No Rain

Words 941

No one could ever accuse him of being a follower of fashion in his greying singlet and baggy shorts. The old leather hat he always wore was blackened with years of sweat, and the Australian sun had left its story on aging arms and work-worn hands.

He went outside to gaze out over the farm’s familiar scenery. The once green grass was dying. He saw the dry, dead pastures and stunted trees standing sentry in the late afternoon light. His old black Labrador flopped down on the warm planks, panting from the heat. She raised her head, just a little, when Mort spoke, ‘What d’you think, old girl? Will it ever rain again?’ Leaning on the peeling veranda rails, he breathed deeply, screwed up his eyes and peered into the horizon. The setting sun was putting on a show, and yet for once he didn’t take the time to appreciate the spectacle and turned his back on the vista before ambling into the house. Daisy followed her master, probably hoping he was on his way to get her dinner, as there’d been times lately, he’d forgotten.

The shrill tone of the yellowed wall phone startled them both. Since his wife, Robyn left, there had been few calls.

‘Happy birthday, dad.’

‘Hello, Ruthie, it’s lovely to hear your voice.’ He paused before asking, ‘How’s your mum?’

‘She’s fine. The kids love having her here. She’s spoiling them.’

‘Tell her…’

His daughter waited for him to continue before realising he was finding the words difficult. ‘It’s okay, dad. Just give her time.’

‘I know. I’m not going to hassle her to come home. Not ‘till she’s ready.’

‘You’re just feeling sad ‘cos it’s your birthday and the bloody drought. Can you believe it’s October and there were no winter rains?’ Ruth waited for his reply and when he didn’t, she said, ‘I’ll bring the kids up on the weekend. Maybe mum’ll feel like a drive. We’ll bring a cake.’

‘Okay, love. I’ve got to go. Talk soon.’ He hurriedly hung up the phone before she started on about him getting help. He’d heard enough about ‘seeing someone,’ as if sitting talking to a stranger would fix things. Nothing was going to make things better. He scrubbed the threatening tears from his eyes.Daisy cocked her head and gave a whimper.

The call from his daughter made him think of the past when the kids were little. He and Robyn were happy, his dad was still alive, and the farm was thriving.

As if needing to prove those times had existed, he dragged out a box of old video tapes and slipped one into the VHS player. Sitting back in his battered, brown leather recliner, the one that Robyn had threatened to get rid of so many times, he watched vision of Ruth, blowing out the candles on her tenth birthday. The whole family looked so happy as they sang, Happy Birthday, to their little girl. Son. Robert, a couple of years older, pulled his sister’s plaits and he smiled seeing her reaction as she raced after him shouting out that she was going to get him. But in the background, all he saw were green paddocks as far as the eye could see, full of contented cows.

‘I’m so sorry, dad,’ he whispered.

There was just enough light remaining of the dying day as he drove into town for him to see in the rear vision mirror his old weatherboard cottage, which, he’d be the first to acknowledge, needed some work. The paint was peeling, the roof needed mending, certainly before the next rain. if it ever rains again.

Daisy was standing still as a statue, watching her master disappear in a cloud of dust.

Out of habit, he stopped and opened the farm gate at the end of the long drive, drove through and returned to close it. There was no real reason to do it anymore, not since he sold the last of his cows, but he did it anyway, having done the same thing since he was a little kid helping his dad.

Even the thought of his father brought a lump to his throat, and wondered, as he often did, how devastated the old man would be in the way things had turned out with the farm. Realistically, Mort knew there had been nothing else he could have done with the drought lasting so long, but he still felt the shame of being the one to fail.

His mind’s eye returned to those last few months when the dams were drying up and were nothing but mud holes. He remembered the devastation, helplessness, and guilt he’d felt when seeing his cattle desperately seek water he couldn’t afford to have trucked in. He’d had to shoot the animals which had got themselves stuck fast in the drying mud and the sounds of the crows waiting to feed on the carcasses nearly drove him insane. He could hardly blame Robyn for leaving. He’d been impossible to live with.

Mort usually tried to avoid thinking about those times, but the images often entered his head when he least expected them, catching him unawares and his eyes filled again with unshed tears.

As he drove into town, where he was meeting up with a few of the other volunteers from the fire brigade, he saw potential fire hazards everywhere. As yet uncleared firebreaks, trees too close to houses and uncut, long dry grass. He’d done his best to encourage folks to get their preparations in order ready for yet another fire season. It’s going to be a bad one again this summer.