The stench of rotting potatoes hangs thick in the air. Her boots are heavy with mud as she trudges carefully, trying to avoid squishing the decaying plants. Close now, Jan reaches out, relieved she's able to grab Jim's hand. His balance has deteriorated lately, and the recent flood has made the furrows collapse and slide, the slush merging the mounds into unstable troughs. She needs to get him safely to dry, firm ground.
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'Come on Jim. It's late, dinner's ready. It's chips and sausages. Your favourite.'
Talk of food turns her stomach with the stink so strong, but she knows Jim, still a farmer at heart, will always talk produce. 'Those our spuds then, the chips?' Jan smiles, knowing that although he maintains his interest, he won't pick that the chips are made from bought potatoes. 'Of course. Our spuds are best.'
Jan kept him moving in the hope that there would be no more questions about produce. It was still too distressing constantly having to remind him of all they'd lost. Kinder to let him believe what gave him comfort. She applies gentle pressure to pull him forward, until they reach the kitchen steps. She pauses, gently leading him up - and memory sweeps her back. It might have been yesterday, when he'd led her by the hand up these same steps for the first time.
Twelve years older than her and retired from the rat race, he'd fulfilled his dream to become a hobby farmer. But their rich alluvial plot of land had little high ground: only the house and animal pens stood above flood level. She had trusted his judgement in purchasing the farm, but being a city girl before Jim, the first and successive floods had weakened her faith in the 'good life.' Still, they had been happy back then - when both the farm and Jim's mind had flourished.
'Our little rural Arcadia,' he'd promised. And the grand scheme? She remembers his enthusiastic pronouncement. 'We'll have chooks, grow vegies and Molly, being a kelpie- she'll make a great working dog.' On cue, Molly, still a pup, had bounced around yapping agreement. While Napoleon, their haughty rooster, strutted around the dog looking suspicious: Molly rolling submissively onto her back had cleverly made a friend of a potential rival.
Remembering how they'd laughed at this performance; Jim's sudden stop jolts her back to now. He stares at her - eyes mean and narrow with suspicion. 'Where's Jan?' he says, snatching his hand away, he steps back and stumbles, almost falling back down the stairs as Jan reaches for his shirt with a practised speed, managing to grab and bunch the material in her fist, anchoring him enough to gain his balance,
'Jim, it's me, look at me...please...,' 'You ...I know you... You locked me in. And the chooks, they'll drown. I need to help them. And what about Molly? And Napoleon?'
'Jim please. The chooks are fine luv. Everything's ok now. The water's gone away. It's me - Jan- I'm your girl...remember? We used to sing. I'd play the piano and you'd sing, remember'...she starts to sing, her voice shaky: 'If you were the only boy in the world, and I was the only girl, Nothing else would matter in the world today, We would go on loving in the same old way...'
'Remember Jim? I still can't sing...but you could. That deep baritone voice of yours. You were a bit of a lad, and dance...you really had the moves...remember?'
Jim smiles, rekindling the life in his eyes as they shine and crinkle at the edges. Then with remarkable dexterity and strength, he steps forward, surprising her as he pulls her toward him, flinging his arm around her side and clutching her shirt at the back as he squeezes their bodies tightly together. He attempts to twirl but unbalanced she falls against the table, her hip smashing - hard - on the sharp edge.
'Jim, stop' she cries, attempting to steady him - clutching his arms she plants her feet, trying to ignore the pain in her hip. Breathless now, she tries to pull him toward a chair.
'Luv, you need to sit now, so I can check the chooks and Molly are ok. Remember' she pants. 'Napoleon, and Cleo and the girls, they need rounding up,' she winces. 'You know how Napoleon can be obstinate...and the girls would just follow him. And Molly, she's a good dog,' she whispers sadly, 'I need to make her safe.'
Clenching her jaw as the throbbing sharpens, she lowers Jim, one hand pressing his shoulder while the other pulls him down onto a nearby chair. Breathless with pain and exhausted, her hand slips as she sinks to the floor. Jim sits, his eyes squinting - his mind muddled. He doesn't remember; Jan had not been able to get the animals to safety. Free range chooks, used to getting penned only at night, they'd flapped around: confused, clucking and squawking. Molly: tension overriding her training, had merely compounded the chaos. Her frenzied bouncing and barking creating havoc among the chooks as the water surged forward, filling the hollow around the pens. They didn't reach the high ground.
Realising now - she needs help, Jan shrieks with pain as she reaches for her phone, hoping Jim will stay put long enough for her to call.
'Damn woman,' he mutters, looking down at her, his gaze vacant - 'Where's Jan?' 'You' he points - his mouth twisting with suspicion. 'You're not...' Squinting, puzzled, he stares... then his features relax as recognition filters through his foggy brain. 'Oh - it is you. Molly needs penning.' 'Poor Molly.' Jan whispers, gulping back the tears she fears if released - might never stop.
Then Napoleon's crisp loud crowing shatters the stillness, and their eyes meet in a sad smile - knowing the bedraggled old bird still stands proudly guarding the mound that covers Molly's lifeless body.
***
Rhonda Mackey, the author of this piece, is a finalist in the 2022 Newcastle Herald Short Story Competition. Read the full list of finalists in this year's Herald Short Story Competition by visiting the Newcastle Herald website.
