Red Fox (10 page)

The caravan is not luxurious. In fact, it isn’t even nice by my standards, and my standards aren’t very high. But it is safe and secure, warm, and dry. I open the cupboards and find several unopened cans of spaghetti and baked beans. I locate a portable gas hotplate in the back corner, which has no gas to light the flame, but I put it aside to take with us when we leave. There is also an unopened box of chicken flavoured biscuits and a packet of one of my favourite sweets, Maltesers. I pull my finds from the cupboard and hold them up to Whil, grinning from ear to ear. He smiles as well, obviously amused by my enthusiasm.

A blue Esky cooler sitting on one of the counters draws my interest. I lift the lid off but there is only a bottle of off-colour, thick milk and a block of mouldy cheese floating in some tepid water. I throw the Esky outside too.

We are too hungry to think of anything else but eating. Whil sits at the two-person table, which folds out from the wall and is accompanied by a pair of plastic lawn chairs, and begins tugging at the binding around his head.

“Oh, yuk. Don’t do that now. I want to eat without vomiting,” I say thoughtlessly.

His face falls. The expression he gives me makes my heart melt as though I’m looking at a terrified puppy. “Does it look that bad?”

“No,” I say, too quickly. “I don’t know what it’s meant to look like at this stage.”

“If a cow had a wound like this, we would expect it to still be clean the next day if it had been bandaged. It should just be a bit bloody.”

I feel my heart sink. Even without looking at the wound itself, I know it is more than just a bit bloody. I decide that after we have eaten, I will have to gather the courage to clean the wound properly and hope I don’t vomit up all of the food…

I find a couple of bowls in the top cupboards and pour cold baked beans between them. I want to scarf down the entire bowl of beans with my fingers, and my stomach is positively growling with hunger when I smell the rich tomato sauce, but I remain civilised and sit at the other chair. I hand one bowl and a spoon to Whil, and he looks down at it like he’s lost his appetite.

“I hate baked beans.”

“Beans are better for you than spaghetti,” I say with a shake of my head and a small smile. “How can you be so choosey when we haven’t eaten in days?”

He wrinkles his nose a bit, scoops some up and shoves the spoonful in his mouth. I watch him chew and swallow the beans like they are a piece of old, chewy leather. He makes a face of obvious displeasure. “It’s even worse cold.”

I laugh. “I’m sorry.”

Whil eats all of the cold baked beans anyway, and so do I. I don’t mind beans, but I have to agree that they certainly aren’t delicious when they’re at room temperature. Each spoonful is like swallowing a handful of tiny, slimy eyeballs. I am not full after the beans so we move onto the spaghetti, which isn’t much better, though Whil seems to relish it. Though it isn’t an extravagant meal, every mouthful hits my stomach with a satisfying sensation. My stomach growls happily.

“We will probably never get another packet of these again,” I say to Whil in a mock stern voice as I hold up the packet of chocolate-coated Maltesers malt balls. “So we can only have a few at a time.”

“Right,” he agrees with a serious nod.

I open it and both of us immediately thrust our hands into the packet and pull out bulging handfuls of the chocolate. We pop the treats into our mouths and I almost drool at the taste of chocolate. Chocolate was once such a common, cheap thing that could be bought in nearly every shop you went to. Now it is rare. Maybe soon it won’t even exist.

Feeling revitalised, Whil and I begin playing with the Maltesers. He throws one into the air and I try to catch it in my mouth. But the damn thing just hits me in the eye and goes missing under the kitchen counter. I grope around on the floor for it and Whil laughs, more than I’ve heard him laugh before. His face flushes pink and his teeth shine pearly white. The noise of his happiness is almost like a rolling thunder, low and rumbling but the joy behind it can’t be missed. A warm glow consumes me and I watch him and feel a smile creeping onto my lips bit by bit.

“That!” he says suddenly, pointing at my face. “That is how you were looking at me this morning.”

“Would you drop it?” I say sitting up, but I’m in too good a mood now to be cranky with him for prying. My earlier irritation with him has vanished just like the Malteser under the counter.

“Alright. Alright,” he says with a laugh.

He would look so much nicer without that bandage on. I feel the smile fall away from my lips.

He notices the change in atmosphere immediately.

“I’ve got to change the bandage,” I tell him, figuring it’s better to be straightforward.

“So it does look bad?”

“No. I’ve just never liked football players, and it makes you look like you’re wearing a football helmet. They’re arrogant people, football players,” I say sarcastically, trying to defuse the sudden tension.

“Whatever pleases you,” he says with a roll of his eyes.

He’s only half joking. I know it.

11.

I find a pair of scissors in the kitchen drawer and cut a clean section from one of the white bed sheets to redress the wound. If only the sheets were red so I didn’t have to watch him bleed through the dressing. There is a bottle of Iodine in the bottom of the sink cupboard, so I mix the contents with some water to clean the gash.I grit my teeth as I stand behind Whil, and he stays seated in his chair. You wouldn’t think that such a handsome head with sooty dark hair could hide something so hideous. My eyes wander over his shoulder blades for a moment, because he has removed his jacket and his black undershirt hugs his toned body. I take a deep breath before I start removing the tattered shirt from his wound. After cutting the knot beneath his chin, I gently try to peel the fabric away from the gash, but it sticks like Velcro. Swallowing, I try to pry it off, but the dressing won’t come loose. I see the loose skin sticking to it, refusing to give, and whitish-yellow goo cobwebs between his head and the lifting bandage. I feel like I’m going to rip any of the protective scabbing off. When I give the bandage a gentle tug, which makes my stomach tighten with nausea, Whil lets out a growl and this time, it sounds like an angry tiger rather than laughing thunder.

“I’ll soak it for a while. The fabric should just come off,” I say, trying to keep the distress from my voice.

I get some water from the pump tap and pour it over the sticking point of the shirt. For one split second, I almost burst into laughter at how ridiculous we would look to someone else. Me standing above him, looking petrified of his head, and him sitting in the chair with a shirt hanging over his face like he’s part of some sort of religious cult. I force back the bubble of laughter and pour more water over the gash, wondering whether the events of the past week have sent me mad. I seem to be laughing at a lot of ridiculous things lately.

Slowly, agonisingly slowly, the fabric of the shirt comes loose as I pull it. And bit-by-bit, it reveals an angry red, golf ball sized dent that now seeps with fresh blood. I cover my mouth to stop my moan of disgust, but the loud exhale of air that spouts from my nostrils along with a whimpering sound is too audible and obviously a bad sign. Whil’s shoulders tense.

“Freya, tell me what it looks like,” he says in a low voice.

“Um… Well, it’s pretty big.”

“How big and how deep?”

“It’s about half the size of my fist, but probably only half a centimetre deep. Can’t you feel it?”

“I can only feel pain. A lot of it all over my head, and I can hear my heart thumping in my ears.”

Tell your heart to stop pumping the blood out of your head
, I think.

“It’s alright. It isn’t exactly… attractive, but it doesn’t look infected,” I tell him.

I’m telling the truth. It doesn’t look infected. Whatever the yellowish coloured moisture on the bandage was earlier must have been something other than puss. The wound is fresh and still bloody but it looks relatively clean. The blood flow must have cleared the dirt from it. The falling rock managed to rip out a patch of hair from his head too. Absent-mindedly, I stroke the hair around the wound, delaying any further work I’ll have to do.

“It wouldn’t be infected yet. Too early,” Whil says. “It takes a few days for infection to set in.”

“How do you know that?” I ask, trying to distract him as I pour the Iodine-water over the wound. I don’t have the nerve to put my fingers to the gash. I should. I should be flushing it out and rubbing it to get rid of any grit but I know it will be agonising for him.

“Cows aren’t so different from people. I’ve learnt a lot from my father about sicknesses that affects cows. Infection is one of our main problems.”

“Is that right?” I say distractedly.

I don’t know why, but my earlier queasiness is gone. Is it because I
have
to do this? I can’t leave Whil to become ill with infection. If I don’t help him, he will die. I rummage through the cupboards, pantry, and drawers before I find a very soft tea towel. Sniffing it, I find it smells clean. I cut a square of it, soak it in Iodine, ring it out, and then lay it over the wound. He winces as I begin wrapping the bed sheet bandage around his head. I’m more professional this time. I’m careful not to hurt him, and I ensure there are no gaps that leave the tea towel underneath exposed. He looks more like a football player when I’m done then when we started.

I sit down on the other side of the table and bite my lip. “Are you okay? Did I hurt you?”

“You did a great job, Freya. Relax,” Whil says. “It feels better. Less hot.”

I can’t manage a smile so I just say, “Good.”

When I look out the window, it’s nearing dusk and the caravan doesn’t have any lighting. We should find sleeping places before it’s too dark to see anything. I rinse my mouth with some water and run my tongue over the fur on my teeth. I hate the feeling of it.

“Well, goodnight,” Whil says suddenly. I look at him sitting on the lawn chair and can just make out that he has his arms folded over his chest and his eyes are already closed.

“What do you mean?” I ask. “Why don’t you sleep in the bed? You’re hurt. You need proper rest.”

My body says the opposite. It says,
please, Freya, lie down on the mattress and rest your aching, tired limbs.
I would love the bed to cushion my sore limbs and exhausted body, but Whil does need it more.

“Well, there’s only one bed. I think you should have it,” he says without opening his eyes. “Ladies before gentleman, after all.”

I’m so used to being treated like one-of-the-boys by my male friends from school that the idea of Whil treating me like a girl startles me into silence. My mouth opens and closes a few times but words don’t come out. The boys I know shove girls around and talk to them about sports, cars, and motorbikes. Well, they used to before vehicles were banned. Why is Whil so different?

“I think the injured take priority,” I say eventually. “But would it be so weird to sleep together?”

He opens his eyes and even in the near dark, I see him staring straight at me like a cat watching its prey in the darkness. Was that totally out of line? I feel the immediate need to defend myself. I’m not a girl who strumpets around. I’m the total opposite of that and I don’t want him thinking otherwise.

“I just meant…. Given the circumstances and all… we haven’t had a good night’s sleep in days. I’m sore and tired. You are too, and it’s a good idea so we can both rest. It isn’t that I
want
to share the bed with you. That’s just absurd.”
Whil’s eyebrows arch high on his forehead at my final words. Oh God. What did I just say? I almost slap myself.

“Whil, come on!” I say exasperated. “I just want to sleep, and I won’t sleep knowing you’re sitting there in a chair with part of your head missing. I’m going to try to sleep, but don’t feel like you have to sit there all night. I don’t care if we share a bed just don’t… touch me.”

His expression changes completely, from one that was hard and smooth to one that crumples with shock. The shadows fall over his eyes as he hangs his head. I feel instantly guilty.

“I wouldn’t ever do that,” he says.

I don’t know what to say anymore. Everything that slips from my mouth makes things worse. I don’t feel embarrassed or angry. I just feel completely daft because it’s so obvious that Whil isn’t
that
sort of man. So why did I even mention it? I must seem like such a juvenile, immature little brat to him.

I gather my wits back with each second that ticks by in silence. “Whil,” I say quietly, apologetically. I hold my hand towards him. “Sleep.”

His lips form a hard line, but then he sighs and his chivalrous resolution washes away. He takes my hand, only briefly, squeezes it gently, and then drops it and goes over to the bed. While he gets comfortable, I busy myself throwing the empty food cans into the Esky outside. Inhaling a deep, calming breath, I head back inside and climb into the bed next to Whil. I don’t know whether he is still upset or if he is actually asleep, but he is facing the wall and has crushed himself against it as hard as he can. He doesn’t say goodnight. There is a good two feet of distance between us, but I can still feel him there when I lie down. The mattress moves as his breaths rise and fall. I close my eyes, concentrating on his breathing and I, too, fall asleep within seconds of lying down.

~

I wake up at dawn the next morning, leave Whil sleeping, and head outside with a towel I found in the caravan. I feel revolting. Three or four-days-worth of dirt and grime coats my body—not to mention the endless amounts of blood. My hair feels greasy and drab. Even at home, we had soap and shampoo that you could make from natural products. There wasn’t any soap in the caravan but I’m desperate to cleanse myself without it.

I get to the stream we drank from yesterday and strip my clothes off. The air is numbing and when I touch my toe to the water, the freezing temperature of it makes me squeal. Fragments of ice drift in the smooth current and snow has built around the edges of the stream like a taunt. Gritting my teeth, I force myself to take a step into the water and then I sit down.

It is so cold it hurts, but I am sick of looking and feeling like a homeless person.

Well, you are a homeless person,
something cruel inside of me whispers.

On that thought, I begin splashing the water over my shoulders and hair, gasping as every bitter cold droplet touches my crawling skin. I scrub at the film of dirt over my body. My hands are especially blackened and I spend an agonisingly cold minute on each, picking the dirt and blood from the lines in my palms and scratching it from under my nails. This part of the creek is very shallow so I have to lie on my back for the water to cover my chest and head. Oil from my hair slowly seeps away with the current. I let the numbing cold wash over my forehead where the large bump acquired from the rally remains. Now that I’ve seen how bad Whil’s wound is, my superficial little incision seems insignificant.

After another minute, I jump out of the creek, shivering while my skin creeps with goose bumps. After wrapping the towel around myself, I gather up my filthy clothes and race back to the caravan. Mist hangs all over the flat, so thick that it drifts around my racing legs. The clamour of me thundering back inside wakes Whil up. I slam the door closed behind me, and go straight to the little cupboard housed beneath the bed, ignoring Whil’s surprised look at me clambering around in the towel. My teeth clack together noisily and I shiver so violently that I can hardly open the cupboard. My entire body feels like it’s been blast-chilled.

There are clean clothes in the cupboard, but they are meant for an elderly lady. Rummaging through, I find numerous enormous loose pink dresses and old-fashioned floral-patterned long skirts. I pull out a pair of large, frilly underpants and hold them between my thumb and forefinger distastefully.

“They’d suit you,” Whil says sleepily.

“Shut up,” I laugh, throwing the underwear at him. He basically dives out of the way of them with a funny little yelp.

In the end, I go through the man’s cupboard to find clothes. I find a plain black shirt, some warm socks, and a leather jacket. But the man’s jeans don’t fit me, and I finally manage to find a pair of trousers in the lady’s drawers. I pull out a few things for Whil and lay them on the bed.

“Whil, go wash if you want to. We have to go today,” I tell him when I’m dressed. He is in the kitchen, riffling the cupboards for more food.

“Already?” he gapes. “Why?”

“This is the first place they will come looking for us. We have to leave.”

He looks disappointed when he takes his towel and goes outside. Feeling fresh and restored, I raid the cupboards some more and find two tins, one full of hot cocoa powder and the other of ground coffee beans. I put them aside to take with us. Surely we will need a kick of sugary energy and caffeine on this journey. I also find a packet of matches, a box of biscuits and a bag of dried sultanas.

There is a discarded hiking bag slumped against the wall so I dump everything in that for the journey, but we shouldn’t go hungry from here on anyway. It might take us a day to walk to my aunt’s from here, but I know where all of the creeks are, and there used to be a few abandoned Bushmen huts along the way. Drovers who brought cattle into the Alps to graze when their paddocks were bare once used the huts. The drovers always restock the supplies, so food and drink is always available to the next traveller.

Whil comes back, looking paler than usual because of the cold. I blush when I see the towel wrapped only around his waist leaving his whole chest exposed. I know Whil isn’t frail, but I hadn’t expected for him to be so fit. Even though I try to keep my eyes away, they constantly drift back to the milky white plains of his chest and the noticeable muscles rippling in his abdomen. He has a ridiculously seductive ‘V’ shaped muscle just above the hem of the towel.

God, help me.

I tear my gaze away when he starts dressing in the clothes I laid on the bed. He wears all of them except for the old man’s jacket. Instead he pulls his dirty olive green one back on and touches the sleeve of it lightly. I sense it must be important to him, but I don’t ask why. We eat a handful of sultanas each, have a big drink of water, and then head off again.

The temperature outside is horribly brisk, and I crave for the warm alpine spring: when the soft, new grass is growing and the birds sing and newborn animals play in the blossoming meadows. Instead, Whil and I get soaked within a minute of walking through the damp, weedy lovegrass.