Their exciting, perfect, spontaneous day was starting to turn a little dark as they pulled into the lookout over the valley. It had started with a thrilling freedom to do whatever, and packing their car, Rose and George had thought they might head up, into mountains, to escape the humidity of the city.
It was the first time they had been able to do something together, on a whim, after George had finally retired and their family obligations exhausted. Without knowing exactly where they were going, the highway traffic was light as they headed west, and found themselves following the signs for the Bunya Mountains.
As they climbed, the winding road grew darker with shadows. Rose switched off the air conditioning as they rolled down their windows, rejoicing in the cool air perfumed with the damp must of decaying leaves. Around another corner the road burst into light, dappled and scented with eucalypts. Higher, around another several hairpin bends, George slowed the car to adjust his eyes as enormous pines once again consumed the light, covering the road in an eerie dimness.
When they pulled into the carpark at the lookout, it wasn’t the view over the escarpment and misty rainforest which caught Rose’s attention. It was the way the breeze stirred up wisps of the long blond hair of the woman, sitting alone on the bench.
As Rose unpacked the picnic lunch onto a nearby table, she saw that the woman, although facing the view, was also not looking at it. The woman’s attention was on the phone in her hands as she was frantically moving her fingers over the screen, doing what, Rose had no clue.
She nudged George, who glanced over at the woman, but then directed Rose’s gaze to the natural beauty of the valley. They ate their ham and cheese sandwiches in silence, George enjoying the sweet cracking of whipbirds, the catbirds yowling. Rose silently fretted about the woman.
Such a beautiful place! Why was this woman on her phone? Was she playing a video game? Texting a terrible breakup conversation with her partner? Rose felt deeply in her gut that this woman wasn’t playing, but before she had time to formulate a thought about it, George said “come on”, and started packing up the remains of their picnic.
They stopped next at the visitor information centre, at the entrance to the walk around the interpretive trail. They enjoyed brief hike on the path through the ancient old trees which formed natural caves they could both stand in. They wandered down to a pristine waterfall, enjoying the gentle spray as they rested on mossy rocks.
As George went to investigate a flash of bright blue revealed behind ferns, Rose thought of the blond woman. “Don’t be stupid, Rose!” she chastised herself. “She’s not going to do anything! She’s probably just sending an email.” George called her over to look at the bowerbird’s collection: a biro lid, milk bottle cap, blue foil from an easter egg, an evil eye.
The interpretive trail had signs along it which pointed out the age of various trees, species of flora, the fauna which could be found, bush tucker plants, information about the tribes who had gathered on the mountain to trade during the bunya nut harvest, and unsettlingly, the potential for injury as 10 kilo bunya nut knobs would fall from the trees without warning. It was this bit of information which convinced Rose it was time to go, their departure hastened by the scrub turkey chasing them back to their car.
Checking in to a comfortable motel on the top of the mountain, the friendly local receptionist asked them about what they knew of the area, and made suggestions for visiting cheese makers and local wineries the next day. “Make sure you take a glass of wine and visit the lookout at sunset,” she said. “It’s magnificent! Get there by 5.45, the sunset is at 6.05 tonight.” George and Rose thanked her, and went to their room.
After putting their feet up with a cup of tea, reading the guide maps they had picked up, they grabbed a bottle of suavignon blanc, a couple of glasses, and headed out to the lookout for the magnificent sunset.
The sky was overcast with a premature darkness. They continued, anyway, knowing that the light of a sunset reflected in clouds can create wonderful colours and shades. As they pulled into the carpark once again, Rose and George both noticed the woman with the blond hair. They looked at each other, questioning, worried.
“Hello!” said Rose, uncertainly. The woman acknowledged the greeting with a barely noticeable raise of her head from her phone. Rose sat with George at the same picnic table they had lunched at, sipping their wine while looking for this magnificent sunset which would well and truly be hidden behind the clouds.
“There!” whispered George urgently, pointing to a little echidna wobbling across the carpark towards the safety of bushland. Rose suppressed a squeal, not wanting to startle the creature from its mission. She had seen too many echidnas squashed flat on the road who had not made it to the safety of the bushland.
“Look! An echidna!” George was directing his statement now to the blond woman.
“Oh! I’ve never seen one before!” she said, and as she turned to look, Rose saw her face for the first time. It seemed like a very normal face, not splotchy from the tears of one who had been in the middle of an emotional break up. Rose knew, though, that once depressed people have made up their minds to do something about it, they feel peaceful. She wasn’t comforted.
The woman looked at the echidna briefly, but soon returned to her phone, carefully avoiding making eye contact with either George or Rose.
They drank their wine, watching the spiky little monotreme move into the trees and out of sight. Before long the darkness was complete, their glasses empty and their dinner reservation due. Rose looked again at the solitary woman, wishing she had the words to say to her. Words that would comfort her if she needed comforting, but not be prying or invasive. As George started the car she almost said something, before remembering how the woman had virtually ignored her hello.
“Do you think she’ll be alright? Should we call the police?”she asked George as she got in the car.
“And say what?” asked George. “A woman is by herself at the lookout? You don’t know there’s any trouble, do you? She probably just wants to be alone.” Rose conceded that she didn’t know there was any trouble. It did sound silly when she heard it out loud. Still, as hard as she tried to put the woman out of her mind through dinner, the image of her facing the escarpment alone kept worrying her.
Rose slept fitfully, dreams of falling, jumping, fighting, being lost in the bush kept waking her throughout the night until by the time the dawn came, she was exhausted and angry with herself for worrying so much about a stranger.
“Why does it have to be something bad?” George asked her, “Maybe she was having a nice conversation with her husband who is away with work? It’s always the same with you – you see the worst in everything.”
“That’s not fair”, Rose protested as she threw her clothes into her overnight bag, zipping it so forcefully the tag came off in her fingers. “I don’t see the worst, I’m just worried. I don’t want something bad to happen. I’m worried because I’m a caring person.” Her tears exploded at the unfairness of his accusation, in her frustration at trying to make him understand. It wasn’t true, she didn’t just see the worst in everything. She was a very intuitive person and sometimes got a sense that something wasn’t right. She felt this very strongly on top of the mountain.
George packed the car and checked out as Rose washed her face. They drove down the winding road in silence. Rose couldn’t bring herself to glance towards the lookout as they passed it, and if the woman was there or not, George didn’t say.
At the first winery they stopped at, Rose made no move to get out of the car. George hovered at the cellar door, uncertain of what to do. If he went in, tasted the wines, chatted to the winemakers, made a purchase, Rose would be in a furious mood the whole trip back, probably for days. He decided instead to just turn the car home. Hopefully her mood would improve as they drove away from the mountain.
The next morning, after good night’s sleep in her own bed, Rose brought George a cup of tea and the paper. Silently, he passed her the lifestyle section, brushing her hand as he gazed gently at her. Her face softened, as she took a sip of tea, knowing they forgave each other, as they always did.
Rose gasped as she opened her section. On page three was a photo of the view from the escarpment taken from the lookout, the heading “Tragedy at Bunya”, and below that, a photo of the blond woman. A small portrait, accompanied by a byline, above an editorial based on newspaper reports of a murder trial from 1888.
“I knew it!” thought Rose to herself, as she silently passed over the paper to George.
“I knew it!” thought George to himself, as he read the blond woman’s submission.
Sarah Bonnar 