Forest Spirit. David Laing
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have said.
As soon as they hit the bush track, the car began to slide and fishtail in the shaded places where water still lay.
‘It will improve further on,’ Ms Barnard said, more to herself than Jars. Jars laughed inwardly. She didn’t think so; they were heading into seriously wet ground where the sun’s rays hardly ever penetrated the trees and scrub that grew to the edges of the bush track.
They continued on, somehow surviving Ms Barnard’s driving. She accelerated over high rocks instead of slowing, raced through creeks not checking for either depth or a firm bottom, fought the steering when she didn’t have to. No wonder she’s in a sweat, Jars thought. She’s a disaster waiting to happen.
Jars filled the time gazing out of the passenger side window at the birds and the occasional wallaby, wondering if this would be the last time she saw them. When they came upon some grazing buffaloes, she shuddered. Every nerve and muscle in her body tensed. Would she ever get over it? Would the memories ever leave?
From the corners of her eyes, she saw that Ms Barnard was hovering on a state of panic. Her eyes held an insane glaze as she hunched over the steering wheel, wrenching it this way and that. Rivulets of sweat poured down her face. Jars crinkled her nose. A mixed smell of fear and cabbage was wafting across to her from Ms Barnard, whose khaki shirt was now stained dark with perspiration. Jars wound the window down. She needed fresh air.
Except for the occasional moans and squeaking whimpers coming from Ms Barnard’s throat, they drove in silence. At last they came to the metallic grey road that was the Stuart Highway.
They drew to a halt. Ms Barnard let out a sigh and slumped over the wheel. ‘Lucky,’ she said, ‘it’s a miracle we made it.’ She leant back, stretching and swivelling her neck in an attempt to relieve the tension in her tight muscles. She lifted her hand and looked at her watch. ‘It’s past ten o’clock. We’ve lost time, but it’s all smooth sailing from here on. We ought to make it.’
Jars didn’t know whether she was being spoken to or not. She didn’t reply.
Ms Barnard gave Jars a quick glance, her thin lips stretching into a vague smile. ‘I realise we were planning to purchase some clothes for you, something decent to travel in, but I’m afraid that won’t be possible now. There’s no time. I’m aware that you were provided with funds to buy new clothes, but unfortunately you’ll just have to make do with what you’re wearing.’ She sniffed as she glanced towards Jars. ‘Such as it is.’
Jars shrugged without replying and wound the window up. Clothes? What did they matter? She had already lost all that she really cared for.
They sped along the bitumen highway towards Darwin Airport. Jars stared straight ahead, eyes fixed on the road. They ate up the miles.
It was nearly eleven-thirty by the time they got to the airport car park. Ms Barnard lost no time. She jumped out of the car and hurried ahead towards the lounge and ticketing area. ‘Quickly now,’ she called over her shoulder, ‘keep up, we’re late.’
Jars, almost running, followed. As soon as they were indoors Jars wanted to retrace her steps; she desperately wanted to leave. She did not belong here. Not among all these people, who had taken care to dress for their journey. They wanted to be there. She had been forced to leave against her will. They had a purpose, a reason. She did not.
Clutching her battered suitcase, Jars looked down at herself – stained jeans, old flannel shirt, thongs. She felt out of place; maybe she was wrong back there when Ms Barnard mentioned clothes, because right now she felt tacky and out of place, like a starling lost among a flock of parrots. ‘Ms Barnard,’ she called out to her back. ‘Do you think we could find some place around here where I could buy those clothes … to look better?’
Ms Barnard, without slowing, barked a reply. ‘Don’t be silly. You know very well we’re running behind time. Just pray that they’ve held your seat.’
They came to the ticketing area. Ms Barnard, breathing heavily, approached and began talking to a male uniformed attendant. Jars stood at a distance, shoulders slumped. The attendant, fresh-faced and smiling, called out to her. ‘Just pop your case on the scales’. He glanced at her ticket. ‘Jacinta. Nice name. Now, here’s your ticket for seat allocation. And don’t worry, one of the flight attendants will help you with that and anything else you’re not sure about.’
Sitting in the departure lounge next to Ms Barnard, Jars saw her plane through a viewing window. It was a jet. She stared at it. It was so big. Not like the few aircraft she had seen flying over the cattle station. They were small and insignificant, like distant birds.
Jars shifted in her seat, hearing the muffled conversations and occasional laughter of the other passengers, catching the hint of their perfumes and lotions. The general smells of a crowd. Without meaning to, her thoughts drifted to Jacana Station – the gamey odours of the cattle and horses, the healthy sweat of the station workers, the aroma of her mother’s cooking. She shifted again in her seat and waited.
A microphone crackled, interrupting her thoughts, then a voice announced, ‘This is the first call for all passengers travelling on flight 234 to Melbourne. Passengers may board now.’
‘That’s you,’ Ms Barnard said. ‘Walk through that door marked exit. A crew member wil take you to the plane.’
The sun, now low in the sky, had not lessened its intensity. Its rays shimmered on the concrete runway. Ignoring the heat, Jars, accompanied by a male attendant, made her way to the waiting plane, her steps heavy, mechanical.
‘Welcome aboard young lady. Do you have your seat allocation?’ a flight attendant, who was checking each passenger’s details, asked. Jars showed her. The flight attendant, who wore a perky hat and sleek blue uniform, inspected her clipboard. ‘Ah, yes, Jacinta Kelly. Going through to Burnie I see. Well, don’t worry, we’ll look after you.’ She directed Jars to her seat, then turned to the next passenger.
Jars found herself sitting next to an elderly man, feather haired and dressed in a business suit. ‘Hi,’ he began, ‘name’s Lucky. In the selling game, I am. What’s yours – your name, I mean?’ Without waiting for an answer, he continued. ‘Might as well get to know each other, eh? Long trip and all that.’ He thrust out a hand.
She forced a smile and shook his hand. ‘They call me Jars.’
‘Great. Pleased to meetcha. Hey, you can have the window seat. View out there’s better than the one in here.’ He unbuckled his seatbelt, waiting for Jars to shuffle into the aisle. He then rose, making way for her to take the new seat.
Lucky continued to talk, but Jars barely heard him as she gazed out the window, watching as people in the viewing area waved their last goodbyes. And then she realised: this would be her final view of the Northern Territory. Her throat constricted and turned wood-chip dry. She had never felt so lonely.
She rested her head on the back of the seat, half listening to Lucky, as well as the whispering drones and occasional laughter of the other passengers. ‘Hey, Jars.’ She felt her shoulder shake. It was Lucky. ‘You were miles away. You had better do your seatbelt up. We’re about to take off.’
How can this be happening, she asked herself as she fastened her belt? In a plane? Flying … to a place … to people she didn’t know? Her thoughts turned to her parents and brother. With a guilty feeling of dismay, she found that already their images were starting to fade in her mind. Even Mr & Mrs H. and Tom seemed distant memories now that she had left them behind. She bit her lip. For some reason she no longer liked who she was.
After a short time, the flight attendant, who had shown Jars where to sit, appeared with a steel trolley laden with cardboard containers. ‘Food,’ she said with a sunny smile. She leant over, and in one motion released the tray from the back of the front seat and placed the meal in front of her. ‘Next stop is Tullamarine Airport, Melbourne. That’s where you change planes for the Burnie flight. There’ll be a short wait in Melbourne, but don’t worry, we’ll make sure you don’t get lost.’
Jars