|
|||||||||||
|
|||||||||||
The smell of newly sawn timber accompanies me as I walk the plank pathways that lay across the heavy, dark beams. My habitual heavy heel strike echoes in the still, empty space. This will be my bedroom. My niece and I are building this house, living in what will be the kitchen and study and downstairs bathroom while we finish it off. She calls this place home with a natural ease that I envy: “I’ll be home before midnight, Beats,” she calls as she sets off into a young woman’s night. She always laughs, something else I envy. She may look like me but we’re completely different underneath. I’m hoping to learn from her. That’s the deal: I teach her the trade and she teaches me to lighten up. She hardly needs guidance any more, wielding hammer and saw with a natural proficiency and the nail gun with a frightening, frenzied joy. I’m not nearly so quick on the uptake. I have dreamt this house for twenty years. My nephew – now a promising young architect – started drawing it for me when he was twelve. With crayons. Now his sister and I diligently consult his skilful plans, often spread before us at mealtime. Niece and nephew, brother and sister, architect and carpenter, they are coming to admire each other because of this project and that pleases me beyond measure. “Hey, Beats?” Warner yells at me from somewhere outside. I move to where the window will be and look out. As always I’m momentarily startled to see my own face grinning up at me. Younger, of course, and blonde where I’m dark. “You shrieked?” I answer. Silently she points west. I look off in that direction my vision unimpeded by geographical feature to the horizon. There is, however, a large column of dust in the far distance moving our way out of the setting sun. I look down but Warner no longer stands below me. I hear her sliding the plywood panels across the empty windows downstairs and snapping the tool cases shut. This is not our first dust storm. “You need me up there?” she calls. But again she is already moving. I hear the engine of my ute. By the time I’m outside she’s easing her car into the shed beside the tractor. We cover the tractor’s engine as best we can with a heavy tarp then swing the doors shut on the big machinery shed. We can hear it now so we both hit a quick jog back to the house. Our temporary quarters are well sealed but we know that isn’t enough. I cover the computer with plastic while Warner makes sure there isn’t any food uncovered. I get our toothbrushes and the soap into a zip lock baggy just as it hits. I sit on the edge of the tub enjoying and dreading the feeling in the pit of my stomach caused by the rapid change in air pressure. Momentarily it’s hard to breathe. Then it’s gone. Warner sticks her head in the door. “Bit of a guilty rush, hey?” she says. I nod and stand to go survey the damage. To our great relief there isn’t much that a vacuum cleaner won’t fix. “You cooking?” I ask. She nods. We race each other for the shower. Warner cooks vicariously. Her turn always means a ten kilometre drive to our local pub for a plate full of animal protein and starch tailored to the truck driving man’s diet. It’s good, though. They’ve got a great cook, Jeff Marx, a guy I went to school with, home after some trouble or other with the law. “Your turn again already, Warner?” he calls as we shortcut through the kitchen to the “Ladies’ Bar”. Honest, Ladies Bar - that’s what it says on the frosted glass. Originally used to separate the women of the district from the course company of the men folk (mostly, I can only think, their husbands) it now serves as the town’s only restaurant. The sighs of relief of our foremothers still hang in the air. A young family I don’t recognise are the only other occupants. “City folk,” Warner observes with wry humour. Not many months ago she looked as out of place as they. “Beatrice?” I hear a man’s voice call. I turn. The City Man is moving towards me, a grin spreading across his face. “You are Beatrice Paul?” he asks, his tone now made uncertain by my hostile gaze. “Who wants to know?” I ask curtly. “It’s me,” he says. “I think she’ll need more input than that, mate,” Warner chimes in good-humouredly. “It’s me,” he repeats. “Stump Goodwin. I went out with your sister Tracey?” “Oh, right,” I murmur as my mind races back twenty years. The light bulb in my brain blinks and stutters then glows bright. “Of course. Dad threw you down the front stairs.” “Your Dad threw every bloke in this Shire down the front stairs. That’s how we knew we were men,” Stump says nodding enthusiastically. “You’re the last person I expected to see still here. And this is your daughter?” he asks finally recovering his manners and turning to smile at Warner. “No. This is Tracey’s daughter. Warner Grant, Stump Goodwin an old … friend … of your mother’s.” “Warner?” Stump asks uncertainly. “Yes,” Warner replies with a straight face. “I thank god every day Mum didn’t get her big break with Sony Music.” “Oh,” Stump says clearly not getting it. “How is your mother?” “Fatuous.” “Really?” he turns to me. “You Paul girls were always so thin.” Warner laughs like a drain until I catch her eye and she realises he’s serious. “So. Stump. What brings you back to town?” “Oh. The wedding, of course.” “Wedding?” I ask. Warner excuses herself with unseemly haste and heads for the kitchen under the pretext of having to tell Jeff what we want. She’s supposed to keep me up with the gossip. The fact that she hasn’t told me about this wedding and her hasty disappearance makes me nervous. It is with some trepidation that I tune in to what Stump is saying. “How could you not know? I thought Mum would be screaming it from the roof top.” “Well, you know. Things don’t travel nearly as quickly as they used too when everybody was on the party line,” I answer lamely. “God, yes. Remember? We were two shorts and a long. You guys were what …?” “Long short long,” I say recalling the ring combination that meant the call was for our household. “And Mrs Parkes, the operator? Man, there wasn’t anything about anybody that woman didn’t know.” “The wedding?” I prompt him catching the stoked fire of anger in his wife’s eye. “Oh. Yeah. My brother Tim’s oldest, Sandy. Marrying Brad Patterson so all that clan’ll be here too. Would have thought you knew – you and his mother were pretty good mates. Still, things change, hey?” “Your food’s here,” I say indicating the arrival of plates at his table. “Right. Great to see you. Maybe … say g’day to Tracey for me,” he finishes lamely realising he probably wouldn’t be seeing me at the wedding. “Grub’s up!” Warner announces cheerily delivering our meals herself. “You are in deep trouble.” “But I get to eat this one last meal first, right?” “You’ll keep,” I assure her. The trip home is eerily quiet. Warner keeps peering at my face in the dashboard lights. She can tell it wasn’t looking good. Finally she clears her throat. “Look, Beats. I just thought …” “Don’t keep things from me, Warner.” “Okay. Sorry.” “What do you know?” “Pops has your invitation.” “Is that right?” I ask rhetorically now angry at both of the people I love most. The car got very quiet again. We didn’t speak until the next morning. “Floor?” Warner asks. “Yeah,” I reply. We were nearly finished when we heard the car. I look up at Warner. She grins and shrugs apologetically. We both know from the sound of it that my father is here. He confirms this by bellowing from the front yard. “Beatrice Paul! Get down here.” Momentarily I forget that it is me who holds the high moral ground. I obey my father and stand before him shoulders slumped. Then I remember. “You stole my mail,” I say accusingly, now up ramrod straight so I can look him in the eye. “Yes I did.” “That’s illegal.” “Idiot child. It’s for your own good. Look at you. Pining for her after all this time.” “Dad …” I growl in tones that have chilled the spines of sub-contractors and farmhands for years. He ignores me. “Here,” he says handing me the frilly envelope I can picture Tim Goodwin’s wife picking from a catalogue with a frisson of delight. I stare at it. “Well. You want it or not? The kid said you were spewing about it. Make up your mind girl. I’m a busy man.” I take it from his hand. “Time for a cuppa tea?” I ask. “We’ve almost finished the floor upstairs.” “Give us a look,” he says fondly. “Warner?” he bellows. “Yeah, Pop?” she yells back. “She didn’t kill you then?” “Nuh. Must be getting soft in her old age.” “Will you two please stop screaming at each other?” I beg. I watch as my father and niece banter easily over tea and biscuits. It took he and I decades to get to a point where we could talk at all. Warner’s like Mum. I smile at her fondly just as she looks up. She reflects it back to me. I bask in its warmth. “I see the mutual admiration society is still going strong,” Dad says observing us. “You could sign up, Pops. Got the papers right here,” Warner says fumbling around in her pockets. “No thanks, Boof,” Dad replies. “Somebody has to keep you two in line. So you going to open it?” he says to me indicating the invitation. I nod and do so.
“Alice won’t care,” Dad says. “You can be my guest,” Warner says quietly. I turn to her and see she’s quite pale. “You OK?” I ask. She nods, stands and moves to refill the kettle. I see her lean on the bench wearily. I raise an eyebrow towards my father. He motions with his head towards the outside door. “Better go,” he says loudly. “Be good, Boof,” he says giving Warner a pat on the back. “You too, Pops,” she responds on automatic. I follow Dad to his car. Once settled behind the wheel he squints up at me. “What’s going on, Dad?” “Warner thinks a lot of that Sandy,” he says. “I didn’t realise they knew each other that well,” I say not hiding my surprise. “There were girls you saw a lot of but seldom mentioned,” he says. “After a while I come to understand what that meant.” He catches my eye and watches as the light dawns on me. “Oh,” I say. “What should I do?” “I always kept you busy,” he said. “If that didn’t work I bought you things.” “Poor kid,” I say watching Warner pick up the nail gun and head back upstairs. “Well, I’ve got two weeks to get her used to the idea of going to the wedding.” “Thanks,” I say with weighty sincerity. I watch Warner wield the nail gun and sigh. I can tell the difference between enthusiasm and therapy. I wait until she runs out of nails then pull on the cord. She turns sharply hurt turned to anger by my simple action. I hold up a hand to forestall words she’d instantly regret then use the extension lead to pull her towards me. “So,” I say. “Sandy?” Tears immediately sting her eyes. She quickly looks at her boots. I lift her chin. “Come with me. I have a story dripping with irony to relate to you.” I lead her down through the house stopping at the fridge for cold drinks. Out on the verandah I pull her down beside me. We both lean back against the front wall. “This house means a lot to you doesn’t it?” I ask. She looks surprised by my question but nods. “You’ve seen that movie Field of Dreams?” Again a surprised nod. “Well that was sort of my theory with this house: If I build it she will come. Not consciously, well not until yesterday.” I see her frown, trying to follow and start again: “Once upon a time there was a girl who had everything.” I pause to poke myself lightly in the chest. “Her parents loved her, she had her future all worked out – make a bit of money, travel - a few years having fun then back to the farm so the folks could retire. Then her best friend from school came home unexpectedly from University. The girl who had everything was filled with joy. They were inseparable. One night the old friends kissed and the girl who had everything realised that before that moment she’d had nothing. For a month they stole time together the girl who now really did have everything teasing her lover about her little potbelly. Then it become apparent that the belly was not from her mother’s cooking. The girl who had thought that now she really did have everything felt betrayed. She demanded the truth of her pregnant lover but found she didn’t want what she was given in reply. Her friends warned her not to get involved with someone with a child – not to tie herself down so young. All she thought of was someone else’s hands and eyes where her’s had been. It made her angry. She drove her lover home and refused to answer her calls. The girl who had thought that now she really did have everything knew she had less than nothing. Bitter and grave she left and travelled the world returning to find a niece and nephew she’d never met and no sign of her friend and lover. Even her friend’s family had sold up and shifted away. All this time she had dreamt of the home the lovers had planned. When she was working on buildings that moved her she would wake from a dream of windows looking out on the plains to find herself in Paris or Venice or London with someone whose name she barely recalled. She came back to find her mother ailing and her father disappearing into his grief. She stayed. One Christmas her nephew drew her dream home. She took one look at the picture and cried for days. She was inconsolable. The young boy came to find her. “Aunt Beats,” he said, “I’ll draw it properly for you when I’m an architect.” And years later that’s what he did. A little while later his sister asked the Aunt whether she could teach her to be a carpenter. The Aunt agreed. By chance the niece met the fiancee of the son of her aunt’s love … now you.” I watch Warner swallow some of her drink – a seemingly simple thing made difficult I suspected by the lump in her throat. “Have you seen her Beats? Sandy?” she asks. I nod. She sighs. “Does she know how you feel, Warns?” “Probably. I’m not exactly hard to work out.” “But you haven’t said anything?” “No, Beats. That’d be … wrong. She’s engaged.” “Very noble. You should tell her.” “What?” “She has a right to know. Before she gets married.” “What?” “Don’t live and die wondering when it comes to love, Warns. Believe me, it wears you out.” “I’m afraid.” “You should be. Love demands it.” “You know a lot about love.” “I know a lot about its absence. I don’t want you to.” “OK. I’ll give her a call. See if she’s got a minute. She’s pretty tied up with the wedding.” “Remember I’ll be here when you get back.” “Hey Beats? How’d you know?” “Your Grandfather.” “He’s a trip,” Warns says and shakes her head as she goes. “Yes he is,” I agree. I have never seen a frown the likes of which now adorns my niece’s beautiful face. I know she was out until dawn. I presume with Sandy. She’s been sitting up on the windowsill of my future bedroom since she got home. I climb up with coffee and hand it to her. I turn to leave. “Beats?” “Hmm?” I ask turning back. “Thanks.” “How’d you go?” Warner takes a moment to run her hand through her hair. Then she breaks into a chuckle. “She wouldn’t stop talking about the damn wedding. I’m busting to get it out there – you know? – how I feel? But she won’t shut up. So I just kissed her.” “And?” “And?” “Nothing.” “How nothing?” “You know your story where the girl who thought that she had everything kisses her love and realises that before she had nothing?” She waits for my nod then continues. “Well there was none of that. In fact, she’s a bad kisser.” “What did you do?” “I told her she was beautiful but that I just wanted that one kiss to remember, that I understood she was committed to Brad and I wouldn’t make a drama.” “Oh,” she says, blushing. “I stopped for petrol and there were a few people hanging out and …” “You are shitting me? Who?” “Sue Sullivan,” she mumbles. I think for a moment before placing her. “Oh, yes! We like her. Well done, Warns.” “Thank you,” she says barely concealing her smug smile in her coffee cup. I sit in my favourite spot watching a small dust devil twist across the front paddock. Dad has given me one of the squatter’s chairs his grandfather had made in 1904. It’s a beautiful piece of work - the first piece of worked wood I admired. I run my hand over it now wondering if finally my skills are worthy enough to make the copy I’ve had planned since childhood. The wedding is the day after tomorrow. Uncharacteristically my mind wanders to what I will wear. I sit upright quickly realising I have nothing. Nothing I want Lisa to see me in. I press that thought down beyond the need for presentable clothes. “Warner!” I yell. I hear her drop whatever tool she was holding and come at a run. She bangs out the door and skids to a stop. “What’s wrong?” she gasps looking around for the disaster. “I don’t have anything to wear,” I say. “What?” “To the wedding,” I add not too ashamed to pout. “Christ on a cracker, Beats. I thought someone was dead. Wear your blue suit.” “It’s old.” “Who are you and where’s my aunt?” “Come with me, Warns,” I ask. “Where?” “Shopping.” “No. No way.” “Come on. I’ll get you something new.” “No.” “I’ll buy you your own nail gun.” “Get the car.” That’s my girl: she isn’t cheap but man, she’s easy. Three and a half hours later we’re in Myer on the western outskirts of the city. Warner perches on the tiny change room bench clutching a large plastic bag graced with the name of a hardware that holds her nail gun. She has the free cap that came with it on backwards. She’s trying to keep focussed for me. “No,” she says. “Definitely the other one. That one’s cut too low in the arse.” I turn so I can see what she’s talking about in the mirror. I nod agreement. “OK,” I say. “Shirt?” “It’ll be stinking hot, Beats,” she says. “So?” “So just the pants, vest and jacket. You won’t need a shirt. Try it.” I remove the shirt and stand watching my reflection as I button up the vest. Very nice. “See?” says my unlikely couturier smugly. “Hot or what?” “Not bad,” I say. The curtain scrapes aside with a violent flourish. “And how are we going in … oh, my,” finishes the officious fitting room attendant admiringly. “I’ll take it,” I say. “I should think so,” she replies. I catch Warner rolling her eyes. I am so nervous the morning of the wedding I shoot myself in the thumb with the nail gun. By the time we’re back from the hospital and dressed we’re running late and I’m depressed because my ensemble is thrown off by the bandage. “Shut up and get in the car,” Warner says fondly. I sigh with relief when I see Tim and Sandy are just arriving as we get out of the car. We move quickly to get in the church before they do. People turn expectantly most dreadfully disappointed it’s just us. The groom frowns then recognises Warner and gives her a nod. Inexplicably he scowls at me. This causes a woman in the front row to turn to follow this look cast with so much disapproval. Our eyes meet and Warner is suddenly holding me up, slipping me into a pew. Lisa’s face pales. She turns to her boy who gives her a smile of apology then straightens back into a man as the bridal march begins. “You OK Beats?” Warner asks softly. “Shock,” I say holding up my bandaged hand. “I’m sure it is,” she agrees staring at Lisa who has turned with everyone else to watch the bride and her father. “Passing from one manly protector to another. God we’re savages,” Warner murmurs. “Amen, Sister,” comes agreement from my left. I turn. It’s Susan Sullivan. I smile and ask if she wants to change places with me to sit next to Warner. She shakes her head and indicates an older woman sitting next to her. “Can’t leave Nan,” she whispers. “She can’t see very well so I have to describe stuff for her.” “But she hears perfectly,” the old woman hisses. “Is that you Beatrice Paul?” “Yes,” I say. “How are you Mrs Parkes?” “Not dead yet. How’s the hand? Nail gun wasn’t it?” “Haven’t lost your touch, I see,” I say admiringly. “Like I say: nothing wrong with my hearing. You see your Lisa?” “Yes,” I say softly. “How does she look?” Mrs Parkes asks. “Beautiful,” I say truthfully. “Always was,” the old telephonist sighs. “Always was. Shame about her attitude.” “Nan!” Susan chides seeing me speechless. “Child,” Mrs Parkes says taking her granddaughter’s hand, “it’s the only good thing about getting old. You learn it’s alright to say exactly what you want. Good gravy look at her dress,” she says almost too loudly as the bride passes. “I give ‘em ten months.” “Nan!” Susan chastises. “Well, just look at her!” is all Mrs Parkes says in her own defence. Warner is quivering with suppressed mirth. We all stand around at the reception awaiting the wedding party. They’re with the photographer. If they don’t arrive soon we’re all going to be plastered. “Another, Beats?” “Why not?” “Not getting too untidy?” “Too untidy for what?” “Good point,” Warner accedes handing me beer. “She’s lovely to look at.” “Yes,” I say not even pretending I don’t know who she’s talking about. “You still …?” “Always, Warns. You can carve it on my stone.” “You’re a long way from dead, Beats.” Two achingly old men and a woman of the same vintage struggle into the hall under the weight of instruments, stands and sheet music. I can’t believe my eyes. “Bugger me,” I say. “What’s up?” Warner asks. “Look,” I point in the direction of the band. “The Travelling Trio.” “Who are …?” “They’ve been around forever.” “Plainly,” my niece says, smirking. “They look older than dirt.” “I have to go talk to them.” “You’re smashed, Beats.” “Not yet. I’ve just hit nostalgic. Smashed I can see down the road but I’m not quite there.” “Speaking of nostalgia …” Warner says and nods towards the door. For me the whole room stills except for the overhead fans that I can hear chopping through the air in time with my heart. The Mother of the Groom enters. She’s alone and the space around her is filled with sunlight pouring through the open door behind her. I watch her survey the room until her eyes find me. Her face breaks into a heartbreaking smile and she heads towards me … and that was the end of the wedding for yours truly. “You caved like a sack of shit in the sun, Beats,” Warner assures me later that night when I finally wake. I look around uncertainly. I’m home with no recollection of how I got here. I feel nauseous, my head is hammering, my hand aches. I moan. “I feel awful.” “Not surprised. Apparently shock and grog aren’t a good mix.” “Why didn’t you stop me?” “Me and whose army?” “What did Lisa say?” “Well,” Warner says pursing her lips, “let’s see. She said ‘Is she alright?’ and then she went and got the best man and the bride’s father to help us carry you out to the car. She sat with your head on her lap all the way out here. I could see her lips moving but I couldn’t hear what she said.” “She came here?” I croaked. “Yeah. I think she was crying when she saw the house. That means she must remember, right? She must think about you two?” “Maybe.” “Anyway we got you on the bed and they left to get back to the wedding. She left her mobile number though. I’m to call if there’s any problem. Oh. And she said you were lucky to have me.” “Well she always was the smart one.” “She also said no more grog while you’re on the pain killers and she checked the wound and re-bandaged it – you fell on your hand. She’s a doctor, did you know?” “I suppose so.” “Get some sleep, Beats.” Later, I wake and realise that it was at the sound of Warner’s laughter. She is talking on the phone. “Really? No, I hadn’t heard that one. Doesn’t surprise me though ... OK … I’ll let her know you rang … Right, see you then.” “Who was that?” I ask from close behind her making her jump. “Jeez, Beats. Scare the crap out of me why don’t you? Lisa.” “Lisa?” “On the phone.” “Oh. What did she want?” “She missed the barley prices, wanted to know if I’d caught them – what do you think? That’s the third time she’s called to check on you.” “What time is it?” “Two.” “Bloody hell. Scotty come?” “Yep. Upstairs tiling like a fool.” “Good. I’ll go take a squizz in a minute. Anything else?” “Tom rang. The fittings for the ensuite have arrived.” “And what have you been up to, Warns?” “Besides answering the phone and making sure you didn’t die in your sleep?” “Fair enough. I need food and then let’s go annoy Scotty.” In the front it looked like a small supermarket. Out the back the shop that had been in Tom’s family for three generations got interesting. Star pickets leaned in convivial bunches against the wall, copper pipe rested across the exposed beams, every kind of fastener you could want rested neatly in their boxes arranged according to type, size and shape. I walked out onto the loading dock where Warner was just packing in the last box. “Perfect timing, Beats,” she says wiping sweat from her brow. “Sore,” I reply holding up my bandaged hand. Before she can respond something behind me catches Warner’s attention. Her face breaks into a warm smile. I turn to come face to face with Sue. “How’s the hand?” she asks me while smiling back at Warner. “They’re amputating tomorrow,” I say. “Great,” she says now staring intensely at my niece. Warner jumps lightly up onto the loading dock. I watch them look each other up and down. “I forgot something,” I say retreating back into the shop. Neither of them reacts to my departure. I head out into the front section of the establishment realising I feel a little peckish. I sniff the air and take in the tantalising aroma of Tom’s mother’s sausage rolls. “One thanks, May,” I says to the girl behind the checkout. She knows one what. “How’s the hand?” an old voice behind me asks. I turn towards it. “Good Mrs Parkes, thanks. Enjoy the wedding?” “No.” “Oh?” “Not enough trifle.” “That is bad. Sausage roll?” “Give me gas. Well, best let you go. Your visitor will be waiting.” “Visitor?” “Tracey’s boy. Drove through about five minutes ago. I sent Suze out … I suppose those two are standing staring at each other?” “Pretty much,” I say and nod. “Better not keep him waiting. I’ll pry those girls apart and send Sue in.” We see him in the front yard staring up at the house. We are both nervous. He hasn’t been for a while although we’ve kept him up to date with emailed photos, webcam and phone calls. We move to stand on either side of him turning to check his face for his reaction. Tears run down it. Warner and I lean back to catch each other’s eye. She indicates that I should speak. “Phil?” I venture. “It’s beautiful,” he whispers. I hear Warner expel her held breath. Phil wipes his eyes then circles both our shoulders with his arms and squeezes. “I want to enter it in the Croft,” he says excitedly. “It’ll be finished, right? April?” he adds. “Sure,” Warner says. “What’s the Croft?” “Domestic design award,” Phil says absently his eyes fixing on the gable. “You got that all in one length, Beats?” he asks. “Came from the old shed at the home place,” I shrug. “Most of that timber’s gone into here.” “You should have seen that old wood, P. Hard as buggery. We had to drill most of it to get the nails through. Beautiful.” “The big expert,” Phil smirks to me but he kisses his sister softly. “Thanks, Warns. Beats.” “You’re crying now. Wait until you see the inside,” his sister chides. “Show me everything.” “I can’t believe what a beautiful job you guys have done.” “Why, thank you kind sir,” Warner says smiling broadly. “We just followed the pattern,” I say indicating his plans. “Now there’s three of you,” my father protests moving into the room silently. “Jeez Pops, give a chick a heart attack why don’t you?” “Sorry, Boof. Boy stopped and picked me up. Just having a look round the back. It looks alright,” my father says with gruff fondness. Awash with what for my father is effusive praise we move to sit around the kitchen table. “Beats, I was wondering if you’d do something for me?” “Of course, Phil. What’s up?” He’s walked me off away from the others. “I’d like your opinion on a project. Can you get away for a couple of days?” “Sure. Warner can hold the fort. The Gyprock guys will be here this week to do the bathroom walls. I wouldn’t want her working here alone.” “Good. This week is good.” “What exactly will I be looking at.” “I have a contractor who’s fighting me all the way. He keeps trying to slip in second rate materials. I think there’s some places where he’s done it and I’ve missed it. I’ll pay consultant’s rates.” “Not even you can afford me. I’ll do it for you. Contractor’s not going to like me sniffing around his site.” “No. I’ll understand if …” “Leave it to me. How about Tuesday?” “Great.” He slips the address into my hand as the others join us. “Spoken to Mum lately?” Warner asks Phil with a nonchalance that fools no-one. “Mmm,” he nods. “She asked me to take her to the awards.” “What, no bloke du jour?” Warner snipes. “Don’t,” her brother says softly looking to his grandfather and I for support. “Give her a break, Warns,” I feel compelled to say in my sibling’s defence though if you asked me why I couldn’t tell you. “Why do you all defend her?” Warner pouts. “Because she can’t defend herself, that’s her problem,” Dad says with tragic accuracy. Once again I am astounded by his insight. I nod in agreement. Later after Phil and Dad have headed off to the old home place Warner and I sit quietly over one more cup of tea. “Lisa’s leaving tomorrow,” Warner says gently. “That right?” “You should at least thank her for looking after you.” “I sent a card.” “That’s cold, Beats.” It is cold. That’s how I feel: cold, frightened, alone, small. None of which I feel I can say to Warner. “Maybe I’ll drop over in the morning.” “You’re the one who told me not to die wondering, Beats. She’s at Sandy’s Mum and Dad’s. They’re back tomorrow from the coast.” I nod, stand and take myself to bed. I knock on the Gibson’s door. “Coming,” she calls. Her footsteps approach. I stop myself from running by leaning on the railing of the verandah. I adopt a relaxed pose I’m light years away from feeling. She opens the door. Our eyes meet. I feel a smile crawl across my face that is mirrored on her’s. “Been avoiding me, Beats?” “Yes.” She moves towards me and leans against the railing too but facing out. “Why?” she asks. “Ashamed. Scared. The usual.” “The house is lovely.” “Thank you. The kids …” “Yes. Warner told me.” “I’m leaving …” “Yes. Warner told me.” “Ah,” she says. We stand quietly side by side. “I was jealous,” I confess belatedly. “I couldn’t stand the thought …” “I needed you. You let me down.” “I’m sorry.” At that she turns to look at me. She does so for a long time. “I know.” “I know you have to go but would you mind if I called you sometimes?” “Of course not. Let me know when the house is done. I’d like to see it.” “Good. Your son doesn’t approve of me?” “His middle name is Paul. One day he asked why.” “Oh.” “You know Beats, it was a long time ago. We’re big grown-ups now. We should move on.” “Right,” I say sounding hollow even to myself. “In the sense,” she says placing her hand on my forearm, “that we should start again with a clean slate.” “Oh,” I say, nodding, brighter now. “How are you getting back to the city?” “Sandy’s car. They took Brad’s on the honeymoon.” “Right. I should let you pack.” “All done.” “We could …” “Come in. Have a cup of tea. Tell me all about you.” She takes my hand and leads me into the kitchen. “Why did you stay?” I ask, tired of hearing myself, tired of talking about me. “After the wedding?” “You ask the most complex questions so simply. Tom and Alice asked if I’d like to look after the house. I think Brad thought I needed a rest. He was right.” “No. Just tired. I’ve been at the Royal a long time. I’ve been thinking of a change and now Brad’s settled … well, it’s time.” “What exactly do you do? Do you have a … specialty?” I ask having to search for the right word. “Accident and Emergency,” she says. “No wonder you’re tired. That’d get fairly hectic in the Big Smoke, wouldn’t it?” “Hectic. Yes. I’ve been there longer than most.” “What do you have in mind?” “Actually, they need someone to manage A&E over in McAllister.” My head snaps up to find her looking straight at me. I feel her set herself to gauge and accept my reaction to this news. I feel a grin spread across my face and watch her relax. “You know,” I say, “in McAllister there are only two doctors. So when they say manage they mean do.” “Yes, I know. I can’t wait.” “When?” “Three months. May.” “Where will you live?” “The old home place.” “What?” “I bought it back. The Nicholson’s will stay to run the farm. They built that brick bunker closer to the road so I’ll live in the old place.” “That’ll need some fixing up.” “I was hoping you could recommend someone,” she says smiling. “I understand there’s some talented carpenters around here somewhere.” “I’ll go take a look. Phil’s at Dad’s. I’ll get him to sketch some stuff up. He owes me. I’m doing him a favour next week. It’s in town. Tuesday. I could drop in and give you some idea of what needs doing?” “You always were a fast worker.” “Not me who’s re-jigged her entire life in two weeks. Warner and I will have to finish up at home first …” I pause, realising I’ve used the “H” word referring to the house for the first time. She misinterprets my hesitation. “Of course. Presumptuous of me to …” she stutters. “No. No it wasn’t. I was … I was thinking of something, that’s all. It’s no problem. It’ll be a privilege.” My words don’t seem to be having any effect on her sudden dark mood so I reach out and take her hand. I feel her shiver as I entwine my fingers with hers. She looks up finally and smiles. I smile back watching her lips. The front door bangs open. “You still here, Lisa?” Tom Gibson roars. Slowly we disengage. “In the kitchen, Tom,” she calls back. “That Beatrice’s ute?” he yells over the thump of bags hitting the floor of the laundry. “Yep,” I call. “It’s me.” Alice creeps quietly through the kitchen door and puts the kettle on. She smiles shyly at us, taking her handbag from the crook of her arm and sitting in on the counter top. It’s hard to believe she’s only a couple of years older than us. I take in her old lady clothes and hair. Hardly a trace of the eldest of the wild Taylor girls left about her. Lisa catches Alice’s hand and pulls her into the chair next to her then rises herself to the call of the kettle. Tom bangs around in another part of the house marking his territory. Alice cocks her head to listen to him. I see her eyes gleam with amusement. There’s the girl. I smile at the remnants of Alice Taylor. She smiles back then turns to Lisa. “How did you go?” she asks her. “She’s a wonder,” Alice says to me. “Yes,” I agree. “Yes she is.” Warner and I stand back from the bed. “You know, Beats,” she says, “when you first told me about the built in beds I thought you were crackers.” My bed, like hers is made of what used to be my father’s, grandfather’s and his father’s workbench from the old shed. It sits anchored to the floor in the middle of the room facing the window seeming almost like a part of the framework of the house risen up. “And now?” I ask her. “Oh, you’re definitely crackers. But they look great.” “Wait until you sleep in yours.” “Beats, I’ve been sleeping on a swag for months. Any bed would seem like heaven.” “It’s finished, Warns.” “Yep,” she says throwing her arm around my shoulders. We stand in silent awe of what we have achieved. “So,” Warns says, breaking the mood. “Next?” “Lisa’s place.” “Right. She liked Phil’s ideas?” “Loved them.” “We’ll have to have a house warming.” “Yes,” I say surprised she doesn’t ask more questions about Lisa. “Phil’s sending that photographer next week. Pictures for the award.” “Better tidy up the yard.” “Mmm. Why don’t you take a few days off before we get stuck into the next job?” “Really?” “Really. You did good, Warns. You’d better pack. I’ve booked you a room at the coast. Sue’ll be here first thing in the morning to pick you up.” I watch my niece’s face light up. She leans in to kiss me lightly. “I love you, Beats.” The house is quiet without her. Still without her energy buzzing around. I am tired. Dad and I have been at Lisa’s all afternoon pulling tongue in groove wall boards. We salvaged enough for the feature walls Phil wanted. Surprising considering the state of the roof. One thing to thank the drought for. I am lying in a warm bath. The trill of my mobile interrupts my drifting thoughts. I reach down and feel in the pockets of my works clothes for it. “Yup?” I say. “Hi,” Lisa says. “Where are you?” I ask. “Where are you?” “Bath. Why?” “I rang the landline first.” “Ah. Didn’t hear. Sorry.” “That’s OK.” “You aren’t on your phone. You’re number didn’t show on my screen.” “No. Got a new mobile. The old one was work’s. New pager too.” “Where are you?” I repeat. “Outside.” “Outside where?” “Outside on your verandah.” “Oh. We weren’t expecting you for weeks.” “I know. They let me take my owed leave. And I thought I was indispensable. Anyhow I thought I’d come and give you guys a hand. I see you’ve started.” “This is an expensive way to communicate. Come in. Get yourself a drink. I’ll be down in a minute.” “You don’t need your back scrubbed?” I felt myself go weak. “Uh …” “Speechless?” She hangs up. I shut the phone and start moving fast. I’m not finished dressing before the smell of frying onion drifts upstairs. She’s in my house cooking. Suddenly I’m so happy I feel faint. I run downstairs barefoot to stand in the kitchen doorway watching her. After a moment she senses me. “I could use a hand with the chopping. And where’s the meat?” “Freezer in the pantry.” “Guess that’s out then.” I move over beside her. I want to sing. I reach up and take the remote control from its holster on the inside of the cupboard door. I hit the power button. Music fills the house. Lisa steps back from her work listening. “Impressive,” she says. “Wired for sound. Want me to stir those?” I nod at the sizzling vegetables in the wok. “Please.” We move comfortably with each other but I notice an almost complete absence of feeling being this close to her. I’m surprised. Soon the meal is ready, on the table. I am almost sitting when the front door bangs open and Warner – or a small thundercloud remarkably like her – heads for the stairs. “Stop,” I say firmly. For once she does as she’s told. Exactly as she’s told. She stands stock still, hand on the banister. “We have company,” I say. She turns now, polite to her marrow, and apologises to Lisa. Lisa frowns then magnanimously waves it off. “Come in,” she says over-brightly, waving Warner over. “I’ll get you a plate. There’s plenty.” “I didn’t hear a car,” I venture while she’s gone. “You wouldn’t,” she says indicating the air around her full of music. “Weather turn bad?” “You could say that.” Lisa returns, setting a place before Warner. “Do you two need to be alone?” Lisa asks. “No,” we both say for our own reasons, then give each other a wry, apologetic look. “So,” Warner says after attended to her plate in silence. "What's been happening here?" I know by her raised eyebrow she’s asking about Lisa and I but I ignore her. “Pop and I started on Lisa’s place this afternoon.” “Without me?” She places her hand over her heart, mock hurt. “We weren’t expecting you until next month, I thought?” she asks Lisa directly. Lisa shrugs. “Where are you staying?” “Hospital digs until the renovations are done.” “You could stay here,” I hear my niece offer. “Thank you, Warner,” Lisa says in what seems a patronising tone. “But under the circumstances that’s an invitation that can only come from your aunt – don’t you think?” I could see Warner struggling with being spoken to like a child. I found it jarring myself. Of course, Warner is younger than Brad. Maybe it was a mother thing. “Perhaps your Aunt and I could be alone now,” Lisa adds and this time there’s no doubt it’s an order. I frown and place my hand over Warner’s where it lays clenched into a fist beside her plate. “I think it’s time to call it a night. We start early tomorrow.” Both Lisa and Warner looked surprised. I collect the flat ware and head for the kitchen. “I’ll call you when there’s a development about the house,” I say over my shoulder to a still stunned Lisa. I see her look daggers at Warner. “You can’t be serious?” Lisa hisses. “Just go,” I command. I hear her slam the front door. “What just happened?” Warner asks picking up the tea towel and starting to dry the dishes. “She was rude to you.” “But she’s, like, the love of your life.” “She had no right to speak to you that way in your own home. And …” “What?” “I don’t know. There’s something about her that’s … I don’t feel like I thought I would. She doesn’t fit in the house.” “You don’t love her?” “I don’t think so.” “Wow. That’ll make renovating her house interesting.” “Mmm.” “You OK?” “A little stunned. But … it feels bad, but right – you know? Tell me about your disaster.” “Oh, well, we get there, right? And Sue says …” “Beats, I’ve waited twenty year to hear you say that!” my father crows triumphantly. “No, I’m just fine, really,” I chastise. “Sorry, Girl. I know it seems hard but it’ll get better. She really called the next day expecting Boof to apologise?” “And me. And it just got worse from there.” “Women,” the old man grunts shaking his head then lifting it worriedly realising he’s talking to one. “Amen, Dad,” I say. “You still working for her?” “Yeah. But I’ve got Beth and her crew coming tomorrow so it'll only take a couple weeks.” “What’s that costing you?” “Beer, food and bedspace.” “They’re good friends to you.” “Yes they are, Dad.” He rises and moves to me resting his hard heavy old hand on my shoulder. “There’s somebody out there Beats.” “Out where?” “For you. Somebody for you. In the world.” “Old man, you are a Romantic.” “How do you think I got someone as beautiful as your Mum to marry me?” “Well, she was always a charitable soul,” I shrug. “Get out of it! Where’s my grand daughter?” “Out somewhere carousing.” “You should go with her.” “I was caroused out a decade ago.” “I’ll have to have a word to Beth and the girls. See if they can’t motivate you.” “You trying to kill me Old Man?” “Yo! Beats?” Beth yells from where she’s relining the laundry. “Yeah?” I yell back poised up a ladder with a length of two by four. “You should come see this,” she says in serious tones. “Can it wait?” I ask. “No.” To my great relief two of the crew turn up and help me down. “What?” I say at the laundry door. Beth points to the cracked window. “Yeah. We’ll need to replace the glass.” “Through the window, fool.” “Oh. Shit. Dust storm.” “Is it going to hit us?” “Yes,” I say after a moment watching it. “Warner,” I bellow. “Dust.” By the time Beth and I are back in the house proper Warner has everyone boarding up. “Cars?” she asks. “I’ll get them. Come on Beth.” “She’s good, the kid,” Beth says following me. “Yeah. You can’t have her.” “That’s what she said.” “You tried to poach her already?” “Of course. Where we going to put the utes?” “Tuck them in as close as you can to the eastern side of the shed. It’ll have to do.” Mission accomplished, we head back inside where the crew have decided it’s a good time for afternoon tea. We’ve made a table out of an old door and a couple of saw horses. They all sit around it, eating, drinking and chattering. Suddenly the dust is on us. The sky darkens. The chatter dies out. “Hey Warner,” I say nonchalantly, “what year was that we lost the house in one of these?” “Oh. Before my time, Beats,” she replies smoothly. “Maybe seventy-nine?” “Might have been,” I nod. “How do you mean ‘lost’?” Beth’s foreman Annie asks. “Covered right over. Still the only hill for miles.” “Bullshit,” Beth snorts. “Can’t put anything over these city girls, Beats,” Warner says. “Your right, Warns. You get the fellanamy driver?” “Yeah. It’s at home. I haven’t done the prep on it yet. Did you want to use it today?” “Nah. Tomorrow’s fine.” “The what?” Beth asks. Warner sniggers behind her hand, rolls her eyes at the younger members of Beth’s crew. They smile uncertainly. “The what now driver?” Beth repeats. “Fellanamy,” I say. “Guess they haven’t caught on in the city,” Warner says sadly. “You are both full of shit,” Beth says holding her ground. “So none of you have heard of it?” Warner asks the others. They all emulate rabbits caught in headlights: they sit perfectly still momentarily then they scatter to the winds. “That was mean,” Beth said. “Took their mind off the storm,” Warner shrugged. “Fellanamy driver. Idiot,” Beth snorts slapping my head. “Shaves hours of a re-strammollating,” I say. Beth shoots me a look weighty with disapproval. Warns is laughing so hard tears are running down her face. Beth takes a deep breath and raises a finger. Then her gaze flicks to the window behind me. A satisfied - nay, evil – smile curls her lips. “Here comes your karma, Funny Girl,” she says walking out in the direction of the laundry. I turn to see Lisa’s car plummeting towards the house pursued by it’s own cloud of dust. “Christ on a biscuit!” I murmur. “Go hide, Beats. I’ll handle it,” Warner offers. “You’re my hero. But no. Thanks.” “Bitch on wheels,” I hear Warner mumble as she moves off – but not too far off. Lisa was looking good. The country was agreeing with her. For a moment I almost regretted severing our relationship. Almost. To my great surprise a man not much older than Warner got out of the passenger seat and immediately moved to stand close by Lisa’s side. He intertwined his finger’s They walked through the house in silence, the young man’s eyes bulging at the sight of Beth’s team. “I’ll give you lesbians this,” Lisa said finally, “you are handy round the house.” The young man giggled nervously. I refrained from comment and gave Warner the eye so she kept quiet too. “Are we on schedule?” Lisa now asked me directly. “Ahead, actually. Once Beth finishes relining the laundry we’ll be out of your … hair. Probably two more days.” An awkward silence plonked into the room and made itself at home. “Beats!” Beth called from the laundry. “I need that fellanamy driver now! Restrammolating doesn’t wait you know.” I heard Warner choke back a giggle. “Gotta go,” I said, nodding to Lisa and her companion and escaping. Warner and I sat reclining on the verandah. “Beats?” she said. “Yeah, Warns?” “Thanks.” “Thank you, Warns.” I looked across at her strong, young face glowing in the reds and yellows of the setting sun and sighed. “They’ll start turning up soon, I suppose,” I said with little enthusiasm. “Generally what happens when you invite people to a house warming,” Warner admitted. “I suppose so.” “Beats?” “Hmm?” “I invited a someone …” “Of course, Warns. This is your home.” “No. I mean someone I should have mentioned to you before now.” “Not Lisa!” “I’m not insane, just meddlesome.” “Who?” “Well, there’s this new jillaroo out at Carson’s …” “Tell me you haven’t set me up with a cowgirl, Warns.” “I wouldn’t call her a cowgirl, Beats.” “God help me.” “I think you need to revise your “Field of Dreams” theory on finding a partner Beats. I think you have to actively seek one out.” “Or in this case allow you to do it for me. Does the cowgirl have a name?” “Rowdy Carmichael.” “Jesus. You fixed me up with a Rowdy?” “No, it’s one of those opposite nicknames. Her real name’s Rachel. She’s the calmest person I’ve ever met. Besides you. But you’re uncanny.” “You’re a beautiful young woman, Warner.” “They say I’m just like you, Beats.” And with that we both rise to attend to the ice for the beer, the music and the party food. Our house welcomed us in and I felt a smile play at the corner of my lips. Home. |
|||||||||||
© 2000 by Webster Web Designs |
