Chapter 2
Leaning my head against the window of our 4-wheel drive, I watch the trees fly past. Mum and my two sisters are having a weekend at the coast. After what happened a few years ago I’m not real keen on the beach anymore, but under normal circumstances this trip with dad wouldn’t be my number one choice either.
The thing is, dad had been talking about it for ages, over a year at least. He’d get serious about it but then whenever the chance came around to get away he’d be “too tired to even think about”, or he’d be on a plane headed for another meeting in another city. But most often he’d just hang around the house feeling “a bit crook”.
Then about six weeks ago he started making actual plans - bought a new tent, sleeping bags and other stuff. Now it’s happening - nearly a week of just dad and me. I’m not sure how it will go. We haven’t done a lot of ‘guy stuff’. He’s looking forward to fishing, swimming, hiking and just generally escaping his private little rat race.
Me? Well I do like fishing. That’s about the only thing dad and I have in common, so we’re both looking forward to that. Otherwise, I think I’d be perfectly happy back home, hanging with my mates. Then again, we’ve thrown the mountain bikes in the back. That should be fun. And I’ve loaded tons of songs onto my mp3 player.
Anyhow, because this trip seems to be really important to dad I’m trying hard to stay positive. So here we are. Miles from anywhere in the middle of nowhere, heading somewhere I don’t particularly want to go.
Although the place we’re headed is only eight-hours from the city, dad can’t drive too long without needing a rest. We stopped at a motel overnight; it was a pretty dodgy sort of a place but compared to the tent we’ll be spending the next four nights in, it was a final taste of relative luxury.
My father is an accountant. He tells me he met the property owner a few years ago when he asked dad to look at his business and make some recommendations on how to improve it. Dad was raised in the city but has always professed a love of the bush. However, except for the odd fishing trips with mates, or scout scamp when he was a boy, he never ventured far from the bright lights until he graduated from university. His first few years as an accountant were spent in a mining town up north. Anyway, I guess the land owner must have been impressed when they met dad and saw his work since we’ve now been invited to spend some time on his property. It’s thirteen thousand acres of cattle country and forest.
“You awake, Robbie. We’re almost there,” says dad tapping me on the leg.
I take my earphones out. “Yep. How long?”
“About ten minutes according to the GPS - to the gate, anyway. “
“I thought you’d been here before. Why do you need the GPS?” I ask.
“This is the first time I’ve driven here. I’ve always flown in to the local airstrip and taken a chopper from there to the property.”
“Harley Davidson?”
“Helicopter.”
“That’d be cool.” I imagine it would be a lot better flying over this countryside than spending the best part of two days driving through it. I look at my watch to time the rest of the trip. I figure we would have been at this point about an hour ago if dad didn’t succumb to the urge to stop every hour for a cigarette. Exactly nine minutes later we arrive at a five-metre wide metal gate. Beside it, mounted on a tall steel frame, was a large sign – White Bird Station: a REAL Property.
“This is it”, says dad.
“Well, the gate at least,” I say. “I can’t see any house. What’s that mean, a real property?”
“R.E.A.L.” Dad spells it out. “That’s the name of the company that owns White Bird Station. The house is about a kilometre through there,” he says, nodding his head in the direction of the gate.
I get the hint and hop out. After fiddling clumsily with the chain I manage to swing the gate open and dad drives through.
“See you later,” he jokes and keeps on driving another twenty metres along the rutted driveway.
I shut the gate and jog after the 4-wheel drive.
“Hey! Don’t leave me behind,” I call, running to the ute. “Looks like wild country - you never know when you’ll need backup.”
“Yeah, sorry. I didn’t consider the possibility of getting mugged by a cow. Get back in.”
As we proceed I look around and see flowering trees, lots of cattle and a few kangaroos. Mum is an artist. She would probably see sun-kissed hills, wet-nosed cattle chewing contentedly on lush, green grass and lazy, grey kangaroos lying in cool acacia shade. Our car would be drawing a dusty line through an avenue of green and gold. And then she would put oil paints to canvas and sell her Laura Albion Original Landscape for about five thousand dollars.
Now, straight ahead I can see the homestead, a sprawling double-story, timber house about three times the size of our place. Beyond this veranda-wrapped mansion I see four huge sheds containing, no doubt, whatever equipment and machinery you’d need to run a place like this.
But my eyes are drawn beyond the house and into the distance where, dominating the otherwise level landscape, a great mountain stands proud of all that surrounds it. The peak is shrouded in grey cloud. Strange, I think, the sky is crystal clear. That mountain must be pretty high if there is a different climate at the top.
Dad stops the ute but before our feet hit the ground we hear a big voice. “Dave, welcome!”
Two men emerge from the shadows of the porch. One shuffles awkwardly on metal crutches.
“How was the trip?”
“Mitch! What did you do to yourself?”
“Flipped a damn quad bike chasin’ a steer. Should’ve just let ‘im go.”
Dad introduces me to Mike Mitchell, the manager of White Bird Station. Mitch in turn introduces us both to Wally Kirk. Wally is a stocky Aboriginal man with a big smile, and a physique like... well, I reckon he could carry a bull under each arm and another on his back.
“Wally‘s the foreman,” says Mitch. “Be lost without him.” Then poking my dad in the chest he says, “This man is the reason you have this job, Wally. Somehow he convinced the owners this operation could grow if I spent more time managing and had someone else to do the hard yakka. The business has improved and so has my pay cheque.”
Mitch leans his crutches against our vehicle and the chest poking turns into a full hug. My father is tall, but not at all muscular so I imagine I can hear a couple of his ribs cracking. I remember when I was younger he looked a lot stronger. Mum and I used go to watch him play rugby. Now there are days he seems hardly able to lift himself out of bed. I think he is sick but neither he nor mum has ever said anything to me about it. I think the cigarettes have knocked him around a fair bit.
Dad laughs when Mitch finally releases him. Seems there’s no harm done.
“It’d be better for me had you broken your arm instead of your leg,” Dad grimaces.
“I’ll go tie Angel up,” says Wally suddenly serious. “Once she gets a whiff of strangers she’s not gonna be happy.”
“Good on ya, Wally”, replies Mitch. “She doesn’t warm to new people, that one. Fantastic guard dog though. Just doesn’t like strangers or other dogs. The heelers give her a wide berth, that’s for sure.”
“Where’d you get her from?” asks dad. “You only had the cattle dogs last time I was here.”
“Just wandered in about six weeks ago. No other properties around here for a hundred miles. Dunno where she’s from. Could’ve fallen off the back of a truck for all I know. Anyway, she’s made herself at home. Settled in real quick. Didn’t waste time lettin’ the other dogs know who’s in charge.”
Wally appears from around the side of the house. “Can’t find her, boss. Might be taking a nap down near the creek. With a bit of luck she didn’t hear you blokes drive up.”
Mitch hobbles up the steps onto the porch and we all follow. There are cold drinks sitting on a low table. I happily accept the offer of a ginger ale. Dad lights a smoke and makes himself comfortable with a beer.
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br /> “You know those things will kill you,” says Mitch in a semi-stern voice.
“Probably,” replies dad. “Robbie tells me that all the time, don’t you mate? Yeah, I’ll knock them off one day.”
“That’d be around about the time of your funeral, I suppose,” Mitch grins. “Anyway, how’s that lovely wife of yours?”
“Laura’s fine. She and the girls are having a few days at the beach. Didn’t want to come camping for some reason.”
The men talk as I sit back in a big deck chair. Words like cattle, acres, profit, rainfall and feed drift through the hot air. I start to get very sleepy.
“Hello, Dave,” comes a bright voice from nearby. I open my eyes. Then a bit wider. My jaw drops and I swallow hard.
Quickly I regain my composure and return to my cool self. At least on the outside.