‘I’ll need some ID, love,’ said the attendant. Charlie grinned and fished around in the wallet for her learner’s permit. Her first legal purchase of alcohol. It was wonderful to be treated as a normal person again. She bought a six-pack of beer, headed for a park beyond the bottle shop, and removed her shoes. The grass was soft between her toes. She lay down and buried her face in the soil. It had no fragrance. Chemo had destroyed her sense of smell, perhaps. Or was it the city smog that rendered the natural world odourless? Whatever the case, this artificial patch of green, surrounded by countless square hectares of concrete, had no discernible scent at all.
Charlie approached a stunted Eucalyptus ficifolia, a red-flowering gum tree in sparse bloom, its trunk ridged and deformed by a tight cement collar around its base. Charlie stroked its rough bark and plucked a leaf. The scent of eucalyptus was faint and far away. ‘Like your home forest,’ she whispered. Charlie settled down, beer in hand, with her back propped against the sad gum tree. It must have been peak hour, to judge by the increasing flow of pedestrians on the street. ‘Well,’ she said companionably, draining the first beer and opening another. ‘You might be a sorry excuse for a ficifolia, but you look a damn sight happier than those buggers.’ She toasted the tree.
Shadows lengthened. Occasionally Charlie moved around the trunk to a new spot, seeking out the low slanting rays of the descending sun as it swung westwards. It would be lost below the city skyline soon, well before it set. She removed her headscarf, exposing her fuzzy scalp, and swigged the beer. Passers-by cast disapproving glances her way. She smiled and raised her bottle. ‘Cheers,’ she said loudly, enjoying herself for the first time in a long time.
Charlie cracked another beer. ‘Where are your birds?’ she called. ‘What sort of a park are you, without any birds?’ How long had it been since she’d seen a bird? Charlie didn’t count flying rats like Indian mynas and sparrows and pigeons. The city was infested with them. She meant real birds.
As if summoned by her thoughts, a ragged black bird alighted on a rubbish bin just metres away. Charlie knelt up, with a sharp, excited sigh. ‘Are you a crow or a raven?’ she asked the inquisitive corvid. It responded with the characteristic call of the raven, an almost human sounding aarr, aarr, aarrrrr, the last note long and drawn-out. ‘Hello, Mr Raven. You remind me of a very good friend.’ The bird hopped to the ground, walked closer, and inspected her with its startling ivory eyes. It looked so much like Condor. For a moment Charlie believed that by some miracle he had found her. But when she reached out a hand, the raven flew away.
Charlie hurled the bottle after it and stumbled to her feet. ‘It’s easy enough for him,’ she complained to the tree. ‘He can just fly away whenever he likes, back to the bush.’ She gave the tree trunk a swift hug. ‘Not so simple for us now, is it?’
‘Are you all right?’ asked a dreadlocked young man who’d stopped to watch her.
Charlie grabbed the three remaining beers of her six-pack. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I’m not.’
The man walked over, retrieved her scarf from where it lay on the grass and handed it to her. Then he picked up the scattered empty bottles and threw them in the bin.
‘You know what?’ said Charlie, rewinding her scarf and giving him the once-over. ‘You’re pretty hot. Want to go for a drink?’
It was after nine o’clock when she finally arrived home. Mary was furious.
‘Where in heaven’s name have you been?’ she demanded to know. ‘I’ve been worried sick!’
Charlie wondered how long her mother had even been home. Not long, she thought. There was only one butt in the ashtray.
‘I’ve been for a drink,’ said Charlie, ‘with ever-so-nice a young man. It was fun.’
‘You’re drunk,’ said Mary.
Charlie ignored the comment, although there was plenty of truth in it. ‘Did you get my laptop?’
‘No’, said Mary, sounding cagey. ‘Something came up. Carlos will bring it round tomorrow.’ Charlie knew exactly what had come up. She could smell the dope on her mother’s clothes. Mary lit a cigarette, stood back and took a long look at her. ‘You’re not supposed to go out yet. You know your cell counts are still low. Did you kiss him? What if you catch an infection?’
‘No, Mum, I didn’t kiss him. Shit, I only just met him. Who do you think I am? You?’
Mary frowned, pursed-lipped. She was such a hypocrite. About men, about everything. How could her mother have the nerve to lecture her about health when she smoked a pack a day, and the rest?
‘Suit yourself,’ said Mary, looking wounded. ‘Next time, although I hope there won’t be a next time, take your phone with you.’ Charlie looked around for it. ‘It was under your bed,’ said Mary, taking it from her pocket. ‘Sam’s been ringing. We had a lovely chat, although she was worried about where you were, of course. She said she’d ring back later.’
Charlie snatched the handset from her mother, just as it rang. She marched off to the bedroom, with the hard kernel of a headache germinating within her skull. She’d had some monsters lately, and all that beer could only make matters worse. She really was an idiot. Charlie checked the caller display. It was Sam.
‘Hi Sam, how’re things?’ she asked, picking up. ‘No, I’m fine. Surely I can go out once in a while, without everybody making a big production out of it? Tell me about Brumby’s Run. I’ve been dying to hear.’
She listened to her sister’s excited stories of life back home: of working with Bushy and the six mares from Jarrang’s mob that had been purchased by the Brumby Coalition, of trying out the Mitchell horses, a different one each evening.
‘Drew was right,’ said Sam. ‘They’re all great rides, quiet and responsive.’ She was positively gushing. ‘The two ponies are a little stubborn at times, but that’s safer for kids than being too speedy.’ The beer buzz was like a haze in Charlie’s brain, a dense swirl of confusion. Sam kept talking. ‘Jarrang and Tambo are terrific, although Jarrang is obsessed with the new mares.’ The pounding in Charlie’s head made it hard to hear. ‘You should see him prancing about, so full of himself, showing off.’
A swift shaft of jealousy pierced the pain. It left Charlie breathless at all that she was missing. Her sister’s voice faded to a background drone. Only the most significant, most important phrases penetrated the fog. Drew had given her a phone … Drew had trucked over hay … Drew had reinforced and extended Jarrang’s yard … Drew had taken her to Bluff Falls … Drew this, Drew that. There were too many sentences starting with ‘Drew’. She tried to focus, tried to inject some clarity into her thinking … ‘The two of us, overnight at Dead Man’s Hut.’ What was Sam saying?
‘Drew told me he loved me, and I think I love him too.’ Sam fell silent.
As her sister’s words sank in, Charlie wailed out loud. ‘You can’t!’ she said, tongue struggling to translate her fear into speech. ‘That’s my life, not yours. I caught Tambo. I trained him. I raised Jarrang on a bottle. That job with Bushy and the brumbies? That’s my job, not yours.’
She heard Sam’s sudden, sharp intake of breath. ‘But this was all your idea. I’ve just been trying to help.’
Trying to help? What a cruel joke! How is stealing somebody’s life helping them? Well, Sam wasn’t the only one who could be cruel. ‘Haven’t you got enough already?’ Charlie spat. ‘With your fancy clothes and overseas holidays and university courses? Do you need to take what little I’ve got as well? Even my boyfriend?’
‘Boyfriend?’ came the uncertain response. ‘How do you mean?’
‘Didn’t he tell you? Do I need to spell it out? Drew. We were tight before I left. You know, we were screwing.’ Charlie knew she was out of control, but fuelled by envy and anger, goaded by alcohol and the skull-splitting ache in her head, she just couldn’t help herself. ‘Fuck,’ she said with a hollow laugh. ‘What a complete bastard. He does one twin, then the other. He’s living every bloke’s fantasy.’
‘But how is that possible?’ said Sam. ‘You n
ever even mentioned him.’
‘Would it have made any difference? Everything of mine seems to be fair game for you, anyway.’
‘Of course it would have made a difference,’ pleaded Sam. ‘I had no idea, and I’m so, so terribly sorry. Charlie, please calm down. Please? When will you and Mary be coming home?’
‘Are you sure you still want me to?’ asked Charlie, her voice cracking as she started to cry. ‘Maybe you won’t like your invalid sister hanging round, cramping your style.’
‘Don’t say that!’ said Sam. Was she crying too? It was hard to say, so hard to make sense of things with this terrible hammer in her head. ‘I’m doing all this for you, for Mary. I can’t wait until you’re home, you must know that. Charlie, I love you, you’re my long-lost sister. I’ll never, ever let anything come between us, I promise. Least of all a man.’
So good to hear those words. So comforting. Sam loved her. Why had she ever doubted it? ‘Love you too,’ said Charlie. ‘But I’ve got such a fucking headache.’
‘Why don’t you go lie down?’ suggested Sam in a soothing voice. ‘Have one of Mary’s famous sleeping tonics. What is it? Chamomile tea with hops and valerian? Is that it?’
‘And a little milk and honey,’ mumbled Charlie. Maybe that was what she needed.
‘That’s right. Hop into bed, and I’ll ring you in the morning.’
‘Promise?’ said Charlie.
‘I promise,’ said Sam. ‘Now go get some rest. I love you, Charlie. Don’t you ever forget that.’
‘I won’t,’ whispered Charlie. ‘Love you too.’
She dropped the phone as her mother came in with toasted cheese sandwiches and a pot of tea. Mary put the tray down, pulled a fresh nightie from a drawer and tossed it to Charlie.
‘Pop into bed, sweetheart.’ She turned on the little television. ‘There’s a documentary about the Spanish Riding School of Vienna. Your sister’s been there, hasn’t she? Want to watch it?’
Charlie nodded and sipped her drink. Aah, Mum’s tea always did the trick. Charlie closed her eyes and imagined herself home in the kitchen at Brumby’s Run. The pulsing pain in her skull eased, but her head was still spinning, making her dizzy. Eight Lipizzaner horses performed in an elegant indoor school hung with crystal chandeliers. Fairytale horses, the last word in animal grace. Charlie’s lids grew heavy. She struggled to hold her eyes open. Sam would like this show. How was her sister going, she wondered? She tried to remember when they’d last talked. It had been a while, hadn’t it? Perhaps she’d better ring Sam in the morning. And as the splendid snow-white stallions danced across the screen, Charlie fell into blissful, oblivious sleep.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Drew escaped out the front door of the rehab centre at a run. He didn’t envy the nursing staff left behind. They were locked, so to speak, in the lion’s den. Bill was finally out of the full leg cast that had so infuriated him, but it didn’t mean he was free and clear, not by a long shot. ‘There are complications,’ the surgeon had told Drew. ‘Fractures of the tibia can be very tricky, and I’m afraid your father’s attitude has not helped matters. He’s been on his feet, against all medical advice. The pressure from the cast has compromised circulation in Bill’s lower leg. On top of that, there’s nerve damage that hasn’t healed.’ The surgeon shook his head. ‘Your father needs daily physiotherapy to restore a full range of ankle and knee movement, and the muscle strength lost in traction. If he went home now, it would be in a wheelchair.’
Dad was spitting chips, but no amount of complaining was going to fix his leg. He wouldn’t be physically involved in the property-management side of things for months.
It was hard to feel too sorry for his father. Life had been sweet at Kilmarnock since Bill had been away. Tom had the place running like clockwork, and Drew didn’t interfere. That had suited Tom. They were all happier without the old man breathing down their necks about each little thing, micro-managing his way through everybody’s day. And Bill’s absence allowed Drew to spend most of his time next door at Brumby’s Run.
There was just one cloud on the horizon. Sam. Here it was, Valentine’s Day of all days, and there’d been no repeat of the blissful night they’d shared together at the hut. That was more than a fortnight ago now, a fortnight fraught with frustration. It was the most confusing thing. One day they were in love, or so he’d believed. They’d shared the stories of their lives, shared their secrets, shared their bed. Twenty-four hours later, Sam was behaving like it had never happened.
‘What’s up, Sam?’ he’d asked the first time she ducked away from his embrace. She wouldn’t answer. She studiously ignored him, or laughed off his questions. Or stared at him as if to say you know. But he didn’t, and it was killing him – being so close, within arm’s reach, but not being able to hold her. Not even being able to touch her.
‘This isn’t a game, Sam,’ he’d said. Was that what she thought it was? ‘What the hell’s going on?’ But she wouldn’t say. He wanted to grab her and kiss her til her breath came ragged, until she spat out the problem. Once he’d even caught her looking at him with a certain grim resentment, though it might have been his imagination. It was driving him nuts.
On the surface Sam was still friendly enough, keen for him to help set up the trekking business. Together they’d planned a variety of trips for the trail riders, ranging from two hours up to an overnighter at Dead Man’s Hut.
‘I can drive up the day before and drop off the camping equipment, stock the hut with hay and food, that sort of thing,’ Sam had said. ‘That’s if I can borrow your four-wheel drive?’ He’d nodded. Didn’t she realise? What was his was hers. ‘Then I can tell them the story of how the hut got its name. We can sit around the camp fire, swapping ghost stories. It will be magic.’ Drew had nodded, though the only magic he wanted to create at that damned hut was with her.
He’d spent a lot of sleepless nights trying to figure the whole thing out. He’d come to the conclusion that he’d simply moved too fast. It was the only possible explanation. It was Sam’s first time, and he’d barged ahead like a bull at a gate. She’d seemed as eager as he was, but in truth, he had no real way of knowing. Maybe she just needed time to come to terms with it.
His own first sexual experience had been very different. A dangerous liaison in his fifteenth summer, with a woman from the local takeaway shop. She was ten years older and separated from her violent, jealous partner. Looking back, Drew wondered how he’d survived the affair. He’d plummeted, head over heels, and would have risked everything for Darlene Darcy. Correction, he did risk everything for Darlene. He nicked station vehicles in the dead of night to drive, unlicensed, into town. Then he crept from her door just before dawn, drove home like a madman, and climbed back in his window before his parents woke up. He’d risked his father’s wrath by stealing whole days with his lover, when he was meant to be fencing or checking on calving cows. He’d risked becoming the target of her estranged husband, a stupid, stalking brute of a man, who randomly and frequently turned up at Darlene’s caravan. It had been the most exciting time of his life. Only a return to St Leonard’s, his Wodonga boarding school, had succeeded in tearing him away. Drew had maintained his passion through sexy texts, professing undying love with his thumb, sending messages through the ether from his dorm room in the early hours.
The crunch had finally come in the form of a newspaper cutting from the Currajong Gazette, sent by his sister with a note. It said simply, A wake-up call. That could have been you. Love, Melinda xx. It seemed there’d been a shooting.
A 33-year-old man is in a serious condition after being shot twice in the back with a rifle on the main street of Currajong. Shane Darcy, of nearby Tallangala, has been charged with the attempted murder of Kevin ‘Bomber’ Wilson. It is believed the victim was confronted after being discovered sharing a caravan with the accused man’s estranged wife.
It was funny, looking back. He’d been gutted about Darlene seeing another man. And he’d been mortif
ied that Melinda apparently knew all about his clandestine relationship. But thanks to the folly of youth, he didn’t appreciate that he’d literally dodged a bullet. Later on, he heard the news that Bomber Wilson was wheelchair-bound for life, a paraplegic. It was only then that the penny finally dropped, and he realised how fortunate he’d been.
He wasn’t going to make the same mistake twice. After that disastrous debut, he’d been careful to only date girls without prior attachments. There’d been quite a string. Drew liked women and seemed to have a way with them. Getting them wasn’t the problem. It was keeping them. ‘The right girl will come along soon enough,’ said his mother. ‘Don’t be so impatient for it to happen.’
There was a time the year before when he’d hoped Charlie might be that girl. They’d grown up neighbours. He’d helped her with the occasional orphan baby, like Jarrang, for instance. But with him off at boarding school until he was eighteen, and his family holding the Kellys in such low regard, he’d generally had little to do with the pretty tomboy next door. That all changed when he completed his senior year at St Leonard’s and returned home to be groomed for his career at Kilmarnock.
The first time Charlie had really registered on his radar, Bill had stormed into the kitchen, screaming something about goats in the garden. ‘I’ve got an appointment this morning with my accountant.’ His face was like a thundercloud. ‘Those vermin better be gone by the time I get back from Wodonga,’ he’d said, ‘or goddam it, I’ll use my rifle.’
Drew had wandered outside to find his mother, armed with a broom, pursuing a legion of little angora goats around the garden. ‘My roses,’ she’d wailed, as the mini mops on legs stripped leaves and blooms from stalks with relentless efficiency. ‘Drew, do something!’
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