Muddy Mirrors

The screen door slammed behind them, the last rays of sun glinting off the windscreen as Mum and Dad clambered into the ute. Dust rose like smoke around the tyres as the engine rumbled to life.

            “Hurry up, Bill,” Mum snapped, tugging at her seatbelt. “It’s getting dark. I don’t want to be late again.”

            “I’m coming, I’m coming,” Dad muttered, thumping the side of the ute as he rounded to the driver’s side. He paused at the edge of the verandah and pointed a grease-stained finger at Jess. “Make sure the pump’s running. If it’s not, ring Scott and get him to prime it.”

            Jess stood barefoot on the splintery timber boards, arms folded, the last warmth of the day clinging to her skin. She rolled her eyes so hard it hurt. “Of course,” she muttered. “Call Scott. Saint bloody Scott. The golden boy.”

            Mum leaned out the passenger window, her earrings catching the light like small suns. “Don’t forget to lock up the chooks. We’ll be back Sunday arvo.”

            And then they were gone; tail lights glowing red against the long, dusty ribbon of road that led out past the dam and into the hills. Jess watched until the dust settled, her arms still folded, the creak of the windmill the only sound left behind.

The quiet settled around her like a heavy blanket.

            The pump switch clicked uselessly. Jess frowned, listening. No whir, no gurgle, nothing.  

            Of course.

            Grabbing a battered torch, she stomped down the hill, muddy boots kicking through a carpet of golden elm leaves. The air cooled quickly, turning the hill’s shadows into long, twisted fingers. Halfway down, she thought about pulling out her phone and calling Scott. He’d answer, come roaring up in his spotless Hilux, shirt sleeves rolled, cap backwards, fixing everything with a lopsided grin. Jess shoved the thought aside. She wasn’t calling him. Not this time.

            At the dilapidated pump shed, she remembered what Dad had shown her once; how to prime it. Fingers trembling slightly, she unscrewed the top fitting, filled an old milk jug with water from the trough, and poured it in. Water sloshed everywhere, soaking her shirt, trickling down her arms. She tightened the fitting again, heart thudding, and raced back uphill.

            She flicked the switch.

            Nothing.  

            Her throat tightened. A sour taste rose in her mouth. Back down the hill she went, slipping once, catching herself with a hand that plunged deep into wet earth.

At the shed again, she unscrewed the fitting and tried again, cursing under her breath. This time the pump gave a sputter and coughed; and then a surge of black mud blasted out, splattering her face, her chest, her jeans. She stumbled backward, gasping, tears stinging her muddy cheeks.

            Stupid, stupid.

            Tears mixed with the grime. Jess wiped her face with the back of her hand, only grinding the mud deeper into her skin.  

            Kneeling in the muck, she caught sight of herself in a shallow puddle beside the pump; her face smeared and distorted, staring back like a stranger through muddy glass.

            Why are you even trying?  You’re the smart one, not the practical one. You’re meant to marry the rich farmer, not be the farmer. You’ll never be Scott. The voice was cruel, familiar; a chorus she’d carried for years.

            Defeated, Jess slumped beside the pump, wrapping her arms around her knees. The elm leaves swirled around her, golden against the mud caking her.

But then... a thought. Dad had once muttered something about the foot valve getting blocked sometimes.

            Dragging herself down the steep rocks beside the creek — where water whispered over smooth stones and reeds bowed under the current; Jess knelt at the water’s edge. She glimpsed her reflection again, rippled and broken in the muddy current, her own face barely recognisable beneath the dirt and defeat. She found the thick rubber pipe that plunged into the creek. Hauling it up, water dripping everywhere, she prised the valve open with her fingernails. Inside, clogged tight, was a wad of leaves, grit, and slimy twigs. Gritting her teeth, Jess scrubbed it clean with handfuls of dry grass, her fingers numb, her whole body shivering now with a fierce energy. The light faded fast, the crickets beginning their sharp mocking chorus.

            Filthy, soaked, and shaking, she scrambled back up the hill one last time.

She flicked the switch. A deep gurgle, a powerful hum, and then the pump kicked to life, sending a jet of clear, clean water rushing through the pipe. Jess leaned over, hands on her knees, breathing hard. Relief flooded her, followed by something deeper, something wilder.

            “Thank God for that,” she whispered.

            In the bathroom, Jess stared at herself in the mirror. Mud streaked her forehead, plastered her hair, clung to every crease in her clothes. Her hands were brown up to the wrists.

            The mirror was fogged and spattered from her wet clothes and dirty hands, the image fractured and unclear — just like the girl she saw staring back. She barely recognised this version of herself;  not the polished Jess who sat at debating tables, who teachers patted on the head for getting good marks, who neighbours told should "find herself a nice man to run a place like this."

            This Jess was battered, blistered, wild-eyed. Small and wiry where Scott was broad and towering. But stubborn. Resourceful.

            Jess turned on the tap and stepped into the shower. Mud peeled away in layers, revealing raw, pink skin beneath. It hurt at first, but then it felt good.

            When she stepped out again, the mirror was still misted, clouded with smears and streaks. Jess picked up a towel and wiped it clean. The girl staring back at her this time was clearer, sharper; not flawless, but real. As the water cleared from her skin and the mirror cleared from the grime, something inside Jess felt like it had scrubbed itself clean too. A glint sparked in her reflection’s eye; something stronger, tougher, something that had been buried too long under layers of other people’s expectations.

            Jess smiled. Not wide. Not victorious. But steady. Sure. Tomorrow there’d be more jobs to do. Fences to check. Chooks to lock up. No Saint Scott. No waiting for a rescue. Just her. And that was enough.

            Out the window, the windmill creaked again, steady and stubborn against the gathering dark. Jess dried herself with a rough towel, dressed in a clean shirt, jeans, and muddy boots.  Her mud caked boots sat by the door, a silent badge of everything she had faced tonight; and everything she was ready to face tomorrow. Stepping outside, Jess walked with purpose across the yard to lock up the chooks.

            Ahead, the night stretched out. Wildly wide, waiting, hers.