The White Earth (27 page)

Hideously so. The next thing he knew, he was heaving Dudley off his daughter, loathing, all at once, the grimy feel of the man’s skin, the sight of his pale naked body racked with scars, the glimpse of his penis, gleaming red and erect. Ruth was stretched across the bed, her nightdress rumpled up, her eyes wide and terrified, her mouth bruised where Dudley’s hand had been clamped down. Then John was kicking and screaming at a figure that lay huddled on the floor, arms up over its head, and suddenly Harriet was in the room, their daughter was sobbing, and someone was crying,
Stop it! Stop it!

John stopped. He stared down dully. The figure uncurled, and there was the familiar face of his friend, with his wild hair and matted beard and shining, hopeless eyes. It was only Dudley. Only sad, pathetic Dudley, stuttering that he was sorry, that he was so, so sorry…

It was then that there were choices to be made.

The first thing was to get Dudley out of the house. John bundled him into the car, drove him several miles through the night, then left him there, sniffing and moaning by the roadside, to walk the rest of the way to his farm. He didn’t care if Dudley got lost. For the moment, John didn’t care if he never saw Dudley again. Returning to his own house, he found that Harriet had bathed Ruth in his absence. Now the two of them were curled up in the main bedroom,holding each other as Ruth cried and Harriet stroked her hair and whispered comfort. Not needed, he wandered the house vainly until dawn, when Harriet emerged with the news that Ruth had finally fallen asleep.

Thus the two of them breakfasted and considered their options. They couldn’t call the police. It would only shame Ruth further, and besides, they both knew that there was nothing to be gained now by revenge. There wasn’t even the desire for it. They were perfectly aware of what a ruin Dudley had become, and of how little he was responsible for his own actions. It was
their
fault. They were the ones who had rushed so thoughtlessly to welcome him into their home, never even considering whether he might be a danger. And to think that in trying to atone for one sin they had only inflicted another upon their daughter, an innocent — that was unbearable.

There was one small mercy at least. Ruth had told her mother that this was the only time Dudley had invaded her room. But should they send her to a doctor? There was no point, Harriet announced bleakly, not yet. A few weeks, and then they would know. The more urgent question was what to do about Dudley himself. He had to be kept away from Ruth, that was clear. But where to send him? For a while, perhaps, they could leave him at his own house, but sooner or later someone in authority would notice that he was incapable of surviving alone. In the end, he would be committed to an institution. So perhaps, Harriet suggested, they should begin to look for a place now. To make sure he was cared for properly, in decent surroundings, while he still had some choice in the matter.

It made sense, John knew, but something in him quailed at the thought. Later that morning he drove over to the other house. He found Dudley huddled on the floorboards of the front verandah. He’d spent the night out in the cold, because he had no keys. And despite everything, it still wrenched at John to see him that way, his knees drawn to his chest like a child. It all came back, his memories of Dudley from before the war, the energy and humour of him, the clean, perfect health of his body, the force and intimacy of their friendship. All gone, ravaged by prison and loss. And now it had come to this — an assault on the one person Dudley himself cherished most.

John opened the house, made up one of the beds, and put Dudley to sleep. He would have to come back again that night with some food. But for the time being he sat on Dudley’s front step, and wondered despairingly about what they were all going to do. There was, of course, a deeper consideration other than Dudley and Ruth. It had risen to John’s mind during the previous night, as he waited for the dawn. It had seemed a cold and clinical thought then, and he had tried to suppress it, but there was no denying it now, as he stared out over the paddocks of Dudley’s farm. If they did send Dudley away to an institution, what would happen to his property? John could go on running it — the question was, would he have the legal right to do so? There was still Dudley’s aunt, for instance.

John knew very little about her. She lived far away in Warwick, and she might not be at all interested in Dudley, or his farm. But the thought of her burned at him. She was Dudley’s closest relative, his only family — if he was committed, then she was bound to be informed. She would look into his affairs and discover the bequest he had made. What if she then argued that he had never been in any fit state to sign away his property? The bequest might be made void. The more John thought about it, the surer he became. The aunt would interfere, she would challenge the will. Dudley’s farm, and all the work that John had put into it, would be stripped away. And with it would go the careful plans John had made, the path he had laid out for himself and his family, leading all the way to the front door of Kuran House. That must not be allowed to happen. So the conclusion was that they could never commit Dudley. Not for his sake, and not for their own.

John drove home again. His resolution faltered when he saw his daughter. Something within her had been maimed, a spirit that had been carefree and joyful. She sat silent at the kitchen table, mechanically eating her lunch, and wouldn’t meet his eyes. Did she blame him? Even though he was the one who had rescued her? But then came the bitter reminder — he’d arrived too late. In the safety of her own bed, her childhood uncle had raped her while her father slept. But he forced himself to think. What was done was done. Surely it could only be made worse by depriving her of a secure future. And that was all that would be accomplished by sending Dudley away.

He discussed the situation with Harriet that night. At first he spoke only of how Dudley needed their help, not the punishment of an institution. If they assisted him with cooking and cleaning, maybe he could survive at his own house? Harriet didn’t agree. Dudley was beyond their help. The events of the previous night had proved it. He was becoming dangerous — not just to Ruth, but maybe to other people as well. Dudley, in his right mind, would never have wanted that. He needed professional care. Faced with this, John struggled internally for a moment, then came to a reluctant admission. It wasn’t that simple, he said. And he outlined his concerns about Dudley’s property.

Harriet stared at him, disbelieving. And so was revealed, finally, the immense gulf that lay between them. They debated far into the night. No matter how he tried, John was incapable of making Harriet appreciate what Dudley’s farm might mean to their fortunes. In his extremity he revealed his hopes of reclaiming Kuran House one day, for all of them.
That old ruin?
she said, amazed. What did they want with a derelict mansion ten times bigger than they could ever need? And so John saw that his suspicion was right — Harriet was content where she was, and that far from wanting the House, she was repelled by it. And for her part,Harriet was appalled to discover what really lay at the core of her husband — a man so cold and calculating that his main concern wasn’t for their daughter’s safety, or even for Dudley’s, but for property and money and a crumbling old homestead.

In is heart, perhaps, John knew she was right.

But then it came to him.

What if they sent Ruth to boarding school?

It was the perfect solution. They had always planned to send her to Brisbane for the final years of her education; this would simply mean her leaving a few years earlier. She’d be safe. She wouldn’t have to see Dudley, or even hear anything about him. But with her gone, John and Harriet would be free to give him all the care he needed, without recourse to the authorities.

Harriet was utterly against it. Their daughter needed to be at home, not away living with strangers. But John remained adamant, knowing that time was on his side. Weeks went by, and there was no pregnancy. Dudley remained in his own house, yet in need of constant care. As John refused to seek outside help, Harriet found that she was being called upon to run two households. It was too much work. And it was disturbing Ruth. She no longer saw Dudley, but she knew where her parents spent so much of their time. Eventually,Harriet could see no other choice. And it was true, boarding school was always their intention for Ruth. She was unhappy at home now anyway. It might be the best for her, after all. It really might. But deep down she knew she was merely acceding to her husband’s will, and that in this matter he was deeply and forever wrong.

She began to hate him then.

And Ruth, upon hearing the news, could only wonder that her father, whom she had always adored, had not only failed to save her that night, but had now convinced her mother to send her away. And worse, that although she had done nothing wrong, committed no crime, it was Uncle Dudley who was being allowed to stay, and she who was being punished with exile.

Chapter Twenty-eight

W
ILLIAM WOKE TO FIND HIS MOTHER PACING ABOUT HIS ROOM, muttering angrily to herself. Then she saw he was awake.

‘Your uncle is in hospital,’ she announced. ‘He’s had a heart attack.’

William stared. ‘Is he all right?’

‘Who knows!’ She relented a little. ‘They say he’s stable, for now.’

William sank back into the pillow. A heart attack? That was awful. Confused memories of the previous night tumbled through his head. He felt sore all over. And drained. But the dizziness and nausea were gone, and the throb in his ear had dwindled.

His mother was unable to keep still. ‘What on earth was he doing out there, running around like that at his age? And you! They had to carry you home at three in the morning.’

‘I was sick.’

‘I know.’ She waved the issue aside. ‘Terry said you ate a bad burger or something.’

A bad hamburger? Could that be right? He had felt so … disjointed. Even now, events were hard to recall clearly. He thought of white robes flapping, of fire and smoke, and of a wind, blowing up over the hill. He could hear that same wind now, moaning outside his window, and feel faint quivers shake his bed as the House’s old frame bent and stretched.

‘Is the rally over?’ he asked.

‘Of course! Everyone’s gone. It’s a complete mess.’ Outrage flashed again in her eyes. ‘The old fool, he might have died.’

William suddenly understood why his mother was upset. And it wasn’t because of the chaos at the rally, or because her son had been sick.

‘He might still die yet.’ She was biting at one of her fingers as her eyes flicked back and forth. ‘And what happens to us then? Has he written anything down on paper about you? Because if he hasn’t, then what’s the point of any of this?’

William felt a coldness inside. ‘I’ve tried to make him like me …’

She glared at him. ‘Not enough to make if official. And you won’t even be allowed to see him again, unless he gets better. So you know who’ll have to do everything now, don’t you?’

William blinked at her in confusion, and she was gone.

Five days later, his uncle returned from hospital.

It was sooner than the doctors wanted, apparently, but the old man had insisted. An ambulance delivered him to the front door, and two men helped him up the stairs to his bedroom. William caught a glimpse of the trio as they ascended, and was shocked. His uncle looked terribly frail and small, dressed in pyjamas many sizes too big, with his hair tufted wildly and his arms hanging limp around the ambulance men’s shoulders. Where was the stern prophet, or the wise grandfather? But it was only a glimpse, and the old man did not notice William or speak to him. He was still very sick, everyone said, and not to be bothered. William didn’t need the warning. The door on the landing remained open, but nothing could have drawn him upstairs anyway. He was haunted by the idea of a thin, feeble stranger lying up there in the white bedroom, possibly waiting to die.

The westerly winds blew on. Indeed, it seemed to William that, over the following weeks, they never ceased to blow. They were remorseless, hot and dry, and everyone knew what such weather meant — this was the scalding breath of summer, come full grown and early. Temperatures across southern Queensland soared into the 40s, and on television the faces of the weathermen turned grim. There was no sign of rain, they said, no hope of it … and this was the third rainless year in a row. Inland, the winds whipped over deserts and dusty fields, and by the time they reached the eastern regions they drove clouds of clinging topsoil before them. Farmers and graziers hunched their shoulders, despairing as the cattle starved and the rivers died. And on the coasts, city-dwellers squinted unhappily at the haze-filled skies, spraying their gardens in guilty defiance of water restrictions.

The Kuran Plains were not spared. The wheat shrivelled up, and the black soil cracked open into chasms. Kuran Station suffered too. The wind thrummed and beat about the House, tugging at loose tiles on the roof and rattling the windows. The old building creaked and strained, and William felt that he was adrift in some wrecked behemoth of a ship, caught by storm. But there was no ocean outside, only the scorched hills, where the trees bent and shuddered, and where the last faded tints of grass shrank away to crusts. Inside, hot gusts rummaged through the hallways, layering everything with grit and dust, until the front doors were shut fast despite the heat. Locked away thus, William, his mother and the housekeeper all waited, prisoners in the darkness, sharing the old man’s death-watch.

For William, there was nothing to do and no one to talk to. He waited vainly for visitors to come and call upon his uncle. He was expecting someone like Terry or Henry or Kevin, but none of them appeared. Only Dr Moffat called, and occasionally the station manager, Mr Drury. Neither had any time for William. The doctor, when he came to check on his patient’s progress, seemed gloomy and preoccupied. And Mr Drury was a dour, middle-aged man whom William had hardly ever seen. Now his news was all bad; the pastures were empty, and the few remaining cattle were surviving on fodder. He made his reports to the old man upstairs, and received his orders, but he spent no other time in the House. Which left William only his mother for company.