The Grass Castle

by Karen Viggers

  It was good sex. Cameron is a man well in tune with his body, and he focused on giving her utterly satisfying orgasms. But the after-effects of the wine hang heavy in her head. Despite the ecstatic release, she is anxious. Doubt surfaces. Without meaning to, she has succumbed to an entanglement of sorts. It’s against all her personal rules. What is she doing?

  She moves slightly, wondering if she can disengage from Cameron without waking him, but his arm tightens instinctively around her; there will be no easy escape. He shuffles close, eyes still shut, his lips tracing the line of her shoulder and collar bone. Then his lids sweep open and those dark eyes connect with hers. She feels other parts of him awakening and she knows they are destined for more lust before she can extract herself and go home. She gives in and allows her skin to meld with his. It’s a sensual kind of poetry, despite her blurry alcohol-laden head.

  Afterwards, cosy and sated, she lies back, closes her eyes and lets him pull her up against him. He curls himself around her, heavy and hot, her buttocks pressed to his groin, his lips tasting her shoulder. Dragging the doona up, he wraps her in the cocoon of his heat, and she has never felt more keenly possessed. It amazes her she can feel so physically comfortable with someone she barely knows. The easy intimacy frightens her—it’s possible this man might worm his way under her skin, and how would she deal with that? She’s going to hurt him: that much is certain. How can she navigate her way out of this?

  Gently he strokes the length of her with a warm hand, and she feels feline beneath his touch. She rolls away and lays her head on his arm so she can look at him. ‘I have to go to work this morning,’ she says, her voice breaking the quiet of the room.

  ‘Take the morning off,’ he says. ‘I put in a couple of late nights at work earlier this week, so I don’t need to go in till lunchtime. Reckon I can keep you entertained.’ His smile is calmly confident and his hands are very certain on her skin.

  ‘A student’s work is never done,’ she says lightly. She sits up and pushes her hair back, and he reaches and tangles his fingers in it.

  ‘Shower first?’ he suggests.

  She sniffs her skin. It smells of him and sweat and lovemaking. ‘Might be a good idea.’

  ‘I’ll show you the bathroom, but don’t bank on getting out of there quickly.’

  She frowns at him. ‘I do have to get to work, you know.’

  He kisses her stomach then swings out of bed. ‘An hour won’t make any difference.’

  15

  Cameron calmly inserts himself into her life, and Abby finds herself caught up in him despite her hesitation. Sex is the first and last of everything—it’s both erotic and exciting, and it’s never been like this before with other men. At night she lies awake in his bed, studying his sleeping face, and when his eyes open, he reaches for her, kisses her. Daytime, in the office, she’s unable to concentrate, stares vacantly at the computer while spreadsheets of data blur irrelevantly in front of her eyes. In the field, she wanders up the valley singing. The sky seems wide open: blue smiling down on her. Even the breath of the wind seems sensual. The kangaroos observe her from a distance, lifting their heads to chew on swatches of grass.

  She’s so schoolgirl-silly and so alarmingly besotted, she can’t even contemplate food. She toys with lunch, knowing she ought to eat, but she’s tingling with something greater and more insistent, something that consumes her and lifts her and floats her up with the clouds. Out at dinner together, they order plates of food and ignore them. Within the space of a couple of weeks, she becomes a captive by stealth. It’s only human, she supposes, to enjoy the warmth of Cameron’s body, the intimacy of his arm flung casually across her in bed. He’s a passionate lover; expressive and experimental. She likes his way of leading, of gently taking charge and directing her. He’s attentive and tender, and it astounds her how quickly she becomes accustomed to him, almost falling in love with him.

  Each night they first dispense with lust, then a meal is vaguely possible. After that they have long conversations that wind their way into the small hours of morning, punctuated by repeated love-making. Cameron is an intellectual challenge and sometimes he unnerves her—controversy is his realm and his tactics defy social rules. He oftens assumes an adversarial position simply to test his persuasive skills, and his arguments are so convincing she never knows quite where he stands on an issue or what his true feelings are.

  He likes to extend himself by expanding his general knowledge, which is the polar opposite of Abby’s life trajectory. Her studies demand she learn more and more about less and less, and, as a scientist, her training insists she never make claims beyond the limits of her information, qualifying her statements with terms like may and might and probably. Cameron, however, thrives on thrashing out a topic as assertively as possible using whatever compelling language he can muster. Lacking authority on a subject is irrelevant. The skill is in the art of argument.

  Climate change politics is his pet issue, but it leads them into uncertain territory. Abby’s concern is that neither of the two main parties will tackle the problem seriously, and she’s annoyed that the media skews the argument. Cameron refuses to accept his profession’s responsibility in this. Each time they discuss it, he takes a predictably journalistic stance. To his mind, it’s important for journalists to portray both sides of an argument—he calls it balance. But Abby insists there is no balance if journalists give equal air-time to a few dissenting voices purely to present another side. These dissenting views are in contrast to an overwhelming wealth of established evidence, so to give them credence represents bias, she argues, not good reporting.

  Cameron smiles and accuses scientists of failing to communicate their findings adequately while Abby asserts this is not their role. Scientists are trained to do science, she says. Providing information to the public is the job of journalists, but their approach is flawed. Political leaders are being confused by reporters who fuel controversy where there is none.

  On it goes. Cameron sticks to his line on the need to maintain balance, and Abby strives not to succumb to depression over his views. She reminds him that around the world glaciers are retreating and ice caps are melting. The science is there to prove it, she says, so why do the sceptics refuse to believe it? Further, she points out, there is this stupid argument that climate change is not due to human activity. How can it not be? she asks. She lists for him all the ongoing damage being inflicted on the earth by humanity: expanding cities, burgeoning human populations, booming industry, carbon being pumped into the atmosphere to generate power and run millions of motor vehicles, tree-clearing, water being poured onto land to grow food to feed more and more mouths. How can so many humans not be changing things? she asks. The buildings, the pollution, the destruction of natural systems.

  Cameron finds her views amusing. He argues that humans have always managed to solve problems. Technology and development are the only way forward, he says. Otherwise they would be back in caves, grunting instead of talking. Then it is sex again, of course. Whenever an impasse is reached, a romantic gambol is the solution. Grunting, instead of talking. They are not so far evolved from cavemen after all.

  Mostly she stays over at Cameron’s place, but sometimes he comes to hers. She sees the humour in his eyes as he peruses her mess. It’s a minor humiliation when he washes her dishes and puts them away, or stacks her magazines and books into piles while she’s in the shower. One time, she hears the vacuum cleaner humming in tune with her hairdryer as she dries her hair. He attempts to disguise his small efforts to tidy her life, but hopefully he will soon work out it’s a losing battle. In between times she makes a feeble attempt to clean up, then she can’t find anything, which makes her grumpy. He laughs at her frustration, grabs her into his arms, and makes love to her with such passionate abandon she is almost able to chuckle at herself.

  It feels strange sharing her space with him, having him in her house. He’s so big and his limbs are so long he makes her bungalow even smaller. Often he si
ts on the doorstep talking to the dog. He says that as a boy he’d always wanted a dog, but his mother is wedded to cats. His mother insists cats are easier, but Cameron thinks dogs are more interactive. Cats, he says, interact only on their own terms, whereas dogs give real love. Abby laughs and says he’s been duped. Dog-love is entwined with food. But he shrugs and expresses his interest in pack behaviour. He, of course, would have to be an alpha male. What would that make her? she wonders. Alpha female? He fondles the velvety ears of the landlords’ golden retriever as he speaks, and the dog regards him with doughy, adoring eyes. As he tugs the dog’s ears in long soft strokes, Abby thinks of his fingers on her skin.

  One morning over breakfast, he notices her guitar standing in the corner and asks her to play. She’s dismissive, embarrassed, says she doesn’t play like that—on demand. She plays when she feels the need. When the urge comes over her, she picks it up and plays, that’s how it is. She plays for herself, not for an audience.

  He lifts the guitar, sits on the couch and nestles the instrument in his lap. It’s too small for him—or rather he’s too big, and it looks wrong, like an oversized ukulele. Tentatively he plucks a few chords, fumbles out a rusty ‘Smoke On the Water’, his fingers clumsy and vague on the strings—he probably learned it as a teenager like many pubescent boys. His brow is creased with concentration and he looks bear-like, hunched over the guitar. But his clunky musical rendition stirs something in her, and she takes the guitar from him, pushes him sideways on the couch with her hip. He shuffles to make room for her. Automatically she thumbs the strings, listening, tuning, her head cocked sideways while she completes the task. Then, unselfconsciously she begins to play. The music comes out of her—‘Talkin’ ’bout a Revolution’ by Tracy Chapman—and the words flow soft and clear. As always, when she feels the music like this, the lyrics fit the way she feels. The stir to change moves through her like a whisper. Her need to run. She’s telling him indirectly that she can’t commit, not sure if he’ll hear.

  She feels him close to her as she plays, feels warmth and a strange unexpected happiness. She is connected to him, her hip against his. The music ties her to him and to happiness and to her mother’s weird, energetic, on-again-off-again love.

  Cameron’s face is luminous when she finishes playing and looks up at him. His eyes are adoration mixed with respect. It frightens her. She feels a rabbit kicking in her chest.

  ‘Something else?’ he suggests.

  She focuses back on her instrument, feels safe again as she picks out a note, the firm line of the string pressing reassuringly into her fingers, grounding her, giving her something solid to hook on to. She waits for the song to rise in her, something lighter, fun. Ben Lee, ‘Catch My Disease’—it tumbles into her, rolls out. Cameron’s foot taps in time with hers, with the beat, the rhythm of the lyrics. Why is she playing this song? Is she admitting she’s in love with him? That she’s fallen for him, even though she’s afraid?

  When she’s done, she stands and places the guitar back in its corner. She chances a look at him, sees the lust in his eyes. He scoops her up, ferries her through to the bedroom, lays her on the bed, tugs her clothes off and takes her body. Desire crunches through her. All good.

  After sex, they lie loose in each other’s arms, legs tangled, the musky smell of their love-making lingering in the air, the sheets, on their skin. His lips press against her shoulder and his hand scrapes an untamed hank of hair from her cheek. He pulls back a little, leans his elbow on the pillow and cups his chin in his hand while he looks at her.

  ‘You transform when you play,’ he says. ‘You’re like a different person. Where do you go?’

  She dodges his gaze and glances up to the corner of the room where a delicate daddy-long-legs huddles beneath the cornice. ‘My mother used to play,’ she says. ‘Playing reminds me of her.’

  He is quiet. ‘She died when you were young, didn’t she?’

  ‘I was thirteen.’

  ‘Girls need their mums.’ A sigh huffs out of him as he lies back and stares at the ceiling. ‘Not so much for guys. I’ve never been close to my mum. She was always closer to my sister. A girl thing, I suppose. Mum was busy with her career so we had a nanny. We saw more of her than our parents, so she became our mum in a way. I was bereft when she left. When we were at high school Mum figured we didn’t need her anymore and gave her the sack. That was it. I still remember the tears in my nanny’s eyes as she picked up her bag and walked out the door. So much for attachment.’ His head shifts on the pillow so he can look at her, eyes sad.

  ‘What about your father?’ Abby asks.

  ‘My dad?’ Cameron snorts. ‘He’s a hard and arrogant man—I can say that now. He had high expectations, a clear vision of what he wanted me to be. But I wasn’t that person. I tried, God knows, I tried.’ He sighs again, his body heavy with it. ‘Eventually I had to give in to my real self. I was an angry teenager. Sometimes I wonder if I chose different views intentionally to separate myself from him. It seemed every thought I had was contrary to what he wanted me to believe. But I grew into my skin, or maybe my skin grew around me, I don’t know which. And I gained confidence. I was happy when I became a journalist. I was good with words, enjoyed lacing them together, putting down all the ideas I knew my father would hate. Do you call that retribution? Pay back? In the end I became my arguments. But I grew beyond that eventually. Luckily my sister fulfilled my parents’ hopes and expectations and became a high-flying solicitor, so that let me off the hook in a way.’ He glances at her. ‘What about your family?’ he says. ‘Seems you don’t much like to talk about them.’

  ‘These days, there’s only Dad and Matt and me,’ Abby says. ‘My dad’s an accountant and a farmer. An odd mix. And I’ve told you about my brother. He works on a vineyard and skis. We grew up outdoors with the bush for a backyard. No fences—or none that held us in anyway. We had it a bit different from you. Few expectations. Not many rules. Now there’s Brenda too, Dad’s wife. She’s not my favourite person, but she holds Dad together.’

  ‘They still live on the land?’

  She feels the gentle enquiry in Cameron’s question. He wants her to keep talking, wants to know the person who lives inside her skin. She can give him snippets, but not too much, or who knows where it will lead. ‘Still on the farm,’ she says. ‘But they’ve become rather parochial these days—they’ve lived in the country too long. All they talk about is stuff that doesn’t matter outside Mansfield. Pot-holes in the road, lack of opportunities for teenagers, weeds and erosion, road signs having the crap shot out of them, the lack of doctors at the hospital. When I go down there, I’m expected to sit and listen. It’s painful, but I do it. I nod at all the right spots. They don’t want to hear what I’ve been up to. They just want to talk about themselves, Dad as much as Brenda.’

  ‘What about your brother?’ Cameron asks. ‘Are you close to him?’

  ‘Matt’s a good guy,’ she says. ‘But he’s no talker.’

  ‘Same as you,’ Cameron says with a hooded smile.

  She bumps him on the chest with a fist. ‘I talk,’ she says. ‘What do you think I’m doing now?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he says. ‘But it feels like you’re keeping me at arm’s length. I’d like you to let me in sometime. I’m keen to share.’

  ‘Give it time,’ she says, getting up and heading for the bathroom. Time to run, she thinks.

  16

  Daphne is in the four-wheel drive with Abby on the way to the national park. It’s an overcast day and grey clouds muscle against the horizon. It has been like this for a week: the skies threatening rain, but delivering nothing. Abby says she has given up hope of a decent autumn, and Daphne agrees. The land is brown and hungry, and the cool wind suggests winter is coming.

  It’s been a few weeks since Abby visited Queanbeyan, and Daphne has been worried that she frightened the girl off with her trip down memory lane, spilling the contents of her boxes and blurting parts of her story like that. Then Abb
y rang and invited her out to the valley, said she’d found a suitable day. Daphne has been spinning with anticipation ever since, counting off the days. Perhaps Abby didn’t mind her reminiscences after all.

  But when Abby collects Daphne from the Queanbeyan house, she seems distant somehow and hesitant, as if she’s changed her mind about taking Daphne with her. For a while she is silent, and Daphne feels uncomfortable. Then Abby looks sideways at her and mumbles ‘I’ve met someone.’ And finally Daphne understands. She almost laughs, relieved that the girl feels sufficiently relaxed to share her news. She also notices that Abby has a pretty radiance about her, a coy self-awareness that comes with physical loving. Daphne remembers feeling that way with Doug early on. It had been a surprise to her that sexual charms lurked beneath his veneer of gruff hairy reserve. She hadn’t expected it of him—the shock of tenderness and intimacy and the ability to arouse the woman in her.

  On their wedding night, she had anticipated pain and fear and awkwardness, and there had been some of that, yes. But from the beginning Doug had been attentive to her needs, focused on her pleasure. He wasn’t the rough bushman he appeared; there was sensitive magic in his work-toughened fingers. He leaned over her that first night, in the muted glow of candlelight, thoughtfully lit for psychological warmth, and unravelled her slowly with careful gentle delight shining in his eyes, as if he was unwrapping the most exquisite present. And she supposed perhaps she was a gift to him. Doug was not a young man when Daphne married him. He was in his early thirties, a hard worker, on the cusp of bachelorhood.

  Theirs had been a restrained and cautious courtship on the tail of her father’s death. Doug had been almost painfully respectful of her grief, and she’d been in no hurry, striving to recover from the loss of her father. She was emotionally fragile, and had he rushed her, pressed her, made demands of her, it is likely her bruised heart would have ruptured and she’d have run into a different life. As it was, Doug’s patience was so profound she was well recovered when he bashfully offered his first gestures of affection—a deliciously restrained and gentle caress of her cheek with the back of his hand, his eyes brimming with the power of his feelings. By then he was sure she wouldn’t reject him. He had visited at the farm often, accepted invitations to dinner, selflessly assisted with many jobs too difficult for Daphne and her mother after her father’s passing. He had humbly made himself available and displayed his interest subtly, through service, allowing Daphne to come to him in her own time.