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‘Thanks,’ she said, without looking up.
He sat down again. ‘What do you want to do with it? Your life.’
She snorted softly, put both elbows on the table and rested her chin in her palms. ‘I don’t know.’
He said: ‘Leave? Go and do the things you wanted to do when you’d finished your degree?’
She pressed her fingertips to her eyelids. ‘Oh, how can I do that?’
‘Easy. Just pack a bag and do it. Even if it’s just for a year or two.’ He added: ‘You could crank up that VW van.’
She lowered her hands. ‘Just take off on a holiday? Clyde would have a fit! Him working so hard to provide for the family and me just taking off, spending the money?’
‘You need only spend the money he sends you anyway for your own maintenance. As you say, the ranch doesn’t need you – why should Clyde be a dog in the manger over your time? Your life? Have you any money saved? Of your own, I mean.’
She made a wry face. ‘A couple of thousand dollars, maybe, in the post office.’
‘You could get a job somewhere.’
‘Doing what? The only thing I’m trained for is damn housework. Though I did do a short course at Uni in shorthand and typing, but I’ve forgotten it all.’
‘You’d pick it up again quickly. You’d be able to get a job in an office somewhere, an intelligent woman like you.’
She looked at him, then sighed.
‘Oh, I’d love to do it. But Clyde would never allow it.’
Ben frowned. ‘You don’t need his permission. As you say, it’s your precious, one-and-only life, to do with what you want. If you want to keep Clyde happy, forget it. But if you want to have a couple of years enriching your life, do it, even without his permission if necessary. But then there would be a price.’
She rested her face in her hands again. ‘And that is?’
‘Depends. You may never be the same again – you mightn’t want to come back. Or Clyde might not want you back. In both cases the price would be called Sadness. Even Grief. And there’s another one, unless you’ve got enough money – it’s called Hardship. And another, called Loneliness. Enriching your life can be the loneliest business in the world.’
She looked at him through her parted fingers.
‘What are you saying to me, Ben?’
He smiled. ‘I’m just being realistic. You said you wanted to do more with the precious remnants of your life. You said you were helpless to do so. I’m just trying to show you that you’re not helpless, but there’s probably a cost. So, you must weigh the cost and decide what’s worth what, and try to be satisfied with your decision.’
She gave a big sigh.
‘Oh how I envy you.’ She sat there, her face in her hands. ‘Oh … I’m drunk.’ She sat up and lowered her hands. ‘Brandy and beer will do it to me every time. I had a couple of brandies before you came in, to try to sleep.’
He shrugged. ‘So, get drunk.’
‘I’m supposed to be the hostess.’
‘So, I’ll get drunk with you.’
She looked at him; her eyes were a little puffy. ‘Why?’
He smiled at her. Why had she said why, like that? Because she suspected he wanted to get her drunk so he could have another grab of her? Perish the thought! That sweet possibility hadn’t entirely escaped him, but even sex-starved Ben Sunninghill wasn’t a cad, was he? His reply was almost truthful:
‘Why not? We’re enjoying ourselves. They’re our lives, they’ll be our hangovers. You’re answerable only to yourself.’
‘What does that mean?’
Oh, dear. Tramsmash Sunninghill. So she really did think he might be after her drunken body. ‘Only what it says. You’ve had a tough day. You want to get drunk, do so. Nobody’s here to criticize you.’ (He wished he hadn’t said that, too.)
She snorted wearily, apparently satisfied.
‘No … I won’t get drunk. Or drunker. I’ll go’n sleep now, if you’ll excuse me.’
‘Of course.’ He was very disappointed that the party was over almost before it had begun. ‘But let me make you something to eat, you haven’t eaten all day.’
‘I’m not hungry. I had a big sandwich this afternoon, with the brandies. I should offer to make you something but I’m suddenly too drunk to try. I’m a piss-poor hostess, aren’t I?’
‘You’re a lovely hostess. And I’ve plenty to eat, in my saddle-bags.’
‘I’m sure you have, Mr Adventurous Sunninghill. You’re self-sufficient. Answerable only to yourself.’ She looked at him, then repeated wearily: ‘Oh, how I envy you.’
He smiled. What to say? She held up a finger. ‘There’s one thing I’d like you to do before you go to bed. Please wait right here until I’m in my bedroom. Then press the red button and shut the generator down.’
‘Sure.’
‘Otherwise,’ she said, ‘what always happens is I’ve got to press the red button myself, then dash through to my bedroom in the dark. Which gives me the willies.’
‘You could have a candle ready,’ he said. ‘Or a flashlight.’
‘Yes, but I never do have a candle ready, do I? And besides, candle-light is spooky when you’re walking alone through a big empty house, isn’t it? I kind of prefer to run, then lock myself in the bedroom.’
He frowned. ‘Do you really lock yourself in your bedroom every night?’ (Oh God, that sounded a terrible question.)
‘Absolutely.’
‘But why?’
She grinned. ‘To keep the spooks out.’
‘Really?’
‘No, not really. I know there’re no such things as spooks. I’ve told all my children that ad nauseam, so it must be true because mummies don’t tell fibs, do they? Mummies,’ she went on, ‘are absolutely pillars of truth and common sense, aren’t they? Mummies are rocks. Veritable lighthouses in stormy seas. Absolute bricks, aren’t they? And mummies know best. Know everything. Mummies aren’t scared of spooks, are they?’
‘Aren’t they?’ Ben grinned.
‘Absolutely not. Mummies are absolutely not scared of the dark. Even in big, empty houses slap-bang in the middle of the Outback. What spooks could there possibly be out here in Whoop-Whoop?’ She elaborated. ‘That means in the middle of nowhere. Whoop-Whoop is a remote, mythical Australian place—’
‘I know,’ he grinned. ‘You told me.’
‘Indeed,’ she said, warming to her theme, ‘what ghost would want to infest such an outlandish neck of the woods?’ She narrowed her eyes: ‘Only a real mean, nasty, sneaky son-of-a-bitch? A veritable pain-in-the-arse of a spook!’
‘Indeed.’ Ben’s grin widened.
‘Anyway, will you be so kind as to stand by that switch? And I’ll run. When I get to my bedroom, I’ll light my candle, then shout. Then you hit the red button. Okay?’
‘Okay.’
‘Right. Goodnight.’ She stood up, unsteadily. He stood up too. She grinned at him, then she kissed her fingertip and put it on his cheek.
That was his moment, to step towards her and take her in his arms unsuspectingly. They were less than two feet apart and it seemed he could almost feel the warmth of her body. But he hesitated, and the moment was past.
‘Night.’ She twiddled her fingers and turned to the passage door.
Part Two (#)
CHAPTER 6 (#)
Helen was woken at sunrise, with a hangover, by the sound of his motor cycle. She frowned into her pillow. The noise increased, passing the side of the house. Then it began to diminish, heading towards the gate. She lay a moment, frowning; then got out of bed and shuffled to the window, holding her head.
Ben was riding down the track towards the gate, wearing crash-helmet, gauntlets, the works.
Helen stared. She was amazed. Without even saying goodbye? He hadn’t said goodbye last night, had he? Her memory was a bit blurred around the edges, but she was sure he hadn’t said goodbye! She stared at him angrily, her hung-over heart sinking.
‘Well, I’ll be damned …’
She glowered at the empty track, then tottered back to the bed and collapsed on to it. She pulled the covers up to her chin. She lay glaring at the ceiling.
‘Well, I’ll be damned …’
She was indignant. And her spirits were sinking. Oh God, the loneliness again. The emptiness of the Outback. It had been nice yesterday, knowing there was somebody around. Nice? Knowing she had to bury Oscar? Oh God, Oscar. She closed her eyes. I mean, it was good knowing there would be somebody to talk to afterwards. And she hadn’t made the most of it. She hadn’t talked enough – she had gone to bed like a delicate bloom when she could have stayed up and talked, talked out her grief for Oscar. He was such a sensible bloke, Ben Whateverhisnamewas. Sunninghill. A goddam hippy, but sensible and cheerful, and she had wasted the opportunity for a bit of human company!
The story of my life …
And she was hurt. Couldn’t he have hung about long enough this morning to say goodbye? Thank you, perhaps? Good luck? But no – the story of my life again. Just like the kids – he doesn’t need my help anymore. My usefulness is over – he’s got his spanner, fixed his bloody bike, had a couple of nights in a decent bed, a nice hot shower – which he doubtless needed – and now he’s on his bike again. Without so much as a cheerio …
Then she thought: Maybe he left a note on the kitchen table?
She began to scramble out of bed to check; then she restrained herself angrily.
A note – so what? Is a note good enough for a guest to leave his hostess? Is that how to treat people?
But maybe the note said he was just test-riding his bike after its repairs? ‘I’ll be back in an hour’?
Again she began to get out of bed, then she stopped herself once more.
What’s this? she demanded. Why this frantic curiosity to see if that little hippy left a bloody note? Frantic anxiety … This hope. You’re hoping that he hasn’t left. God, this is pathetic. You’re pathetic, Helen McKenzie! You’re turning into a dotty middle-aged woman desperate not to be slighted by a little New York hippy on a Harley-Davidson! This is what you’ve become!
She closed her eyes and lay there, her head hurting.
But isn’t it normal? Normal just to … hope for some enjoyable conversation? Shouldn’t everybody have the right to wake up expecting at least some human company?
She threw back the covers and swung out of bed. She unlocked the bedroom door, dashed on tiptoe down the passage to the kitchen door, slid back the bolt and hurried in.
There was no note on the table.
She stood there, naked, eyes darting over the surface as if she could will a note into existence.
Her shoulders slumped and she felt like bursting into tears. She put her hand to her throbbing brow.
Pathetic, McKenzie.
She took a deep breath. And, oh, her head …
Well, to hell with it, she was going to chase this hangover away with a beer! She’d never done this before, but what the hell! Clyde thought nothing of treating a hangover with a beer at sunrise, so why shouldn’t she? He was a responsible man and if it wasn’t degenerate when he did it, why should it be for her? Besides, she felt like being degenerate.
She fetched a can from the refrigerator. She poured it into a glass and took three big swallows. It went down into her system like a balm. She immediately began to feel better. With a grim sigh, she slumped down at the kitchen table.
Not only pathetic, but boring – that’s what she was! That’s why that little jerk had left without even a see-yer … Boring, and so insignificant that it didn’t matter if he was rude to her. A has-been Outback wife who’s so boring he’d wanted to leave yesterday afternoon – she had encouraged him to stay and then got so drunk that he thought it was best if he just folded his tent and pissed off in the dawn to avoid another encounter, another boring entreaty for him to stay yet one more boring day …
Boring boring boring and useless – that’s what she’d become! Because she hadn’t used her head for years. She wasn’t even physically attractive anymore!
What’s that got to do with it? she demanded. That’s how boring you’ve got, you mix things up, muddle arguments, bring in irrelevancies! What’s your fat body got to do with this? With that little hippy on his 1000cc Thunderbird or whatever it’s called? God knows – and this is the absolute honest-to-God dinkum truth – God knows she hadn’t the slightest physical interest in him. He was so … little. Besides, she’d never been unfaithful to Clyde in her life – and she’d had a few opportunities – possibly more than most wives out in the boondocks – and it honestly hadn’t crossed her mind to be so with little Ben Hippy Sunninghill. He had made a few remarks that could have been interpreted as a come-on, and there was that moment he tried to hold her – but she’d frozen him right out! And he’d backed right off, hadn’t he? So maybe they weren’t come-ons. So what’s your disgusting body got to do with this?
But, anyway, it’s true. Look at you!
She looked down at her naked legs.
Look at those cellulite-dimpled thighs, your tummy sticking out. Your stretch-marked tummy. Look at your floppy boobs …
Helen sat up straight, pulled her stomach in, crossed her legs and stuck her chest out a little. She looked down again.
Now that is how she used to look all the time. That’s how she should look, and could again if she wasn’t such a boring mindless slob!
She got up impatiently, fetched another can of beer, ripped off the top and took two big swallows.
Oh, she was impatient with herself … She strode from the kitchen into the hall, and glared at herself in the full-length mirror, her can of Four-X in her hand.
What a slob! She pulled her shoulders back, tummy in. Stick your tits out! There …
She looked at herself. Not bad – for forty-two. And four kids. Okay, she was about ten pounds overweight, but then she always was a big girl – ‘well-nourished’, as Clyde said (he’d got that out of some book and loved to raise a laugh with it). She would have preferred ‘Rubenesque’, or better still, ‘statuesque’. But dear old Mother Nature never meant her to be slim, and certainly not flat-chested – she was intended for breeding, that had been clear at Cathy’s age. (As it was clear about Cathy: but at least she wouldn’t be stuck in the Outback – she’d probably end up editing some glossy fashion magazine.) But, my word, she needed to lose those ten pounds …
‘Don’t I, Oscar?’
She froze, staring at herself. Oscar?
She closed her eyes. ‘Oh God, my Oscar …’ And she gave a deep sigh, and turned and walked slowly back to the kitchen. She sat down heavily at the table, leant on both elbows and dropped her head into her hands.
She sat there, nursing her light, unreal head, trying fiercely not to think about Oscar. Then she snapped herself up straight, stood up grimly, went to the sink and tipped away the rest of her beer.
