Billy's Run
April 27th 2012 05:14
Billy awoke on the third morning to an otherwise empty room, the lady was missing as was her valise and he somehow knew she’d left the small country town, for where he mused, and where had she come from to begin with, he didn’t know, he didn’t ask, matter of fact he never got around to asking her what name she went by; he just called her lady and whatever he suggested they do, she willingly complied.
Hurriedly he dressed and moved down stairs, it was time for him to go also, Billy had not intended to stay away for as long as he did and now he harboured a premonition that dallying so long was somehow going to cost him.
As he moved through the pub he passed the bar where the barman was cleaning up after another not unusual quiet night, leaving are you mate, the barman enquired?
Yeah, replied Billy, time to get back, looks like there’s about to be a dump of rain to descend upon us, If I don’t get a move on I’ll have to go the long way around. Say, you haven’t seen the lady this morning at all have you?
Matter of fact I did, the barman replied, early, before eight o’clock if I’m not wrong, same bloke picked her, the one that dropped her off last Friday. Big bloke, suite and all, shinny shoes blacked out limo, looked like he was head’ in towards Dubbo, I never ask, he paid the bill and left; that’s all I know.
The clacked out Toyota tray top was, as he expected it would be, still where he had left it and as he walked towards his vehicle a slight drizzle of rain turned into a steady torrent. Rain of this magnitude had not been seen in this part of the land for a long, long time, would it last, thought Billy, or would it peter out into another Gipsy’s promise, if it was indeed the end of the drought then maybe, just maybe, he could put Murraywood back on track, grow some fodder, get some stock and build up a decent herd of cattle again?
Well this was after all just a maybe, right now he had to get back to the property and if the rain continued he’d have to go along the track that follows the river.
He couldn’t hold out much hope of going up over the ridge on slippery ground, the four wheel drive on the Toyota wasn’t’ working too good, if it slipped out and he had to stop and get out of the cab to relock the hubs, well if that was to happen half way up the mountain, then he’d never get enough traction to move on. No it’d have to be the long way around; even if the river was up and he had to cross Corrigan’s Bridge it was still the safe way.
Billy turned off the bitumen at the five mile and drove down Corrigan’s road, a forty mile winding track that beggared belief; originally the track was used to haul out great logs of timber on wagons drawn by up to a dozen bullocks. That was a long time in the past however but the ruts that the wooden wheels of the wagons had worn into the rocky ground still remained. Deep gullies and precarious drop off’s made the journey one of constant vigil but Billy had driven the track many, many times before and had never had a worry with it. He’d long since worked out it was best to keep the vehicle in motion, even if the two outside wheels were not in contact with the ground; keep it going boy and you won’t tip it, someone once told him, and this proved to be sound advice. And while the rain increased in its density; it was the thunderous sound of a great storm rolling in from the north east that worried him.
When billy reached the river he was surprised to find it was already carrying a moderate flow, certainly too much to consider crossing at the well worn ford, the river would have to be crossed by Corrigan’s Bridge, but there also lay a problem.
So many years without any flow in the river had weakened the bridge, much of its foundation, which after all was mostly sand, had blown away and the unexpected water flow had added to the problem. Billy could see that the two upstream pylons, meant to support the crossbeams’ that carried the table and tracks of the bridge, were bobbing back and forth in the water at an angle of forty five degrees which caused the near side of the bridge to be relatively unsupported. Closer inspection revealed the left side of the bridge table had dropped a foot or so below the level of the right side, so by any stretch of imagination, crossing the river would prove to be a formidable task; a task common sense would suggest best not to be attempted.
Billy sat in the Toyota surveying the bridge, he was trying to assess the relative danger it presented should he attempt to cross it, and while he did he was also mulling over what had happened during the past three days. He was well aware that by all accounts he should not be placed in the position he found himself, and he wouldn’t have been had he not met up with the lady. He should have tipped her his lid, and left the pub on Saturday, he went into town for a couple of cases of beer some dog food and a new pair of jeans, and he left three days later without any of them. What he did leave with was a dull ache in his groin that reminded him of the incredible experience he’d had with the lady. Christ, she was keen on it alright, he couldn’t give her enough, no sooner had he climaxed than she was climbing all over him looking for more. If they’d been two dogs on the street doing the same thing someone would surely have kicked him in the ribs and thrown a bucket of water over them; just about the only thing they didn’t do was turn and tie.
Nah, he should have left Saturday, he could have been home sitting on the porch with his mate Jimbo, watching the rain tumble down, safe in the belief the future held some degree of promise.
But in reality, what might have been doesn’t count, Billy was here by the river with a decision to make, and it was a decision that had to be made soon.
For as long as anyone could remember the bridge had proved to be of a solid structure, but he had to concede that at the present it appeared to be seriously weakened, he knew the men that built the bridge knew what they were up to; surly a couple loose pylons wasn’t going to cause the whole thing to collapse; could they?
Holding onto the right hand rail and stepping carefully on the wheel track he walked two thirds the way across the bridge, it convinced him there was no danger so Billy decided to give it a go, if he drove over the bridge in low-low gear; slowly, slowly and inch by inch he was bound to make it.
Billy was wrong, the bridge completely collapsed before he was half way across.
When he came too he couldn’t remember what happened, the fall had knocked him unconscious, it was all a blur, but he very soon worked out the Toyota was stuck nose down in the water between two large boulders, he was still in the cabin with both legs pinned, his chest crushed and even worse; the cabin was more than half full of water.
During the fall from the bridge he’d suffered one hell of a pounding around the head but as best he was able, he tried to weigh up his options, the obvious move was to get out of the vehicle and climb higher up the bank of the river, to do this he would need to open the door or the window of the ute. He could do neither; he was held fast by the dash and the steering wheel, he was jammed tight and unable to move with water slowly filling more and more of the cabin.
The ferocity of the storm convinced him it must be directly above for he could hear the thunder crashing and the sound of the torrential rain pounding on the cabin roof. At one point he also thought he felt the vehicle move ever so slightly; which buoyed him somewhat, he now knew his only path to salvation was for the river to cast the vehicle high above the flood level before the cabin filled with water; it was his last hope but a very slim hope at best.
Billy was drifting in and out of consciousness and each time he became aware of what was happening he could see the water had risen just that much more, first it was up to his chin then later still it had reached to just below his nostrils.
And the music, it was the same music that was coming from the Juke Box when he entered the pub, when?
He couldn’t remember when, he only knew the tune was ‘That’s Amore’.
Dean Martin was it, he didn’t know, nor did he care?
Billy knew that if tipped his head back as far as his neck would stretch then he could keep nose above the water for just a little while longer, not for long, just a little while longer.
Why should he bother it was all over, why fight the bloody water, it was no rain, or too much rain, bound to get a body in the end.
From the wooden floor of the veranda, back at the homestead, Jimbo stood up and stretched himself; best bloody dog a man could ever have, Billy always said.
Somehow Jimbo knew Billy had passed; it was time for Jimbo also, his time, time to go lay down on top of bald hill.
The Wrapper
Hurriedly he dressed and moved down stairs, it was time for him to go also, Billy had not intended to stay away for as long as he did and now he harboured a premonition that dallying so long was somehow going to cost him.
Yeah, replied Billy, time to get back, looks like there’s about to be a dump of rain to descend upon us, If I don’t get a move on I’ll have to go the long way around. Say, you haven’t seen the lady this morning at all have you?
Matter of fact I did, the barman replied, early, before eight o’clock if I’m not wrong, same bloke picked her, the one that dropped her off last Friday. Big bloke, suite and all, shinny shoes blacked out limo, looked like he was head’ in towards Dubbo, I never ask, he paid the bill and left; that’s all I know.
The clacked out Toyota tray top was, as he expected it would be, still where he had left it and as he walked towards his vehicle a slight drizzle of rain turned into a steady torrent. Rain of this magnitude had not been seen in this part of the land for a long, long time, would it last, thought Billy, or would it peter out into another Gipsy’s promise, if it was indeed the end of the drought then maybe, just maybe, he could put Murraywood back on track, grow some fodder, get some stock and build up a decent herd of cattle again?
He couldn’t hold out much hope of going up over the ridge on slippery ground, the four wheel drive on the Toyota wasn’t’ working too good, if it slipped out and he had to stop and get out of the cab to relock the hubs, well if that was to happen half way up the mountain, then he’d never get enough traction to move on. No it’d have to be the long way around; even if the river was up and he had to cross Corrigan’s Bridge it was still the safe way.
Billy turned off the bitumen at the five mile and drove down Corrigan’s road, a forty mile winding track that beggared belief; originally the track was used to haul out great logs of timber on wagons drawn by up to a dozen bullocks. That was a long time in the past however but the ruts that the wooden wheels of the wagons had worn into the rocky ground still remained. Deep gullies and precarious drop off’s made the journey one of constant vigil but Billy had driven the track many, many times before and had never had a worry with it. He’d long since worked out it was best to keep the vehicle in motion, even if the two outside wheels were not in contact with the ground; keep it going boy and you won’t tip it, someone once told him, and this proved to be sound advice. And while the rain increased in its density; it was the thunderous sound of a great storm rolling in from the north east that worried him.
When billy reached the river he was surprised to find it was already carrying a moderate flow, certainly too much to consider crossing at the well worn ford, the river would have to be crossed by Corrigan’s Bridge, but there also lay a problem.
So many years without any flow in the river had weakened the bridge, much of its foundation, which after all was mostly sand, had blown away and the unexpected water flow had added to the problem. Billy could see that the two upstream pylons, meant to support the crossbeams’ that carried the table and tracks of the bridge, were bobbing back and forth in the water at an angle of forty five degrees which caused the near side of the bridge to be relatively unsupported. Closer inspection revealed the left side of the bridge table had dropped a foot or so below the level of the right side, so by any stretch of imagination, crossing the river would prove to be a formidable task; a task common sense would suggest best not to be attempted.
Billy sat in the Toyota surveying the bridge, he was trying to assess the relative danger it presented should he attempt to cross it, and while he did he was also mulling over what had happened during the past three days. He was well aware that by all accounts he should not be placed in the position he found himself, and he wouldn’t have been had he not met up with the lady. He should have tipped her his lid, and left the pub on Saturday, he went into town for a couple of cases of beer some dog food and a new pair of jeans, and he left three days later without any of them. What he did leave with was a dull ache in his groin that reminded him of the incredible experience he’d had with the lady. Christ, she was keen on it alright, he couldn’t give her enough, no sooner had he climaxed than she was climbing all over him looking for more. If they’d been two dogs on the street doing the same thing someone would surely have kicked him in the ribs and thrown a bucket of water over them; just about the only thing they didn’t do was turn and tie.
Nah, he should have left Saturday, he could have been home sitting on the porch with his mate Jimbo, watching the rain tumble down, safe in the belief the future held some degree of promise.
But in reality, what might have been doesn’t count, Billy was here by the river with a decision to make, and it was a decision that had to be made soon.
For as long as anyone could remember the bridge had proved to be of a solid structure, but he had to concede that at the present it appeared to be seriously weakened, he knew the men that built the bridge knew what they were up to; surly a couple loose pylons wasn’t going to cause the whole thing to collapse; could they?
Holding onto the right hand rail and stepping carefully on the wheel track he walked two thirds the way across the bridge, it convinced him there was no danger so Billy decided to give it a go, if he drove over the bridge in low-low gear; slowly, slowly and inch by inch he was bound to make it.
Billy was wrong, the bridge completely collapsed before he was half way across.
When he came too he couldn’t remember what happened, the fall had knocked him unconscious, it was all a blur, but he very soon worked out the Toyota was stuck nose down in the water between two large boulders, he was still in the cabin with both legs pinned, his chest crushed and even worse; the cabin was more than half full of water.
During the fall from the bridge he’d suffered one hell of a pounding around the head but as best he was able, he tried to weigh up his options, the obvious move was to get out of the vehicle and climb higher up the bank of the river, to do this he would need to open the door or the window of the ute. He could do neither; he was held fast by the dash and the steering wheel, he was jammed tight and unable to move with water slowly filling more and more of the cabin.
The ferocity of the storm convinced him it must be directly above for he could hear the thunder crashing and the sound of the torrential rain pounding on the cabin roof. At one point he also thought he felt the vehicle move ever so slightly; which buoyed him somewhat, he now knew his only path to salvation was for the river to cast the vehicle high above the flood level before the cabin filled with water; it was his last hope but a very slim hope at best.
Billy was drifting in and out of consciousness and each time he became aware of what was happening he could see the water had risen just that much more, first it was up to his chin then later still it had reached to just below his nostrils.
And the music, it was the same music that was coming from the Juke Box when he entered the pub, when?
He couldn’t remember when, he only knew the tune was ‘That’s Amore’.
Dean Martin was it, he didn’t know, nor did he care?
Billy knew that if tipped his head back as far as his neck would stretch then he could keep nose above the water for just a little while longer, not for long, just a little while longer.
Why should he bother it was all over, why fight the bloody water, it was no rain, or too much rain, bound to get a body in the end.
From the wooden floor of the veranda, back at the homestead, Jimbo stood up and stretched himself; best bloody dog a man could ever have, Billy always said.
Somehow Jimbo knew Billy had passed; it was time for Jimbo also, his time, time to go lay down on top of bald hill.
The Wrapper
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