They climb to the scabby peak and sit on a granite slab looking out over country. Clusters of boulders crowd the summits, and clouds shunt across the sky, casting shadows that race over the land. Abby draws it all in while Cameron sits beside her in silence. She’s pleased he doesn’t break the spell. Maybe he’s let go of all that intensity and is now feeling the same as she does up here: a lovely connection with the land. But when she turns to look at him, he’s watching her, and there are thoughts written in his eyes that frighten her. His gaze is serious and she wills him not to speak, but before she can turn away and mask the well of fear that’s rising in her, he leans close and touches his lips to hers. She closes her eyes, absorbs the smell of him, lets him kiss the breath out of her, feels tears sliding from beneath her lids.
He pulls back as a teardrop slithers onto his cheek. ‘What’s this?’
She can see the questions in his eyes. He reaches for her hand and she knows he’s going to speak. It’s flowing from him, all those feelings. She looks away. He’s misinterpreted her tears, he’s going to say something and it will all be wrong.
‘Abby. I love you.’
She sucks in cold air, can’t look at him.
His clutch on her hand increases. ‘Abby. I want to grow old with you.’
Her heart is clanging. She can’t speak.
He waits for a moment, then, ‘I know it’s early, but this is good. It’s special. And there’s no rush. But I want you to know that sometime in the next ten years I’d like to marry you.’
Something tightens in her throat. She tugs her hand free and stands up. His smile is radiant as he looks up at her, patient.
‘I can wait,’ he says. ‘It’s no big deal.’
But it is a big deal. Can’t he see that? Why couldn’t he let them stay happy without all this rubbish about commitment? She can’t cope with the pressure. Now she will have to end it.
‘We should head back,’ she says, avoiding his eyes. ‘Daphne will be waiting. I don’t want her to get cold.’
She leans down and gives him a peck on the cheek then she runs over the snowgrass and back down the track, leaving him there, sitting on the rock, watching her.
They drop Daphne at Queanbeyan then Abby drives them back towards Canberra, a great weight of silence sitting between them in the car. She feels Cameron watching her as she hunches down behind the wheel, focused on the road. She can tell he’s been waiting to speak to her since she ran away on the mountain top. All the way home the atmosphere in the car has been thick with his confusion. It’s her fault, and she knows it, but she doesn’t know how to deal with this. How did she let it get so messy?
It’s a relief when she pulls up outside his apartment block where the wind is blowing across the lake, chopping whitecaps on the grey water.
‘Why are we stopping here?’ he asks, blunt and edgy. ‘Don’t we need to take this vehicle back?’
She sees the mix of anger and fear in his eyes—perhaps he knows what is coming. She shakes her head and looks away.
‘What’s going on?’ he asks, tight.
She draws a steadying breath. ‘I think we need to take a break for a while.’
He slaps his hand on the dash and the sound frightens her. ‘No, that is not what we need.’
She glances at him, sees the black thunder in his face. She needs more words, and quickly. ‘I feel crowded,’ she stutters. ‘I can’t breathe.’
‘Since when have I stifled you?’ he asks, his voice hard. ‘I’ve done nothing but offer support.’
It’s true, she can’t deny it. ‘It’s just me,’ she says. ‘It’s the way I am. I need space.’
‘You can have as much space as you want. Just don’t do this.’
‘I’m used to my own company. It’s been a big adjustment letting you in.’
‘I can wait,’ he says. ‘I’m patient. I don’t understand how you can like me one minute then hate me the next. You can tell me. I’ll listen.’
She runs a hand across her throat. ‘It’s not that I don’t like you. You know that I do.’ Yes, her body tells him so. Can’t he see how difficult this is for her? ‘It’s just that . . .’ she dodges his eyes. ‘Look, I have to take the car back. I’ll call you soon. I can’t do this right now. I’m sorry.’
He reaches out a hand and runs a finger down her cheek, infinitely gentle, such a dramatic switch that it unhinges her and tears roll down her cheeks.
‘It’s a difficult time,’ she says, knowing this is all ineffectual. ‘I have to start writing up soon, and it’s like going into a cave. Everybody says I’ll be boring and horrible.’ She hates the pathetic superficial patter of her words.
‘I can handle boring and horrible,’ he says quietly. ‘That’s part of being in a relationship. I can cook for you. Bring you cups of tea.’
‘I’ll keep that in mind,’ she says. ‘I’ll probably need some cups of tea.’
‘Can I ring you?’ he asks.
‘Of course,’ she says.
‘Dinner sometimes?’
She fences him off, defining boundaries. ‘I’ll see how I go.’
He leans in and kisses her, the touch of his lips on hers drawing a ragged sob. ‘You’re sure this is what you want?’ he asks.
She bows her head in silence and refuses to look at him, closes her eyes so she can’t see as he gathers his belongings and steps out of the car. When the car door slams shut, she sits for a while with her forehead against the steering wheel, giving him time to walk away. Then she starts the car and drives off without looking back.
23
The only way Abby can cope with the separation from Cameron is to bury herself in work and close her emotional mind. She strives for recovery by taking up temporary residence in the library with her laptop as her best friend. It’s a poor substitute for Cameron, but safer. When she’s had enough of her electronic companion she can shut the lid and walk away. Not so easy with human relationships.
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, fortunate
ly, 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.’
The Grass Castle Page 19
