Coming Home

The trees were tangle-trunked weeping gums, all bent and twisted, stunted and knotted, with creaking branches and clattering dusty leaves. Bark came off in long loose strips and hung, rattling, in the breeze. Between the trees there was grass and dust and stony little gullies. In a dry summer like this, the sun baked everything, grass and dirt and empty dams, to a dusty pale gold.

Bec drove too fast, feeling the pickup truck’s tires slip now and then, bashing through potholes. She knew the road, had been driving along it since she was ten. Down past the last of the trees, halfway along the long straight stretch before the valley climbed and narrowed again towards the farm, Bec saw a car stopped on the side of the road.

The bonnet was up, and a man she didn’t know was standing in front of it. He was holding something in one hand, glaring at it, looking irritated. Bec assumed a phone. There was no cell signal along this part of the road.

She slowed down, stopped beside him, opened the passenger-side window and called, “Is everything okay?”

“The car stopped.”

“What’s wrong with it?”

“I don’t know.”

He looked over at her, and noticed what she was wearing. It was eleven in the morning and she was in a party dress. She’d been out all night, had stayed with a friend in town so she could drink and not have to drive back afterwards. But there was no way for him to know that. He just saw the dress and the dusty pickup and didn’t seem to know what to make of her.

“Phone doesn’t work?” Bec said.

“Ah,” he said, still looking at her clothes. “No.”

“There’s no signal until you’re back up the hill. The tower’s down on the highway.”

“Oh.”

He must be visiting someone, Bec decided. Anyone who lived around here would have asked for help by now.

“Do you want me to have a look?” she said.

“It’s okay. I’ll phone someone.”

“Yeah,” Bec said. “Not without a three kilometer walk, you won’t.”

He kept looking at her, apparently confused.

“The phone,” she said. “There’s no signal.”

“Right.”

He seemed a bit helpless, like he didn’t know how to deal with a broken-down car.

She hesitated, then pulled over in front of him, and parked, and climbed out.

As she got out he saw her boots, and stared. She was wearing work boots. Farm boots. Boots that were comfortable to drive in, but that really didn’t go with the dress.

“I’ll have a look at the car,” she said.

“You don’t need to,” he said.

“Yeah, I know. But I will, because you’re kind of stuck here otherwise.”

He kept looking at her boots.

“If it’s something small,” she said, watching him stare. “It’s quicker than driving you back to town.”

She didn’t think he was listening.

“So the shoes are on the back seat,” she said. “And I stayed with a mate, it isn’t a walk of shame thing. Anything you want to say?”

He shook his head.

“Could you get the bonnet?” she said.

He reached in the window and found the latch and popped it. Bec opened it, making sure to clip it up so it wouldn’t fall on her head. She looked at the engine. “What happened?”