Bridge of Triangles by John Muk Muk Burke Page A

and the wagon jerked and then rolled away over the wet grass. The Leetons were alone with the river and the wind.

The night closed in and the river continued to swirl by, dark and dangerous. It became a beast that waited in the shadows, growling and threatening.
    The man slapped some devon on four metal plates and cut some thick bread. After the kids had eaten he said. “Get into bed.” They crawled under the blankets in their clothes and shut their eyes in a pretence of sleep. The rain beat solidly on the canvas. Sissy came into the tent then. The man lit the kerosene lantern. and the tent shadow moved as the boy’s parents sat there under that great wet sky, rolling cigarettes in their own private agonies.
    In his half sleep Chris heard vague shufflings and mumblings as the man cursed and fumbled. He was pumping kerosene into the lantern. Jack adjusted the wick and the tent danced in a dull yellow light. The boy fell alseep.
    When he awoke the world was chaotic. Gone was the soft light of the lantern. Now a great white light moved not within the tent but outside in the black and it picked up flying leaves and driving rain. Mixed with everything was the thudding of an engine.
    â€œHold me neck, that’s it.” His mum’s voice.
    â€œHere, give me that one.” A strange voice—a man.
    â€œHow many are there?” Another man’s voice—lower.
    â€œPass her up.”
    â€œUp you go.”
    â€œHere’s another one.”
    Light in the boy’s eyes. Cold cold rain on his face. Knees scraping on cold hard metal. Laughter.
    â€œHere you go mate, get this round you.”
    Rough blanket down to bare feet which touched slatted boards.
    Sissy’s voice. “Yous sure ya got four up there? Don’t youse move this bloody thing till I’ve counted them.”
    â€œWe’re not leaving anyone.” Serious voice—like telling off.
    â€œAll here, righto, best take her over towards the bridge.” Strange voice of authority. Beating cold rain. Swirling world in black moving night.
    â€œYouse kids alright?” Sissy’s voice—softer now—less edgy.
    The floating vibrating machine with its strong white light pushed its way through the flood. There seemed to be a great many people. They sat on the slatted seats of the machine, all safe. The machine floated towards the approaches to the bridge. Its wheels fluttered as they found the solid wooden planks. It rumbled across and Chris saw the great white triangles slowly moving overhead. Above the whining engine and the driving rain a soldier shouted,
    â€œJesus, its a floating farm out there—chooks and every-thing.”

It was the smell more than anything that seemed to wrap around the boy and claim him and yet exclude him by its strangeness. It was a smell of damp and cloying heat, of cabbage and wet concrete. The echoing tin hall was filled with people. Practically the whole of the northern side of the town’s population had arrived at the showground. But the Old Granny, the great Paula, Billy and Prince and all the other people were nowhere to be seen. The rest had been rescued by the Army—as the Leetons had. They’d arrrived by tractors, horse drawn carts, on foot, car and even bicycles. They clustered in groups under the thundering corrugated iron roof of the pavilion. In other summers the same people had wandered through this hall, commenting on the vegetables and animals and flowers which they raised in the surrounding countryside and which gave meaning to their existence within the landscape.
    All the people were together under the glaring bare bulbs which hung from the cobwebbed angle-iron high above. Some sat on forms waiting to be ordered around. Children slept on the bare concrete covered with coats or whatever was at hand. At the end of the pavilion stood a long trestle table with tall piles of thick white china plates and cups.
    The flood had tumbled down the river