Owen’s gaze brushed over the horizon. The 5:30 lights of the town had already dismissed the stars and were now winking him reminders that the day ahead, like many before that year, would be hard. The dogs would be alright for a day on their own. He might call Tony later and ask him to drop by the gates just to be sure, but they would be back tonight anyway. Tomorrow at the latest.
Connie was to be put on the plane and sent to Sydney again (apparently that’s where all the best doctors were) and this time he had to go and leave the farm to run itself. It hadn’t come suddenly, Owen would have preferred something he could have reacted to, taken immediate control over. No, the trouble had accrued in portions. His wife could still ride up the hill on the motorbike, shoot a struck sheep in the head and drag in back down over her back. She screamed at cloudless skies and kicked iron when it wouldn’t bend to her will. Her cancer, however loud it might deride and chastise her, tried but it could not drown out the daily rhythm of the past fifteen years. But the headaches and tiredness which arrested her in the evenings had become worse and her way of moving contracted and stiff, as if planks of wood had been stapled to the backs of her legs and arms.
He jingled the keys in his pockets to announce once again that he was ready to leave. Might lock the house this time, he thought. Connie was upstairs. Her coughs echoed down the stairs, around the corner, past the picture family frames on the wall and out the door. “Everything alright up there, darling? We’ve got to get a move on if we want to catch that plane.”
“Give me a bloody minute,” came the answer. Owen smiled and went out to start the truck.