.’
By now, Marley was a few paces short of two shallow steps leading up to the wooden verandah. The dogs had stopped yapping. The boldest one trotted down the stairs to sniff Marley’s ankles.
‘I’m Detective Marley West, Mr Ross. This is Constable Brigit Winger,’ Marley said.
The change on the face above him was instant. Laugh lines all ironed out. ‘That make you any relation to Alan West?’
He should have guessed Bill Ross might know Alan if he’d been in the area that long. There wasn’t much point bullshitting the bloke. ‘Unfortunately, yes. He was my grandfather.’
‘I said no police had been up this hill in years. Last time one came up here it was Alan West.’ Bill Ross didn’t invite them up the steps or inside. Instead he sniffed as if something in the air smelled bad, and added, ‘You don’t look much like him.’
All that running might yet prove a good thing. His memories of his grandfather were of a man with a gut that gained on his waist-line year on year and shoes that were always polished jet black. ‘They tell me I take after my mum’s side of the family.’
Another sniff. ‘You didn’t say yet what you want?’
Marley put his hands on his hips, wishing for the hundredth time he had a belt that actually did what it was supposed to and kept his pants up. Mel would tell him it was time to buy new clothes. He loathed shopping unless it was for running shoes.
‘People tell me you’ve lived here a long time, Mr Ross.’
‘On and off all my life ’cept for a few gaps here and there. Born and bred.’
‘One of the guys lives down there,’ —Marley tipped his head toward the estate houses unseen below— ‘says you fought in Vietnam. Is that one of the gaps?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Are there any others?’
Nothing moved in Bill’s face except his lips. ‘Are you here to ask me about the bones they dug out of the creek or about my life story?’
No point bullshitting the bloke. ‘Just trying to get a feel for things. I’m told your family owned the land, going back before the development started.’
‘We did.’
‘It was your farm?’
‘My mother’s. This patch we’re standing on and those paddocks across to the national park, that’s mine. The creek got portioned in with the original farm when Mum sold. She left The Big House on the original title to my brother, Jack. My title came through later, after the subdivision started.’
‘They said your brother still lives here?’ Brigit said, smiling in that way she had.
‘In The Big House, yeah. Jack’s there.’
‘Big House?’
‘That’s what we called my mum and dad’s old place over the back of the ridge.’ He indicated by jabbing with his right thumb over his shoulder. ‘He’s done it up a bit, I guess, I don’t know. I don’t go up there.’
‘Did you own the land near the creek when the creek got filled?’ Marley asked.
‘Jack did.’
‘Jack seems to have owned a lot.’
‘He’ll tell you he was the favourite son if you ask him, Detective West.’
He waited but Bill didn’t elaborate so Marley had to prompt again. ‘So when was that, you think?’
‘When the creek got filled or when he owned it?’
‘Both, if you know.’
‘My mother gifted the land to him when he married. He built a cottage down there in the seventies. It’s not there now. He sold the land in 1994. It was just after Easter that year.’
‘So who bought it then?’
‘Same mob who did the rest of the subdivision. Evans and Rose.’
‘They told me there used to be a waterhole in the creek that got filled in by the developers because they thought it was dangerous.’
‘There was a waterhole.’
‘You knew it?’
‘We used to swim in it sometimes. The water was cleaner than the dam.’
‘It was deep enough for swimming?’ Brigit asked.
‘I don’t know how deep it was, Constable Winger. I know I never touched the bottom.’
‘So when did it get filled in?’
‘Third week of January 1994. It was a Wednesday.’
Bill said it in a way that made Marley think he could have given him the time down to the second, and he laughed. ‘You can be so sure? That’s more than a quarter of a century ago. I have trouble remembering what I had for dinner last night.’
‘Beetroot and chickpea patties with Asian greens,’ Bill said in a flash and Marley stopped laughing.
‘Kidding,’ Bill added, a gleam in his eyes, and in that moment years fell off his face. ‘We had lamb chops and mashed spud. The whole world’s watching those cooking shows on TV. Even old farts like me. I don’t think I could stomach a chickpea fritter, but I’d have a whirl at the Asian greens.’
‘You really remember it was a Wednesday?’ Marley asked.
‘It was a Wednesday, Detective,’ said a woman’s voice growing louder as a second person emerged from the depths of the cottage. ‘Excuse me for eavesdropping but I couldn’t really help it.’
‘Detective West. Constable Winger. This is Annette Vardy,’ Bill introduced.
Annette was a handsome woman, half a head shorter than Bill with cropped greying hair, and laugh lines extending from the corners of her eyes. She reminded Marley of an actress he couldn’t quite place. A happier Helen Mirren. A taller, thinner Judy Dench.
‘How do you know it was a Wednesday, Annette?’ Brigit asked, moving up half a step.
‘Because I picked up my husband from jail two days after the developer filled the creek. That was a Friday. I drove him home. I told him it was over. I packed my bags. And I never set foot inside The Big House again. I am sure you’ll know my ex-husband is Jack Ross, Bill’s brother. I’m sure, given you’re telling us you’ve had a chat to the residents down there that they won’t have let that particular scandal slip by.’
‘She came right ’round here,’ Bill said, eyes on Annette. ‘Walked all the way up the ridge with her dog and a suitcase.’
Annette linked her arm through Bill’s, lifting her chin to meet his gaze. ‘And I’ve never left.’
Soul mates, Bedgy had said twenty minutes ago.
Marley wasn’t sure he believed in soul mates as a concept, but as he witnessed these two gazing at each other in a way that excluded two dogs, two cops and half a dozen chickens plus the whole entire world, he couldn’t help wondering if he’d ever looked at Mel that way. Had she ever looked at him like she’d crawl inside if she could and stay there forever?
Maybe that’s where him and Mel went wrong.
11
Sunday January 16, 1994. Cowaramup
Broome had been fun, but yeah, Greg had been feeling it for a while now. Snipping at him all winter, a growing burn in his belly, Tracey Saeed and her 14C titties lighting him up like a city sign.
Whoo-boy.
He breathed the South West bush into his nostrils—everything smelled so different down here. Not like bush in Broome. Not like the mallee scrub over east either. He couldn’t put his finger on why, but this part of the country always smelled like sweaty socks.
He’d spent the late part of autumn with a Maori bloke he knew—Bubba—who shot kangaroos and camels on the sheep stations north of Meekatharra.
There were two butchers on the WA coast who’d cut up and mince the meat for him. One in Geraldton—a bloke Bubba knew—and another in Karratha he’d found from an advert on a supermarket noticeboard.
He closed his eyes, dreaming that raw meat smell.
On the east coast he sold prawns and seafood in his van. Over in WA he did bush food. Kangaroo sausages. Emu burgers.
Yep. Broome had been fun. Lots of proud old farts in the caravan parks up there. So many old blokes all ready to flop out their wallets and show him photos of their kids and grandkids.
Some of ’em had those you-beaut digital cameras now. Instead of paying a fortune in film to print out a picture—like his mum’s camera—they could show him all their little sprogs on a screen.
He liked printed photos better. He liked something he could touch.
But by the middle of November when he tried to get a breath and it was like sucking tomato sauce in his lungs, that’s when it was time to quit Broome and head south. He spent Christmas in Geraldton. New year in Dongara.
He’d rolled into Cowaramup last week.
Two days he’d been watching Tracey. Both mornings she’d put the cartoons on for the kid and then she’d have a shower. He’d hear the water running, see steam rising from the window in the lean-to. No sign of the husband. No sign she was getting ready for the husband to come home. No sheets drying on the line. No big shops with loaded grocery bags to lug inside; no smell of cooking hubby’s favourite food.
It was just them.
On Friday morning there’d been all sorts of earthmoving going on across the creek, so he hadn’t stayed long. Yesterday was better. He’d had a chance to wander around near the excavators that had been left idle for the weekend. He’d climbed up on the tree trunks bulldozed into a pile like matchsticks.
From the top of the log pile he could see Tracey’s yard with the one car parked up. The wood shed, another small garden shed and a trampoline. A tiny tricycle with pink streamers tied to the handle bars and a little pink pram for the sprog to push.
Tracey had pushed the kid on the tricycle all the way down the driveway. She and the little girl both with their hair tied up in pigtails. Tracey wore blue denim overalls over a white tee-shirt. The denim fabric snatched up her arse when she bent to push the kid and sometimes she had to stop what she was doing and fish her knickers out of her crack. He loved when she did that for him.
Yesterday, after Tracey took the sprog inside for lunch, she strapped the kid in her car seat and they drove off.
Between Tracey’s place and the excavators lay a creek. Reeds and saplings choked it, frogs croaked in it. The creek bed itself was cracked clay and dry but there was a deep waterhole. When he’d knelt to test it, the water was fresh. He’d crossed the creek. Walked around the house, checked the sheds, found the rope. Nothing was locked. Not even the front door.
He’d whistled, although he was pretty sure she didn’t own a dog. He hadn’t seen a dog let out for a piddle or a crap. When nothing with teeth came running he took a quick look through the place. Wardrobes. Cupboards. Sheds.
The dish-drainer on the sink was full of bottles and teats. She wasn’t breast-feeding anymore, not exclusively.
Gregory? Is that the baby crying?
‘Sorry, Mum,’ he said, quietly, shaking himself.
He’d been drifting. Mustn’t do that.
He switched his attention back to the cottage.
He still couldn’t hear cartoons.
Greg tapped a finger on the length of an axe handle missing the axe head that he’d found behind the woodshed. He hefted the handle like a baseballer might, just to feel its weight.
The kid should’ve had its breakfast by now. Little Lani should be sat in front of those morning cartoons. That’s what happened the last two days. Tracey better not be changing the routine because the growl in his belly hurt.
He propped the axe handle against the shed, rested his left hand on the corrugated metal and cradled the camera on its strap around his neck. Now and again he risked a quick check of the house.
Tracey had opened the windows to catch some breeze. He could see curtains shifting gently.
A sudden blast of music dug from the house. Open wide … come inside …
He giggled, shoved his hand over his mouth to trap the sound.
Mum used to giggle when he got caught peeing on a tree when she wouldn’t give him the toilet block key.
‘He’s having a bush wee,’ she’d say to the other ladies in the caravan park. They’d all laugh like he wasn’t there.
He shuffled behind the shed, getting restless, burning. He took a piss, his dick heavy in his hand, and packaged himself back in his jeans. Zipped up. Checked his pockets. Didn’t want to drop anything. Didn’t want to leave any clues.
He sifted his fingers though his pockets, rolling around the mints and the wrapped piece of chocolate brownie. He chose a mint so his breath would smell nice and popped it into his mouth, sucked on it and sauntered back to the shed, checking the house again.
A soft cloud of steam wafted from the bathroom window.
He checked the camera was secure on its strap, chewed and swallowed the mint. He pulled a plastic bottle of soapy liquid from his other pocket and stepped out.
The sprog sang along to one of the play school tunes, something about a bear hunt. A big one.
He giggled. His dick was a big one alright. Whoo-boy.
At the front door, he opened the plastic bottle and dipped the wand inside. A rainbow prism raced across the bubble film, dripping onto his fingers.
He put his mouth near the film and pushed on the front door. It swung open and he prepared to blow.
You find him a little kid that didn’t like chasing bubbles.
12
September 1967. Perth Airport
Exactly a year and three weeks after the party at Tonto’s, Annette stood in the crowd at Perth Airport, all waiting impatiently for the passengers to come off the plane.
She bounced on her tiptoes, searching for Bill’s head amongst a sea of military-short hair, shoulders and uniforms.
It was months since her last mail from Vietnam. They used to write all the time, she and Bill; him from the Australian army base, her from the kitchen table at Miss Batley’s. Then his letters dried up. Miss Batley told her not to worry.
Miss Batley checked the postbox each day, leaving any letters on the kitchen table for her and for Kay. Every Friday there was a letter from her mother. She’d diligently write her reply and address it to Cheryl and Charlie Vardy and hand it to Miss Batley on Monday to post to Perth, but nothing came from Bill.
Like Miss Batley, Jack told her not to worry. He’d promised her Bill would be on this plane and he’d expect to see her there; someone to smile at him in case any anti-war protesters in the crowd jeered or spat.
She gripped the strap of her handbag and ran her hand through her hair, smoothing it behind her ear. It was longer now and the extra length and weight had pulled out the natural wave. She’d done her nails for today, and her lipstick was brand new—a deep pink Kay said would be perfect for when her lips said ‘yes’ to Bill’s marriage proposal.
A girl beside her squealed and leapt into the arms of a man who swung her up and around and wrapped her so tight … but Annette saw his eyes and there was a dead light in there she hoped the girl didn’t see.
Would Bill look like that? Desperate? Dead-eyed?
Soldier after soldier flowed from the plane.
A man dropped to one knee on the rough carpet of the airport arrival hall, forcing the river of people to split into two streams to get around him. He pressed both hands, then his ear to a young woman’s swollen belly, stood up and whispered something to her that made them both laugh before he kissed her, and the tide of people bore them up and away.
Annette scolded herself for chewing at her lip as she waited. She’d ruin the lipstick. It wouldn’t be perfect to say ‘yes’ then.
Face after face. Most thin, drawn, dry.
Her eyes ached from hunting for Bill in that surging mass of men.
Her arms ached to wrap around his strong shoulders, his broad back. To feel the warm shining light of him.
A hand touched her arm and she turned to see a woman about her mother’s age. The lady didn’t speak, but her eyes brimmed with things strangers wouldn’t say.
