Blue Dog

  Three hours later he was asleep when Blue hurtled in through the entrance and leapt on him, covering him with slobbery kisses. Then he heard Granpa’s voice. ‘Come on out, boy. I know you’re in there.’

  Mick emerged into the blinding light, and Granpa looked him up and down and said, ‘It’s damn lucky we had that dog to find you. You get on that bike and get back home right now, understand?’

  Mick rode back to the homestead with Blue sitting in front of him, and terror in his heart. He had never seen anyone so icy with anger as Granpa was. Granpa could probably have killed him with just one basilisk glance. Mick felt so sick in the stomach that it hurt.

  He was sent to his room, and shortly afterwards Granpa appeared with Stemple at his side. Stemple was pale, and Granpa was still shaking with rage. He drew his belt from its loops, and handed it to Stemple. ‘You’ve got the right to thrash him,’ he said, and left the room.

  Stemple stood there with Granpa’s belt in his right hand, and faced Mick. Mick gazed back, unable to take his eyes away, and his lips trembled. Two huge tears ran down his cheeks, and his shoulders began to shake. He couldn’t take his eyes off Stemple. This time he would not try to run away or escape. He imagined what the stroke of the belt would be like, the whistle of it as it whipped through the air, but knew that he deserved it, and he wasn’t going to avoid it. Stemple stood there and looked back at him, weighing the belt in his hands.

  Mick felt all the sadness and horror of the universe overwhelm him. His father was dead, his mother was in a home, he had made his grandfather ashamed of him, Betty would probably resign and leave, and he had stabbed a good man when his back was turned. He closed his eyes and stood to attention for a very long time, like a soldier on parade, awaiting the lash, tears pouring down his face. He was so afflicted with grief that it was difficult to remain upright at all.

  Finally there was a movement, and Mick flinched, but then he felt strong arms around him, and a kind voice in his ear saying softly, ‘Sometimes it’s a sin to love too much, mate.’

  Stemple knelt there hugging him and stroking his hair. Stemple smelled of timber, sweat, sunshine, horses and engine oil. For Mick it brought back memories of his father after a day’s work at the weekend, and he relaxed into the embrace, putting his arms around Stemple, and burying his head in his shoulder. Stemple’s body felt as though it were made of rock.

  After an age, Mick calmed down and stopped sobbing. At last Stemple released him, stood up and handed him the belt, saying, ‘Here, now it’s your turn. Give me a swipe.’

  Mick looked at him uncomprehendingly. ‘Go on, land me one …’ Stemple paused ‘… for what I said about your mum.’

  Mick knew he could not possibly hit Stemple. He just let the belt hang by his side.

  ‘I was out of order,’ said Stemple. ‘I apologise. It was mean. You know I’m not … I’m not normally mean like that.’

  ‘And I’m sorry. For stabbing you with the pencil.’

  Stemple looked into the crumpled face of the troubled and grief-stricken little boy. ‘Shake,’ he said, holding out his hand, and they shook hands. Stemple put his arm around Mick’s shoulder and said, ‘You’d better give that belt back to your grandad. We wouldn’t want him to drop his strides, would we?’

  That night Mick dreamed that he was drowning in the sacred pool. In the early hours there was a lightning storm, and poor Willy the mad one-eyed thoroughbred was struck for a second time, and was dead under the poinciana tree by the morning. Mick found him when he went out to breathe in his nostrils, as he did every day before breakfast. He ran to fetch his grandfather, and they knelt by the horse’s body, just looking at it.

  For Granpa it was like losing a connection with long-lost golden days. ‘D’you mind going back indoors?’ he said to Mick, his voice breaking, and the boy stood up and walked away. He sat on a chair on the terrace, just able to see his grieving grandfather crouched down in the long brown grass, with his head laid on the horse’s neck.

  For some reason Mick took all this as a sign that he should never go in the magic cave again.

  THE FLAMES

  MICK CAME INTO the schoolroom one morning and found Betty sitting by the radio with her face in her hands, crying. He didn’t know what to do, except stand beside her and put his hand on her shoulder. Betty looked up, said, ‘Oh Mick!’, put her arms around him, and hugged him to her. After his attack on Stemple, Betty had treated him with frosty professionalism, and he had never expected her to be nice to him again. This sudden affection was a surprise.

  ‘Why are you crying?’ he asked, expecting her to say that Stemple had been horrible to her.

  ‘I’m such a blubberguts,’ she said, ‘I can’t help it.’ She wiped her eyes on a small handkerchief, and said, ‘I’m going to miss you so much. I’m going to miss everybody. I’m sorry, I know I shouldn’t cry like this. I should be happy for you.’

  ‘Miss me? But who’s going to teach me?’

  ‘Teach you? Why, haven’t you heard?’

  ‘Heard what?’

  ‘You’re going to Melbourne.’

  ‘Melbourne?’ Mick was astonished and frightened. He’d never been to Melbourne. What on earth was he going to do there?

  ‘Your mum, she’s turned up in Melbourne. She’s told your grandad she wants you back.’

  ‘Is she better then?’ asked Mick, not quite sure what to feel.

  ‘I can’t honestly say, Micko. I hope she is, I really do.’

  ‘Who’s going to teach me?’

  ‘You’re going to Melbourne Grammar. And you’re going to be a boarder, at least till your mum really can cope.’

  ‘Boarding school? I don’t want to go! What about Blue? What about Lamington?’

  ‘There’s no way your grandad’d let you take the cat,’ said Betty, laughing through her tears.

  Neither Betty nor Mick could concentrate on lessons that morning, so Betty let him out early. He found his grandfather adjusting the drive on the wind pump, and stood quietly, waiting for him to finish.

  ‘I s’pose you heard then,’ said Granpa.

  ‘I don’t want to go,’ said Mick.

  ‘I don’t want you to go, either.’

  ‘Why have I got to go then?’

  ‘Your mother.’

  ‘Why can’t she come here?’

  ‘I did ask her. She’s a city girl, Mick. She’s landed herself a job part-time. She’s on the mend, she wants her little boy back. What would she do round here, anyway?’

  ‘I don’t want to!’

  Granpa sighed. ‘Listen, son, life isn’t always about what you want. It’s not even often. More often than not it’s about doing what’s best. Doing your duty. I’ve looked after you while I had to, and you know what? I loved every minute of it, and I’m going to miss you like copper-bottomed hell. I want to be frank with you, all right?’

  Mick nodded dumbly, looking up into his grandfather’s weather-beaten face and startlingly blue eyes.

  ‘When you go to Melbourne it’ll be more like you looking after your mum than her looking after you. D’you catch my drift? She needs you there, steady like a rock, to lead her out. And you’ll do it because you love her, like I love you.’

  ‘What about Blue?’

  Granpa put his hand on Mick’s shoulder. ‘It wouldn’t be kind, would it? Blue’s a bush dog. He trots for miles on his own. He goes out for adventures. He gets into shindigs with perenties and dingos. What’s he going to do in Melbourne except get into trouble and croak from boredom? I’ll take good care of him, and you can come back as often as you like, and he won’t have forgotten you, and it’ll always be like old times. You’ll always have a home here, son, just like your dad always did.’

  ‘I’m not going,’ said Mick. ‘I’m going to take Blue, and go and be an outlaw. Like Ned Kelly.’

  ‘Kelly got shot ’cause he was too stupid to make the rest of his suit of armour.’

  ‘I’m taking Blue and I’m going.’

&n
bsp; ‘Well, best of luck, mate.’ Granpa held out his hand, and said, ‘Shake. I wish you all the best, I really do. What are you going to do when you run out of gas?’

  Mick ignored the question, and went to the kitchen, where he made a real pigsnout sandwich, with Vegemite, ham, tomatoes and marmalade. He filled a bottle with water and went to check that the tank of his bike was full.

  He called Blue. Together they rode out of the homestead, with Mick wondering whether to go to Roebourne or Cossack before beginning his life of outlawry. He chose the latter, and arrived just as Sergeant Sam was tossing a heap of crabs into a big saucepan in order to make crab soup.

  ‘G’day,’ said Sam. ‘What might you be after?’

  ‘I’m running away,’ replied Mick, ‘and so’s Blue.’

  ‘Where to?’

  ‘I thought I could live here. At first, anyway. I’m going to go bush, and learn how to live on bush tucker from the blackfellas.’

  Sam frowned. ‘You can’t stay here, mate. It’s too crowded already. And the bush blackfellas have all gone. Got turned into jackaroos, and now they’re in Roebourne with bugger all to do.’

  ‘But it’s just you here. And those Greeks with the fishing boat.’

  ‘Exactly. Too bloody crowded. You’ll have to go somewhere else. It’s not that I don’t like you. I just don’t like company.’

  ‘I’ll leave you alone.’

  ‘Well, that wouldn’t be very nice, would it?’

  ‘Can I just stay for a while?’

  ‘Stay and have some of this crab soup. It’ll be bonzer when it’s done.’

  ‘I’ve got a sandwich.’

  ‘We’ll go halves. What’s in the sandwich?’

  ‘Vegemite, marmalade, ham and tomatoes.’

  ‘Blimey, mate.’

  The soup wasn’t bad, but the sandwich was pretty weird, and Sam gave some of his to Blue, who wolfed it down in a second.

  ‘That dog’s a hell of a gutbucket,’ said Sam, and then he looked up and noticed something. He pointed into the distance. ‘Isn’t your grandad’s place over there? That’s Regal Ridge, isn’t it?’

  Mick looked where Sam was pointing, and saw a pall of black smoke rising into the sky.

  Mick was horrified. He knew which way the wind was blowing, and the implications were both clear and terrible. He had no choice, and he knew it. This was no time to be running away and dreaming of being an outlaw, and it wasn’t just a question of love, it was a question of personal honour. He got back on his bike, kicked it over, and Blue scrambled up in front of him, putting his paws on the handlebars. With fear thudding in his guts, Mick drove back home.

  It became more and more difficult and frightening, the closer he came to the homestead. He stopped and wondered if he could possibly make it through. Then he kicked the bike into gear and let out the clutch, remembering where the track went, and knowing that for a few seconds he would probably be blinded by the smoke. He was strangely reassured by Blue’s presence, and could hardly believe his own bravery as he entered the swirling inferno, a courage raised up in his heart by the desperate love he felt for those on the other side of the flames.

  He only just made it through the resinous smoke and the horrible flying cinders that somehow got between his clothing and his flesh, and stung him with tiny burns. The eucalypts burned with ferocious heat, as if presoaked in petrol, and seemed to send up their own individual tornadoes. As terrifying as the heat and smoke was the roaring and crackling of the flames, and the exploding of trees as they split apart. It sounded like gunshots.

  At the homestead, all the hands, including Betty, were concentrating on the only thing that mattered, which was to protect the buildings. Granpa was an experienced man, and many years before he had learned the hard way that you have to have a firebreak around your house. His was a circle of treeless and shrubless ground a hundred yards deep, with nothing but scrubby grass growing in it. You let the fire take the grass, which burns away very quickly, and then you patrol constantly to put out any flame that sets itself up anywhere near the house.

  Granpa and the crew were armed with hessian sacks that contained sodden oats, and when Mick arrived, Granpa just nodded to him and pointed to where the supply of wet sacks lay, by the water tower, where Taylor Pete was replenishing them. Mick sent Blue into the house, and shut the door.

  They fought the fires all day.

  Mick had never been so hot and thirsty in his life. He felt as though he had been breathing flames, and his lungs ached inside his chest. From head to foot he became as black as Taylor Pete, and Taylor Pete became even blacker than himself. They all looked like devils from hell, with wild eyes staring out from their faces, and you could hardly tell who was Stemple, who was Betty, and who was Granpa. At the water tower they took cups of water, gulped them down, and then poured more cups over their heads and clothes. You had to keep yourself soaked.

  The dreadful ordeal only ended in the early evening, when the wind quite suddenly changed and drove the fire back upon itself. The people found themselves looking out over a desolate landscape of blackened stumps, with a great cloud of black smoke hanging above it like a scene from some apocalyptic battlefield.

  Granpa came and stood beside Mick, who was leaning on a rake, begrimed from head to foot, and utterly exhausted. ‘You should have seen yourself turning up on that bike between the walls of smoke,’ said Granpa. ‘It was like something from a movie. Like bloody Steve McQueen.’ Then he gestured at the blackened and smoking land, and said, ‘You may not believe this, son, but all that’s damned good for the farm. That’s how mother nature feeds herself. You missed something pretty wonderful, though.’

  ‘What did I miss?’

  ‘The animals. They came charging past. The roos, the wallabies, you’d never think we had so many of ’em. And that perentie, the one that gave you that weal, he came rushing by on his hind legs like he was going for a medal.’

  ‘I’m sorry I ran away, Granpa.’

  ‘Hell,’ replied Granpa, ‘everyone runs away, son. It’s how we return that means something. You couldn’t have improved on that.’

  DUST ON HIS KNEES

  BETTY AND STEMPLE left the day before Mick did, in Stemple’s ute. They were going to take the great coastal highway down to Perth, and there they were going to set about their scheme for getting on the road as musicians. It would be a long but beautiful drive, and they’d be taking turns at the wheel, talking about the years to come, dreaming aloud of travelling all over Australia with their vanload of amplifiers and instruments, playing in bars and clubs, and then at concert halls and festivals, until one day they would be sending their gear off in a truck while they travelled in planes. As they drove away from that Martian landscape, there was not one moment when they doubted their destiny.

  Mick wrote Betty a little note, saying, Dear Betty, Thank you for all the education. Mick, and left it on her bed.

  When Betty found it, she came out and hugged him tearfully. It was lovely to smell her scent of lavender again. She said, ‘I want to tell you something. Just between you and me. Promise you won’t pass it on?’

  Mick nodded.

  ‘Promise with silver bells and pink ribbons? Promise, promise, promise?’

  He nodded again, and Betty whispered, ‘If you’d been a few years older, Stemple wouldn’t have stood a chance. I’d have chosen you any day. You know that, don’t you?’

  Mick had not known it, but he felt his heart lift.

  ‘It’s not your fault being young,’ said Betty, ‘it’s my fault being old.’

  She stood up and kissed him on the forehead, saying, ‘You’re my ideal man, you are.’

  And for many years to come, Betty remained Mick’s ideal woman.

  Later on, Stemple said to Mick, ‘Thanks for the scar, mate. Every man needs a scar left over from fighting over a good woman. You did me a favour.’

  Betty and Stemple departed in a tall plume of dust, tooting their horn and waving out of the windows,
on their long journey into the future. That evening Jimmy Umbrella cooked up garfish so that Mick could have the pleasure of the green bones for the last time, and afterwards he took the bones and fried them up until they were deliciously crisp, so Mick and his grandfather could crunch their way through them. At the end of the meal, Granpa gave Mick his first little tot of Bundy and said, ‘Don’t tell your mum.’ It burned its way down Mick’s throat and into his stomach, and he felt a little strange almost straight away. For a moment it seemed that he was a man, in companionable silence with another man.

  ‘You’ve always got a home here, son,’ said Granpa. ‘You remember that. See if you can bring your mum out here sometime. It might help. I’ll make sure that Taylor Pete keeps the bike running. And by the way, I’ve got no one else to leave this station to. I don’t know if you’re interested. Think about it.’ He looked away and added, ‘The quack thinks I’ve got a bad ticker.’

  At bedtime Granpa stood up and went to fetch something, and gave it to Mick. It was very badly wrapped, so Mick knew his grandfather had done it. Mick tore the paper off, and found Tom Quilty’s The Drover’s Cook and Other Verses.

  ‘When you read that, try and imagine me reading it,’ said Granpa. ‘That’s how I want you to remember me.’

  On the flyleaf was written: To My Best Mate Mick, With Love and Thanks, Granpa.