The Last Mile Home Read Online Free Page A

dance tonight. It’s turned into quite a big do.’
    â€˜Be a long drive back . . . late, I assume. I trust you’ll drive with due caution. And not imbibe too much, with that in mind,’ said his father, looking around the corner of the Land newspaper.
    â€˜I thought I’d stay over. Most are. There’s a big breakfast on in the morning. I’ll take my swag.’
    â€˜That sounds like a lot of trouble,’ said his mother, snapping a cracker in half and giving a bit to each dog.
    â€˜It should be rather fun. It’s an organised thing; you know, a committee and everyone pitching in,’ said Barney, thinking of all the other families involved. Phillip and Enid rarely attended social gatherings.
    â€˜Don’t forget we have to get ready for shearing soon. Start mustering on Monday.’ His father turned back to his newspaper.
    â€˜Well, cheerio then.’
    His father didn’t answer and his mother was murmuring to the dogs.
    â€˜Bye, Mother.’
    His mother didn’t look up. ‘Oh. Goodbye, Barney. Don’t grab, Tucker, there’s a good boy,’she admonished the dog, reaching for another biscuit as Barney left the room.
    He threw his swag and knapsack with a change of casual clothes into the back of the Holden utility and drove through the last of the day’s sun. He passed the black soil cultivation paddocks and drove out along the red clay road to the turnoff to the Pembertons’ farm next door, which was marked by a rusting milk urn nailed to a post with Anglesea painted on it. He drove on through a stand of grey gums screening a small seldom-used timber mill, past the line of sheoaks marching along the banks of the creek bed, over the broad cement ford that became a floodway in heavy rains, until, three miles on, the dirt road hit the bitumen. After an hour and four mailboxes, he turned into the Frenchams’ property.
    The light had faded, the watercolours of the sunset running across the pale canvas of the sky. By the time he arrived at the gates of the Frenchams’ homestead, lights were beaming into the twilight, the band could be heard tuning up and headlights from cars bounced from the woolshed to the house as food, grog, visitors, last-minute extra tables, chairs and gear were ferried between the buildings.
    Further out on the deserted highway, coming from the direction of Glen Innes, an early modelBuick, towing a trailer, its engine rattling roughly, turned onto the dirt road heading towards Anglesea, the Pembertons’ property.
    The wide-bodied car, approaching twenty years of age, with deep seats now almost springless but sinkably comfortable, seemed ready to burst at the seams. Inside was a crush of people, a dog, parcels, laughter and singing. The Buick meandered on steadily, its headlights glancing off the unfamiliar terrain. Bob McBride drove with an arm hanging out of the window, patting the driver’s door like a jockey urging on a thoroughbred.
    â€˜Come on, Betsy, we’re nearly there. You can make it.’
    The twin girls on the back seat were bouncing and singing, ‘Zippety doo da, zippety ay, my oh my what a wonderful day . . .’
    â€˜It’s not day, it’s night,’ came a fourteen-year-old boy’s know-it-all voice.
    â€˜Hush, Kev, let them sing. I’d rather that than the “how-much-longer” whine,’ came a young woman’s placatory murmur.
    â€˜Come on, count the mailboxes,’ called the cheerful mother. ‘Only four they said.’
    En masse the car counted, ‘One . . .’ Then, after what seemed longer than a watched kettle coming to the boil, they all shouted, ‘ Four ! We’re here.’
    â€˜Not quite, we have to find our house,’ came the young woman’s voice. Heads hung out of windows, the dog barked and the car swung through the gate onto the track up to Anglesea.
    â€˜I bags doing the gates.’ Kevin sprang from the car