The Grass Castle (26 page)

She likes the library, and she appreciates the bland impersonal silence of the place. It’s almost reverent, the muted hush of people tiptoeing around trying not to disturb the mysterious workings of great minds. She sits in her favourite niche: a window overlooking neatly spaced gum trees and broad pavements where students migrate in book-carrying groups between the library and the Union buildings. Light pours onto her table. It’s a good space for thinking or not thinking, as the case may be.

Sometimes she works in her office in the science building, but right now the clutter of other students, the noise of their breezy interactions, their obsession with texting and YouTube and partying, bands and cafés, is all too much for her. They ask her out, trying to include her, and even though occasionally she accepts their invitations, mostly she bows out using fieldwork as an excuse. This is one time it’s good to have a reputation for keeping irregular work hours. Nobody can accuse her of being antisocial—they don’t even know where she goes.

The library is gentler than the office, and wonderfully anonymous. When she’s sick of data entry or exhausted from the mental pressure of trying to squeeze information from numbers using cryptic statistical programs, she can go and hide among the shelves. She can go fishing for new ideas and other worlds: history, art, philosophy—there are endless other spheres of which she knows practically nothing.

Scouring the shelves for information about the High Country, she finds a book called
The Moth Hunters
and thinks of Daphne. It’s a thin little paperback by Josephine Flood. She leafs through the pages. Inside are pictures of Indigenous people, long passed-away; their eyes are sad and haunting—people displaced and deeply wounded—or is she simply reading this into the photographs? She doesn’t know. Maybe she’s biased.

There’s also a map of different language groups in the region, all with musical names: Walgalu, Ngarigo, Djilamatang, Walbanga, Ngunnawal. Daphne would like this book, she thinks. Abby decides to buy a copy and take it to her. If it’s still in print maybe the university bookshop will have it—which, fortunately, they do: old stock, tucked away on a shelf in the Anthropology section. Abby is delighted to score it. She pays up and rings Daphne from outside the shop, arranges to visit the next day. Now that her social calendar is empty, it’s easy to fit Daphne in.

Abby has been so preoccupied in recent times, she still hasn’t serviced her car and the neglect is beginning to show. It used to play up only once or twice on a short trip, but now it has begun to stall every time she slows for a roundabout or traffic lights. The journey to Queanbeyan is a risk, she knows it, but she wants to deliver the book to Daphne. So she heads out the following morning even though her gut tells her it’s going to end badly.

She manages six roundabouts successfully and she’s almost laughing at herself—what an achievement! Then at traffic lights near the airport the Laser judders to a stop. With adrenalin-fuelled desperation, Abby grinds the ignition and pumps the accelerator. The engine slowly stutters to life, hiccupping and farting till it gains speed. It trundles along roughly, Abby hoping against hope that there won’t be too many more red lights before she arrives at her destination.

She’s relieved when she reaches the main street of Queanbeyan. With only one more set of lights to conquer, it looks like she’s going to make it. Then the lights turn red and she’s forced to stop. The Laser idles unevenly, shudders and stalls. Abby waits till the lights turn green then tries to restart. The motor turns over and whines, but the engine is reluctant. Abby’s heart ratchets. She tries again. Nothing.

Cars begin to toot. In the rear-view mirror she sees the driver of a lurid red Commodore behind her brandishing a fist. Zinging with stress she tries the ignition again, to no avail. She cowers behind the wheel, wondering what to do. She can’t sit here all day—the traffic is building.

She gets out and shrugs at the guy behind her who is scowling through his windscreen. It looks like she’ll have to push her car off the road somehow, but she can’t do it alone. She strides to the window of the Commodore and yells, ‘Can I have some help?’

For a moment he stares at her, hands on the wheel, his thick black brows knitting together in one long bushy caterpillar. Then he mouths a swearword and gets out. He’s not much older than her, and he’s tall, imposing and bulky, like he works out in a gym. He points to the kerb. ‘We’ll push it across.’ Then he slots himself into her car while other vehicles start to wind past them.

Abby stands alongside while he releases the handbrake, takes the car out of gear and then leaps out, leaning in to grip the steering wheel. He jams his shoulder against the canopy and shoves. ‘You could bloody help,’ he pants.

Galvanised, she scoots behind the car and pushes as hard as she can.

‘Is that the best you can do?’ he scoffs.

She pushes harder. It feels as if her abdomen is about to rupture.

The man’s muscles bunch beneath his shirt and the car begins to slide slowly forward. Then it is butting up against the gutter and he swings the steering wheel and jumps in to yank the handbrake on. ‘There,’ he says, hauling himself out in one sinuous movement. ‘At least you’re out of the way.’

‘What should I do now?’ she asks.

‘I don’t know. Ring the bloody NRMA. You’ve got a mobile, haven’t you?’

‘My roadside membership’s expired.’ She’s been so busy she forgot to pay up—that was months ago. ‘Would you mind dropping me somewhere? It’s not far.’

‘You expect me to drive you?’ He laughs, disbelieving.

‘That would be kind,’ she says. ‘I’ll deal with this later.’ She’s not in the habit of riding with unknown men, but she doesn’t want to be late to Daphne’s. It would take too long to walk. She convinces herself she can jump out at an intersection if this guy seems dodgy.

He shakes his head and waves her to his car. ‘Get in.’

She grabs her daypack from the Laser then slides into the passenger seat of the Commodore while the man slams in behind the wheel.

‘I can’t believe I’m doing this,’ he mutters, ‘. . . picking up chicks in the main street.’ His car starts with a purr and he moves it forward to the lights, waving to an appreciative driver who honks his horn in thanks. ‘Everyone’s relieved I’ve removed you,’ he says, grinning.

Now that he has a smile on his face and the crunched-down brow has lifted, he’s not so intimidating. He’s brown-skinned, brown-eyed and dark-haired. His shirt is neatly ironed and a masculine aroma hovers in the car despite the strong scent of aftershave.

‘Where are we going?’ he asks, glancing at her.

Abby gives the address.

‘Massage parlour up there?’ he asks, punching the details into a GPS on the dash.

‘No,’ Abby says. ‘A nice old lady. I can direct you there. You don’t need the GPS.’

‘I like my toys.’ He chuckles to himself. ‘An old lady, eh? Meals on bloody Wheels.’

‘Not quite,’ Abby says. ‘She’s a friend.’

He swings the car round a few corners, glancing down at the GPS from time to time, then pulls up near Daphne’s house.

‘Thanks,’ Abby says, relieved. ‘I appreciate your help.’

He sniffs. ‘I have my moments.’

Tentatively, she offers her hand. ‘I’m Abby.’

‘George.’ He takes her hand and pauses as if marvelling at the tininess of it in his big brown paw. She tries to pull away but he holds on. ‘How long will you be?’ he asks. ‘I’m not busy. I could come back and drive you home.’

She extracts her hand with a little more force and opens the door. ‘I can’t just leave my car there.’

‘Why not? You might get lucky. Someone might tow it away.’

‘That’s no good to me. I’d have to pay a fine.’

‘No money?’

‘Student.’

That grin again—big white teeth, red lips. ‘Got nothing going for you, eh?’ He opens the glove box and hands her a card. ‘Ring me when you’re done. If I’m around, I’ll help you out.’

Abby exits the car and closes the door firmly. She won’t ring him. She’d prefer to walk.

24

Daphne is in the front garden deadheading roses. She works slowly and methodically, carefully positioning the secateurs then compressing the handles with two hands. It’s an effort. Pam said she didn’t have to do it, but Daphne likes to contribute around the place. Apart from the vegie garden, she does very little to help. It makes her feel useless just sitting in a chair.

She hears a car pull up in the street and sees Abby get out of a red Commodore. It’s not a car Daphne has seen before, and she peers through the dead roses to see whose it is. There’s a dark-haired man behind the wheel, wearing a wide white grin. Who is he, she wonders? Not Cameron, that’s for sure. And Abby has a quizzical look on her face. Daphne wonders what the man has said in farewell.

When Abby comes through the gate and notices Daphne among the roses, her face lights up. ‘Hi,’ Abby says, smiling. ‘How are you?’

Daphne holds up the secateurs. ‘I’m having a bit of trouble with these,’ she admits. ‘My hands aren’t what they used to be.’

‘Here, I’ll do it for you.’

Abby takes the cutters and snips off the rose heads in rapid succession while Daphne watches them fall to the ground. The girl makes it look so easy. Daphne has forgotten what it’s like to have fingers that move willingly when you ask them to. ‘Who was that?’ she asks, nodding towards the road. ‘The man in the car?’

‘My car broke down and he gave me a lift,’ Abby says.

Daphne is concerned. ‘Do you often take lifts with strange men?’

‘He helped me push my car off the road. I thought he seemed okay.’

Abby seems unfazed and Daphne frowns. ‘That’s how young girls get abducted,’ she points out as she reaches for the secateurs. ‘Let’s go in for a cuppa, shall we?’

In the kitchen, a tray has been laid out on the bench with cups and saucers, and a plate on which there are arranged several pieces of sponge cake. Daphne feels a warm tug of gratitude. Lovely Pam must have sorted this while she was out doing the roses. Now Pam must be down in the spare room with Ben—she had it on her agenda to feed Sandy’s joey at eleven. That’s what she must be doing now. Daphne can hear Ben’s high voice piping down the corridor.

She checks the kettle, which is already filled. Then she removes a small jug of milk from the fridge. Pam always keeps a special jug on the top shelf so Daphne doesn’t have to wrestle the two-litre container; she knows Daphne’s fingers won’t fit into the handle anymore.

Daphne sets the milk on the tray then turns to Abby. ‘How’s young Cameron?’ she asks. This is a question Daphne is very interested in. Judging from the atmosphere in the four-wheel drive on the way home from the mountains, she suspects trouble afoot. Something happened up there on that mountain top which neither Abby nor Cameron was willing to share. When they joined up with her after their walk, it was as if the very air had grown bristles. Daphne had been required to fill all the conversation space. She had puttied up the quiet gaps for them throughout the journey home.

Now Abby shifts edgily, a shadow passing across her face. ‘We’re having a bit of a break,’ she says, failing to meet Daphne’s eyes.

‘Is he getting too serious for you?’ Daphne asks knowingly. She recognises Abby’s evasiveness as fear. The girl is running hard. She is scarpering into her personal hills and escaping as fast as she can.

‘He’s a little intense,’ Abby admits.

Daphne won’t allow her to dodge so easily this time. The girl needs to have it said. ‘He’s a good man,’ Daphne says. ‘I like him. He’s respectful and thoughtful. Hard qualities to find these days.’

‘He’s a lot older than me,’ Abby says. ‘And I think he’s looking for different things. I’m not ready for what he’s offering.’

‘You want to have fun.’ That’s how young things are these days, Daphne thinks, at least that’s what Pam tells her. They’re not interested in marriage anymore, all they want is sex. Daphne finds this hard to believe. When she looks at Abby, she sees a girl who badly needs marriage and children to settle her down. Family anchors you—not in a bad way—and Abby definitely needs anchoring. She’s a kite in the wind, skipping across the sky.

‘I want to keep things light,’ Abby says, her eyes flickering like the light outside, reflecting off Pam’s wind chimes. ‘Better that I step back and let him find someone else. I don’t want to break his heart.’

‘Perhaps you already have.’

Abby shrugs. ‘I hope not.’

‘He’s a good person, Abby,’ Daphne points out. ‘That’s important.’

The girl tightens and looks away. She’s such a pretty thing, Daphne thinks—all that curly red-brown hair and pale skin. Daphne can see why Cameron is taken with her. There’s fragility beneath that veneer of toughness and independence.

The kettle boils and Daphne smiles to herself as Abby dives to turn it off. The girl is taking the opportunity to break the conversation by becoming task-oriented. She watches as Abby pours water in the teapot and carries the tray to the coffee table. Then she goes across to her chair and sits down.

‘How have you been anyway?’ Abby asks.

Daphne compresses her lips—now it’s her turn to dodge. ‘I’m fine.’ She won’t mention the thumping sound that lives in her head most of the time now, like a rabbit beating its feet on the ground. Or the echoing and swishing as if she is hearing things from underwater. She supposes it is tinnitus—she’s read about it somewhere: unusual stuff going on behind the ears. Perhaps she needs a hearing aid.