Showy banksia
Meaning: I am your captive
Banksia speciosa | Western Australia and South Australia
Small tree that has thin leaves with prominent ‘teeth’. Cream-yellow flower spikes appear throughout the year, which store seeds until opened by fire. The flowers attract nectar-feeding birds, particularly honeyeaters.
Alice drove through the storm for the rest of the night. At dawn she stopped for petrol at a roadhouse not far beyond the state border. After filling up she parked under a gum and propped her head against the window to sleep. When she awoke the sun was burning her face and her mouth was dry. She got out of her truck and went into the roadhouse, emerging ten minutes later with a paper cup of burnt black coffee, a stale bun with thick pink icing, and a map. She managed a sip and a few bites before tossing the lot into the rubbish. Her wheels spun on grit as she drove onto the highway following the signs west, her map open on the seat beside her. Alice pushed away thoughts about anything other than what was right in front of her. All she would allow herself to focus on was driving as far as she could from water.
The further inland she drove, the thirstier and more unfamiliar the landscape grew. Wide, flat fields of yellow grass were dotted with rocky outcrops and gullies of twisted gums. Alice spotted the occasional corrugated-iron roof of a farmhouse, or a silver water tank squatting by a creaking windmill. All under the upturned bowl of endless blue sky.
Her mobile ran out of battery on the first day. She didn’t bother fishing her charger out of her bag. When she was tired she pulled up on the side of the road wherever she was, locked her doors, and slept. Deeply, and without dreams. When she passed through one-street towns that seemed to shoot up out of the yellow dust like wildflowers after rain, she stopped for fuel and salad sandwiches or tins of peaches that she ate with her fingers. Sometimes she’d buy a cup of milky tea to swill as she pondered her map; the name of a town had caught her eye. It was at least a few more sweltering days of driving away but she wasn’t dissuaded. At her next roadhouse stop she bought a spray bottle, filled it with tap water and used it during the following stretch of driving, spraying her face to cool herself down. The harsh sun beat down on her without mercy.
On her third night on the road, sweat still trickling down her backbone after sunset, Alice spotted a neon sign flashing on the outskirts of a mining town. She pulled into the motel parking lot and paid extra for an air-conditioned room with a kitchenette. In a convenience shop nearby she found pancake mix. Alice bought a box along with a stick of butter and tin of golden syrup, and fried them up before she’d even taken off her boots. Lying sprawled in her knickers across the floral polyester bedspread, Alice tore the pancakes into strips, slathered them with butter and syrup, and ate the stack while the rattling wall unit belted out stale, cold air. The lullaby of twenty-four-hour movies on the cable television sent her into another empty sleep.
The next morning Alice left her motel room key on the bureau and closed the door behind her. The sun was only just up but already creating a heat haze. At first she thought it was a trick of the eye, but looking around, Alice stopped mid-stride. The night before, in the dark, she hadn’t realised that the colour of the earth had changed so dramatically. Though she’d heard people talk about the Red Centre, it wasn’t the kind of red she’d expected. It was closer to orange. Like rust. Like fire. Overwhelmed, Alice closed her eyes and listened. Birdsong, the humming air conditioners behind her, the desert wind, a small yap. She opened her eyes to look around. Walked towards her truck, searching for the source of the yapping.
Crouching under a nearby shrub was a tawny-coloured puppy with one white patch of fur in the middle of its back. Alice glanced around. There were no other cars in the car park, or coming in either direction down the flat highway. The puppy yapped again. It didn’t have a collar, and clumps of fur were missing along its flanks. While Alice was looking it over, fleas surfaced and burrowed again into the white patch. The puppy belonged to no one, or if it did, to someone who didn’t care for it. Alice checked behind its tail. A girl. She scooped the puppy under one arm, opened the door and plonked her on the passenger seat. They gazed at each other.
‘How do you feel about Pippin?’ Alice asked. The puppy panted. ‘Too formal?’ Alice put the truck into gear and turned onto the highway, continuing to follow signs to the town she’d picked on her map.
‘Come on, then, Pip,’ she said. ‘Less than half a day’s drive to go.’
The town of Agnes Bluff sat at the base of the towering red outcrop it was named after. Main Street was lined with spotted gums and dotted with Victorian shopfronts the colour of sugared almonds. A newsagency, a few desert art galleries, a library, a couple of cafes, a grocery store and a petrol station. Alice pulled in and was about to fill up when Pip cried as she weed on the passenger seat. Her urine was bloody.
‘Oh, Pip,’ Alice said. The puppy whimpered.
Alice raced inside and came back with directions scrawled on a scrap of paper. She sped off, praying she had enough fuel to get to the nearest vet.
Pip cried forlornly in her arms while Alice pounded her fist on the clinic door. She cupped her hand around her eyes and peered through the glass. A clock on the wall said it was three minutes past one. A sign on the door said the clinic closed at one on Saturdays. Was it Saturday? She didn’t have a clue. She kept banging until a man about her age appeared with a stethoscope around his neck behind the reception desk. He unlocked and opened the door.
‘Can I help?’
‘Please,’ Alice pleaded.
She followed him into the surgery. He put a pair of gloves on and took Pip from Alice’s arms. He bent to inspect her skin where fur was missing. Shone a light in her eyes, then into her mouth. When he stood up, the warmth was gone from his face.
‘Your dog has severe mange.’
‘Oh, she’s not mine. I mean, she is, I, I, just found her this morning. I mean, we found each other. At a roadhouse.’
He considered her for a moment. ‘You’d best wash your hands,’ he said more gently, nodding towards a sink in the corner. Alice washed her hands with warm water.
‘That’s what that odour is,’ he said.
Alice looked at him blankly, drying her hands with paper towel.
‘You can’t smell it?’
She shoved her hands in her pockets. ‘I, uh, didn’t notice.’
‘That’s why she can’t stop scratching.’
He was right, Alice realised. The puppy hadn’t stopped scratching since Alice found her. ‘There’s blood, too, I just saw, in her urine …’ Alice trailed off.
‘She’s got a nasty urinary tract infection, which causes the blood. She’s also got a high fever, no doubt from malnourishment.’ He peeled off his gloves and threw them into the bin. ‘Sadly, it’s pretty common for strays out here.’
The vet picked Pip up and put her in an empty cage. She immediately started to howl.
‘Hey!’ Alice stepped forward.
‘She needs immediate medical care,’ he cut in. ‘I’m just helping her.’ It took a second but Alice backed off. Pip huddled into the far corner of the cage, her tail between her legs.
Out at the reception desk, the vet asked for Alice’s details.
‘I don’t, uh …’ she trailed off.
‘You’ve just arrived in town?’
Alice nodded.
‘Literally?’
‘Yep.’
‘Are you a FIFO worker?’
She frowned.
‘Fly in, fly out?’
Shook her head.
‘Have you got a place to stay?’
Alice didn’t answer. He scribbled something on a notepad and tore the top sheet off.
‘Go to the Bluff Pub. Ask for Merle. Tell her I sent you.’ He handed her the note.
‘Thanks.’ Alice took it, her eyes drifting over the letterhead. Moss Fletcher. Agnes Bluff Veterinarian. Moss. She remembered a page of the Thornfield Dictionary. Moss. Love without exception. She mumbled some parting remarks and left as quickly as she could.
When Alice walked outside, the dry heat hit her like an invisible wall. Nothing about this place was familiar. The sky was a bleached blue, empty and stretching without end. There was no hint of river water, or flower fragrance. Her head spun and her pulse quickened.
Alice stumbled towards her truck, overcome by the rapid sound of her beating heart. She struggled to breathe as she reached for her door handle but couldn’t grasp it. Her hands cramped and clawed inwards. Memories came back to her; the ocean and the fire roared indistinguishably.
She tried closing her eyes. Tried breathing through the panic. Tried to protect herself, before everything turned black.
Moss did a last check on the animals before he closed up. Alice’s puppy was medicated and sleeping. He walked out into the blazing afternoon, which was heavy with the scent of diesel fumes and takeaway chicken from the fast food shop next door. The smell reminded him of what lay ahead: another night at home, alone.
He crossed the car park to his van, noticing a bright yellow truck. Alice Hart, Floriographer. Thornfield Farm, where wildflowers bloom. There was no one inside. Rounding the tail-end he found Alice collapsed on the bitumen, her nose bleeding.
Moss rushed to her, repeating her name. She didn’t move. Her skin was frighteningly pale. He checked her breathing and her pulse. Pulled his mobile out of his pocket and punched in the speed dial for the medical centre. He was careful not to move her. When the doctor answered, Moss responded to her questions robotically, his heart racing.
Please, not again.
It wasn’t an ocean of fire; Alice floated on a river. A river made of stars. They painted her skin silver-green. She lay on her back watching as they rained down from the night sky. Some got caught in the tallest branches of the silhouetted gum trees. Others stuck in her eyelashes, and between her toes. She swallowed a few. They tasted sweet and cool. She gathered an armful, surprised by their lightness, and carefully set them around her. A circle of stars. Inside which, nothing hurt.
Alice spluttered as she came to consciousness, thinking she was spitting out stars.
‘Oggi,’ she slurred.
‘Yes, Alice, you’ll be a bit groggy. Easy does it.’
Alice looked up. A woman smiled at her as she shone a light in each of Alice’s eyes. The sensation agitated her memory; she was in a hospital bed in a white room. There was a needle in her arm. She winced and rolled her head away. A man sat stiffly in the chair beside her bed, staring at her. He raised his hand. Alice lifted her fingers to wave back. The vet. He was the vet. Moss Something. Love without exception.
‘You’re on a saline drip, Alice. You were quite badly dehydrated. It’s something we see often in visitors not used to the desert heat. That’s probably why you fainted.’ The woman wore a white coat with Dr Kira Hendrix sewn above the pocket. ‘Routine questions now. Do you have a history of low blood pressure in your family?’
Alice didn’t know. She shook her head.
‘What about anxiety, or panic attacks?’
‘Not since I was a kid,’ she answered quietly.
‘And what brought them on?’
The wind blowing? The sight of a flower? The lingering flame of a dream?
‘I don’t know,’ Alice answered.
‘Are you on any prescribed medication?’
Alice shook her head again.
‘Luckily your nose isn’t broken and will heal in good time. Plenty of rest, for now. Lots of fluids. At the sign of anything worrying, come back and see me. Moss said you’ve just arrived in town today?’
Alice nodded.
‘Where are you staying?’
Alice glanced over at Moss. He held eye contact for a moment before speaking.
‘At the pub, doc. A room at the pub.’
‘Hmmm,’ the doctor said again. She patted Alice’s shoulder, then turned to look at Moss with an eyebrow raised. ‘A word?’
They huddled in the opposite corner. Alice glanced sidelong at them. Dr Kira was gravely serious while Moss looked taken aback.
‘Great,’ Dr Kira said brightly, ending their discussion. She returned to Alice’s bedside. ‘Let’s get that drip out of your arm now, Alice, and see you on your way. Eat small meals. Plenty of sleep.’
Alice nodded, her eyes downcast.
Moss unlocked the passenger door of his van and held it open, closing it after Alice climbed wearily inside. The interior was immaculate. A cardboard tree hung from the rearview mirror, scented with an imitation of eucalyptus.
They rode in silence. Moss cleared his throat a few times.
‘I, uh, found you in the car park after I’d closed up,’ he said, not looking at her. ‘I didn’t move you, I called Dr Kira and she came and got you in the ambulance. I followed in my van.’
Alice kept her eyes straight ahead as she played through the image of him finding her unconscious. A deep sense of shame made her eyes hot. You will not cry right now.
‘Here we are,’ Moss said, pulling up at the clinic. He reached into his pocket and took out her truck keys. ‘They were in your hand when I found you.’ He sounded apologetic, as if he was responsible for her blackout.
‘Thanks,’ she said quietly. ‘For everything.’ Alice grabbed her keys from him, noticing him flinch as a sharp edge scraped his finger. ‘Sorry,’ she muttered, covering her face with her hands. She sighed, shaking her head at herself. ‘Thanks,’ she said again and got out, headed for her truck. But when she saw the lettering on her door panels, she came to an abrupt stop. There it was, laid bare, everything she was trying to leave behind.
Alice Hart, Floriographer. Thornfield Farm, where wildflowers bloom.
‘So, uh, Alice?’
She turned, trying to block the door from Moss’s view.
‘You’ll be okay?’
‘Yep,’ she nodded. ‘Thanks. I’ll get a room at the pub.’
He glanced away, then back at her. ‘Dr Kira asked if I’d check in on you over the next twenty-four hours.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Would that be okay with you?’
Alice forced herself to smile. ‘Rest. Fluids. Food. Pretty sure I can manage.’ She just wanted to crawl into a bed, pull the covers over her head and not come out again. ‘Thanks, though.’
‘Yeah. Okay.’ Another long pause. ‘Well, Merle’s got my number at the pub if you need anything,’ he said, putting his van into gear. Alice nodded, relieved when he drove away.
She got into her truck and drove straight to the petrol station. After filling up, she scoured the shelves inside, stopping when she found the touch-up paint. The only colour available was turquoise. She picked up a tin, and a brush. On her way to the till, a stand of bright decals caught her eye. She grabbed a bundle, paid, and left.
In the pub car park she took to her truck in a fury with the brush and paint. In the fading light of her first day in the central desert, Alice painted who she’d been and where she’d come from into turquoise oblivion.
Merle wasn’t at the pub when Alice arrived. A young girl with a thick accent checked her in, explaining the dinner menu with relentless enthusiasm while Alice pretended to listen. The girl had a map of the world tattooed on the underside of her forearm. Tiny stars dotted the map. What must that feel like, to be somewhere so far flung from all you knew, somewhere you’d willingly chosen to go, to explore? What was that like, to have no other purpose than to travel and collect experiences so vivid and meaningful that you permanently marked them on your skin? Each star taunted Alice. I haven’t been there. I haven’t been there. I haven’t been there.
‘Miss?’ The girl waved a menu in Alice’s face, smiling brightly.
‘Sorry.’ She shook her head. ‘Can I order up to my room?’
‘For a good tip.’
After ordering, Alice went upstairs with her backpack, unlocked the door to her room and locked it behind her.
She sat on the bed, unlaced her boots, and dropped sideways onto the pillow, letting go of the sob that had been pressing against her ribs for days.
