The Fine Color of Rust Read Online Free

“shearing kangaroos” and Jake thought that was a real kind of ’roo till Norm put him right. But now I can’t make sense of where that hut might be. The face of the forest is completely different. Ahead of us, a wide dusty dirt road leads in through the trees. I can’t see the picnic area. And that light through the trees is wrong.
    I drive along the bitumen to where the dirt road enters the bushland.
    â€œI don’t want to go in there,” Jake says.
    More rubbish litters the side of the track—plastic bags and bottles, juice containers, old clothes, building materials—as if this piece of bushland has become the local tip. I peer along the track. It seems to lead into a big clearing that wasn’t there before. The bush used to stretch way back. I would never let the kids run too far in case they got lost. Now if they ran off they’d end up standing in a flat empty paddock the size of a footy field.
    â€œFooty field,” I mutter. “Maybe they’re building a new footy field.”
    That can’t be right, because even the old footy field is in trouble. The footy club has a sausage sizzle every Saturday morning outside the supermarket to raise money to buy in water. All the sports clubs around here are desperate for water. Some have had to close down because the ground is so hard it can crack the shins of anyone landing awkwardly on the surface.
    â€œLet’s go. I’m bored.”
    â€œHey, Jake, open your mouth again and show me your teeth. I think it might be time for a trip to the dentist.”
    That always shuts him up. We climb back into the Holden and reverse into the Bolton Road to continue the journey to our new windscreen.

4
    â€œLOOK AT ALL these cars, Jake.” We pull in with a mighty shriek of brakes at Merv Bull’s Motor and Machinery Maintenance and Repairs. “Why don’t you hop out and have a look around while I talk to the man. Look at that one—a Monaro from the seventies! You don’t see those much anymore. Especially in that dazzling aqua.”
    Jake purses his lips and rolls his eyes and waggles his head all at once. He keeps doing this lately. I wonder if he’s seen a Bollywood film on the diet of daytime television that filled up chickenpox week.
    â€œAre you trying to get rid of me, Mum?”
    â€œYes.”
    He sighs and swings open the car door. He slouches his way to the shade at the side of the shed while I quickly pat down my hair in the rearview mirror before I step out of the car. I can’t see any sign of Merv Bull. A panting blue heeler stares at me from the doorway of the shed as if I’m a piece of meat.
    â€œHello?” I call. “Mr. Bull?”
    The blue heeler slumps to the ground and lays its head onits front paws, still staring at me. The sign on the side of the shed says Nine to Five, Monday to Friday. I look at my watch. Ten fifteen, Tuesday morning.
    Jake scuffs his way over to my side. “There’s no one here, Mum, let’s go. Let’s go to the milk bar. You promised that if I . . . you would . . . and then I . . . and then . . .”
    As Jake goes on with his extended thesis on why I should buy him a Violet Crumble, I shout, “Mr. Bull!” one last time. A man emerges from the darkness of the shed. The first thing I notice is that he’s hitching up his pants. He strides forward to greet me and stretches out his hand, but I’m not shaking anything I can’t be sure was washed. When my hand fails to arrive he pulls back his arm and wipes both hands down the sides of his shirt. He’s standing between me and the sun. I can’t see his face let alone its expression.
    Jake’s jaw has dropped and he’s staring at Merv Bull as if he’s seen a vision. He’s this way with any man who’s around the age of his father when he left.
    â€œHi,” Jake whispers.
    â€œHello.” Merv