Page 14 of Queenslander
She showed her the ice machine, electric kettle and coffee maker in the employee kitchen in the shop building that the other farmhands used.
“You ever been in trouble?” Ron asked. “Why are you so nice to me?”
Nev only knew one way to answer that question. She brought her inside Stone House on the hill, showed her the photos of Rwanda.
“Black and white, artsy fartsy.” Ron stared at a picture of a Hutu man with a machete. “Did you take these?”
Nev hated that picture. She nodded, watching Ron move from one framed photo to another down the high-ceilinged corridor that led to Nev’s bedroom. She hadn’t thought this through when she had this bright idea. She stood in the foyer, her side towards the open door, not blocking the exit, but as close to it as she could be without losing sight of the eighteen-year-old. She had to wrap this up post haste, return to Upsend and the public side of the farm.
“Were you a professional photographer?” Ron asked.
“Nine years,” Nev said. ‘87 to ‘95.
“Why did you stop?”
Nev pointed to a photo of the hotel in downtown Kigali, 1994. She couldn’t tell if that meant anything to her or not.
“Do you still take pictures?”
Nev shook her head. The old SLR camera from her conflict photojournalist days gathered dust in the attic. She should sell it. No sense in holding onto an expensive toy she would never use again. She had come close to selling it on several occasions, but each time something had held her back.
“These are really good.”
“Thanks.” Nev didn’t look at the black and white landscapes. To her, they weren’t art or anything to be proud of, but windows into a reality most Queenslanders with their first world privilege refused to see. She had physically escaped every war zone she photographed, but carried them with her inside.
You ever been in trouble? Why are you so nice to me?
Nev didn’t know if the pictures answered the questions, but the girl looked satisfied.
4
UPSEND DOWNS
Ronnie pulled into the carpark at Rainbow’s primary school early. No traffic today.Good.Gordonvale, a cane-growing town on the coastal plain south of Cairns, caught a run-of-the-mill summer spill. Tourists didn’t visit during the wet season.
Parents huddled under the awning, mums on one side and a few dads on the other. The dads wore the tradie uniform: dark sunglasses, tight T-shirt, work pants, meaty arms, dirty fingers. Ronnie went to stand with them. She had never been allowed to pick Rainbow up from school before, so she wasn’t sure how this was supposed to go.
She had called the primary school in Atherton to let them know she would be late to soccer practice today. She shook hands with a man she knew from footy.
Rainbow ran into her arms. It was all worth it for this hug.
“How was school today?”
“Good.”
Hand in hand, they turned and walked towards the carpark. “What did you do today?”
“Normal stuff.”
“Like what?”
“I forget.”
Athletic fields, Atherton. As she had suspected, the boys’ assistant coach who had covered for her was visibly bored, frowning on the sidelines with his arms crossed. Girls dribbled balls in a circle.
Ronnie slipped her whistle around her neck. The girls looked relieved to see her. They stared at Rainbow. The teams were rivals, in a primary school way, more heated than adult sports rivals, with a ferocity akin toLord of the Flies.
Ronnie set Rainbow’s bag on the stands to shake hands with Jack Collins. “Thanks, mate.”
