Читать книгу Forest Spirit - David Laing - Страница 12

It rained for two days. Jars had hoped the storm would last; that it would flood the track that led to the highway; that it would swell the creeks, making them impassable. Then she would have an excuse. She wouldn’t have to leave, or, at the very least, her departure would be delayed. That would give her hope. Now the sky’s grey wetness had given way to a clear blue.

‘Make sure you’ve got all your things,’ Ms Barnard told her during an early breakfast. ‘Be ready to leave within the hour. We have to be at the airport by noon.’

Jars went to her room and packed her clothes, then, head lowered and eyes fixed to the floor, she walked into the living room. She stood in front of Mr and Mrs Henderson, case in hand.

Without saying anything, Mrs Henderson threw her arms around her. ‘We’ll keep in touch,’ she said, her voice quivering. ‘It’s not really goodbye.’

Mr Henderson, hat in hand, shifted from one foot to the other. ‘That’s right,’ he said, ‘now, off you go and don’t worry too much. Things will work out just fine. You’ll see.’

Jars lifted her eyes briefly, fighting tears. ‘Yeah,’ she said, ‘maybe they will.’ As she made for the door, she could not help noticing the smug look on Ms Barnard’s face. She’s won, Jars said to herself. She beat me. And Mr H. is wrong. It’s not going to be fine. I just know it.

The Hendersons stood on the veranda watching as Jars and Ms Barnard walked to the car. In the distance, Tom, who was standing near the stables with the other station hands, silently tipped his hat. Jars, her face empty of emotion now, raised her hand and waved goodbye.

Jars opened the car door and climbed into the passenger’s seat. She turned and placed her suitcase on the back seat. Ms Barnard climbed into the driver’s seat. It was time to leave.

The early sun’s rays were already striking like a hot hammer, quickly burning off any wetness that remained in the soil. A swirling vaporous grey cloud hovered like a blanket over the ground. Ms Barnard started the car and drove out of the yard, past the sheds and the stockyards, and past the enclosures where the wallabies stood and the birds perched, watching Jars leave.

The homestead disappeared from view as they drew near the thick scrub, and in some distant tree the metallic cry of a cockatoo pierced the air. Jars flinched. A bad omen, her mother would have said.

As soon as they hit the bush track, the car began to slide and fishtail in the shaded places where water still lay.

‘It will improve further on,’ Ms Barnard said, more to herself than Jars. Jars laughed inwardly. She didn’t think so; they were heading into seriously wet ground where the sun’s rays hardly ever penetrated the trees and scrub that grew to the edges of the bush track.

They continued on, somehow surviving Ms Barnard’s driving. She accelerated over high rocks instead of slowing, raced through creeks not checking for either depth or a firm bottom, fought the steering when she didn’t have to. No wonder she’s in a sweat, Jars thought. She’s a disaster waiting to happen.

Jars filled the time gazing out of the passenger side window at the birds and the occasional wallaby, wondering if this would be the last time she saw them. When they came upon some grazing buffaloes, she shuddered. Every nerve and muscle in her body tensed. Would she ever get over it? Would the memories ever leave?

From the corners of her eyes, she saw that Ms Barnard was hovering on a state of panic. Her eyes held an insane glaze as she hunched over the steering wheel, wrenching it this way and that. Rivulets of sweat poured down her face. Jars crinkled her nose. A mixed smell of fear and cabbage was wafting across to her from Ms Barnard, whose khaki shirt was now stained dark with perspiration. Jars wound the window down. She needed fresh air.

Except for the occasional moans and squeaking whimpers coming from Ms Barnard’s throat, they drove in silence. At last they came to the metallic grey road that was the Stuart Highway.

They drew to a halt. Ms Barnard let out a sigh and slumped over the wheel. ‘Lucky,’ she said, ‘it’s a miracle we made it.’ She leant back, stretching and swivelling her neck in an attempt to relieve the tension in her tight muscles. She lifted her hand and looked at her watch. ‘It’s past ten o’clock. We’ve lost time, but it’s all smooth sailing from here on. We ought to make it.’

Jars didn’t know whether she was being spoken to or not. She didn’t reply.

Ms Barnard gave Jars a quick glance, her thin lips stretching into a vague smile. ‘I realise we were planning to purchase some clothes for you, something decent to travel in, but I’m afraid that won’t be possible now. There’s no time. I’m aware that you were provided with funds to buy new clothes, but unfortunately you’ll just have to make do with what you’re wearing.’ She sniffed as she glanced towards Jars. ‘Such as it is.’

Jars shrugged without replying and wound the window up. Clothes? What did they matter? She had already lost all that she really cared for.

They sped along the bitumen highway towards Darwin Airport. Jars stared straight ahead, eyes fixed on the road. They ate up the miles.

It was nearly eleven-thirty by the time they got to the airport car park. Ms Barnard lost no time. She jumped out of the car and hurried ahead towards the lounge and ticketing area. ‘Quickly now,’ she called over her shoulder, ‘keep up, we’re late.’

Jars, almost running, followed. As soon as they were indoors Jars wanted to retrace her steps; she desperately wanted to leave. She did not belong here. Not among all these people, who had taken care to dress for their journey. They wanted to be there. She had been forced to leave against her will. They had a purpose, a reason. She did not.

Clutching her battered suitcase, Jars looked down at herself – stained jeans, old flannel shirt, thongs. She felt out of place; maybe she was wrong back there when Ms Barnard mentioned clothes, because right now she felt tacky and out of place, like a starling lost among a flock of parrots. ‘Ms Barnard,’ she called out to her back. ‘Do you think we could find some place around here where I could buy those clothes … to look better?’

Ms Barnard, without slowing, barked a reply. ‘Don’t be silly. You know very well we’re running behind time. Just pray that they’ve held your seat.’

They came to the ticketing area. Ms Barnard, breathing heavily, approached and began talking to a male uniformed attendant. Jars stood at a distance, shoulders slumped. The attendant, fresh-faced and smiling, called out to her. ‘Just pop your case on the scales’. He glanced at her ticket. ‘Jacinta. Nice name. Now, here’s your ticket for seat allocation. And don’t worry, one of the flight attendants will help you with that and anything else you’re not sure about.’

Sitting in the departure lounge next to Ms Barnard, Jars saw her plane through a viewing window. It was a jet. She stared at it. It was so big. Not like the few aircraft she had seen flying over the cattle station. They were small and insignificant, like distant birds.

Jars shifted in her seat, hearing the muffled conversations and occasional laughter of the other passengers, catching the hint of their perfumes and lotions. The general smells of a crowd. Without meaning to, her thoughts drifted to Jacana Station – the gamey odours of the cattle and horses, the healthy sweat of the station workers, the aroma of her mother’s cooking. She shifted again in her seat and waited.

A microphone crackled, interrupting her thoughts, then a voice announced, ‘This is the first call for all passengers travelling on flight 234 to Melbourne. Passengers may board now.’

‘That’s you,’ Ms Barnard said. ‘Walk through that door marked exit. A crew member wil take you to the plane.’

The sun, now low in the sky, had not lessened its intensity. Its rays shimmered on the concrete runway. Ignoring the heat, Jars, accompanied by a male attendant, made her way to the waiting plane, her steps heavy, mechanical.

‘Welcome aboard young lady. Do you have your seat allocation?’ a flight attendant, who was checking each passenger’s details, asked. Jars showed her. The flight attendant, who wore a perky hat and sleek blue uniform, inspected her clipboard. ‘Ah, yes, Jacinta Kelly. Going through to Burnie I see. Well, don’t worry, we’ll look after you.’ She directed Jars to her seat, then turned to the next passenger.

Jars found herself sitting next to an elderly man, feather haired and dressed in a business suit. ‘Hi,’ he began, ‘name’s Lucky. In the selling game, I am. What’s yours – your name, I mean?’ Without waiting for an answer, he continued. ‘Might as well get to know each other, eh? Long trip and all that.’ He thrust out a hand.

She forced a smile and shook his hand. ‘They call me Jars.’

‘Great. Pleased to meetcha. Hey, you can have the window seat. View out there’s better than the one in here.’ He unbuckled his seatbelt, waiting for Jars to shuffle into the aisle. He then rose, making way for her to take the new seat.

Lucky continued to talk, but Jars barely heard him as she gazed out the window, watching as people in the viewing area waved their last goodbyes. And then she realised: this would be her final view of the Northern Territory. Her throat constricted and turned wood-chip dry. She had never felt so lonely.

She rested her head on the back of the seat, half listening to Lucky, as well as the whispering drones and occasional laughter of the other passengers. ‘Hey, Jars.’ She felt her shoulder shake. It was Lucky. ‘You were miles away. You had better do your seatbelt up. We’re about to take off.’

How can this be happening, she asked herself as she fastened her belt? In a plane? Flying … to a place … to people she didn’t know? Her thoughts turned to her parents and brother. With a guilty feeling of dismay, she found that already their images were starting to fade in her mind. Even Mr & Mrs H. and Tom seemed distant memories now that she had left them behind. She bit her lip. For some reason she no longer liked who she was.

After a short time, the flight attendant, who had shown Jars where to sit, appeared with a steel trolley laden with cardboard containers. ‘Food,’ she said with a sunny smile. She leant over, and in one motion released the tray from the back of the front seat and placed the meal in front of her. ‘Next stop is Tullamarine Airport, Melbourne. That’s where you change planes for the Burnie flight. There’ll be a short wait in Melbourne, but don’t worry, we’ll make sure you don’t get lost.’

Jars toyed with her food, which, as far as she could make out, was a concoction of tomato, egg and something green. Finally, she pushed it away.

‘Not hungry?’ she heard Lucky say.

She swiveIled her head towards him. ‘No. Can’t eat it.’

Lucky nodded, as though understanding. ‘And did I hear right? The attendant mentioned something about Burnie. You going on to Tasmania?’

Barely whispering, Jars explained. ‘I’m going to a place called Cray Bay, to live with my uncle and his family.’

‘Is that so? Mmm, I know of it. It’s a little fishing viIlage on the west coast, not far from the high country. Very interesting. Going to Tassie myself as a matter of fact. Close to where you’ll be living. I’ve got some business to do there. Might even get to Cray Bay.’ He chuckled. ‘You never know, our paths might even cross again.’

Jars didn’t reply. Hoping that Lucky would take the hint, she leant back once again and closed her eyes.

‘What’s up?’ Lucky asked. ‘Somethin’ bothering you? Yep, I can tell. Your face tells me you’re a bit worried about something or other. I know ’cause I’ve been trained in that sorta thing, readin’ body language and all that. Part and parcel of my job.’

‘It’s … it’s …’ Jars opened her eyes and sat forward, then suddenly, without knowing why, she found herself telling Lucky what had happened to her. ‘I miss them,’ she concluded.

‘Miss them? You mean your family?’

‘My animals too. Who’s going to look after them now that I’m gone? I was the only one who really knew them – understood what they needed. I was the only one … the only one to – to …’ Her throat constricted and the words refused to come. She quickly turned away, resting her head on the window. She closed her eyes, hiding the sudden mistiness that had clouded over them. As she did so, Lucky placed a blanket over her legs. Soon, she slept.

The rest of the journey was completed in a smoky kind of haze, as though she were half awake and half dreaming. The charging buffalo, the crash and the piercing screams, the blood and the calls of the cockatoos; all clumped together attacking her mind. The old man in the cave was there too – the ghostly figure with the strange words.

‘Boy, you can sure sleep,’ Lucky said when she opened her eyes. ‘You’re awake just in time, too. We’re about to land.’

Jars rubbed her eyes. ‘Do you mean we’re in Melbourne already?’

‘That’s right. When we get there one of the flight attendants will take you to the Burnie departure area. I’d take you there myself except I’ve got to meet with somebody as soon as we touch down.’

In the bustling airport, the world was a blur. With the help of the attendant, Jars found a seat in the waiting area. She sat and looked around. The clock on the wall told her it was 6.05 pm, and the lounge began to fill with other travellers. An overhead television was broadcasting today’s news.

An hour later, the flight to Burnie was announced. Lucky appeared from nowhere. He helped her to her feet, then guided her towards the departure gate. He followed as she boarded the plane.

At 7.35 pm, the plane touched down in Tasmania. She undid her seatbelt, rose and got into a line behind the other passengers ready to disembark. She wondered where Lucky was.

‘Wynyard at last,’ she heard a man say, and her stomach fluttered. Wynyard? How could that be? She was supposed to land in Burnie. Had she caught the wrong plane? Was she at the right airport? Her eyes darted from side to side; then she saw the sign through a window:

BURNIE AIRPORT

Relieved, she shrugged and eventually exited the plane. She took a deep breath. She had arrived.

Jars shivered. The evening air was cold. Blowing on her hands for warmth, she made her way towards the airport buildings, a mixture of fear and excitement wrestling in her belly.

‘Jacinta, over here.’ The voice, a woman’s, came from a group of people standing near a doorway marked arrivals.

Then she saw them, two adults whom she presumed were her aunt and uncle. They held a single sheet of cardboard in front of them, each grasping an edge:

JARS KELLY.

WLCOME TO TASSIE!

As she entered the arrivals section where her aunt and uncle were waiting, she caught a glimpse of Lucky, who must have been one of the first to leave the plane. He was hurrying from the building with two men, one on each side. Both were dressed in grey suits and dark sunglasses. Through the glass exit doors, she could see that they were heading towards a clearly marked car. She frowned. Strange. Why would Lucky be leaving the airport with two police officers?