Kate, The Storm and A Ute

The earth, dimpled and baked hardtack brown by an Australian summer that had been riddled with blowflies and whining mosquitoes, melted when the first rains of autumn came. Light dimmed, filtered by the mottled, bruised cloud hanging low in the petulant sky. Crisp, cool winds stirred cracked leaves, brittle from a summer’s wrath, and replaced the hot breath that had licked trails of perspiration across Kate’s forehead just moments before. Breath that had at times, felt like a dragon’s; fetid and searing on the intake. Eye watering. Breath that had made her crouch and duck her head as she had exited outside earlier away from the circulation of air-conditioned comfort. Now the day had drawn in close, with skies burdened by ponderous cloud and thoughts of evening upon the horizon.

On that first day of serious rain, the ground gave up its hard exterior, revealing its soft recesses. It slopped and puddled and smooshed and slurped at Kate’s sandals, sliding its way between sole and foot and settling between her toes as she ran back toward the house and shelter. It was uncomfortably tactile. Rivulets formed and tracked their way down gentle slopes, corrugating and carving out mini canyons as they went, leaving scurrying ants to flounder and drown. Creeks filled and water tumbled gleefully over rocks as it herded a tangle of leaves and debris downstream. The tangy scent of eucalyptus merged with that of rich, earthy loam and wet, slick pavement that had been darkened by the deluge. It created a symphony of aromas. Spicy. Sweet. Dank. Unique and forgotten, but also familiar and nostalgic.

Kate had dashed out from beneath the verandah of her faded weatherboard house in the hope of saving a line full of washing – newly dry – now sodden. Unbeknownst to her, a gust of wind had slammed the door to the house shut behind her.

Lightning sheeted on the horizon and a thunderous crack rent the air, silencing the birds, and swapping their song with the sound of her distant neighbour’s dogs barking at the unexpected noise.

Kate cowered. She could do rain. She loved rain. But lightning? Thunder? No. Ever since her brother and his best friend Sam Carten (Carten the Farten with his face full of pocks and pus and freckles and carrot orange hair stringy with grease) pushed her outside and locked the door during a particularly bad storm – one that spliced the huge lemon scented gum down the back paddock in half as she watched – ever since then storms buckled her. She skated and slipped through the mud in a dash back to the safety of the house where she could close blinds and windows and hide until the beast was done with its rampage. She fought with the door as she tried to gain entrance. It refused to budge. It was closed tight against her efforts - locked by the loose latch (that she had long been asking to be repaired) slipping into place as the wind had slammed the door shut.

Fear consumed her. Instead of running for the front entrance (no use anyway – she always locked it when home by herself,) Kate slid her way down the locked wooden door until she was seated on the dirty coir mat where people rid shoes of mud and dirt and leaves and other such matter before entering the house. ‘Welcome’ it said. Its blackened statement was faded and worn, and its weave scratched and itched against her bare legs. She drew her knees up under her chin and wrapped her arms around them as if holding herself together. Her hair hung down like a dark chocolate coloured curtain, stringy and wet and obscuring her view as she hung her head and gazed at the ground to avoid gazing beyond.

Kate was immobilised by the panic gnawing at her insides. It felt as if rats where burrowing into her soft places – belly, throat, mind. Fight or flight had no authority here. She was incapable of either. All the ‘what-ifs’ paraded through her jagged mind. What if lightning struck the old apple tree that leaned its boughs precariously over the house? The tree was still laden with fruit waiting to be picked and needed to be pruned – another task they had not gotten around to yet. What if it set the roof alight? What if it struck in the neighbouring national park and sparked a hell storm fire? The park was wooded with eucalypts and undergrowth still crackle dry from summer. They had been lucky so far – other parts of the country had burned. Lives had been lost; homes; farms; animals; hope. Parts still smoldered, acrid and blackened. They saw it on the news every night at six. What if? What if? What if?

Another flash severed the air and Kate squeezed her pearl grey eyes tightly shut. The rain stopped its drumming and took a hammer to the metal roof. She plugged her ears with her fingers and began to count. She had read or heard or seen somewhere that if you counted off the seconds between a flash of lightning and the bellow of thunder you could tell how far you were from the heart of the storm. One…two…three… BOOOOOM! Tears leaked from the corners of her eyes and tracked their way down a face that was weathered somewhat by age but not yet deemed old by those who judged such things. The wind flung twigs and leaves and rain at her, pelting her with its havoc. Kate huddled further into her skin. She was a shrinking violet amongst the boldness of a storm in full swing.

A long blaring blast filtered its way through the storm sounds. Kate startle jumped and opened her eyes in a panic. Was that the warning siren? Was something dire

indeed headed toward her and the township from out of the bush? Had a ‘what if?’ solidified? Had a spark been fanned to life under the canopy of trees? Had it begun to devour hungrily? Blare changed to staccato burps and Kate realized with sagging relief that it was not the clamour of a siren she was hearing. It was something far less sinister and definitely more welcome. Someone was announcing their arrival at the back gate, and it could only be one person.

She stood up, trembling still, and watched the warm yellow glow of bulbs belonging to headlights, scratched and fogged by time, dip and jump as the old ute, once red glorious and bright but now faded and neglected, bumped and splashed and traversed its way through the gloaming and along the track from the back gates. Its rims were caked with slick mud, and rust bubbled its way uniformly along the dented doors and roof. There was a small hole in the passenger side floor underneath where the rubber mat lay. If you nudged it aside and angled your head just right you could see the highway as it passed beneath in a blur of motion. Rain sheeted down the windscreen, obscuring the occupant from view, as wipers swept from side to side frantically trying to shift the onslaught of water with worn blades almost as old as the car. Kate desperately wanted a new car – or at least a newish one. Perhaps a deep royal blue 4-wheel drive with a chrome bull bar, bright and shiny – but right now, at this moment in time, their old clapped out run about with all its problems was one of the most beautiful things she had ever seen.

The ute sloshed to halt. A man jumped out and pounded up the steps of the sagging verandah.

“I’m so sorry, My Love,’ said Sam as he gathered Kate into his embrace. ‘I came as soon as I could. What in the hell are you doing outside???’

Kate sobbed and tucked her head in beneath his chin. His carrot orange hair had darkened over time and was slick with rain, not grease and the beard that he grew to cover the old scars of adolescence tickled and scratched against her face.

‘It’s all your fault,’ she hiccupped. 'Fix the bloody lock!'