The Grass Castle (14 page)
He comes out with the gun. His face is dark and terrible as he charges down the hill. He opens the gate and re-enters the yard, eyes grim, his mouth is set straight and hard. He loads a bullet and cocks the gun, lines it up with the horse’s head, fires. The horse slumps. Breathing heavily he puts the gun down, and with his knife he cuts the rope to release the horse’s head. Then he looks up at his audience, his face livid and his eyes snapping. Snatching his stockwhip from the fence, he storms through the gate towards them, cracking the air with the whip. Everyone splits except Johnny, who holds his ground and meets Daphne’s father’s glare. They all know the horse is dead because Daphne’s father made a mistake. He is shamed, but he’s the boss and he hates to lose face. He needs to blame someone, and Johnny will do. All the men know the boss doesn’t like him.
Johnny stands poised and defiant, and for a moment Daphne thinks her father will hit him. But Johnny stares her father down, black nostrils flared like the horse, dark challenge in his eyes. Then, in his own time, Johnny turns and walks away. Sitting on the rails, Daphne is the only one who sees the stockwhip twitching in her father’s hand. She knows her father wants to lay into Johnny with the whip. He’s itching to do it.
Now, breathless and a little weary with the strain of recollection, Daphne turns to Abby, sees the gentle smile on the girl’s face.
‘Where were you?’ Abby asks. ‘You’ve been gone for a while, haven’t you? I’ve been standing here waiting for you to come back.’
Daphne waves away the last shreds of disorientation. ‘Sorry,’ she says, embarrassed. ‘It happens sometimes. I get lost in memory.’ She tucks the stockwhip back in the box and Abby folds in the top and interweaves the flaps before setting the box on the floor. ‘Would you like another cup of tea?’ Daphne asks.
Abby smiles and Daphne thinks perhaps she detects a twinge of sadness in the girl’s eyes. ‘Unfortunately I need to get on the road,’ Abby says. ‘I have some work to do. But we’ll catch up again soon. I’ll let you know when I can take you out to the valley.’
Daphne pats her arm gratefully. ‘That would be lovely, dear. I’d really like that.’
After Abby leaves, Daphne drifts back to her room and lifts the other box from the floor. It is light, comparatively weightless, easy for her to tote to the bed. She opens it. Inside sits a cloud of pink fabric, a dress in pale-rose hues, almost coral. Reverently, she inserts a hand among the concertinaed folds, slides her fingers over the satiny surface, notices water stains, the cloying aroma of mothballs.
The texture of the material arrests her. She is young again, lifting the dress out of its box for the first time. The fabric whispers softly as she shakes the dress out. If her shoulders were still good, she would gather the dress and shuffle it over her head, feel its silkiness against her skin. The dress is a remnant of her dreams: life, seemingly gone wrong, but actually coming right.
She didn’t show the dress to Abby because she wasn’t sure how she would explain the wisdom that the dress contains, inherent in its antiquated folds. The girl would have to have the vision of an older woman to understand.
Everything in its own time, she thinks.
Carefully she slides the dress back into the box and closes the lid. When she lifts her hand to explore a patch of dampness on her cheek, she realises she is crying.
Abby is sitting at a bar waiting to meet Cameron the journalist. It’s been more than a month now since he came out to the valley and she’d almost given up on him. Then he called yesterday and suggested she read his kangaroo article before it goes to print, explaining it had been delayed by other deadlines.
Abby has been busy in the field radio-tracking her marked animals, day and night. It’s tiring, but she doesn’t mind. She likes night work: the clear dark skies sprayed with stars, the cold clean air. Sometimes when her tracking is done, she lies spread-eagled on the grass, wishing she knew the names of the constellations. She has a book somewhere which is supposed to enlighten her, but she can’t work it out. Instead she focuses on the layers of stars, the near and the far, scattered dot-points of winking silver.
Some days she has pre-dawn starts, odd hours. It’s hard to get up and her body is overtaken by a bone-deep weariness. But it’s part of her job, and somehow she drags herself out each day and gets going. People think field research is romantic, like a holiday. They don’t realise how hard it is to have a regular life. She doesn’t go out much and her social life is non-existent. Being here in this bar is an aberration. Luckily, her night work is almost finished for a while—so she can afford to cut herself a little bit of slack and socialise.
She has a beer while she’s waiting. When Cameron rang she told him she’d be happy to look at his article and suggested he email it to her, but he said he’d rather meet for a drink after work. Now he’s late. She left some important data analysis to be here—sitting around is a waste of her time.
She drinks another beer. The bar is dimly lit. It has heavy wooden tables and dark wooden benches—not very comfortable; Abby hopes she won’t have to sit for too much longer. She doesn’t usually drink by herself, but what else do you do when you’re waiting in a bar? There aren’t many people here, just a few old blokes checking her out between watching horse races on the TV. With their TAB stubs and half-empty beers in front of them, they look bored. Abby hopes Cameron shows up before one of them musters the courage to try to chat her up.
Eventually he arrives, entering the bar bold and fast, slightly flustered, his dark features flushed with the effort of hurrying. It’s been so long since Abby saw him that she has forgotten his poise, the directness of his gaze. His eyes connect with hers and he smiles, flexing his blocky jaw as he approaches. He’s wearing jeans and a white shirt, a black jacket, nicely fitted. Abby feels rather too casual in her garb of cargo pants and a top she made herself from fragments of clothes she bought from St Vinnies.
‘Sorry I’m late.’ Cameron reaches to shake her hand.
She gives him a reserved smile, shakes his hand briefly then circles her fingers around her beer. He places a couple of printed A4 pages on the table then goes to the bar for a beer. She picks up the sheets and reads them. The article is reasonably well written, but idealised, as if working with kangaroos is a picnic. Perhaps she gave the wrong impression with the roast chicken and bread rolls. She’ll speak to him about that.
‘What do you think?’ Cameron is standing over her, sipping the froth from his beer. ‘Satisfactory?’
‘Yes, it’s fine.’ She points out a few corrections, some over-simplified details that don’t make sense. It’s a pretty good overview, she concedes. He pencils in her suggestions with neat heavy script. Everything about him is considered and orderly—the discipline and privilege of his private-school education shine through. He doesn’t realise how he wears his class.
‘What have you been up to?’ he asks, slipping his pencil into a pocket inside his jacket.
‘Fieldwork,’ she says. ‘What about you?’
He takes a gulp of beer. ‘There’s a lot of climate change stuff going down at the moment—hence the delay with the story about you. Unfortunately politics takes precedence. All the posturing about climate policy has been front page. Have you been keeping up with it?’
Abby hasn’t looked at a paper in weeks. Saying she can’t afford to buy the paper sounds pathetic but it’s close to the truth. ‘I haven’t had time to read the papers,’ she says. ‘I’ve been busy doing night work.’
He laughs, his eyes bright with amusement. ‘What? Partying at the uni bar?’
She feels unjustly accused. ‘No. I’ve been radio-tracking my animals out at the valley.’
‘You go out there on your own at night?’ His brow crumples. Is he actually concerned?
‘Yes. Why not?’
‘Are you sure it’s safe? Anyone could go out there.’
‘But they don’t. It’s only me. And I don’t mind. I’m used to it.’
‘Doesn’t the university insist people work in pairs?’
‘They’d prefer it, but it’s impractical. Who’s going to come and hang around each night while I traipse up and down hills with a pair of earphones and an antenna? I don’t need anyone with me. I drive, I get out of the car, I climb to a high point and take a reading, then I drive some more. It’s more efficient on my own.’
‘We journalists tend to travel in packs,’ he says. ‘I guess that’s why I find it hard to relate. Wherever I go, others are there—although, these days I do most of my research from my office. It’s amazing what you can do from your desk with the internet.’
‘Field scientists still go out in the field,’ Abby says. ‘That’s what we do. If you want a desk job you take up a different area of science. Like lab work or computer modelling. But I get edgy if I sit for too long.’
He grins. ‘Like now?’
She gives him a smile. ‘I think I’m managing okay.’
They talk over several beers. Cameron loosens with the drink, divulging information about his work. He tells stories about interviews he’s had with politicians, confidential stuff that Abby suspects ought to remain behind closed doors. He shares knowledge about who is sleeping with who among the world of journalists and MPs—there are some surprise liaisons, well-concealed. If this was the USA, these details would be all over the paper. In Australia, he says, there’s a sense of discretion about such things. Public and personal lives remain separate to some extent . . . unless someone decides to write a declare-all memoir and deliberately forgets to include the important bits. Then it’s different. Under those circumstances journalists feel justified in making sure necessary details aren’t missed.
Abby wonders if Cameron is trying to impress her. It’s fascinating hearing about his life—the world of scoops, opinions and intrigue, so different from her existence of facts and figures. You could sum the two of them up as subjectivity versus objectivity. But he has a good grip on a wide range of issues, and it seems he’s keen to chat, so she nods and drinks and tries to appear intelligent—unaware if she’s succeeding.
Eventually the alcohol catches up with her; several beers and no food and suddenly the room is tilting. She goes to the bathroom, all staggery, and leans against the wall in the cubicle while the world does a slow spin. When she returns to the table, Cameron offers to drive her home. He seems relatively sober, so she’s glad to accept, beyond embarrassment.
The cold air hits as they step outside. It’s dark now; in the dim light of the bar, Abby hadn’t noticed daylight escaping. Cameron guides her to his car, which is angle-parked a short way down the street. He opens the door for her and she slumps into the passenger seat, misjudging the low height of the sports car.
He is quiet as he follows her directions, driving fast around corners. She says little, afraid she might be sick. Then they are out the front of the big old house, and she is swinging open the heavy car door, trying, unsuccessfully, to leap out. He comes round, grabs her hand, and hauls her out. Then he walks with her down the pathway alongside the house to the bungalow round the back. She feels his arm around her waist and is glad of his support; her knees are saggy.
At the door, she fumbles the key from her daypack then pushes the door open and switches on a light. Her mess sprawls around them. She sees Cameron silently taking it in. He guides her to the couch, where she flops ungraciously. Then he goes to the kitchen, finds a glass on the bench among the clutter of dirty dishes, rinses it and brings it back full of water. She takes a sip.
‘Are you all right?’ he asks.
She nods yes.
He is standing looking down at her where she sits in a clumsy coil on the couch. She glances up at him, but his thoughts are unreadable. He bends and kisses her, his lips pressing briefly against hers.
Then he is gone.
He phones the next day while Abby is in her office entering data. It’s boring work and she’s pleased to be interrupted. She has had a slow morning, weighed down by an unaccustomed hangover.
‘How are you?’ he asks.
‘I’m still standing,’ she says. ‘But I’ve been better.’
‘Are you up to dinner? I’m going out with a few workmates tonight. I thought you might like to come.’
She feels a flutter of excitement. ‘I’ll come,’ she says. ‘But don’t expect intellectual conversation. My brain’s still hurting from last night.’
‘The best cure for a hangover is another beer,’ he says, and she can hear the smile in his voice.
‘I’ll stick to mineral water,’ she quips. Prudish but appropriate.
He offers to pick her up, but she says she’d prefer to make her own way there. If she drives it will be extra motivation not to drink—she doesn’t want to lose it among a group of journalists she doesn’t know.
But when it’s time to go, she can’t find her car keys. She has already flustered too long over what to wear, annoyed at herself for being so vain, and now her keys have gone missing. They could be anywhere among the chaos of her bungalow. The bed is strewn with discarded clothes and hangers. The floor is covered too. And there is also the mess of books and magazines. She shuffles through it all without success.