The Wild Australia Stories

Chapter 8

Chapter 8

Charlie grew stronger each day, and as her strength grew, so did her willingness to talk about life back home in Currajong. She was a born storyteller. ‘Brumby’s Run is simply the most beautiful place on earth,’ she told Sam. ‘Just wait until I show you. A thousand wild acres in the shadow of Balleroo Range, half an hour’s drive from town. At its highest ridge line, on the edge of the national park, you might as well be on the roof of the world. It’s magic. The air is magic. The view is magic.’ Charlie’s eyes shone with a vitality Sam hadn’t seen before. Her voice took on a compelling quality. ‘To the north there’s Maroong Mountain, a granite monolith like Uluru. Parts of it are covered with cypress pine forests. That sort of disguises it, but it’s bigger than Uluru; almost twice as big.’ Sam tried to picture it. ‘There are rock pools with rare frogs at the top. I love frogs.’

‘Who knew?’ said Sam with a smile, looking around the amphibian-themed hospital room.

‘When it rains, streams spill off the bluff, turning the rock to molten silver, and there are permanent waterfalls as well. Balleroo is an Aboriginal word for rain god. I’ll take you there in spring when the snows melt. Show you the platypus in Snake Creek, and the lyrebirds at Wagtail Gully, and the Powerful Owl nest in the hollow candlebark above the home dam. God, I miss it.’ Telling stories seemed to settle Charlie, helped alleviate what Sam sensed to be a growing homesickness. Sam spent whole afternoons listening to tales of brumbies and musters and rodeos. ‘When I was twelve,’ said Charlie, ‘I got lost chasing steers in the foothills. Had to camp alone overnight near the creek, and I swear I saw a panther come down to drink.’

‘A panther?’ asked Sam. ‘How?’

‘Oh, there are panthers in the mountains all right. Some say they’re descended from mascots released during World War II by visiting American servicemen.’ Charlie smiled. ‘Of course, I was just a kid. It might have been a big wild cat. We do get some whoppers around Balleroo.’

‘You were allowed to go off by yourself at twelve?’ asked Sam.

‘Sure. Went on my first muster when I was ten. I was a pretty feral kid.’ It was hard to imagine this frail sister as feral. ‘Half the time Mum never knew where I was, or what I was doing. Wagged school as often as I went.’

What a life. The thought of that much freedom was intoxicating. Charlie had more independence at ten than Sam did now. Faith had been, and still was, a helicopter mum. Sam’s eighteenth birthday had so far made little difference.

Sam was torn between love and frustration every time she thought of Faith. She knew Faith had added Valium to her daily pill cocktail. To calm my anxiety, she’d said. Well if that was its purpose, the drug was a dismal failure. Faith, always highly strung, now seemed to live on the rim of hysteria. Sam had been keeping informal track of the stash of tablets in the upstairs bathroom. They were disappearing faster than ever before. Perhaps she should tell her father? But Dad could be so judgemental where Mum was concerned. Best not give him anything that could be used as ammunition.

Sam surprised herself by beginning to cry. Her mask served as a shield, so Charlie didn’t immediately notice. Perhaps she could stem the tears in time – she didn’t want to explain to her sister, didn’t know how to explain.

Charlie extended a fragile arm and took her hand. ‘What’s wrong?’

Too late. Sam’s words came all in a rush. ‘Your life sounds so perfect, idyllic …’ she said. ‘I wish I was you.’

Charlie squeezed her hand with newfound force. ‘That’s the nicest thing anybody ever said to me.’ Her expression grew puzzled. ‘And the silliest. I’m half dead. Bald. Stuck in Melbourne for another two months, or even longer. When I do get home, I’m not supposed to have contact with pets. I live on a bloody cattle station, and I’m not supposed to have contact with animals. How’s that going to work? Tambo’s probably half-starved or cleared off with the brumbies. Mum’s broke, and you wish you were me.’

‘You’ve had freedom,’ argued Sam. ‘An authentic life. I’d forfeit a lot to be able to say that. I’ve been so protected, it feels like I haven’t lived.’

Charlie released Sam’s hand. ‘I haven’t asked you much about yourself. You’ve been so interested in me. Maybe I’ve been rude. Truth is, I didn’t much feel like hearing about your big house and rich friends and fancy school. I don’t blame you or anything; I’m happy for you. But Mum and me, we’ve had some really tough times. I sometimes wished she’d given me away to the posh family, instead of you.’

‘You wouldn’t have liked it,’ Sam assured her. ‘Believe me. My mum would drive you mad.’

‘My mum already has,’ said Charlie. ‘You don’t know her.’

A twinge of bitterness caught in Sam’s throat. That was hardly her fault.

Charlie continued, oblivious. ‘She makes a big show of all her herbal concoctions, but she drinks like a fish, smokes like a chimney and blows what’s left over on the pokies. And the men? Damn, there’ve been that many of them. None of them lasted, of course.’ Charlie looked sad and angry at the same time. ‘Mum loves me, don’t get me wrong, but she’s dysfunctional as hell.’

‘My mum takes pills,’ said Sam, like it was some sort of contest for who had the worst mother. ‘That’s just as bad. She’s kind of clingy and cold at the same time. And Dad doesn’t even live with us.’

‘So your folks have split up?’ asked Charlie.

‘No, Dad’s an ambassador. He’s lived in Dubai for the last three years.’

Charlie whistled approvingly. ‘Some cushy job. Why didn’t you and your mum go too?’

‘It’s like living in an oven for eight months of the year, and women don’t have much freedom. Mum refuses to live over there, and I can’t blame her.’ This wasn’t the entire truth. Sam had witnessed enough blazing rows between her parents over the years to guess there might be more to the separate living arrangements. ‘But Dad went anyway, and sort of forgot about me. We speak on the phone sometimes, but I only see him twice a year.’

‘At least you have a dad,’ said Charlie. ‘Mine was a ratbag. Shot through when Mum was pregnant.’ She stopped short.

‘Um . . . that ratbag would be my birth father too, remember?’ said Sam. They burst out laughing.

‘Listen to us,’ said Charlie. ‘We’re a pair of jealous bitches.’

‘We should do the prince and the pauper thing,’ said Sam. ‘We should swap lives.’

Charlie suddenly knelt up on the bed and yanked out the tube attached to her central line. Amber fluid spattered across the white hospital spread. With a deft twist she tossed her headscarf to the floor, exposing an ugly red rash. Her inflamed scalp looked as thin as eggshell. She spread her pale arms high and wide above her head, as if in supplication to some terrible god. The dramatic pose accentuated her wasted frame and gaunt features.

‘I think people might spot the difference,’ said Charlie. ‘Don’t you?’