Bella's Run (11 page)

Two hours before, Macca’s LandCruiser had poked its nose into the wide doorway of Will’s tumbledown workshop. Built by Will’s Uncle Bill, the workshop was a lean-to add-on to a machinery shed that had seen better days. Head down, butt up, Will was trying to extricate a buggered water pump from his ute’s engine bay. The vehicle was so old it really should have been replaced, the odometer already well into its second round. But there was no money for that kind of luxury up here in the mountains at the moment, with the drought clinching farms and lives within its deadly grip. The ute had finally died yesterday, a few kilometres from home, and had to be towed back with the tractor.

‘Comin’ to the Muster, O’Hara?’ Macca’s big voice had boomed out from inside the LandCruiser. Through the ute’s open windows Lee Kernaghan’s music was pouring out to thump around the old workshop walls and compete with Macca’s voice.

‘Nope.’ Will had pulled his head out from under the bonnet of his buggered vehicle. ‘I’ve got to get this water pump in and the old girl going by the end of the weekend. Got stuff to do, places to go, namely shopping in Burrindal before I run out of tucker.’

Inside his ute, Macca reached across and turned down the CD player so he could be heard more easily. ‘Bugger the bloody old girl. And I’ll ferry you out some food. Come on, mate. Climb aboard. We’ve got some rum to drink. Girls to woo. Not to mention a bloody good horse race to watch, although if you want my view, the butts and boobs strutting around that plain are far better entertainment.’

Will shook his head and bent back down under the bonnet.

Sensing he’d need to be more persuasive, Macca opened his door and got out, all six-foot-three of him uncurling into a mountain of a man. With a head of thick, curly black hair, Bob Hawke-style eyebrows topping dark, brooding eyes and florid cheeks where blue-red veins ran amok just under the surface, Macca didn’t need much effort to look intimidating.

‘Don’t make me pick you up and stuff you into the passenger seat, Will. For crying out loud, you need a break. What better way to get away from this flaming drought than to hit the Nunkeri Muster for the weekend? I promise I’ll have you back here safe and sound tomorrow. You can spend the night with the water pump and the ute then. If you’re up to it, that is.’

‘That’s what I’m worried about, mate, the bloody up-to-it bit.’ Will poked his head out again, grinned and then grappled one-handed for another tool off the workbench beside him. ‘We’re too long in the tooth for getting hard on the piss, and I’ve got lucerne down waiting to be baled.’

‘Fuck the lucerne, O’Hara. And are you calling twenty-eight
old
? This drought’s got you by the balls and quite frankly it’s about time something – or someone – took its place.’ Macca paused for a cheeky wink and waggled his eyebrows up and down. ‘That’s unless you want to saddle up a horse for a ride instead?’

Will dived back under the bonnet.

Macca fished into his pocket for the ever-present toothpick to jam into the side of his mouth. Chewing, he leaned up against the hoist, which was standing at right angles to the grainy cement floor. ‘Maybe you
should
have another go at riding in the Stockmen’s Challenge. Your ego should just about be over the bashing it got ten years ago.’

‘One ride in The Challenge was enough for me. I’m good, but not that good,’ came from under the bonnet. There was a crash and a rattle as something dropped to the ground under the ute. ‘Bugger it.’ Will stood up and stepped away from the ute to stretch his back. Moving across to the workbench, he dropped the spanner he’d been using among the piles of tools lying jumbled together on the slab of red gum stained black with sump oil.

‘Mate, that was a hellish ride,’ he recalled. ‘I was only eighteen and I was bloody lucky to stay on the horse.’

‘Yeah, I remember.’ Macca rumbled with laughter, the toothpick bobbing up and down in time with his shaking body. ‘When you galloped across the finish line, you were clinging to that saddle like a drowning man hugging a lifesaver.’ Macca wiped tears from his eyes.

‘Yeah, well, you should try it, you big wuss.’ Will got down on his belly and crawled under the ute to grab the fallen nut off the floor. ‘At least I know when I’m outclassed.’ He wiggled back out and stood up, the tiny offending nut glistening in his hands. ‘The Challenge’s a feat of bloody good horsemanship. Once was enough for this bloke.’

Since then Will had left all the riding of four-legged animals at the Muster to the experts, and instead concentrated on attracting the interests of the two-legged fillies who pranced around the plains. The lure of a ride on one of those had kept him – and Macca – going back year after year.

He walked to the bench, grabbed the spanner and dived into the engine bay to replace the recalcitrant nut, thinking as he went. Macca spread his charms far and wide, making himself a legend of the ‘dawn dash’, that sunrise bolt from a girl’s swag clasping boots and trousers in hand after a hot and heavy night.

Will was different. Not caring for a one-night stand, waking up the next morning staring at a sheila who looked nothing like you remembered from the night before.

And as Will tightened the nut on the ute, in his tumbledown workshop on that searing Saturday afternoon, there was only one girl who came to mind as he weighed up whether to go or not. He wondered if she would be there. He should have asked his mum exactly when they were due home.

Communication with the girls had been intermittent and unsatisfactory. No-one was really certain
where
they were. But there was one thing he did know for sure: a dawn dash would be the furthest thing from his mind if he finally managed to snare Bella Vermaelon.

‘Come on, mate . . .’ Macca wheedled as he spat the mangled toothpick from his mouth. ‘We can grab some cans from the Burrindal pub and we’ll be there in less than two hours. What do you say, big fella? Am I gunna have to stuff you into me ute or what?’ Will straightened and threw the spanner back on the old bench. Wiping his greasy hands on a rag, he stood considering his mate, the bloke with whom he’d played merry hell since they were small boys.

Should he go? His neighbour, Wes, was probably already there spruiking poetry, and Will loved listening to the old man when he was on a roll. The other inhabitant of the valley, his Aunty Maggie, would be there in the morning, or so she’d said earlier in the week when he’d called in for a quick cup of tea. His mum and dad were away in Melbourne for a few days.

If he didn’t go, it would just be him in this big, lonesome valley feeling sorry for himself. He’d miss out on all the fun. He could just go easy on the grog then he’d be right to fix the old ute tomorrow night, and maybe he could bale the lucerne on Monday. It would probably just be another dry storm tonight. Again those white-gold tumbling curls flashed past his eyes. Maybe . . . just maybe? Would they be there? He wouldn’t put it past those two, an outside chance for sure. But all the same . . .

‘Oh bugger it, why the hell not?’ he finally said. ‘Let me grab a quick shower and I’ll be with you.’ Slamming down the bonnet on the ute, he set off across the yard, throwing words over his shoulder. ‘Grab my swag out from beside that old lathe, will you, and there’s an esky on the verandah. There might be a can left in the beer fridge, if you’re thirsty.’ One final yell came across the yard before the screen door slammed. ‘I’ll be back.’

‘No problemo,’ called Macca grinning, as he watched Will practically run across to the house. ‘Plenty of time, old mate. We’ll be there before dark.’

Chapter 11

Bella tried to focus on the tiny glasses swimming in front of her eyes. A bunch of Akubra hats worn by the cattlemen clustered around the bar kept distracting her. Was Will here? What would he think of her down on her knees, swilling like a pig?

Damn Patty and her bloody bets. Her mind flicked back to half an hour before when she was considering the best spot in the river for a swim. The water was packed with people, swimming or sitting waist-deep on deckchairs drinking and yarning. There were dogs splashing about, barking, plus a few horses trying to stay cool – it was standing-room only. Patty ran up and tackled Bella from behind.

‘Hey, Hells Bells! C’mon, Jonesy and me have organised a drinking competition. And have I got a bet for you this time, girlfriend! Seeing as I haven’t paid out the other wager we had yet, how about double or nothing?
Two
slabs of rum-and-coke and a hundred bucks, I beat you. What do you reckon?’

‘No.’ Bella shook her head. ‘You know I can’t hold my grog as well as you can. You owe me, girl. I’m going for a swim.’ She tried to extricate herself from Patty’s hot and sweaty arms. ‘Plus, you can’t organise a competition and be a competitor.’

‘Where’s your sense of adventure? In Queensland still?’ Patty let go, stood back and planted her hands on her hips. ‘And pig’s arse I can’t compete. That’s why I’ve organised the bloody thing. Jonesy here’s going to adjudicate.’

For the first time, Bella noticed a middle-aged bloke slouching against a nearby four-wheel drive, a green can of VB in hand. Jonesy lifted his arm in salute. It looked like he was drunk. And dribbling. Oh boy, thought Bella.

‘Excuse
me
, but you’re leaning against my vehicle.’

The hoity-toity voice belonged to Prudence Vincent-Prowse, the girl who since childhood had loved to make life hell for Bella and Patty. Bella couldn’t believe she’d managed to forget Prudence Vincent-Prowse for a whole year.

‘Yeah. So?’ Jonesy sprawled himself out some more and scratched his balls.

‘You’re scratching it, you idiot!’ Prudence’s face – which normally looked like it had been lifted from a Covergirl advertisement – was screwed up and turning slightly crimson.

‘You gunna do somethin’ about it?’ Jonesy looked delighted.

‘It’s
my
fucking four-wheel drive
. Now get off it!
’

‘Okay, okay – no need to get tetchy.’ A disappointed Jonesy lifted himself off the vehicle, leaving dusty scuffmarks on the shiny duco. ‘You need to kick back a bit, love. How ’bout a drinkin’ competition to loosen those bra straps and G-string?’

‘How did you know I was wearing a G—’ Prowsy stopped and then scowled at a laughing Jonesy, who was prancing around, bum tucked in, wrists limp, doing a good impersonation of a stuck-up poodle.

‘C’mon, Prowsy, how about a few drinks?’ Patty dropped herself neatly into the conversation, turning the focus away from Jonesy’s drunken antics. ‘I need some contestants for a drinking comp I’ve set up and we haven’t seen you for
so
long. Nothing like a welcome-back drink with some
mates
.’

Prowsy swung round and took in her female observers. ‘Well, well, well . . . what do we have here?’ she said, while looking like she had dog shit on her boots. ‘The two stooges are back from Queensland. I was hoping we’d gotten rid of you both for good. Obviously Gippsland’s luck didn’t hold.’

‘Cor-r-ection!’ Patty rolled her r’s in jubilation. ‘Gippsland’s luck is bloody marvellous. And to celebrate, I’ve organised a welcome-home treat for us all. So are you in? I betcha Bella and me can drink you under the table. We’ve been practising real hard up north.’ Patty looked almost jocular, which surprised Bella because Patty
hated
Prowsy. Then again maybe it was a look of pure cunning; Patty could drink almost
everyone
under the table.

‘I bet you, you can’t. I’m rather good at games,’ said Prowsy, narrowing her baby-blue eyes. ‘What’s the prize?’

Patty looked stumped for a minute . . . then her face cleared. ‘What do you say about a night out with any single man here? You choose.’

Bella, Prowsy and Jonesy’s voices competed with each other:

‘Patty, you can’t do that!’

‘Your brother?’

‘Me! Me! Choose me, girls!’

Bella didn’t hear Patty’s response. She was focused on Prowsy. Did she just say ‘your brother’? Patty only had one. Will. And there was no way a double-barrelled bully was getting a night with him; not if Bella could help it. She could just imagine those long French-manicured fingertips of Prowsy’s moving sinuously across his hunky, muscled chest. The thought of it made her want to puke.

Ever since Prowsy had shoved Patty’s head into a bucket of cow and horse shit twelve years ago at the Narree Agricultural Show, to stop her from entering the Miss Junior Showgirl competition, there had been battlelines drawn in the dirt between the three girls. Bella had used her fledgling stockwhip skills to belt the crap out of the older bully, who’d cowered in the corner clutching a bleeding cheek.

Later that day Bella – wearing a pink-and-white chequered shirt, hair tied into matching gingham ribbons and denim jeans with shiny riding boots – had been crowned Miss Narree Junior Showgirl. Prudence had flounced past, a poor loser in second place in her white chiffon party dress and silver-buckled high-heeled sandals, shooting dagger looks. Bella could just make out the slash marks down her left cheek, under the liberally applied make-up.

Prudence’s mother, Mildred Vincent-Prowse, hadn’t wasted any time honing in on the girls’ mothers in the cooking-and-crafts pavilion. ‘Your two girls are wild cats, heathens the pair of them,’ she’d hissed at a startled Francine Vermaelon and Helen O’Hara as they’d walked the pavilion aisles to see how their cooking and quilting had faired. ‘We’ll sue you both if there is a permanent mark on my little girl’s face,’ she’d threatened, before spinning on a spiked heel and prancing off.