BEFORE THE STORM

She smiles that particular smile of hers; the one blissful like a cat in the sun, keeping an eye on the shade line; knowing it’s about to end. Any second now mum will be wheeling around the corner; into the kitchen with the full force of her morning mood; that mood she always seems to be in. That mood which doesn’t allow for daughterly mischief, such as eating jam from the jar by the spoonful. That mood which would tell her to stop dilly-dallying and bloody get on with the housework. That mood which would likely result in a whack, a wallop or some other painful lesson, if it were particularly bad. It always seemed to be.

Gingerly she puts the spoon, the jar, down; careful not to make a sound. Mum must be sleeping late, the silence in the house is deafening. Wiping her sticky hands on her dress; something doesn’t feel quite right, the lack of mood; this hasn’t happened before, she’s giddy with the unexpectedness. Staying as silent as she can despite the rising excitement caused by mum’s missing presence, she slips out the backdoor, wincing at the rusty wire hinges; squawking and singing with even the gentlest swing. Racing as fast as she can across the yard, making a path straight toward the shed where Sally is whinnying and waiting for her morning lump of sugar; she sees it. A glint in the baked red earth; the full force of the sun reflected, piercing her gaze; calling her over.

A weariness in her knees takes hold as she bends to get closer, snatching up the metallic glint; she jolts upright, wondering what she did to deserve a body that aches already this early. Her attention is quickly pulled back to the object in her hands. A necklace, caked in the red dirt of the sun-soaked land. She makes out the shape of a heart as she brushes the dirt away; clasp jammed shut as if guarding a precious secret; a short chain blackened with rust. Familiarity slowly inches its way down her face, mother gave me a necklace just like this, yes when I was little. Pocketing the locket, she looks back at the farmhouse, meanders slowly towards it; the morning sun harsh and relentless already. Sighing, another hot one, just like all the ones since the last big storm, that thorough drenching they thought would never come.

Pottering around the kitchen, metal glinting by the sink, bread patient on the table, butter glistening in the heat; she opens cupboard after cupboard, searching, Jim will be up soon, but where on earth is the jam? I could have sworn it was right here. Jim roars into the room, his mouth open in a great cavern of a yawn. He shoves himself down on the chair and snatches a plate, sleepy eyes assessing the spread, 'why have you put the jam over there darl?' that lazy drawl of his. 'What do you mean', she snaps, 'you must have put that there, I bet you’ve had one of your midnight feasties'. A man of few words, he lets this one pass by, back to the eating at hand. 'You heading out to Shirley’s place today?'

Shirley, the poor old woman down the street; that’s if you can call it a street anymore, that dusty path to nowhere in particular. Shirley, who’s husband packed up and left the first chance he could after their son was grown. Shirley who often needs Jim’s help with tasks around her rundown house. 'She got a problem with possums, not sure what she thinks I can do', he pushes his chair back, wiping his brow, 'it’ll be a long one today darl'.

As if following orders, she slathers butter on bread, ham whipped from the cooler, sandwiches carefully wrapped in paper, canteen of water by Jim’s boots. She watches as he heaves himself into the ute, arthritic hip clearly giving him more grief today, not so limber as he once was. Righto, now just gotta feed the pigs, chooks, washing, sweep these damn floors, Christ knows how they get so dusty, carrots for dinner, check the water tank... she pulls on her hat and grabs the bucket by the door, her knuckles shrieking with pain, oh and churn some more bloody butter. As the day gets beyond her, the sun passing mercifully behind some cloud for a moment’s respite, she wipes the sweat beading on her top lip; it never used to be this hot, back before.

Before, when they used to have a full working farm, farmhands whistling as they went about the hard work in the wheat fields; a town full of people she’d known since school; shops and pubs to gossip about them in. Before the electricity and water were switched off, as if no one was ever in need of those. Before. Before that bloody mine closed down. She knew they could have left, left with the other families who saw the drought coming; packed up their lives and headed out east where the work was. She and Jim didn’t believe it was all that bad, besides, what else had they worked all their lives for if not to settle in the home they’d made. The home where Heather had grown up, height markings still visible on the doorframe.

Just because Heather had left for the big smoke with all her mates and their parents, didn’t mean they had to leave too. If anything, a bit of country air now and then would be good for her, bring her back to earth. Heather hadn’t visited since before the last storm, there wasn’t much for her to come back for these days, nothing that would excite the three surly teens she now brought with her. Now, it was just her and Jim, Shirley, the busybody and a few newcomers who'd snapped up old farms real cheap, and wanted to have a go at the land. Still, she missed her daughter, missed the grandkids; wished they had more to offer than a dust-covered farm with no aircon or hot water, no fridge or television, not even shop-bought butter. Bloody mine.

She and Jim were of the opinion there was no use dwelling over what might have been; slow years went by, seeing off friends and neighbours, though sadly not the busybody over the road; but they just got on with things. They always did. Even now. Now, that slow years had led to slow pace, things more often slipping from their grasp; backs, knees, hips and heads aching with an ever-present exhaustion. Now that their whole wide-skyed lives had been fenced off, within the confines of their 200 hectares of dry red earth. They just bloody well got on with things.

Bash, bash, bash. Startled out of her thoughts, now who could that be? Leaning the broom against the frame, she could make out Shirley hazily through the wire flyscreen, and who’s that?

'Hello love, aren’t ya gunna let me in', Shirley rasped in that way typical of seasoned smokers, swinging the door open, inviting herself in. 'Isn’t Jim up at yours, sortin’ out some possum problems?' She took in Shirley’s appearance, always neatly dressed, but with a shock of nest-like hair either sticking up or stuck to the sheen of sweat on her furrowed forehead, today it managed to do both. Shirley’s scent entered the room with her, a cocktail of sweat and dirt like everyone who still lived in town, with a splash of imperial leather, hinting at the good church-going girl she once was, and where they had met. 'Yeah, he’s checking out some holes on the roof, bloody bastards keep gettin’ in and going after me best biscuits', Shirley gasped out a raucous laugh. 'I hope he’s alright getting down that ladder of yours, you know he can’t move like he used to'. 'Aha who is? nah, he’ll be right love, back home for tea before you know it'.

She poured a glass of water for the three of them 'so who’s this little one then? Didn’t know your lot were still at it'; the little girl eyed her warily before accepting the cool glass, pressing it to her forehead with relief. 'Oh it’s a right story love, she’s my niece Shelley’s rugrat, poor things crook in hospital and I’m the next of kin, how’d ya bloody like that!' Shirley settled herself deep into the folds of the sofa, while the girl stood self-consciously by the fireplace. 'What’s your name?' She asked sweetly, not really caring, but enjoying the novelty that came with seeing a child for the first since before the storm.

'Jessie', the little one stammered, eyes fixed firmly on her shoes. 'Well right love, won’t be keeping you, only wanted to know if you had anything of Heather’s still left, haven’t got much kids these days have any use for, though you heard? - council’s thinking of opening the school house up at Clarke back up and sending all the country kids there, if Shelley doesn’t get out soon, this one can go up there for a bit, can’t ya', Shirley did have that habit of parroting on and on, something her own mother walloped out of her, she could see why - it was exhausting following Shirley’s rattling train of words, poor little Jessie, she thought. 'Sorry Shirl, Heather took all that when she had hers'. 'No worries love, just thought I’d ask, anywhoo better go introduce this one to that old bat over the road before she gets herself in a tizzy peepin’ through the curtains like that'. Shirley heaved her great body up with an almighty 'oof', grabbed Jessie’ hand and pulled her towards the door. 'Oh wait a sec, I reckon I do have something she might like', She nipped lithely into the kitchen, with a vigour she hadn’t felt in years, swept her eyes around, looking for the tell-tale shine, ah there it is.

Snatching up the metallic glint, quick rinse in the dish water, quick dry on her dress, 'here ya go sweetheart, I had one just like it when I was your age, you can put a picture of your mum in it - well see if you can get it to open'. 'Now what do you say Jessie?' 'Thank you', the girl looked up brightly, rolling the cool metal necklace between her fingers. Shirley and the girl headed down the dusty drive, towards the busybody’s house, 'oh love, you seen those clouds? wireless says there’s gunna be a storm blowin’ in tonight - first real rain in bloody years', Shirley turned back with self-satisfaction at having listened to the radio that day. 'Great news Shirl, farm needs a good soaking'. Shirley nodded and rasped again, 'I hope it’s not the wrong sort of rain as they say, anyway hooroo love, I’ll send that Jim of yours back over hey'.

She closes the screen door behind her, smiling that particular smile, at the thought of the drought finally breaking. Seeing the broom she jolts to; panic widens her eyes, surely mum will be up any second. She’ll be in that mood again, that mood that says there’s no time for dilly-dally, better finish the sweeping so she can’t give me another walloping, time to bloody well get on with things as she always says.