Bridge of Triangles by John Muk Muk Burke

them outside into the wind. The air was exploding.
    â€œGee, there’s gonna be a flood, everyone in town says.” It was Sissy smiling and leaning on Mick. Brother and sister stumbled up to the veranda, cigarettes drooping from their mouths. Sissy looked windblown and drunk. “I thought you’d be over here. Good old Shirl, eh?”
    Shirl looked at the floorboards.
    â€œYou look after them kids.” The Old Granny spat the words at her daughter. “Paula and me goin’ to Pine Hill. Reckon you and that Jack go to showgrounds.”
    â€œWherever he is. Not at the tent.” Sissy was smiling and her words were slurred.
    â€œSis and me just went there,” said Mick and he drank the last from a sherry bottle’ he’d taken from his pocket.
    â€œWe was just going back,” said Shirl quietly. “The Old Granny says the floods won’t come yet.”
    â€œI can see that, I can see that.” Sissy’s mood was swinging as the grog did its tricks. “Hey—what ’bout a drink for ya little sister?”
    â€œSorry Sis, all gone.” And Mick threw the bottle into the oleander bushes at the end of the veranda.
    â€œYou old meanie. Anyway there’s gonna be a flood you know. I gotta get these kids back to their father and pack up the tent. There’s gonna be a flood.”
    â€œWell git goin’ then,” said the Old Granny.
    In time Sissy and Mick and the kids with Shirl made their bedraggled way back to the camp. It seemed the windseparated each one of them from the other. As the group came up to the tent they could see Jack doing something.
    â€œWhat ya doin’ my old Man? Tightenin’ the ropes? Well ya can just bloody untighten them ’cos we’re not staying here to get drowned.”
    Chris felt frightened and eyed his father.
    Sissy continued beligerent as the grog wore off. “There’s gonna be a flood and I for one am pissin’ off. And the kids are too.”
    Jack continued with his task of securing the tent pegs. He did not speak.
    Sissy continued to build up like the storm all about, waving her arms wildly.
    â€œWhat about you Shirl—you not staying here are ya?”
    Shirt’s eyes were downcast. The ribbing on her thin red cardigan ran between her flat breasts and the wind flattened her hair. She was silent. It was Mick who spoke.
    â€œWhat ya reckon Jack? Reckon that river’ll come up over the bank tonight?”
    Jack spoke for the first time. “There’s not gonna be a bloody flood—a bit of a downpour and everyone’s runnin’ round like a chook with its head cut off.”
    Mick had a bit of time for his brother-in-law but he said, “Gee mate—I don’t know.”
    â€œPlease yourself,” and Jack started to hammer the pegs in again.
    The grass cut the wind and the tight ropes shuddered in the air.
    Chris felt fearful. Every hit his father gave to the pegs increased the tension in the air. His father was a solid wall of defiance.
    â€œI reckon we’ll pack up the wagon Jack,” said Mick all of a sudden.
    Jack kept securing the tent against the universe.
    â€œWell piss off then!” Sissy threw the words at her brother like a stone. “Leave us here to drown—go to buggery.”
    â€œYou could come too...” Mick looked sideways at his brother-in-law.
    â€œWe’ll be right, we’ll be right.”
    So Mick and Shirl began piling stuff into the wagon. It did not take long. Mick harnessed up the horse and it looked impatient to be gone with the wind tearing at its mane and rattling the harness. Their two boys were lifted up inside the wagon. Mick and Shirl climbed up. They sat there foolishly hunched as the wind cut across them, Shirt’s red cardigan was cold and thin.
    Sissy would not look at them. Instead she walked off and sat on a flour drum with her back to the others.
    Mick clicked his tongue a couple of times