Free Ricochet Baby by Fiona Kidman Page B

pull left towards the motorway, and soon I am burning along beside the sea, heading north, driving towards the hill road that will take me to the farm.
    At the foot of the hills I see a group of white horses at a riding school and lean down to make a cross on my shoe. This is what my brothers and I did when we were out driving. White horses, we would say, and we would lick our fingers, make a cross on our shoes and then cross our fingers. We made a wish and after that it was bad luck to speak until we saw a black dog. So the miles would pass, all of us shouting with relief because our fingers felt stuck to each other, black dog, black dog.
    Travelling at speed, I make two more crosses, one for Bernard who has not returned my calls since my pregnancy began, and one for big brother Michael, whom I miss. I wish he had been around for me to call today. He would have known what to do. Well, maybe. At least Michael has survival skills, he got away
    It is then that I remember that I have a husband, and that it has not gone through my mind to phone Paul. It is still mid- afternoon ; if I put my foot down I might almost get to the farm and back before he gets home from work. He has been working late the past few weeks. Or perhaps I won’t go to the farm at all, maybe I’ll justdrive a little way and get the feel of the countryside around me, and then turn round and go back to town. But that’s not true. I have never turned back from the farm, not once. I fumble with the radio, my linked fingers making me clumsy.
    I hear my father’s unmistakeable voice. ‘Children probably did it,’ he says.
    Did what?
    I turn the volume up, losing one of my crosses in my haste. Bernard’s, I think.
    ‘These circles are sophisticated and well planned,’ says the reporter interviewing Glass.
    ‘Look, I’ve got nothing to say about this. The Ag Department chaps are coming out here to have a look at what’s been done to the pasture and then the grass will be raked over,’ says my father. ‘I don’t know how you got hold of this garbage.’
    ‘Well, as I think I explained, Mr Nichols, we had a call from a tour bus operator on his cellphone.’
    ‘What are you paying him?’
    ‘Have you heard the word pictograms, Mr Nichols?’
    No, Glass has not.
    ‘Well, let’s say, do you think this is a natural phenomenon, or is it a sign?’
    ‘What sort of a sign did you have in mind?’ Glass asks, letting his guard down.
    ‘Circles are sometimes ascribed to flying saucers and space men. Do you think this could be a sign from another galaxy?’
    ‘Bugger off,’ says Glass.
    ‘These circles appeared at the Nichols’ farm early this morning ,’ says the reporter, in summary. ‘The formations appear to be about forty metres long, although the farmer is not keen on measurements being taken. Mr Nichols says that his cows are, quote, “all going haywire”. Police are talking to Mr Nichols junior who was seen taking aim at a helicopter earlier in the day with a .22 rifle.’ The reporter wraps up his story. ‘An attempt is being made to photograph the crop circles for further analysis before they are destroyed.’
    I have reached the far side of the hill and turn off down the road to Walnut. Walnut, where I grew up and went to school, is a market town situated north-east of the main line. The Tararua Ranges rear their blue spines to the west, the coast lies in the opposite  direction. The sea is close enough to smell when the wind is right, and for seagulls to take shelter during storms, but too far to see from the farm, even from the hills where my father runs beef cattle. The market square has been built like an old English town around a group of walnut trees where the locals spread tarpaulins in the autumn to collect the nuts. The wide, leafy walnut branches are older than my father’s father would have been. The village, for that is really what it is, used to be famous for an annual frog jumping championship but that was abandoned years