Texas by Sarah Hay Page B

didn’t acknowledge her until Texas had moved away. She was disappointed that John had interrupted their conversation.
    â€˜Laura,’ he said as she started to turn away. ‘Early start tomorrow. Heading across the river to pick up some gear.’
    â€˜What time?’ she asked.
    â€˜Leave about four-thirty.’
    â€˜Okay. Great.’
    She opened the flywire door into her quarters. Perhaps she would see where Texas was working. As she stepped inside, she remembered the sound of his voice.
    V
    Laura moved self-consciously around the kitchen. Taking the bread from the toaster and placing it on a plate, the harsh sound of the knife scraping the surface and the bright neon light; assaults on the senses which expect to be lulled at that time of the day by darkness and quiet. Aware of the other person in the room and the intimacy of the moment when he
    Texas asked: ‘How do you have your tea?’ A question that somehow seemed inappropriate.
    Headlights shone a path through the bush and they flushed out a kangaroo and the slinking flash of a dingo. They stopped in front of a pair of wide metal gates joined at the centre by thick links of chain. Instead of waiting for her to open it, John stepped out of the vehicle and walked along the fence line which was coming into focus with the bright edge of light threading through a thin layer of cloud in the east. A bird called from the treetop, a pure piping melody amplified by the still morning air, and it went on and on and then stopped and others began. Dove calls followed each other, like a dance, weaving in and out of the trees. And then over the top another chorus began, a crazed gathering of sound, echoing, and gold light shone into the leaf canopy revealing a pair of blue-feathered birds. John disappeared into the undergrowth and the sun striped the leaf litter and the sticks that crunched beneath her feet. Up ahead, she could hear the sound of his footsteps and she followed their direction. At times she thought the Australian bush looked barely alive with its broken branches and trees with no leaves, but, unlike the English deciduous, they were stark timber sculptures, bleached grey by the sun, which perhaps with the next wind or storm would be turned into mulch. Suddenly noise filled the spaces, of heavy animals crashing and bush breaking and dust dense like fog, and through it she caught a glimpse of cattle rushing towards her and then they veered away and the scrub closed behind them. The cattle had kicked up fine grey sand, and shafts of light fell through the gaps in the trees and caught the dust as it stayed suspended in the aftermath. She could see the silhouette of the cattleman. He was in the middle of a clearing, bending over something, and behind him was a trough and the strained corner posts of two lines of fences, meeting at right angles, and beyond, a low grassy hill. Her boots sank into the soft sand, pitted and potholed by the movement of many cattle. She realised on reaching him that he was standing over an injured calf. He straightened and pushed up the rim of his hat when he saw her.
    â€˜Bloody dingoes.’
    She looked down and the calf ’s head moved and then the horror. That it was still alive although its backside had been eaten.
    â€˜Grab my gun will you, it’s behind the seat.’
    She walked back to the vehicle, worrying there might still be cattle among the trees, but the bush was silent, even of birds.
    The lever on the seat would not release, and after several attempts to get it to come forward, she thought she was going to have to return without the gun. The sun was warm through the window and she was beginning to sweat. She gave it another try and it flung forward and the gun lay there behind the seat in which she had sat. It was in a leather case and carefully she lifted it out and carried it across the sand. John was investigating the trough and she handed it to him and then walked over to the fence