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Doing the reading

The Book Signing

With Vanessa Radnidge, my lovely publisher from Hachette

I gave myself a month-long break. During that time, the imaginary landscape of my last novel retreated into the distance, allowing a new one to emerge. I mulled a lot – in the garden, in the car, in the bath. I read poetry. I breathed life into shadowy characters, and tried different personalities on them for size, like a child with paper dolls and dresses. I played the ‘What if?’ game. Closing my eyes, I grew to know the Red Gum flanked river, so central to my narrative.

And gradually the story took form. Obstacles stand between novelists and their new narratives. Home made obstacles. What if I can’t find my voice? What if my protagonist is boring? What if the conflict just isn’t as interesting as I think it is? So, part of preparing is giving yourself pep-talks. Trust your imagination. Trust your characters. Doubts will stem the flow of ideas. Believe in yourself as a writer. Your story deserves it.

Here’s an excerpt from The Four Quartets by TS Eliot, the poem that helped inspire Kingfisher.

‘I do not know much about gods; but I think that the river
Is a strong brown god—sullen, untamed and intractable,
Patient to some degree, at first recognised as a frontier;
Useful, untrustworthy, as a conveyor of commerce;
Then only a problem confronting the builder of bridges.
The problem once solved, the brown god is almost forgotten
By the dwellers in cities—ever, however, implacable.
Keeping his seasons and rages, destroyer, reminder
Of what men choose to forget. Unhonoured, unpropitiated
By worshippers of the machine, but waiting, watching and waiting.’

Related articles

• T.S. Eliot Continues to Inspire (silverbirchpress.wordpress.com)

Welcome to Rural Fiction Day at The Scranton Page Turner.  Today we’ll be discussing two contemporary novels and one classic novel.

Eden Close
Anita Shreve

Eden Close is Ms Shreve’s first novel and my favorite.  Eden Close, the title’s character is a blind women who endured a violent act at a young age.  Living in a battered house on farmland, Eden grow up sheltered by her overly domineering mother.  Back into Eden’s life comes her childhood friend, Andrew.  After a nearly twenty year absence, Andrew returns to complete a matter of family business.  While  back in Eden’s life, Andrew attempts to uncover the mystery surrounding Eden’s life and the feelings he had for her slowly return as well.

Part mystery, part romance. There’s a bit of Gothic to this story as well.  A small inkling reminds me just a bit of Emily Bronte’s Wuthering Heights.  I know.  I know.  That’s a huge amount of praise to lay on a contemporary novel.  But there is that feeling to it, at least for me.

North of Hope
Jon Hassler

Wow!
As I’m turning back the pages of my memory to find the treasures that hold special meaning for me, I stop for a moment and reflect on the time spent in northern Minnesota, with a priest who has been reassigned to his hometown.

Frank Healy is having a crisis of conscience and he hopes by returning to his northern Minnesota, hometown, he can recover some of the zeal he once felt.  There appears to be a running theme thus far in the two books I’ve discussed here.

And here comes that theme:
Man returns home to discover woman he was once in love with.

In North of Hope, Jon Hassler writes about Frank Healy and Libby Girard.  Frank returns to serve his hometown folk and the contingent of Ojibwa Native Americans.  As Father Healy becomes drawn further into Libby Girard’s life again, a tumultuous life at that and one that is rapidly falling apart.  As Libby is dealing with her turmoil, she clings to the only thing that is keeping her grounded.  Frank Healy.  This only causes more conflict in Healy as he realizes that his still loves Libby and upon coming to this understanding he starts to question whether this is the root of the crisis that returned him to his roots.  While reading North of Hope I saw parallels to Colleen McCullough’s The Thorn Birds.

North of Hope, though bleak and full of despair, is ultimately a book I feel is well worth reading.  Jon Hassler is an author of many talents.  In another’s hands this book could have derailed, but with Hassler at the helm, it was a thoughtful book.

Different in some ways from Eden Close , but in many ways similar.   

Huckleberry Finn
Mark Twain

I could very well have included Huck Finn in my Banned Books post as it has crossed many a list during its time.  Huckleberry Finn is a follow up and a branch of the same tree as Tom Sawyer.  I see Huck Finn as more rural than Tom Sawyer as much of the book takes place on the grand Mississippi River.  I love rereading classic books now that I’m not being told to read them.  One of the biggest hurdles I believe that is being placed in young reader’s paths is being given a list of books they must choose from.  The challenge with that approach is that some young readers may not be at the same learning point where others are.  While it is admirable that schools do give choice, some of the reading lists are antiquated today.

I do believe we should be exposed to everything, but perhaps we should look at the individual and see where each student is before arbitrarily handing out a list of books.  I can clearly recall in high school not wanting to read and not taking any pleasure in the activity because I was told I had to read from a prescribed list of books and to this day there are several that I have a severe allergic reaction to whenever they turn up.  One such book is Steinbeck’s Grapes of Wrath.  The funny thing about this book is that it’s the only Steinbeck I can’t and won’t read.  I’ve read just about every other book by Steinbeck.

Okay, as is the case with my other blog, Wisdom and Life, I have a tendency sometimes to get off track.  Let’s see if I can refocus.  What was I talking about?  Oh yes:
Huck Finn

Why has the book been on so many Banned Book lists?  There is an undercurrent of racism some say.  Is it racist?  I can’t answer that.  That point is up to the reader to decide.  It’s one of the reasons I feel we should read anything and everything that jumps out at us.  How will we decide what is and what isn’t, if we are not exposed to everything.  Huck Finn and Tom Sawyer are seminal books in American literature and to say someone shouldn’t have the opportunity to read something, well I think that’s a crime against literature.

Maybe.  No!  No maybe about it.  I am biased.  I’ve been involved with the written word since I was ten years old, first writing fiction then reading then getting paid to read, first at RJ Julia Booksellers for over five years and now at Scranton Library.  So go ahead and call me biased.  I do believe we should not be stopping people from choosing what to read.  Huck Finn is quintessentially American; and as such it should stay on everyone’s reading list.

Until next time…
…Turn the page.
–
Chris

 Barbara Hannay-

 Format- ebook

 Source- Review copy/ netgalley

 Publisher- Penguin AU

 Publication date- 25th July 2012

 Synopsis- Three women … two families … one secret …
When Zoe, restless black sheep of the Porter family, discovers that her biological father is a North Queensland cattleman, Peter Fairburn, her deep desire to meet him takes her from inner-city Brisbane to a job as a stockcamp cook.
Zoe’s mother, Claire, is wrestling with guilt over Zoe’s discovery. She swears Zoe to secrecy, fearing that the truth could ruin the career of her high-profile politician husband. But when she is forced to confront her past, Claire also reassesses her marriage.
Virginia Fairburn is happily married to Peter, but she’s always lived with the shadow of the other woman her husband loved and lost.
On the muster at Mullinjim, Zoe meets brooding cattleman Mac McKinnon, who knows from painful experience that city girls can’t cope in the bush. Every instinct tells Mac that Zoe is hiding something. As the pressure to reveal her mother’s secret builds, Zoe fears she must confide in Mac or burst.
The truth has the potential to destroy two families. Or can it clear the way for new beginnings?

Review-  Barbara Hannay is a well-established romance author for Harlequin and despite many of her stories featuring the Australian outback; Zoe’s Muster is the first of her novels to be marketed purely in the Australian rural romance domain.

In Zoe’s Muster, Hannay clearly displays how proficiently she creates a steamy love story amidst the backdrop of Australian’s rugged land. This story explores various character viewpoints: Zoe, her love interest, Mac, her mother Claire and her biological father’s wife Virginia which creates a multidimensional view of the issues facing each of these characters.

I immediately aligned myself with Zoe, twenty-eight years old and running a successful high tea (and cupcakes) business in Brisbane, trying to live up to the expectation of her politician father, Rex Porter. When she accidently stumbles across medical forms which states her parents blood types are completely at odds with her- Zoe and Claire must come to terms with the discovery that Rex isn’t Zoe’s biological father. Claire’s brief affair with cattleman Peter Fairburn up in the northern Queensland before she resumed a relationship with Rex and hastily married is the story behind Zoe’s conception.

Zoe’s curiosity about her father and siblings she’d never known motivates her to accept a job as a cook on Mullinjim farm during a six-week muster. Much to her mother’s dismay, she makes Zoe promise to keep the secret of her lineage until after the election or she will risk Rex’s career. Zoe leaves a friend in charge of her business and arrives at Mullinjim, eager to try bush cooking and to meet her family. She instantly hits it off with her half-brother Luke but is upset by the news of Peter’s heart-attack, though he was recovering steadily. What she doesn’t expect is to be attracted to Luke’s best mate and neighbour Mac McKinnon the brooding, handsome cattleman who seems to take an instant disliking to her. Zoe struggles to keep her secret when Luke (her half-brother!) asks her out on a date and Mac is suspicious of her past.

Hannay cleverly fleshes out each of the characters and provided Zoe and Mac with believable conflicts that keep them from pursuing a serious relationship. Zoe couldn’t bear to get in between Mac and Luke’s friendship with the secret hovering over their heads and Mac could never trust another city girl after his former fiancé broke his heart. But Zoe can’t help be attracted to Mac’s quiet, strong presence and he is drawn in by her adaptive, hard-working approach to the muster that makes her perfect for a cattleman’s wife. And the sexual tension between them? WOW. I couldn’t stop turning the (electronic) pages during those scenes because the emotional and physical connection between Zoe and Mac was clearly expressed and at times, quite moving.

I highly recommend Zoe’s Muster for any romance fans who enjoy strong characterisation, steamy love scenes and a vivid Australian setting. I’m going to hunt down some of Hannay’s former titles because I enjoyed her writing style so much!

4.5/5 rating

 Purchase book @

Fishpond/ Amazon/ Book Depository UK

About the author: Barbara Hannay began writing romance novels after teaching a unit of popular of popular fiction to her Yr 11 class. This was when she read her first Harlequin romance and it was love at first sight. She immediately wanted to write a romance story of her own and her first published novel was Outback Wife and Mother. These days, Barbara’s books are sold all over the world, and have garnered many awards, including the RITA ® award, the Romantic Times Reviewer’s Choice award, as well as Australia’s Romantic Book of the Year award. Barbara lives in tropical North Queensland where she and her writer husband have raised four children.

This book was read as part of the AWW2012 challenge:

When the call went out last November for recommendations of “popular” novels by Australian Women Writers, book bloggers recommended far fewer books in this category than for “literary”, Speculative Fiction/Fantasy/Sci-Fi, Crime and Romance. Yet recent mainstream contemporary fiction has generated the greatest number of reviews for the challenge so far.

Because of the sheer number of books, the broad category of “contemporary” a temptation has been to break down this category into subgenres.

But which books should go where?

In attempting to answer this question I found myself grappling with several more questions.

What’s the best way to recognise “contemporary women’s fiction”? Is this type of fiction “popular”, easy reads, whereas literary fiction is more demanding? Or should a “contemporary” list include literary novels? What about lighter books, commonly known as “Chick Lit”? Should these be counted as a separate sub-genre?

Most contentiously of all, what about novels that focus on the domestic relationship between two people? If it ends happily, or happily for now, should it be considered “romance”, while relationships with a less obvious sense of closure be regarded either as literary or mainstream?

Behind all these questions looms an even larger one. If we let book publishers’ and sellers’ marketing decisions dictate how we categorise books, do we run the risk of making books of literary merit that are “generic” or “popular” in nature less visible to those compiling long lists for literary awards? Equally, do we risk marginalising the “literary”?

In consultation with writers and reviewers on Twitter, I’ve decided to include here novels labelled by reviewers as “chick lit”, as well as books marketed as “rural fiction”, even though some of these novels may include a courtship (which arguably makes them “romance” or books with “romantic elements”). New releases which obviously fall into a generic category such as Fantasy/Speculative Fiction/Sci-Fi, Crime and Romance (where the focus is on the courtship to the virtual exclusion of all other story), as well as books with a historical setting* and those marketed as “literary”, have been tallied elsewhere.

Arguably, though, all are “contemporary” fiction.

Disclaimer: I’ve only read a fraction of these books and only skimmed many of the reviews. Putting the reviews into a format that helps readers looking for recent titles by Australian women – rather than having them try to decipher the Mr Linky boxes of reviews posted on the AWW challenge page – has taken a great deal of time and effort. If some authors object to having their books categorised as “popular” or “women’s fiction”, instead of “literary”, my apologies. Same goes for authors listed previously as “literary” who believe their books also belong here. Any mistakes will gladly be rectified. EL

Tally: 37 books, 90 reviews, 40 reviewers, 12 publishers.

Publishers: Allen & Unwin (9 books, 20 reviews); Random House (9 books, 25 reviews);Hachette (2 books, 5 reviews); Pan Macmillan (2 books, 5 reviews); HarperCollins (3 books, 10 reviews); Penguin (7 books, 16 reviews); Harlequin (3 book, 10 reviews); Simon & Schuster (1 book, 1 review); Indigo Dreams* (1 book, 2 reviews); Joshua Books* (1 book, 1 review); Even Before Publishing* (1 book.1 review).

NB: It’s unclear whether the publishers marked * are independent small presses or vehicles for self-publication.

• Adlerstein, Marion von – The Freudian Slip (Hachette)
  Lisa Walker, Stephanie McGlinchey
• Ahearn, Ali & Ros Baxter – Sister Pact (HarperCollins)
  Tarran Jones Collins Booksellers Edwardstown
• Amin, Manisha Jolie – Dancing to the Flute (Allen & Unwin)
  AustBookshelf
• Booth, Alison – The Indigo Sky. (Random House) – sequel
  Brenda
• Dharmapala, Su – The Wedding Season (Simon & Schuster)
  Steph @ RIASS
• Duncan, Susan ­ The Briny Café. (Random House)
  Denise Imwold
• Evans, Tess – The Memory Tree. (Allen & Unwin)
  Shelleyrae @ Book’d Out
• Fedler, Joanne – The Reunion (Allen & Unwin)
  Monique @WriteNoteReviews, Shelleyrae @Book’dOut
• Foster, Zoe – The Younger Man (Penguin/Michael Joseph) ChickLit
  Michelle Mck
• Groff , Maggie – Mad Men, Bad Girls & Guerrilla Knitters Institute (Pan Macmillan)
  Lisa Walker, Book’d Out, Heather Contemp Myst/Humour
• Ham, Rosalie – There Should Be More Dancing (Random House)
  Coleen Kwan, My Journal, JudiJ
• Heidke, Lisa – Stella Makes Good (Allen
  & Unwin) ChickLit

  Monique @ Write Note, Rachael
  Johns, Bree
  @1girl2manybooks, Paula,
  Book’d
  Out

• Higgins, Fiona – The Mothers’ Group (Allen & Unwin)
  Phillip A. Ellis, Bree @1girl2manybooks, YA Erskine, Monique @ Write Note, Helen
• Hill, Loretta – The Girl in Steel- Capped Boots Random
  House  Rural Fiction

  Danielle
  Binks, Bree
  @1girl2manybooks, Paula,
  Jet Silver, Shelleyrae
  @ Book’d Out, Jenny,
  Monique (scroll
  down), Jenny,  Shelleyrae
  @ Book’d Out

• Jacenko, Roxy – Strictly Confidential (Allen & Unwin) ChickLit

  Peta-Jo

• Johns, Rachael – Jilted Harlequin  Rural Fiction

  @austbookshelf,
  Kylie
  Scott, Shelleyrae
  @ Book’d Out, Bree
  @1girl2manybooks

• Lane, Karly – Morgan’s Law Allen & Unwin Rural Fiction
  Bree @1girl2manybooks, Shelleyrae @Book’dOut
•  Lette , Kathy – The Boy who fell to Earth (Random House)
  Nalini Haynes
• Limerick, Louise – Lucinda’s Whirlwind (Pan Macmillan)
  Book’d Out, AustBookshelf
• MacDonald, Fleur – Purple Roads Allen & Unwin Rural Fiction
  AustBookshelf, @Book’d Out
• McCallum, Fiona – Wattle Creek Harlequin
  Book’d Out, AustBookshelf, Bree @1girl2manybooks
•  McIntosh, Fiona – Lavender Keeper (Penguin)
  Tarran @ Collins Booksellers, Bree 1girl2manybooks, Book’d Out
• McKenna, Helen – The Beach House (Joshua Books)
  Olivia (Indie published?)
• McNamara, Catherine – A divorced lady’s companion to living in Italy (Indigo Dreams Publishing) Contemp/Chick Lit
  Whispering Gums, C Powell
  Contemp/Chick Lit
• Magro, Mandy – Jacaranda (Penguin) Rural Fiction
  AustBookshelf
• Marinelli, Carol – Putting Alice Back Together (Harlequin)
  Marg, Shelleyrae@Book’dOut, R Johns
• Moriarty, Nicola – Free Falling (Random House)
  Bree: review and interview, Stephanie @RIASS Shelleyrae @ Book’d Out Contemp/RomCom
• Nunn, Judy – Tiger Men (Random House)
  Jacqui @MyJournal Saga/Contemp Fiction
• Osborn, Margareta – Bella’s Run Random House Rural Fiction
  Lisa Chappel, Shelleyrae @ Book’d Out, RIASS, Brenda, R Johns
• Palmer, Fiona – The Road Home Penguin Rural Fiction
  AustBookshelf, Brenda, Bree @1girl2manybooks, Shelleyrae @ Book’d
• Rennie, AnnMcCullagh – Under Southern Skies Penguin
  VeganYANerds, Breen @1girl2manybooks,
  AustBookshelf,
  Paula Rural Fiction 2011
• Richell, Hannah – Secrets of the Tides (Hachette)
  Jon Page, Stephanie @ RIASS ContFic/Saga
• Scoullar, Jennifer – Brumby’s Run Penguin
  Bree @1girl2manybooks 
•  Stedman, ML – The Light Between Oceans (Random House)*
  Stephanie @ RIASS, Peta-Jo, Book’d Out
• Trope, Nicole – The Boy Under the Table (Allen & Unwin)*
  @ Book’d Out
• Walker, Lisa – Liar Bird. (HarperCollins) ChickLit
  Bree @1girl2manybooks, Marg, Kate Cuthbert
• Wanmer, Jo – Though the Bud Be Bruised (Even Before Publishing)
  Michelle Dennis Evans

* Shelleyrae of Book’d Out suggests both M L Stedman’s The Light Between
Oceans and Nicole Trope’s  The Boy Under the Table should also be
included in the tally of “historical fiction“, but as that wasn’t obvious to me from my cursory glance at the reviews, they were included here.

Post modified: title and summary paragraph deleted (22/7/12).

Are there any other authors who would prefer not to have their books on this list?

And this is the last time I’ll mention it until next March or so.  Promise.

Don’t Go Down the Bunny Trail – An Easter Horror Story

Little Emily has been waiting patiently for weeks for Easter to arrive. Now there’s just a few hours left, it’s the afternoon before Easter, and she’s really excited, but her daddy’s late coming home from the mill, the sun is setting, and she’s afraid of being home alone when the woods get dark. A scary short story about something strange that’s coming down the bunny trail towards Emily’s house, and she’s not sure if it’s really the Easter Bunny, or if it’s that creepy rabbit from her dad’s horror DVD, or something else the townsfolk whisper about that came to Earth when a fireball fell from the sky one night and landed in the lake at the end of the Bunny Trail.

Scenarios of Alien Visitation

This speculative essay, first published in 1985, provides a wide range of possible explanations for the UFO phenomenon and the reported presence of aliens on Earth.

The essay is in the form of brief notes on many scenarios that, if found to be true, would answer the critical questions: Who are the UFO aliens? Where are they from? Why are they here? What do they want? This book poses many questions and suggests many possibilities, but it provides no definitive answers.

These scenarios are meant to stimulate further thinking about the UFO phenomenon. Some of the ideas presented are strange, even bizarre, and not likely to be found in a typical UFO book. This book will change your thinking about UFOs.

Little Emily has been waiting patiently for weeks for Easter to arrive. Now there’s just a few hours left, it’s the afternoon before Easter, and she’s really excited, but her daddy’s late coming home from the mill, the sun is setting, and she’s afraid of being home alone when the woods get dark. A scary short story about something strange that’s coming down the bunny trail towards Emily’s house, and she’s not sure if it’s really the Easter Bunny, or if it’s that creepy rabbit from her dad’s horror DVD, or something else the townsfolk whisper about that came to Earth when a fireball fell from the sky one night and landed in the lake at the end of the Bunny Trail.

Length: 5,275 words. The approximate print length is 21 pages.

This special promotion will last five days, through December 18th.

“The Camber Horror”

For twenty years Steve and Kathy had lived in the same sagging old wood house along a seldom used highway that twisted endlessly through the coastal range of Western Oregon. Pine-covered mountains rose up either side of the isolated valley they shared with a few other families. The hills were always dark with shadows and seemed to hold secrets from outsiders. But now something weird was growing in the woods, and people were disappearing.

Buy it here:

http://amzn.com/B005OT3WU2

“The Recluse”

“I always assumed that my extreme ugliness was the principal reason why I was kept secluded from the world. Such unprecedented physical repulsiveness demanded that only a few individuals whose lives were dedicated to my care and upbringing could be allowed to look upon my deformities. I accepted the logic of this without question, never suspecting that perhaps darker matters concerning familial degeneracy and certain violations of natural law might have played a greater part in my being kept eternally shut away in the labyrinthine halls and towers of the rotting old castle.”

Buy it here:

http://amzn.com/B005P9Z4Y8

“The Crickets”

Night after night, Bill Kruger is alone, in a run down cabin in the hills of Western Oregon, trying to hang onto his sanity. Things have not been going well. First he lost his job when the lumber mill closed down. Then his girl friend Cassie left him. And now his buddy’s entire family has been murdered. On top of all that, he’s injured his ankle and can barely walk. Outside, in the darkness beyond his screen door, phantom shapes move about, menacing him. He’s just about had enough of them — whatever they are — and those damn crickets with their endless chirping. There’s a loaded shotgun standing in the corner and he may just have to use it.

Buy it here:

http://amzn.com/B005PP4Z2O

I’ll be creating more Kindle editions of my work, if my eye sight holds up.  Proofreading is very hard on the eyes, but then so are typos.

You are currently touring regional Queensland and New South Wales for your new novel A Changing Land. How are you finding the tour and the responses of people you meet?

As with last year’s tour everyone is extremely welcoming and interested. Last week I covered 900 km for 9 events, including a quick fly into Wagga for a lunch on Saturday-which was a great day. Compared to last year I have noticed that shoppers are certainly more price driven, yet remain very interested in the mechanics of both writing and my job, that of a full time grazier. 
 
Your writing has been described as bush fiction and your two novels as a rural saga. How would you describe your fiction or your personal approach to bush fiction or rural saga writing in The Bark Cutters and A Changing Land?

In these two novels I wanted to explore the emotional attachment that generational landholders have towards their properties. I believed the only way for a reader to feel the cycle of continuity that exists in a generational farming family was to experience a story that traced four generations. The use of an interweaving narrative allowed me to compare and contrast both characters and environment in two distinct time periods while keeping the property Wangallon at the heart of the story: the land is in fact ‘a character’  in the work.  It was only after I completed the first novel that I realised the term saga would be used to classify it.

A Changing Land opens with:
Spring 1987
Wangallon Station
Sarah stared at the headstones, at the ageing monuments silhouetted by the rising moon. The clearing was strangely quiet and she wondered whether the spirits of Wangallon were welcoming her grandfather, Angus, at some other sacred place on the property. Lifting the latch on the peeling wooden gate, she stepped through grass grown long by recent Spring rains.
What makes an engaging opening to a story, or what is an example of one of your favourite story openings and what makes it work so well for you as a reader?

An atmospheric setting will always pique a reader’s interest. As a reader I want to be able to visualise the setting as I read. I want to breathe in this new world and be able to walk around in it.

What have been some of the fun or challenging parts of writing about a family across multiple novels? 

Having not initially planned on writing a sequel I was pleased I did some comprehensive ‘CSI’ type profiling on my original characters. I had copious notes to refer back to when writing A Changing Land and really enjoyed revisiting some of the characters. There is also the sadness of leaving characters behind and then the challenge of creating engaging new characters that spring from the page. With the publication of A Changing Land I feel a little bereft at the loss of my ‘extended’ family.

In a recent blog post, you mentioned your to-read list included novels by authors such as Sara Foster, Helene Young and Lisa Heidke. What kinds of fiction do you most enjoy reading and do you have some favourites?

My favourite author is Hemingway. I admire his sparse prose and powerful themes. On the home front I’ve always steered towards more literary authors; David Malouf, Kate Grenville and Peter Carey. Evocative works that also manage to examine the human condition make for marvelous reading. Although I’ve never been addicted to a particular genre, hosting guest authors on my site means my reading has expanded considerably over the last year, which can only be a positive.  
 
What is one of your favourites stories from childhood, and what made it stand out for you?

I love Beatrix Potter’s Peter Rabbit. He was such a scallyway, always getting into trouble. I wanted to be as adventurous as Peter, however I had to wait a few years before I got my chance. 
 
Did you find your second novel, A Changing Land, easier or more difficult to write than your first novel, The Bark Cutters, and why?

A Changing Land was much easier to write as I already knew the world my story was set in, I knew my environment. I could mentally wander the landscape of the novel and draw a mudmap of the exact location of the Wangallon homestead, river, aboriginal camp and creek and I could visualise my characters talking to each other. It was through them that the plot unfolded a natural progression of the original story. Most importantly I already had both my narrative voice and structure for the work.
 
In the past about two years, there have been a varied range of newly published Australian novelists who are being described as rural novelists, who also live in rural areas scattered around Australia. What are your thoughts on this new range of rural authors and stories?

Every author no matter the genre writes from a specific viewpoint. Our lives are as diverse as Australia’s landscape and the newer stories within the generic term rural spans from the more urbanised chick lit versions to intrigue and mystery. There has been concern about market saturation however I believe a finely crafted novel with universal themes has great appeal no matter the major theme of a particular work.

What is next for your fiction?

I signed another contract with Random House last year and will have a third work in the rural genre coming out in 2012. I also have a contemporary work near completion.

***

More on Nicole Alexander and her fiction can be found at www.nicolealexander.com.au.

The Australian Literature Review
www.auslit.net

In time he walked inside. Seemed he’d walked in on something. The mother and father stood at opposite ends of the kitchen. The father’s face was red. The mother’s wet. They both turned to face the boy. He felt their gazes. Felt an intruder. His mind turned to the dog. The boy wondered about his own fate. How they would get rid of him? On the chopping bock? Probably not.

The father harrumphed. Walked past the boy. Out the door. Blundstones thudding. First heavy on the lino, then hollow on the wooden porch.

The boy closed his eyes. Listened to the father fade away. Raised his eyes to his mother. Saw the imploring face. Clumped his own way across the kitchen floor. Opposite direction to the father. Left the mother with her hand stoppering her mouth.

In his room, the boy sat hidden within the built-in robe. Cradled his clarinet. Thought of the lunchtime lessons he’d missed. Thought of the school music room with its Row Your Boat sing-a-long posters and its wet carpet smell. Thought of the stupid bitch teacher who didn’t know how hard it was. The boy pulled out the reed. Ran his thumbnail the length, creasing a seam into the fibres. Put it in his mouth. Bit hard. Felt the wood tear. Started to chew. Began to unscrew the instrument. Placed the pieces in a pile, next to the long forgotten box of Lego. Studied them. No longer a functional tool, just bits of wood with holes. Smiled. Scrambled onto his knees. Unzipped his fly. Pissed on the dismembered instrument.

The family sat at the kitchen table. Each was silent. Their cutlery clinked against plates. Occasionally a pop emitted from the wood stove.

The boy pushed his Brussels sprout around the plate. The weak leaves falling from the mini cabbage, leaving a trail in the cooling mustard sauce.

The father stood, coughed past a mouthful of silverside. Dumped a pan of briquettes in the stove. Sunk back on his bench with a sigh.

The mother attempted conversation. Referred to an item in the local newspaper. An item of discussion at the supermarket. Surprised the father hadn’t heard. A local boy. Missing. Peter Henderson. Did the father know them?

He nodded. Tough family. Talk old man Henderson was a bit rough round the edges. Boy’s just done a runner.

‘How long’s he been gone?’ the father asked.

The mother thought two days.

‘Be back by tomorrow,’ was the father’s verdict.

They turned their attention to the boy. Did he know the Henderson lad? The boy kept his head bowed. Gave the slightest shrug of his shoulders, which communicated nothing, and squished his Brussels sprout into his mashed potato.

The boy stamped through the ankle-high grass. It was his job to mow the yard but he’d been lax in his chores. Knew he could be. The father, usually a disciplinarian about these things, had been easy of late. Seemed reluctant to enforce anything since he had cut the neck of the dog he no longer wanted. The boy knew of the reluctance and he was going to exploit it. Felt it was his duty to exploit it, felt the father deserved it to be exploited.

And he was angry, the boy. He was angry about everything but most of all he was angry with Miss Albrecht at the moment. Detention again. Teachers were meant to know everything. Be guiding lights. The older he got, the more he knew they were as thick as the mother and father. What good was a fucking music lesson?

He kicked out. Dispersed a cluster of dandelion. Watched the spores float up in the air and felt a sudden sadness at having caused their destruction. He caught a spore in his palm and silently apologised. Apologised for the unintended damage. He put the spore in his pocket for future reference.

The boy found the entry point to the hedge and climbed in. The hedge ran the back length of the property. Three metres high. Two across. He hauled himself up the spine. Emerged at the top, flopping out on the interwoven branches. He spread himself out. He’d seen people make snow angels on the television. This was his hedge angel. His fingers searched through the branches. Found a solid limb. Took hold and rolled to the side. For a moment he was free-falling over the side. Then the branch retracted and he flung softly into the cushioning pine wall. Let himself drop. Landed softly on the balls of his feet. Re-entered and climbed back up. All around him, in his clothes, his hair, his nostrils, the scent of pine. The sound of a car pulling in. The old valiant coughing to a stop. The boy peered through the fern. Begged to be left alone. Could see the mother. Ducked his head.

‘She won’t see you.’

The boy almost tumbled over the side. Regained balance. Edged his way around. The Henderson boy was sat snuggled in the hedge.

‘You’ve runaway,’ the boy said. It was a statement not a question.

Henderson shrugged. He looked pale, cold. His hair was damp.

The boy wriggled out of his school sweater. Handed it over. ‘Why?’

Henderson accepted the sweater. Placed it beside him. ‘Can’t tell, just had to.’

The mother was calling. Had seen the boy’s school bag. Knew he was home.

‘Have to go.’

Henderson shrugged again. ‘Everyone goes.’

‘I’ll be back.’ The boy felt obliged. ‘I’ll bring some food.’ He shimmied down the trunk.

‘Don’t tell anyone.’ Henderson peered down at him.

The boy nodded. 

The boy put the last dish away. Hung the tea towel on the stove. Could hear the tele in the next room. Father watching the news. In the cupboard, he took down a packet of arrowroot biscuits. Took a juice box from the fridge. Put them up his jumper. Folded his arms. Headed towards the hallway. The father diverted his attention from the television. Wanted to know what the boy was up to.

‘Music practice,’ he replied, eyes averted, head down.

And his school jumper, the mother wanted to know where it was. Was going to put it in the wash.

‘Locker at school,’ he said and continued up the hallway. Stopped by the linen closet. Checked that they weren’t following him. Took down an old blanket. Draped it over his shoulder. Quick steps to his room and closed the door behind. He bundled the loot into an old sports bag. Left it by the window. Sat on the bed and waited. Watched the staccato movement of the alarm clock digits. How they stared blankly at him, as though stuck in time and then jerked forward. As each ticked by he felt himself clench in unison. Didn’t know what he was waiting for. What would be a good time? Mesmerised by the glowing red numbers. Vision blurred. Didn’t hear the father’s footsteps on the floorboards. The door opening.

‘Thought you were practising?’

The boy jumped a little. No time for composure.

‘Mother thought I should hear you play.’ Still standing by the door, holding the knob.

The boy stared blankly.

The father raised his eyebrow. Grew tired of looking at the mute boy. Saw the old sports bag by the window. The one he’d given the boy to carry his football gear. The boy had quit. Wouldn’t need it anymore. He could do with it back. Strode over.

‘I’ll have this back,’ he said and picked it up. Felt the weight. ‘Whatcha got in here?’ Unzipped.

The boy followed the movement, said nothing.

The father took out the blanket, let it fall to the floor. Held the arrowroots in one hand. Dropped the bag. ‘What’s with this?’

The boy stayed silent.

‘Running away? With a pack o’ bloody biscuits and a blanket.’ He shook his head. ‘What’s going on, mate? Eh?’

 The boy couldn’t take his eyes of the father’s. Gripped the Transformers quilt.

The father broke the contact. Brushed aside the curtain. Turned the key in the window lock. Dropped the key in his pocket. ‘Going to say something? Cat got your tongue?’ The father shook his head. ‘Running away never helped anyone.’ He scooped up the bag and the blanket. Walked to the door. Over his shoulder, ‘Mother doesn’t need to know.’ Tossed the arrowroots onto the bed. ‘You can keep those. Bloody awful.’ Flicked off the light, closed the door.

Days were clear but mornings still snapped at uncovered extremities. The father, up early, would light the woodstove before leaving for work. The sun only beginning to peak over the horizon. He was long gone by the time the boy sat at the table, lethargically dabbing his spoon into porridge. The mother always in a rush. Never enough time to make the boy’s lunch, have a proper breakfast and get off to work. Had to be there by eight. Shop assistant at Australian Geographic in the big multi-plex toward the city. Not much of a career. A limp clasp at a schoolgirl passion for the Earth and the environment. She banged out the porch door. Yelled back a reminder. ‘Don’t forget that sweater.’

The boy waited until he could no longer hear tyres on gravel. Dumped his full bowl in the sink. Strode out to the hedge, an apple in hand, school bag over his shoulder. Dropped the bag. Called out as he ascended. Had the apple in his mouth. Needed both hands to get up. Didn’t think Henderson would mind. Up top, couldn’t see Henderson. The sweater laid in a crumpled heap. He felt it, held it in his lap. It was soaked through with last night’s dew. The boy sank back in the ferns. It was a clear crisp day. In the embrace of the entwined branches, he closed his eyes. Thought of nothing but the pale red hum of his eyelids. Dozed.

Woke with a start. Henderson sat across from him. Had the apple. Thanked the boy but didn’t bite into the fruit. The boy gathered himself, wiped the sleep from his eyes.

‘Not going to school?’ Henderson asked.

‘Waste of time.’

Henderson nodded sadly.

‘What about you?’ There was accusation in the boy’s voice. Felt judged.

‘Didn’t help me.’

The boy relaxed. Liked Henderson. Was a few years older than the boy. Maybe 13. 14. At school they wouldn’t speak. ‘You’ve been in the news.’

‘Really?’

The boy shrugs, ‘The local paper.’

Henderson nods. ‘Makes sense.’ Wipes his damp fringe from his face. Seemed paler than yesterday. Colder.

The boy watched a mosquito settle on Henderson’s forehead. Henderson ignored it.

‘You should put the sweater on.’

Henderson shrugged. ‘It’s wet.’

‘So why’d you runaway.’

‘Can’t say.’

The boy wanted a better answer. Knew he wouldn’t get one. Had to push on. ‘Dad says you’ll turn up today. Will you?’

‘Be a few days yet. Do you ever feel like running away?’

The boy hadn’t expected to be quizzed. Wasn’t sure how he felt. Said, ‘Sometimes.’

‘To get back at your parents. Get back at your dad for killing your dog?’

The boy’s eyes widened. Cheeks reddened. A fresh wound. ‘How’d you know?’

Henderson smiled his doleful smile. ‘Whole town knows. Knows he put it’s head on the chopping block.’

Tears stung the boy’s eyes.

‘You want to get back at him?’

The boy nodded. Didn’t look up.

‘I used to want to get back at my parents. Want to know what I did?’

The boy was eager for instruction. Some wisdom from this pale prophet in his hedge.

‘Hurt myself. Tells them they can’t hurt you, ‘cause you control it.’

‘How?’

‘Burn yourself. I did it with cigarettes. Just butt it out on your arm.’

‘Doesn’t it hurt?’

‘That’s the point.’ Henderson sighed. Looked over his shoulder. ‘Anyway gotta go.’

‘What?’ The boy reached out his hand. Withdrew it just as fast. He wanted more. ‘Where will you go? Home?’

Henderson laughed, the sorrow lifting from his face. ‘Not home, not yet. I told you, in a couple of days they’ll find me. Just have to hang out for a while by myself.’ Eased himself onto the main trunk. Disappeared into the heart of the hedge.

The boy sat at the window. Watched the mother pull from the drive. A shroud of drizzle heavy on the valley. Focus drew back to the window pane. Droplets ran and expired down the glass. His vision blurred before he snapped himself from the stupor. Took his bowl. Rinsed the soggy flakes in the sink. Paused at the bench. Knew he had to go to school but the previous day had given him a taste. Maybe he could avoid ever going back. But not today. He would have to plan that eventuality. He pushed off from the bench. Left his inertia behind. Began compiling a sandwich. Peanut butter and jam. Made a second. The first glad-wrapped and shoved in his school bag. The second left on the bench. One more task to complete. He took the fire stoker. Opened the heavy stove door with a mitt. Damped down the coals. The orange beads would smolder through the day, ready for re-stoking upon his return. He withdrew the stoker. Just put it in the stand and then out of there. His hand hovered. The tool raised before him. With teeth, he drew back his sleeve. Touched the burning metal to his forearm. Squealed. Dropped the stoker to the floor. Panicked. Grabbed at it. His palm snatched at the hot tip. Forced another yelp from him. Eyes burning. Tears welling. Deep breath. And another. Calming. The acrid smell of burning linoleum. Measured now. Picked up the tool. A black smudge melted into the lino. Steeled himself. Sank the stoker into the glowing coals. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten. Withdrew. Touched the metal to his inner-forearm. More prepared this time. Fought the urge to recoil. Body trembled but still held in there. Emitted a low growl rising in pitch. Howled like a wolf and slammed the stoker into its stand. Studied the weeping skin. Light headed. The boy felt faint and then a rush. Almost invincible as the endorphins released and the adrenaline slapped him on the back like an over-eager coach. Light on his feet. Snatched up his bag, the sandwich from the bench. Crashed through the porch door. Crossed the yard at a trot. Slung the sandwich up into the hedge.

‘Later Hendo.’

The boy sat at the table; clarinet in hand. The mother leant against the bench; dish cloth in hand. Wanted to hear the boy practise. Didn’t believe him when he said he did it in his room. Didn’t know what he had previously done to the instrument.

It felt sticky in his hand. A faint sour whiff close-up. He’d replaced the reed but the mouthpiece tasted salty. The pieces had struggled to fit back together. The wood had swelled. Air escaped through the joins. The boy kept stopping to scratch his arm. A ferocious, insatiable itch. The scratching drove the mother wild. More so than the bum notes being hit. Repeated enquires. Repeated brush-offs. The boy blew. Stopped. Scratched. Blew again. The notes were like jangling nerves tearing the air. The mother reacted. A tether frayed. Flopped the dishcloth down. Snatched at the boy’s arm. He recoiled. The clarinet dropped to the floor. Discarded. Rested against the leg of the table.

‘Show me what’s wrong.’

The boy hard up against the windowsill. The porch door clanged. The familiar tattoo of door banging, boots clumping, oil-skin rustling. The father entered the kitchen. The boy pressed further into the corner. The father eyed him. Considered the situation. Felt the tension but couldn’t gauge the intensity. Let it drop. Kissed the mother. Burning cheeks on his lips. Snatched open the fridge door. Used it to support his weight. The interior light illuminated his grey-flecked stubble. Retracted a beer.

‘They found the Henderson boy.’

Suction of seal on door. Skittered the bottle cap across the bench.

‘Oh.’ The mother felt the tone. Knew it’s more than a simple runaway. ‘Where?’ Disgusted with herself. Wanted to let the conversation slide by but couldn’t. Needed the information, the details. How else would she cluck and sigh with the others in the supermarket aisle.

‘By the river. The bo…’

The boy heard no more. Already in the yard. Striding across the lengthening lawn. Wet grass seeds pocking his school trousers. Up the trunk of the hedge. Snagged halfway. Jerked free, fabric tearing, skin grazed. Crested the hedge. Flayed his hands through the fronds. The sandwich. Nestled in amongst the branches. Still in plastic wrap. Unopened, untouched. Took hold. Flung himself over the edge. Hit the ground running. Out the side gate. Onto the narrow bitumen. No sidewalks. Just street bordered by grass. Drizzle fell. Hair plastered to his forehead. Stumbled on the uneven tarmac. Dim lights well spaced. Instinct the only thing guiding him. Somehow knew which part of the river. Down the hill, past the cricket sheds, across the unused paddock and on to the bank. Across the way the tennis courts, cracked and dishevelled. Tennis courts you would find after the termination of man.

Puffing. Not knowing what happened next. Crouched on the bank. Eyes closed. A noise. At first, maybe, the sound of fish breaking the surface. Then closer. A persistent lapping. Too loud to be the gentle melding of drizzle with river. The boy opened his eyes. Something moved closer. Hendo. Thigh deep in the water.

‘Knew you would come,’ Hendo said, moving closer.

‘Dad said—‘

‘Adults talk shit.’ Hendo was emphatic.

The boy hugged his knees. Bum hovered just above the sodden bank. ‘Why’re you in the water.’

‘Saw it in a movie. Means they can’t track you.’

‘Thought you wanted to be found.’

Hendo shrugged. Was close enough the boy could make out his blue lips. The boy felt as cold and wet as Hendo always looked. ‘What now?’ he asked.

‘Gonna get away. Don’t want to be found no more. You comin’?’

The boy smiled. Pulled back the sleeve of his jumper. Even in the dark the welt was obvious. Raised, weeping. Hendo winked. Turned his back. Began to wade. The boy looked over his shoulder. The last chance for adult intervention. The dark was empty. He slipped off his shoes and socks. Even in recklessness he was cautious. Tied the laces together and slung them around his shoulders. Slipped his left foot into the river. Warmer than he would have thought. The sediment stirred around his foot, enveloped it. Hendo was moving away. The boy committed the other foot and followed.

***

The Australian Literature Review
www.auslit.net

‘Morning,’ he thought, disappointed. His muscles tensed briefly with the thought of needing to rise, but relaxed again with his collapse of will. He was still tired and did not want to wait another sixteen hours before he could lie down again. He decided to lie there just a few minutes more to see if his mind would stir.

He also began to notice sounds coming in through the pores of the canvas around him. Cicadas had just started to grate, and he heard the calls of two complaining crows.

‘Whinging their way skyward,’ he joked with himself. ‘How did they get the energy? I can’t even lift myself out of bed to stand, let alone fly.’

But he decided to get up before the heat got so bad that it forced him out against his will. Better to move on your own terms, even if it wasn’t your first preference. And this was a day of moving. He had to pack all he owned and fit it into his old short-bed wagon.

At least he had done well enough to have a wagon – and a horse to pull it. At least he had done well enough to need a wagon. Some left with less than what they arrived with. They came with a swag and a shovel and left the shovel with someone who could use it. To them, then, a shovel was just a dead weight. When they had first arrived, the shovel was an indicator of their hope for greatness. Now it was an indicator of their failure. Worn blade and splintery handle, their shovel was less than it used to be, just as they were.

But he had had enough. Enough heat; enough dirt; enough of everything that was not great. Enough fruitless labour that never kept its promise of future ease.

But this morning’s labour would not be like that. It would accomplish for him what he now desired. He knew that soon he and all that was his would be in the wagon and, with a couple of clicks of his tongue and the command “Walk on,” the loyalty of his horse would take him away.

So with this new kind of hope he dressed and, from the corner of his tent, grabbed his billy with the porridge that had been soaking overnight. He stepped once through the tent flap that had provided some privacy and some protection from wind and most rain and took another one to the circle of rocks that formed his fireplace. In just a few minutes his new fire was alive and heating his meal.

Because he had waited until after sunrise to get up, hardly anyone he knew was still around. Almost everyone else, the men he had lived amongst for the past three years, had finished their breakfast and were already busy moving the dirt that hid their imagined fortunes. Today all he would dig was the porridge out of the bottom of his billy.

“Hey, Jim,” he heard a voice call. “Where have you been? What are you doing still up here?”

Jim looked up from his porridge. A man was striding up the muddy road that separated Jim’s line of tents from another.

“Aren’t you coming down to the diggings?” the man asked Jim. “You’re not crook, are you?”

“No, Bill.”

“No days off in this business, mate. You can’t spend what’s still in the ground.” Bill’s busy-sounding voice became muffled as he went into the tent next to Jim’s.

“I’m leaving today,” Jim said.

Bill couldn’t hear properly over the clang and clash of a big bit of tin as he wrenched it from its stays along the lower side wall of his reinforced tent. So he stuck his head out through the hole he had just made.

“You’re what?”

“I’m leaving,” Jim repeated, a little louder. “I told you last night.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t think you meant it.”

Jim saw Bill disappear back into his tent and re-emerge at the doorway with one end of his long rectangle of tin under his arm and the other end dragging in the dirt behind him. The tent wobbled terribly as a dog-ear on the following end of the tin caught on the flap and, unbeknownst to Bill, was pulled nearly off its front pole.

“Well, I did mean it,” Jim tried to assure him.

Bill was embarrassed at this surprise from Jim.

“Look, come on,” Bill said, trying a little encouragement. “Grab your shovel and get to it.”

Bill looked for something else to say. “Give us a hand with this tin then. Part of the shaft gave way in the rain last night.”

“What’ll you do in your tent if it rains again?”

“I’ll sleep in the shaft if it’s drier. Or I’ll scavenge from yours. You won’t need it if you’re leaving, will you?”

Bill paused and slowed his body and mind for the first time that morning. “Are you sure you’re going to leave?” he asked.

“Yes.”

Bill’s face twitched slightly to show how he was taking this day’s new developments, and when Jim heard his own “yes” it even moved him a little, too.

Bill dropped his piece of tin. “What are you leaving now for, Jim? You’ve hardly found anything yet.”

Jim only needed to glance at Bill over his latest spoonful of porridge to answer that statement.

“You’re giving up, are you?” Bill asked, feeling hurt and becoming a little aggressive with it.

“No, mate. If not finding much was the reason, I could have gone back every day since I got here.”

Bill grunted a scoff. He could have said the same about himself.

“I know what I’m leaving, and it isn’t failure,” Jim said. “I’m not really leaving at all. At least it doesn’t feel like that. What I’m doing is not leaving something – I’m going to something. Something better than this.”

Jim thought and spoke at the same time because he was still getting used to the idea himself. He rinsed his empty billy in a bucket of water near his tent flap, then ducked inside and took the drawers out of the chest he kept across the end of his cramped tent. Once they were all out, stacked neatly on his bed, he called to Bill, “Here, give me a lift with this.”

Both inside, they bent down low on either side of the empty shell of the chest, took hold, carried it out and placed it onto the wagon, pushing it to the very front.

“Now pass out those drawers, Bill, and we’ll put them back where they belong.”

Next they dismantled Jim’s camp and packed it all into his wagon with the chest of drawers. Thankfully, it just fitted: His foot locker, a tiny table and stool, a couple of mining books, his now flattened tent, and his Bible and food.

They worked together well, not saying anything except for the odd instruction or request from Jim. Words had given up their natural place to a quiet sadness. Both men were aware of it growing between them, but were incapable of directly referring to it.

“Get the horse from the yard will you, Bill. Thanks.”

Jim had been trying to catch his faint and fluttering feelings in a net of words. By the time Bill came back and started to hitch the aged animal to the wagon, Jim had found some of the speech he was hoping for.

“It seems like I’ve had two lives, Bill. One here and one back home. When I was back there, I thought this place might lead to something. I listened to all the hoo-hah of people’s talk and read stories in the newspapers about the lucky ones. I left what I knew was good for something that didn’t turn out to be better.”

“But I still like it,” Bill rebutted. “I get excited every day. Sometimes I can’t sleep at night thinking that next morning my first blow with the pick might hit the vein.” His whole body gestured and moved with the mood of his words.

“You sound like those newspapers I used to read,” Jim said honestly.

Bill just shrugged. Then he said, “So living and working here with us all this time doesn’t seem to rate much with you.”

Jim understood Bill’s point but ignored the gibe, saying, “I just feel like I belong somewhere other than here. This place and what it all stands for…it just isn’t me, that’s all.”

Then Jim, with Bill still helping, passed a long rope around and around the load to secure all he owned. The rope laid neatly into grooves in the upper edges of the chest of drawers that the rope had gnawed in the polished wood on the trip from Sydney.

Jim rubbed his finger in one of the marks and chuckled. “The marks the rope left in the wood on the way out’ll help hold her fast on the way back.”

“You can’t go without saying goodbye to your mates,” Bill complained tactically once again.

“I said goodbye last night when I said I was leaving.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“Yes, I did,” Jim said forcefully to his friend. “You just didn’t believe me.”

“No, I suppose I didn’t. Otherwise we wouldn’t be talking all this nonsense about leaving and not leaving, you big galloot.”

Jim felt sorry for his friend’s loss.

“So you won’t be here for tea, then,” Bill said with hopeless humour.

“No.”

Jim could see how Bill felt because he felt a bit like that himself. He jumped down off the wagon and said, “You can have my shovel, if you like, Bill.”

“Thanks. Every splinter will remind me of you.”

Jim was disappointed with how they were both feeling. “I’ve just had enough, Bill. I’ve had enough… but I’ve got enough.”

Bill showed on his face a look of not quite understanding because, unlike Jim, he didn’t have enough.

“What I mean is, I don’t need more – and I’m not leaving for the lack of it.” Jim tried to clarify his feelings, which was often difficult because, after all, who always understood their own feelings, let alone being able to explain them accurately to others?

“Good luck with your ‘not-leaving’ then,” Bill finalised.

Jim held out his hand to Bill, who instantly took it in his. They held their grip firmly for quite a few moments until it seemed right to let go. Too long would have overstated their expression to each other and would have spoiled their parting. Such mutual decisions about all sorts of things had come easily to the two men. However unspoken they may have been, they were decisions based on agreement of value and purpose.

Jim climbed up onto the wagon seat and took up the reins. He gave his two clicks and told his horse to walk on. She obeyed, and drew the wagon and Jim away towards what was better.

Down the road, and even later down the years, Jim’s memory allowed him to feel again the warmth of Bill’s handshake. It told him that everything that was good was not necessarily found up ahead of him, but that there were some good things back where he had been. Somehow that made him all the happier. He was leaving after all.

***

The Australian Literature Review
www.auslit.net

‘Maureen,’ she called, ‘come and look.  Tell me I’m seeing right.’

The housekeeper shuffled out from her room and gazed through the window.  ‘It’s gone – just a flicker,’ Maureen said.

‘Yes, like a lot of candles on a birthday cake.’  Helen grinned.  ‘I know – it’s the old pig run – a long narrow strip with not a blade of grass to feed the fire – and a bloody good fire break.’  She laughed and laughed, slumped into a chair and made herself stop before she went into hysterics.  ‘Why didn’t I think of that,’ she sighed as she heard the roar of tractors.  John and the men were back.  She dragged herself up and went down the steps to meet him.  She saw him stumble off his tractor and slouch up to her like an old man.  She leaned on the fence, took off her glasses, wiped her eyes – she couldn’t seem to stop them watering – and waved as the neighbours, slumped in their seats, drove slowly past like a parade of exhausted soldiers after a battle. 

‘It took all day but we confined it to our farm,’ John said, hugging her.

They pulled apart when they heard the cry of ‘Mum’ from down the road.

Casey ran up and flung herself into her mother’s arms.  Helen held her close, realising she hadn’t thought of her daughter since the fire started.  Evidently, the spark of news had ignited gossip in the town and spread to the school.

  ‘I ran…all the way home…from the bus.’  Casey said.  ‘I couldn’t stop thinking about those fires in the Adelaide hills we saw on the telly.’  She brushed tears away.

Helen kept holding her.  ‘I know,’ she said, ‘it was bad enough but we were lucky it was only a grass fire.’

‘We’ll go up for a cuppa and snack before milking,’ John said.  ‘You can give us a hand today, Casey.’

Casey nodded.  ‘You both look gross,’ she said holding her nose.  ‘You’d better have a wash before milking – the cows won’t know you.’

They managed a smile, held hands and walked up to the house – thankful they still had a home. 

Smoke clouded the air, masking the dying sun, wheezed around burnt bushes and whispered up from the blackened ground.  The cows reacted to the remnants of the fire as they ambled up the road to the dairy – stopped to sniff the air, stare ahead and push and nudge their neighbours. 

John called the dog, ‘Sool ’em up Jilly.’  He looked at his wife as the dog yapped to urge the last of the cows through the gateway.  ‘Don’t think they’ll give us much milk this evening.’ 

‘No.  Poor things didn’t get much to eat today – they were not the only ones without food but at least they could lie down and rest.’  Helen went into the milk- room and switched on the milking machine.

 ‘When we get them settled with their hay tomorrow, that’s what I’m going to do – rest.’ John said, leaning his head on the cow while putting the cups on.

‘What about the dry cows, Dad?’  Casey said as she herded in another cow.   ‘Mum and I let them out of the yard before the cows came up but there’s nothing for them now – except black ground.’

‘Yeah.  I’d forgotten about them.  Have to fill a trough with molasses and spare a bit of hay for them too.  God.  I don’t know what we’ll do if it doesn’t rain in the next few weeks.  Nearly out of hay and practically impossible to buy more – like bloody gold.  Thank God we’ve got a contract of sale – can hardly wait for the thirty days to end this nightmare.’ 

‘I know.  It doesn’t bear thinking about.’  Helen frowned as she followed the milking routine like a robot – removed the cups from her cow, let it out, slung the rope around to secure the next one, washed the udder, put the cups on the four teats, sighed and turned to John in the next bay, ‘Maybe you could ring Doug and see if he knows somewhere we could agist the heifers.’

‘Good idea.  It would be a few less to feed until it rains.’

Rain.  That magic word.  Helen crossed her fingers.  She didn’t like hearing the word as though saying it aloud could incur the wrath of the rain spirit and prolong the spell of drought.  She knew this fetish was stupid but understood how primitive tribes worshipped spirits relating to the weather and believed in such magic as rain dances.  The conversation died as their bodies went through the motions of milking cows while their minds drifted with thoughts like wisps of smoke – coming and going as in a dream.

For days after the fire they wandered about doing their work like wound up toys, thoughts of the future smothered – too dark to contemplate – as the heat and smoke numbed their minds.  Seven days after the fire, the phone rang as they sipped a cup of tea after dinner.  They both put their cups down and looked at each other.  Helen dragged herself out of her chair and trudged over towards the black handpiece, lifted it and wondered how many of her party-line neighbours were doing the same thing.

‘Hello, Helen here.’

The agent’s voice answered.  ‘Hello Helen.  It’s Reg.  I’m afraid I have some bad news.’  He paused.  ‘The contract is void.  They couldn’t get the finance.’

She gripped the receiver tightly, shivered, wagged her head in denial and heard the agent asking if she was still there.  She licked her lips, swallowed and said, ‘That’s bullshit, Reg – just an excuse because of the fire.’

‘I’m sorry.  I have it in writing from their solicitor so I can’t do anything about it.’

She felt like yelling abuse at him but it wasn’t his fault, hadn’t she been in this awkward situation herself more than once in her past life as an agent.  ‘Find someone else then.  Once the weather breaks there will be green shoots all over.’ 

‘I’ll keep at it Helen and be in touch A.S.A.P…  Look after yourself.’  He hung up.

‘And now you can all pass on the news,’ she yelled into the phone and banged it down.  She drooped over the small phone table, reluctant to face John or the housekeeper as tears filled her eyes.  

Maureen left the dishes in the sink and scrambled to her room, closing the door.  John pushed his chair back and joined Helen.

‘It’s off then,’ he said quietly, more like a statement than a question.

‘Yes.  You can never believe it until it’s finalised.  People are so contrary.’ 

‘They said finance was not a problem – must have heard about the fire.  They should have realised the farm was dead dry when they saw it.’

‘Bad news always travels fast.  But the contract was subject to only their finance – not a fire.  Anyway nothing we can do – just carry on.’  She shrugged and ran her fingers through her hair.  ‘Think I’ll have a shower – try and freshen up,’ she wandered off to the bedroom for clean clothes.

‘Mum,’ Casey said with a frown, emerging from her room as Helen returned on her way to the bathroom, ‘does that mean I have to go to boarding school?  I don’t have to do Year Eleven.  I could get a job or help on the farm like all the others kids here.’

‘We’ll wait and see what happens.’  Helen silently cursed the local High Top that catered only for kids up to fifteen.  She couldn’t bear the thought of her daughter away at boarding school – couldn’t think of the future just now, couldn’t dare to hope for the sky to “drop the gentle rain from heaven on the earth beneath”.  She slouched off in a dream, her mind stirring up phrases from long ago – Shakespeare’s “the quality of mercy”, that was it.  Please have mercy on these poor farmers waiting for the lifeblood to feed the earth, to feed the cows, to bring forth milk to feed the multitudes.  Was she going mad?  Her mind spitting out rubbish.  She stripped off, threw her clothes on the floor, stepped into the shower and let the warm water pour over her head washing her scrambled brain.  Water.  City people didn’t know how precious it was.  Thank goodness John had insisted on buying that extra 5000 gallon tank for the house when they first moved in.  She rinsed off the soap and turned off the tap.  If only she could spend more time under the shower and soak under the caress of hot water like a massage easing the aches.  One day when the tank overflows – make it soon.  She rubbed herself dry, letting the towel do the massage.  At least she felt clean and able to face the others.  Maureen was at the sink washing up, humming a tune and smiling.  Helen sat down at the table to check her accounts, gazed at the housekeeper, wondering how anyone could sing and smile when this new cloud hung over them.  Then she realised – Maureen was not family.  She was only the housekeeper and smiled because she still had her job and a home. 

The sun blazed on the bare ground with more intensity as summer approached.  The date – that Helen had previously circled on the calendar in one positive moment of excitement – also came, disappearing with all the other long tedious days.  They had forsaken gazing at the sky as they carried out their routine tasks from before daylight until the welcome relief of night.  John had managed to procure a truck load of hay at a premium price to supplement the few remaining bales but they no longer discussed the weather, the state of the stock, the dwindling milk production and bank account or the future.  Helen started to doubt her decision to be a farmer.  She lay in bed at night while John snored and wished she could run away back to the beach, laze on the sand and loll in the cool sea. 

One night she held her hands over her ears and clenched her teeth to stop from screaming and cursing him for lying asleep, mouth agape, snoring.  Sometimes he apologised when he woke up after a nap in front of the television.  Then she felt mean because she was mad only at herself – only jealous, envious of his ability to relax.  How could he turn off the mind’s switch to blot out the images?  Her mind was afire with pictures of belting a wet bag into the flames, roos running before the fire, the reek of smoke and burning flesh, the sound of crunching dead grass underfoot and thoughts of a hollow future.  The snores grew louder.  She heard another sound – a distant rumble like a drum roll.  It couldn’t be an echo of the snores.  She must be dreaming.  Again, closer.  She sat up.  This time the bedroom lit up for a second.  Holding her breath, she swung her legs down to the floor, eased out of bed and tiptoed out to the front porch as the clouds ruptured – bearing new life to the earth.  Helen stood there with tears streaming down, tension oozing out as the rain fell.  John joined her; put his arms around her as they watched the deluge washing away the dust, forming small rivers and puddles.  They stood, silent – as though mesmerised by the blasts of thunder, flashes of lightning and the continuous drumbeat of rain on the roof – too overcome by the wondrous sight and sound to move or speak.  When Helen started to shiver, John took her hand and led her back to bed.  They lay together listening to the music: the pounding of the rain.  Their bodies stirred, gradually responding to the drum beat, reaching a crescendo of celebration.  The drought had broken.  They lived again, released from the knot of worry that had tied them like a tight ball of wire.  They slumped in each other’s arms drifting into the sleep of happy exhaustion.

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The Australian Literature Review
www.auslit.net

The winner will receive personal feedback from Fleur McDonald on their short story (400-500 words) and a $250 Angus & Robertson voucher.

You can find rural and small town reading suggestions at www.angusandrobertson.com.au/auslit-review. Reading the synopses for the suggested novels may also help you with ideas for your own story, but keep in mind that your story does not have to follow the kinds of rural or small town fiction which has previously been published – your story can be on any topic in any style as long as it is has a rural or small town setting.

You can also read Nicole Alexander’s article Writing Rural Fiction.

Entries are due by midnight September 20th and the winner will be announced on September 30th.

In October the best realistic (non-supernatural) horror story will receive feedback from JJ Cooper and a $250 A&R voucher. In November the best adventure story will receive feedback from Tony Park and a $250 A&R voucher.

Happy writing!

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The Australian Literature Review
www.auslit.net

I love the many forms of the written word and draw on my rural environment for inspiration regardless of whether I am writing in that context or conjuring descriptive verse. In the same way that a meditative mind finds peace my outback life provides clarity for my writing endeavours regardless of the topic. Although I have been fortunate to have worked overseas my current writing genre is tied to the Australian landscape. I have a hands-on role in the management of my family’s 117 year old mixed agricultural property (sheep/cattle/crops) and it is this ‘day’ job that allows me to write authentically about both the bush that I love and the emotional attachment that generational landowners feel towards their land: A theme that lies at the heart of my current novel The Bark Cutters.

The image of the pastoral industry as an idyllic (albeit harsh) existence was perpetuated by artists such as Frederick McCubbin and described by icons such as Banjo Patterson. This rendering of Australia’s rural heritage into a romantic ideal has intrigued me from my earliest days and left an impression on my writing style over the past eighteen years whether through poetry, travel articles, short stories or novel writing. Yet when it comes to closing the study door and facing a blank computer screen my environment fades. An author may choose to draw on their surrounds however ultimately you must create a new world. Distance has made it difficult for me to partake of the many writing groups and courses that abound. And certainly there are times when I long to attend a festival or talk to like-minded individuals; however in the end only you can create your story and as long as you have passion for your task you’ll succeed.

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Go to http://www.abc.net.au/tv/firsttuesday/video/web_extras/2010.htm to see Nicole on the ABC’s First Tuesday Book Club web site. More on Nicole Alexander and her fiction can be found at www.nicolealexander.com.au.
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The Australian Literature Review
www.auslit.net