Trouble in Nirvana (2 page)

Danny’s driveway was two narrow tracks just wide enough for the wheels and with a strip of dry tussocky grass in between which scraped alarmingly at the undercarriage. The two threads wound away through the trees, over a little rise and then up a steeper rocky hill. The car clawed its way to the top then the house and accompanying sheds spread before her.

Derelict. The only word which sprang to mind. Squatting amongst gum trees the house was a plain rectangle of silver grey weatherboard so beaten by wind and rain and dust the walls were bare of paint except for another peace symbol wonky and misshapen sprayed on the front door. An ancient mud coloured couch sat on the verandah along with a couple of old wooden straight back chairs. The corrugated iron roof had been red once. The paint job probably dated from the time Mum’s eccentric old stepfather lived here in his isolated lunacy.

A falling down fence with an open gate enclosed the house and the remains of a garden, now overgrown with weeds save for one lusty white climbing rose hanging over the verandah railing and some straggling pink geraniums against the wall. Bits and pieces of unidentifiable machinery parts lay about, propped against the shed or neglected to rust on the ground under the trees.

Heart sagging, Primrose drove down the slope. Stones and tree litter created an obstacle course and a gaping pothole set her jolting, breath held. Away to the side was a cultivated patch of cleared land with green things growing. Someone stooped over some kind of agricultural machine in the middle of the plot. Hens wandering about, scratching in the dry dusty ground in front of the house yard, scattered in a flurry of white and brown when the car appeared in their midst. She parked in the shade and turned off the engine. Sat for a moment staring. Disappointment clagged in her belly. Wind chimes tinkled gently amidst the roar of cicadas. Delicate and pretty, as out of place here as she was.

Rough wood and corrugated iron structures huddled amongst the trees. Two black goats peered at her through a rickety stretch of post and rail fencing attached to the nearest shed which housed a beaten up old white Kombi van and a nondescript yellow ute. A cute little sheep strutted out from behind the shed and stared. Round and woolly with little ears sticking up from the tight curls on its head. “Baaaaa,” it said.

Primrose got out of the car. The person in the garden straightened up and stared her way. Too far to see if it was Danny but he was too broad shouldered and big. She walked toward the house swatting at the hovering flies. An engine roared from the patch of garden.

The sheep trotted toward her. Primrose smiled. Sweet. A pet sheep.

“Baaaa.” The trot turned into a gallop. A charge. It lowered its head. An attack sheep. The realisation came too late. She made a dash for the gate in the fence around the house. If she could shut that the sheep would be thwarted. Heart pounding, legs fuelled by a burst of adrenalin she scrambled through the gap and grabbed hold of the wooden gate. Choked with grass it wouldn’t budge.

The sheep galloped through and rammed its hard bony skull into her knees.

“Get away!” she shrieked. “Help!”

The sheep butted again. She lifted a foot, braced herself against the gate and pushed at the solid little body but her attacker jammed its feet into the ground and shoved back with lowered head. It stank. A rank greasy wool odour mixed with manure. Flies buzzed around them both.

Primrose ran for the verandah steps yelling, “Danny! Help!”

The sheep scampered after her, sprang up the steps and whacked into her legs again before she could open the screen door.

Scuffling footsteps sounded from inside. A dim shape appeared through the ripped flyscreen. “Sammy won’t hurt you,” said a tired female voice. “He likes to play.”

She held the door open for Primrose to dart through. The sheep stood on the verandah glaring in at her and tossing its head, stamped a hoof in annoyance.

Panting, Primrose took proper stock of her rescuer. Long brown hair hanging limply straight on either side of a thin freckled face. Pale blue eyes dark shadowed with weariness, crooked toothed smile.

“Nirupam!”

“Hello, Rosie.”

“How are you?” Primrose hugged her sister-in-law, feeling narrow angular shoulders and...what? She stepped back and looked. The faded pink Indian cotton dress which revealed scrawny pale arms and bony collarbones, draped over an unmistakable bulge. “Pregnant?” She bit back the surge of envy.

She and Martin had planned on babies. The idea had grown and blossomed in her mind the closer the wedding came. A soft, sweet-smelling child of her own to cuddle and love and protect. Now the possibility of motherhood had disintegrated to dust along with her engagement. But not the desire.

“Yes. Eight months.”

“I didn’t know. Danny didn’t say anything in his letter. Congratulations.”

“Thanks.” Nirupam turned and shuffled along the bare boards of the corridor with one hand supporting her lower back. She didn’t seem particularly surprised or pleased to see her. Maybe being pregnant had affected her in some way—drained away her emotions and energy. Not that she’d ever been a very effusive girl. Quietly ethereal, other worldly, had always been her impression of Nirupam.

“Nirupam, is it all right if I stay?”

“Sure. We have two spare rooms at the moment.”

“Thanks.” One weight let loose. She’d have a bed tonight. She must be open minded. She was here to make changes in her life and she wouldn’t change if she didn’t open her mind—that’s what the books said.

The house was larger than it looked from the front. Nirupam led her along the corridor down a step through an open living room type area furnished with two ancient couches and an assortment of easy chairs sitting in an old-fashioned carpeted pink and green sea of roses, then along another short corridor down two steps to the large kitchen at the rear. Obviously the communal room, it was the width of the house with the cooking and food preparation area at one end and a large wooden table at the other surrounded by wooden benches and a motley collection of kitchen chairs.

“Would you like tea?” Nirupam sagged down on a bench at the table with a sigh.

“No, thanks, I had a drink in town on the way through.” Primrose sat on a chair which wobbled alarmingly but held up. “Are you well?” She didn’t look it. She looked pale and exhausted.

“I get really tired.” She closed her eyes as if in proof.

Primrose glanced about. Dirty dishes stacked in the sink. Dust and leaves on the floor. A couple of flies buzzing lazily against the window. A cardboard box with two tired looking lettuces and several cucumbers on the floor by the door. Various items of clothing, papers and books strewn on chairs and the table.

“How many people live here?”

The eyes opened briefly. “Six.”

“Where are they? Where’s Danny?” Six people who did nothing in the house except make a mess.

“Danny’s gone to Braidwood. The others are away.”

“There was a man in the garden.”

“Kurt.” Nirupam levered herself to her feet, pressing her hands on the table for support. Her big baby belly threatened to overbalance her, way out of proportion to the rest of the frail body. “I need a sleep.”

“Of course. You must take care of yourself and the bub.” Primrose leapt to her feet ready to offer an arm but Nirupam was already on her way, shuffling toward the door with hand pressed against her lower back again. “Which room will I have?”

“I’ll show you.”

Nirupam led her back the way they’d come. She opened a door near the front entrance. “This was Anne’s. She was an artist.” Her lips flickered with the ghost of a smile as she turned away. “Sorry, Rosie. I really have to sleep.”

“Thanks.” An artist. That was a good sign. Perhaps some of the others were artists of some sort too.

Anne must have enjoyed burning incense because the intense musky smell permeated the room, accentuated by the hot still air. Anne must also have been a prolific artist because she’d decorated the walls with great enthusiasm. Nudes were her forte. Full colour but fortunately not full frontal. The men peeped with bizarre coyness over their shoulders, oddly misshapen, the perspective all askew. The two women sat with grotesque legs and arms at strategic angles. She appeared to have been exploring the human form.

An old wooden wardrobe stood in one corner, its doors hanging open. A speckled mirror on the right hand door reflected Primrose’s hesitant stance and dismayed expression. She shifted her focus to the bed. A single bare mattress on a sagging wire frame. The type of bed she’d slept in at school camps. The camps where you provided your own bedding. Her doona and linen was packed away in boxes with the rest of her meagre possessions under a friend’s house in Sydney. But she’d brought her own ergonomic contour pillow. And two towels and two pillowslips.

She walked across and pulled the flimsy floral cotton curtains aside. This room faced the front but to the right she could see the garden where Kurt had stopped working and was busily relieving himself against a tree. He finished and turned back to the rows of plants. Primrose let the curtain fall into place. Then she had second thoughts and opened the dilapidated screen to push the window wide. Even hot air was better than this cloying pong.

She sat on the bed. It sagged under her weight. Is this why Tom Fairbrother laughed? He knew what she was in for and thought it served her right for some perverse reason? Punishment for being from the city? He thought she’d hightail it out of here seeking creature comforts. He probably knew about the sheep and didn’t warn her.

The commune—she couldn’t think of it as Nirvana, way too much of a stretch—deserved more of a chance than the ten minutes she’d been here. Nirupam would lend her sheets until she could buy her own. Wouldn’t need more yet, too hot. Should bring in her things. She stood up and strode to the door. Stopped.

The sheep.

Nirupam said it liked to play. War games. Primrose examined her legs. Big red marks with greasy smudges. Definite bruising. How would she collect her bag? No way could she fend off that animal while struggling with her suitcase. Have to ask someone to bring it in. Kurt? Where were the other inhabitants? Who were they?

She could explore the house at least. First stop, the bathroom. The bath hadn’t been cleaned for ages. A shower recess had worn tiles and blackened grouting with soap scum marking the glass sides and door in random white streaks. A dying fern hung suspended in the corner.

No toilet. Must be separate. Please not an outside hole in the ground with redback spiders on the seat. Primrose opened the next door and peeped in. Someone’s very messy bedroom. She tried the room opposite and exhaled with relief. The toilet. Cleaner than the bath but still stained a nasty brown. A quarter roll of unbleached, coarse looking paper. She’d have to buy her own supply or risk a sandpapered bum. A cobweb draped from the ceiling.

Nose wrinkled, she backed out to stand uncertainly in the corridor before heading for the front door. Have to brave the sheep some time. The damned thing wasn’t keeping her prisoner in the house. She pushed the screen door open as quietly as possible. A couple of hens scratched about nearby, intent on foraging.

She made it halfway across the yard then the thud of hooves on gravel sent a surge of adrenalin to her legs.

“Baaa.” A screech like a banshee.

Primrose sprinted for the car and flung the door open. Safe. The sheep prowled about outside sniffing at the air, tossing its head and scowling. Lamb chops, that’s what it deserved to be. She grabbed her bottle of water and took a long deep swallow.

All she had to do was sit tight until someone came or the sheep lost interest and wandered off to harass someone else.

It didn’t wander off. The wretched thing strolled across to the house fence and began nibbling at the grass jamming the gate open. She lowered the window and rested her head against the headrest, eyes closed.

Ten minutes later a car engine sounded, joining the roar from the garden. Danny back from Braidwood? A white ute bounded down the rough track and pulled up right next to the Golf in a swirl of dust so Primrose couldn’t see who was at the wheel. The driver got out and slammed the door. Tom Fairbrother.

She slipped lower in her seat, holding her breath. By peeping over the dashboard she could see him from the waist up as he walked away from the car. Broad back. Broad brimmed, battered hat. Then his tanned muscular legs came into view. He had a green plastic bag in his hand. Her dirty clothes. She’d left them in his bathroom! A mortified groan escaped. She clamped both hands to her mouth in horror as she stared at his retreating rear, registering with some vague part of her brain how neatly the shorts fitted.

The sheep spotted him and let out its war cry. Little hooves stomped and the battering ram of a head lowered for the charge. Primrose sat up straight, waiting for the attack with eager, bated breath.

Tom waved his arms and ran a few paces toward it. “Get out of it.”

To her intense disappointment the cowardly thing turned and scuttled away, but to her even greater dismay the bag spun from his hand spilling her dirty clothes and underwear in lacy black confusion at his feet. He bent to pick it up but must have caught her sudden shocked movement from the corner of his eye because he stood still, peering at the car. An unexpectedly huge grin split his face from one ear to the other. White teeth flashed, and for an instant a lava flow of desire melted her from the inside out, a shocking realisation which short-circuited her whole body.

But only an instant. Primrose grimaced and exhaled, firmed her mouth. She collected her handbag and drink bottles and opened the door.

The grin had disappeared completely. He stood with her knickers dangling from his fingers. The attraction must have been a momentary brain fade brought on by shock.

“G’day.”

“Hello.”

“These yours?”

“Yes.”

“Thought they must be. Knew they weren’t mine.” He held the lacy fragment up to study thoughtfully. “Couldn’t figure out how they got into my bathroom. And I don’t use perfume.” The eyes swung to her face and stopped, boring uncomfortably through her bravado.