Free Anchor Point by Alice Robinson

mutely observed the deepening lines in Bruce’s face. She racked her brains to think of a convincing story that would allow her to use what she’d saved. In the end she spent what Bruce gave her each week on the household, then siphoned off a little of Kath’s money to hand back as change.
    â€˜Stuff’s on special this week,’ she would say, distressed by the knowledge that what she was contributing wasn’t nearly enough. She watched Bruce pocket the cash, shrugging off his thanks.
    â€˜You’re good at this, love,’ he said fondly, once. ‘Saving us a packet.’
    Laura wondered idly where Kath got the funds. She’d never had money before. Had she? But Laura didn’t really care. Her anger, once localised, had spread. There wasn’t much she didn’t blame Kath for – the money, one more unjust thing. It was only when Vik and Bruce were sleeping that Laura worked the bundle of cash from its shoebox beneath her bed. She held it, heavy as a strap across her palm. Chilled by darkness, Laura allowed herself to experience the full measure of her sorrow.
    Finally, the money too stopped coming. Laura was unprepared for the surge of new grief that washed over her as the months went by without contact. Eventually the grief hardened into more anger, sharpening, and Laura was glad. Bills continued to arrive, shoes needed replacing, there was always something to buy for the farm. To watch Kath’s money diminishing, though she couldn’t freely spend what she wanted; she needed the anger to endure it.
    More months passed. The palms of Laura’s hands, like the surface of the land, were changing. Blisters rose like pearls of water, breaking, bleeding, running dry. Then the skin hardened – so much so that it started cracking as the weather grew cold. Blood and then pus marked the fissures in the tissue along the lifeline and along the one for love. The cracks took ages to heal, but she couldn’t very well not use her hands. Fixing the ute’s engine, covered in grease, head pounding through the fumes, she thought her skin might come right off.

    â€˜If a lamb dies,’ Bruce said in winter, ‘and its mother has bonded with it, she will keep looking for it. She’ll just wander around and around and around, calling its name.’
    They were walking the back paddock, newly populated with sheep. Laura exhaled. It was dusk. She had made rabbit stew that morning, could just about taste the gravy, thick with onion and parsley. Their kitchen, fragrant with steam.
    Bruce was saying, ‘The sheep won’t always know her lamb is dead. Her teats don’t know either. They’ll just keep filling up with milk, fat as bagpipes. Lor?’
    â€˜Yes, Dad.’ She sighed. ‘Listening.’
    He gave her a long stare. They walked. Laura could feel the cold coming up through the soles of her boots. Storm clouds were blooming. The air was alive with moisture.
    â€˜On the other hand,’ Bruce went on, ‘if a sheep dies, her lamb is going to starve. Reckon it’s bad news, either way.’
    Laura felt a pain, like a stitch in her chest.
    Bruce touched her cheek, something between a stroke and a pinch. ‘You’ll be fine, love.’ He clapped her on the shoulder. ‘You’ll see.’
    Most of the sheep were up on the exposed hillside, grazing in groups. There were a few lone animals, standing grey and solitary against the green of the downhill slope. Bruce carried the rifle slung across his back. Laura could hear bullets clinking like marbles in the pocket of his coat.
    â€˜Lambs should be born face and legs first,’ Bruce said. ‘See a tail coming out? You have to do something.’
    Laura understood it then. These dumb animals – hundreds and hundreds of them – with their too-soft bodies, their heartbroken cries and blank little eyes, were relying on them, on her, for survival.
    It had been the plan all