Jarrahdale Road

She stood there in the white glare of the sun, thick-waisted and cheerful under her wide-brimmed Akubra slouch hat. Tom could hardly see her face in the black shadow pooled beneath the brim, his own eyes crinkled and narrowed despite the hand placed in a shading salute on his brow. From the waist, in a wide expansive gesture as if she were scything hay, she broadcast the feed to the chooks that skittered around the wide brown felt folds of her working skirt. Her hand delved, with each swing, to grasp handfuls of feed from the pocket of the khaki canvas apron tied around her full hips.

Behind her, Tom could see a parched, tight-fleshed old woman sitting on the porch, tilting the wooden chair back and forward with her feet, a double-barrelled shotgun athwart her lap.

‘You just walked out of the bush, love?’ said the standing woman, as she scattered more feed onto the dusty red earth.

‘Car broke down on the Jarrahdale Road,’ he said. ‘Don’t have a signal on my cell phone. I was wondering whether I could ask you for some water, and maybe make a call on your land line?’

She smiled and cast another handful of seed. ‘You aren’t dressed for a trip out here, love,’ she said. ‘No-one would be mistaking you for a bushranger. Didn’t you learn your slip-slop-slap?’ She gestured at his bare head. ‘That’s the way to get sunstroke, or worse.’

She beckoned to him to follow her around the back of the house, the old woman on the verandah following him with her eyes. As he rounded the corner he saw an old terracotta-coloured ute propped up on bricks, a few dusty outhouses, and some hen-houses and runs for the chooks. He felt the heat of the day in his bones and the still-shocking glare filled his head, and he weaved towards the back of the house. He felt her hand on his arm before he heard her, and willingly let her steer him to a dusty old armchair that sat in the shadow of the overhang. She pressed a glass of water into his hand and, as his eyes focused in the shadow, he saw she was smiling at him.

‘I’ve already called Roger in Jarrahdale,’ she said reassuringly. ‘He already knew about the car, spotted it on the side of the road. He’ll tow it in and you can arrange someone from the city to come and collect it.’

He smiled wanly and murmured his thanks. He felt light-headed and sleepy.

'Ah, none of that, now,’ she said, kneeling beside the armchair. ‘You’ll come round. Too hot today for Poms.’

‘It’s Tom,’ he said, looking at her kindly face, and returning her smile. ‘My name is Tom.’