The thought of institutionalising her husband would make her feel like she was being made to accept the end of a partnership that had spanned many years.
‘Clancy drank all her milk. She likes milk.’ Michael was wearing a white moustache and Adam understood that the puppy had been happy to share.
Chapter Forty-Four
Ivy went into the garden. A straw hat shaded her face from the glare as she pulled out the crinkled corn stalks. The leaves crackled and rattled—dry bones in the sun where she dropped them. Soon they would sow new seeds that would germinate, grow and thrive. She took a fork and turned the soil, pulling out grass. The sun’s arm moved in an arc through the sky.
Michael’s new best friend, Clancy, came to sit at Ivy’s feet. Adam had taken Michael to visit his grandma, so the pup was looking for attention again. The pup had already cavorted around Lawson all morning—and now the old dog slept curled on the verandah. Clancy came and nosed the dirt at Ivy’s boots, ran through the risen rows of the garden bed, trampling and tripping over her feet. There was fun in running with corn stalks in her mouth. Ivy laughed at the pup’s antics and joined in her game.
She heard the gate open. Were Adam and Michael back already? Ivy turned at the noise. Clancy’s ears pricked to the sound of Lawson’s single unperturbed bark. The pup ran around the house curious, as Ivy pulled off her gloves.
It was Seth. He took no notice of the pup as it bounded at his side. But when he stopped to stand in front of Ivy, Clancy jumped up, and Seth brought his leg up and pushed the dog away.
‘Come, Clancy.’ Ivy got the dog to sit at her feet and stop making a nuisance of herself.
Seth laughed loud. ‘Name suits her.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
He shoved hands in his pockets, tongue against cheek. ‘I’ve come to get my stuff.’
Seth’s hair was as pale as corn silk, but there was no lightness in his eyes and Ivy would have preferred that he had come another day.
‘Adam’s not here to take you to the shearing quarters to get your things. Neither are Jack or RJ.’
He did smile then. ‘I’ve got a key to the shearing shed. Not like I don’t know how to find my way in.’
‘I thought you were going to come out with an officer?’
Seth smothered a laugh. ‘No, that’s just what O’Rourke thought.’
Ivy blinked. There was something like the slither of a snake in the way he said Adam’s name.
‘Well, when you get your things, you might want to leave the key with me.’
He measured her then, top to toe. Looked her up and down, his hardness grazing her from the opening of her blouse to where her jeans zipped. She had been at peace in the garden, but Seth’s presence had whipped up unrest.
‘Adam will be back very soon.’
If Ivy had thought to dupe him, she was wrong. This time he let loose a laugh, nasal as a crow’s.
‘Really? Funny, I thought I saw his car heading that way.’ Seth jerked a finger towards town.
Ivy flushed. ‘But he won’t be gone all day.’
‘It’s early yet.’
‘Then I guess it gives you enough time to get in and be gone, doesn’t it?’
‘He owes me money.’
‘Well, I suppose that’s something you’re going to have to sort out with him.’
‘No, I reckon I’ll square it with you.’
His eyes wandered over her again, taking off every stitch of her clothing with his stare. Ivy felt unease close up her throat.
‘How about we go inside and you give me what your boss owes me?’
‘I told you to come back when Adam comes home.’ Her words were forceful, but they still quavered to her ears; could he hear her tremble too?
‘I’m not leaving here until I get what I came for.’
He took a step closer.
‘Don’t come near me. If Rachael knew …’
‘Rachael? What’s she got to do with anything? She’d do anything to get cut with a bit of glass.’
She didn’t want to understand the language he was speaking. She didn’t want to hear any more of his dirty words.
‘Come here.’ He pulled at the opening of her shirt.
Ivy and Seth both turned at the sound of a shout.
‘Hey, what do you think you are up to?’
Trevor came towards them in striped pyjamas, sitting on a child’s pony. His feet almost dragged the ground. He dismounted the horse, the shorts he wore hooped around his thin legs.
Seth scoffed at the old man. ‘What are you doing out of bed, Granddad?’
‘I said get off this land and away from Ivy. The devil’s work maybe, but not on my station! This is my land!’ Trevor reached down and clawed a handful of soil. Held it in his fist and shook it at Seth.
‘This isn’t your land, you senile, dribbling old fool. This place belongs to Adam O’Rourke.’
‘Adam O’Rourke is my son!’ Adam’s father pounded his chest, rising to his feet. ‘This is my property and I walk dirt like you beneath the soles of my boots. Let go of the girl and get off my land!’
Ivy lunged forward and fell to her knees. She got up and stumbled again, face first in the soil. A noise split the air like lightning had struck a tree. She scrambled to rise from the dirt, Clancy licking her cheeks, and there was another crack, one upon another, and Ivy looked up to see that Trevor O’Rourke was wielding a stock whip like nothing she’d ever seen.
He cracked the whip time after time. His aim was good, very good. He reined in Seth and slashed his cheek so it split like a blood plum and started to drip. Seth bellowed and charged Adam’s dad as he lifted the whip. They fell back together and Seth straddled Adam’s dad. Trevor never let go of the whip in his hand. Seth raised his fist and Ivy shouted out. He dealt Trevor a blow to the side of the face. Trevor went still.
Seth got off the old man and pointed to the bloody welts on his arms and face.
Ivy looked from Seth to Trevor. She bent and put her head to his chest. Over the top of her, Seth was hollering his innocence.
‘Is he dead? Well, is he dead?’
Ivy looked up as Seth ran from the yard. She heard the slam of the gate, the spark of an engine and the spin of tyres on the gravel.
Trevor O’Rourke was silent, pillowed amidst the pile of corn stalks. Stock whip in hand, he held it tight. The old man had come home. It had taken almost forty-eight hours for Trevor to ride the pony back to Capricorn Station: the home he had known for most of his life. Ivy listened for a heartbeat again and then, pulling the blouse around herself, she ran up the steps two at a time.
Chapter Forty-Five
Trevor was a hero to everyone in the ward. To everyone, except himself. Trevor had no idea what he had done. He couldn’t remember walking all the way from the ward in his striped cottons, stealing a Welsh pony from someone’s backyard, or even giving the sacked stockman a lesson in manners, if not morals.
He hadn’t let them prise the stock whip from his fist though. He’d held onto the grip until the wheels of the ambulance had lulled him to sleep, so they said. And it wasn’t until they checked his vitals that they saw he was severely dehydrated.
Adam smiled. His father might be losing everything he was to Alzheimer’s, but it was leaving his oldest memories with him until last. That was what had got him to the station; his memory. The very thing he was losing hadn’t let him down. Capricorn had called, and he had gone. Not only that, he had defended O’Rourke land and family.
The hit had glanced off Trevor’s jaw. Surprisingly, it hadn’t even fractured. Seth was such a bad aim that even trying to hit a geriatric at point blank range, he had failed. Still, the prickled skin was purpled and swollen, but to Adam, the bruise his father wore was a badge he could wear with pride. His dad just didn’t know it.
His eye
s were closed as the male nurse came to do the observations. That was probably a good thing, because it seemed Trevor had taken a set to the nurse, and every time the bloke went by, Trevor raised his fist. Adam looked down and hid a grin and was only glad that his father wasn’t holding the whip. He still knew how to make that cracker on the end snap like thunder, the old fella. News that the coppers had apprehended Seth made Adam rest a little easier, too.
His dad had gone so far—he had mounted every obstacle to get back to his roots, to the place he’d been born and bred, only to be restrained by the four walls of a hospital room.
And what were they to do with him? If they couldn’t keep an eye on his father, Adam was afraid he might try it again. Trevor O’Rourke was a stockman. He had ridden on the wealth of the sheep’s back. He had drenched and drove, shot and shorn. He had mustered cattle under the sun for more days than some men were blessed with years, and still he hankered for home.
But Trevor was tired. Bone-weary. Hands dry as dust, his veins a network of runnels crisscrossing the age-spotted landscape of his fist. The old man was still resisting the inevitable, even at the point of sleep. Adam took his father’s hand: big knuckled, raw boned, the wedding band held on by knuckles that had bested many. Now, his father was spent. He opened his eyes for a moment and looked at his son.
‘You whipped him, Dad. You whipped him good.’
‘Eh?’ His father frowned.
‘All the nurses reckon you’re The Man From Snowy River.’
‘No, I live at Capricorn Station. Got a Merino stud out there. Teaching my little bloke Adam how to ride. Gonna be a cracker rider one day.’ Trevor closed his eyes, then realised Adam was holding his hand. He thought that Adam was some stranger and withdrew it, only to hold out his other to shake.
‘Trevor, Trevor O’Rourke; I own twenty-four square miles, that’s fifteen thousand acres of Queensland’s heart.’
‘Adam, Adam O’ Rourke, it’s nice to meet you, mate.’ Adam’s eyes were as glassy as his father’s, and his voice was drier than the road to Capricorn.
‘Adam O’ Rourke, you say? Well, what a coincidence. I’ve got a son called Adam, although he’s not quite as tall as you.’ His dad chuckled. ‘Not yet, at any rate.’
Adam’s voice was thick. ‘Nice to meet you.’
His father yawned. Blinking, heavy-lidded, he eyed the nurse moving through the ward. The man smiled but his voice was curt as he greeted his dad. Adam’s smile was wry. He supposed that heroes always had an enemy or two.
‘I hear you’ve been out wrangling, Mr O’Rourke?’ The nurse came over with the bed pan. Adam’s dad opened his eyes, looked warily at the potty and closed them again as he spoke.
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Rounding up the roustabouts.’
‘What’s that thing for?’
‘It is time for you to use the pan, Mr O’Rourke.’
‘What for?’
‘Whatever you like, basically. Although I don’t really want to wear it, I’ve got to say.’
‘What are you talking about? You can’t wear it. It’s not a three-piece suit!’
Adam disregarded good manners and guffawed in spite of himself.
‘Now if you just let me slide it underneath you … or if you like, you can use a bottle. That might be better, do you think?’
‘What are you trying to do? I can do it myself. Give it here.’
‘Mr O’Rourke, I’m only trying to help.’
‘Leave me alone! Let me go to sleep!’
And then Grace came in with a cup of tea and a cellophane-wrapped twin pack of Arnott’s biscuits.
‘Oh look what this lovely lady has brought here for me.’
Trevor let her adjust the pillows and roll the tray table to his chest. She opened the biscuits and dunked one in his tea. He opened his mouth like a hungry kid; drank all the tea without a word of complaint.
‘I’ve left a bed pan there, Mrs O’Rourke.’ The male nurse had reappeared on the scene. He glanced confidentially at the bed pan disregarded on the chair. His mum nodded her head.
Trevor said, ‘What are you doing here? Get back to work! Get moving or I’ll give you what for!’ The nurse stood, open-mouthed.
Another nurse came over, hearing the commotion, carrying a plastic cup.
‘I’ve got something to make you feel better, Mr O’Rourke.’
‘If you want to make me feel better, you can get rid of that good for nothing. Now, that would be a start. Always see him hanging around, trying to get off work.’ But he swallowed the tablets and sat back against the pillows. His look stayed baleful until he saw the male nurse leave.
‘You’ve had a big day, Trevor love. Close your eyes for a spell.’
Adam watched his mother fuss over his dad’s bedding. She fluffed up his pillows, pulled the waffle weave blanket up to his chin.
‘Grace?’ Trevor became anxious, reached out for her hand.
‘I’m here. I’m here, Trevor, love.’
It took only minutes for his father to go to sleep. Adam picked up the bed pan and gave his mum the seat.
‘I don’t know how he made it home, Adam, I really don’t. I’ve been sick with worry. I couldn’t sleep. And here he is getting around town on a donkey like Jesus on Palm Sunday.’
Adam put his head back in a silent laugh. But there was a knot of emotion tight in his throat. He swallowed, took command.
‘Mum, it was a pony, and the King of Kings was the last person he resembled, I reckon.’
His mum smiled but there were tears on her cheeks.
‘Love is such a blessing, Adam. Losing it can be so cruel. If I walked away tomorrow he’d forget I was gone. He didn’t even know who I was at first.’
‘Why do you think he went back to the station, Mum? He didn’t just up and leave because he wanted to go home. Pretty sure he went to find you.’
Grace bowed her head to place a kiss on Trevor’s hand. Her shoulders shook with heartbreak. Adam glanced away, staring down the hallway as he thought about loss, and tried to think of the smallest words of comfort, anything that he could give. But he was clueless. He sat on the side of his father’s bed, felt warmth seep into his moleskins, then stood up and rubbed the blanket where he’d been sitting to realise it was just as he feared. It was wet.
‘Oh dear,’ his mum said. ‘He’s wet the bed.’
Adam’s smile was wry as he looked down at the seat of his pants. ‘Well, I suppose that at least he didn’t throw it over the nurse like a three-piece suit.’
Later that afternoon, when Adam had showered and put on a new pair of pants, he sat beside his father’s sleeping form.
His dad stirred, opened his eyes.
‘Adam? What are you doing here?’
‘I’m here to see you, Dad.’
‘How’s that horse of yours getting on? How’s Dusty, mate?’
‘Dad’—Adam was for a moment at a loss as he considered his words—‘Dad, Dusty had to go … home.’
‘So do I, son. I need to go home.’ His father looked at him with more clarity than he’d done for some time.
‘I know, Dad.’ Adam smiled sadly. ‘I know.’
Chapter Forty-Six
Ivy turned the loaf out of the pan. The kitchen was airless even though the fan in the high ceiling was on. It circled like a lazy fly, hardly moving at all. She opened the windows wider and prayed for rain. That’s what people in the country always did, or so she’d heard it said.
Adam hadn’t returned and she wished that there was mobile reception out here. It was an all-day hike to go into town and back. Although she’d kept quiet on the depth of her feelings, Ivy missed Adam when he was gone all day. When his boot came off and he could work as before, she knew there’d be long days, possibly weeks, when he was out mustering, bringing i
n the fattened cattle from the silver grass, sleeping in a swag while he warred with mosquitoes, and ate spaghetti from the can. And would she be here waiting? She still hadn’t decided her plans.
She put down the dish cloth and walked up the stairs. Michael had been colouring, but now he wasn’t there, probably in the chicken coop again. He had asked if he could sleep in there. She’d said it didn’t sound like a good idea; that he’d have to ask his dad.
That was where Ivy found him, on his haunches with the hens and a handful of hatchlings that he nestled in the upturned rainbow wig that he seemed to prefer to his head of dark brown curly hair.
‘Ivy, look at this one. This is Hairy Rock. This one is the only black one of all the babies.’
‘Why do you call it Hairy Rock?’
‘Because it doesn’t have feathers. It has hair on its body and it looks like a rock. I don’t think it will be warm enough at night time. If I can’t sleep in here and keep it warm, maybe it can come inside. It can sleep with me in my bed.’
‘The mother hen will keep it warm, nestled under her wing. Have you seen how they snuggle under her feathers?’
Michael nodded. ‘Their mums put their arms around them, like this,’ and he showed her how it was done. ‘Some mornings I climb into bed with Mum, and she does that, like that mother chicken over there, and snuggles me with her wings.’
The chick had hopped out of his neon wig for a nesting box and he looked down into the empty crown. Michael crushed and kneaded his neon curls between the stars of his small hands. As Ivy watched, one tear and then another fell into the rainbow fibres. Egg-shell-pale, Michael’s face crumpled. Ivy sat down and gathered him against her. He nestled with noisy heartbreak in the crook of her arm.
‘Will Mum come back?’
‘Not right away, sweetheart, because of the accident. But your mummy loves you, Michael. Don’t worry, while she’s in that hospital, I know she’ll be thinking of you.’
The hens walked straight-legged and beady-eyed around them as they sat. They crooned and scratched their wattles, then sat in the dust to fluff their feathers, rolling in the late sun. And like Ivy did with Michael, they let their chicks jiggle the softness of their feathers to find a place to rest awhile.
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