Blueberry

by Glenna Thomson

  ‘So?’ I said.

  He put his elbows on the table and leaned forward. ‘Warren’s clear that Charlie has to go to Euroa. I have to say, it makes sense.’

  ‘But he wants to stay here. And I’m totally fine with that,’ I said.

  ‘Herein lies the problem.’

  I took him in, the Christian Bale beard and casual moves as he drank his beer and dropped back into the seat. Even though he wasn’t directly looking at me, he was taking me in too – deciding who I was and what should be done.

  ‘You can’t force him to leave,’ I said.

  ‘Look at it from Warren’s point of view. He doesn’t know you and in the space of a few days you’ve agreed to take on old Charlie. He’s very sick and it’s only going to get a whole lot worse.’

  ‘I know all that. But he’s begged me to stay. I’ve thought about it and am happy for him to live here. And I like him.’

  ‘Liking Charlie isn’t a good enough reason to interfere with Warren’s arrangements for his father.’

  I felt the criticism, the pink on my face.

  ‘I can’t send him away. I’ve already told him he can stay and I’m not changing my mind.’

  ‘Right then.’

  ‘So now what?’

  ‘Beats me.’

  ‘Is it financial? That you think I’m after his money?’

  He glanced around, seeing my tiny furniture and the tiredness of everything else.

  ‘Tell Warren I’ll sign any legal document he wants.’

  ‘I don’t think that’s the problem.’

  I shrugged.

  ‘Warren’s taken a lease on another place in Euroa. He wants Charlie to move there straight away.’

  ‘How many times do I have to say it? Charlie wants to stay here.’

  Shane stared into his hands. There was no wedding ring but he would have a wife, only because he was the type. And she, whoever she was, had the kind of stable relationship I had always wanted – this sad, boring longing within me needed to stop. I played with my beer, a little half spin.

  ‘What about a trial?’ he said. ‘Charlie stays here with you for three months, then we reassess? By then we’ll all know if it’s working.’

  It was a good idea, so I agreed.

  He lifted his beer and I thought of her, his unnamed wife across the paddocks in the big house behind the tall, clipped hedge. I had an image of her – dark hair like his. Slim, because that’s what defined attractiveness. Intelligent and efficient, because that’s what the grand hedged house required. There would be children, too.

  ‘I haven’t met your wife yet?’

  He shifted his weight in his seat. ‘I’m separated. My wife now lives in Melbourne.’ And before I could ask further, he led on, ‘So, tell me, why did you buy this place?’

  ‘It’s a long story.’

  ‘I heard you saw the place in a magazine.’

  Nick’s photo came to me, the Nikon D4 to his eye, the slight curve of his cheek and nose. Then the other photo with the woman under his arm – Lila, her dark beauty. There was an ache in my chest.

  ‘I did. One Saturday morning I was having breakfast in a Prahran café, and here I am.’

  ‘The orchard is seriously rundown.’

  ‘But the bushes are healthy. I’m hard-pruning.’

  ‘Charlie can give you advice.’

  ‘Yes, and there are heaps of resources online.’

  He nodded.

  It was the moment for him to leave; his beer was finished. But he leaned back and put his arm along the chair beside him. The quiet hum of the firebox fan was the only sound.

  ‘So what do you do on your farm?’ I asked.

  ‘Grow grass to feed cows. That’s what cattle farming is.’

  We talked about the temperature and rainfall and he reached across to show me an app on his phone, a Norwegian site to monitor the weather that he recommended I download. I asked about soil tests and what fertilisers he used and while he was answering I watched the way his mouth moved, and tuned to the mellow pitch of his voice. The experience was strange – I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had a conversation with anyone about normal things, the sociable exchange of information, unattached to a problem. His face became still and serious as he explained how nutrition was critical to the physiology of cattle rumen, and then he said something about metabolic diseases.

  ‘That’s very scientific,’ I said.

  He smiled, as if about to tell a joke. ‘That’s what I do.’

  I thought about offering him coffee.

  ‘I’m a vet.’

  I nodded, while going far back, thinking I’d not heard that before.

  ‘I consult on cattle digestion and what can go wrong.’

  ‘So how do you do that and run the farm?’

  ‘A local mate fills in. I’ve just driven back from Canberra today. Been away three days.’

  He told me he was working on a research program to test a new electronic sensor that measured the level of greenhouse gases in cattle.

  Then he stood. ‘It’s been a long day.’

  ‘How do I get Charlie’s things back here?’

  ‘Leave it with me.’

  I followed him to his car.

  ‘How’s the heifer?’

  He stopped.

  ‘The one you had in the yards last week, calving.’

  ‘I pulled the calf. It was dead.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It happens sometimes. This one was too big for her.’

  ‘That’s pretty rough on the heifer.’

  ‘She’s all right.’

  ‘Please, don’t forget Charlie’s bed.’

  ‘I won’t.’

  He reversed and straightened up, then paused before accelerating down the drive. He was in silhouette behind the wheel – the outline of his beard and forward stare.

  He gave me a finger wave and I raised my hand in equal measure.

  Standing on the back door step, listening to him change gears up Josephs Road, back to his big empty house, I studied the country night sky – a black, clear ocean layered with stars. Ignoring the freezing air, I waited a moment to take stock of what I was feeling. I couldn’t quite grasp it, except that I felt all right.

  The next morning Brendon from Kitchen Masters came to measure up the kitchen. He knelt at the sink, opened the cupboard and sniffed.

  ‘Stinks a bit, don’t it? Probably got some wood rot.’

  He didn’t turn to me for a comment but went on with his business. He stretched a yellow metal tape to different heights, widths and angles. After each measurement, he referred to a diagram in an unlined exercise book and wrote down the calculation in lead pencil. When he was done, without looking he let the long yellow tape slide through his calloused fingers and snap back into its case.

  Later that day he emailed the final quote for the carpentry. It was thirteen hundred dollars more than the original quote. I was not overly worried, confident I would make savings elsewhere. Besides, I was committed to transforming this old place. It would take time, a few years, but I was determined. The cornices, picture railings and skirting boards would be restored. The floorboards would be high-gloss polished. The wall between the dining room and kitchen would be demolished. Every wall and ceiling would be painted – I already had the colour charts. I’d get a new bathroom installed and an ensuite off my bedroom. And new furniture, all of it large and solid in natural timbers and leather. Every improvement would appreciate the value of the property, so all of the expenses were, in fact, an investment.

  13

  IT didn’t feel right leaving Enrico in the shearing shed when Charlie, Sophie and I were in the house preparing to eat a chicken stir-fry. From the back porch, I could see the sixty-watt glow through the four panes of the small shearing shed window. It would be cold over there and he was probably starving himself on bananas to save money.

  In my working boots and holding a torch, I tramped across the backyard and along the wet grassy tr
ack to the shearing shed. A startled rabbit sat squat and afraid so I moved the light away from it. Standing at the side door, I could hear the soaring voice of a tenor singing opera, something I’d heard before but couldn’t name.

  The door handle wobbled and stuck and it took a moment before I was standing inside on the worn and dusty wooden planks. It had been forty years or more since the McCurdys had corralled thousands of sheep in here for shearing. The space was bigger than an average suburban house and the pens were each the size of a kitchen table. Only a small section of the shed was lit. Enrico was sitting in his camping chair reading a hardcover book. He’d not heard me come in. The opera flowed from the dock on the floor beside the power board. The tenor’s voice, its perfect timbre and breath control, rose to its climax and Enrico slowly raised his right hand with the final dramatic note. For that moment, the shearing shed was his cathedral. My eyes followed his hand to the rafters – the bird’s nests and cobwebs.

  On a camping table beside the stove was a neat pile of books and a bottle of unopened red wine. A clear plastic bowl was filled with bananas and oranges.

  ‘Hello,’ I called.

  Enrico looked around and grinned. He was still wearing his yellow work coat and red gloves with the fingers cut out. The rainbow scarf encased the bulky weight of his hair, only wisps had escaped and his curly sideburns were visible.

  ‘You are here in my palace.’ He lifted his arms and looked around.

  ‘I thought you might like to come to the house for dinner.’

  He was still grinning. ‘If it is no trouble. I would love to eat with the family.’

  ‘There’s just Sophie and me. And Charlie, who used to own this place.’

  ‘That is a family. And I will make four. Will I come now, or later? Perhaps I can do the cooking. I am very good in the kitchen.’

  His guileless confidence stunned and impressed me. ‘I’m cooking, perhaps you can help.’

  He turned the music off.

  ‘I love that opera,’ I said.

  He slapped his hand on his heart. ‘I am in love with Jonas Kaufmann very much.’

  When I saw Enrico chop the spring onions and garlic I knew he hadn’t exaggerated about being good in a kitchen. So I left him to the vegetables and moved to put the rice on – that was, until he gently took the saucepan from me and tipped half the water out.

  ‘Too much,’ he said, shaking his hand in caution. ‘Let me do this.’

  So I poured some wine for both of us and sat down.

  Then from the lounge Ella Fitzgerald started up and I knew Charlie had arrived from the studio. Whatever the sound levels were on this old recording, her voice only just dominated the loud wire brush drum strokes.

  I introduced Charlie to Enrico.

  ‘We are already known to each other.’ Enrico clasped Charlie’s hand. ‘My good friend, Charlie.’

  ‘Did you finish that row?’ Charlie asked.

  ‘Yes, and I started on the one after that.’

  Enrico then turned his attention to Sophie. ‘The girl. She is so quiet. I have a little sister this big.’ He held his hand to his shoulder. ‘She is ten. How old are you?’

  Sophie was peeking at him from behind me. She held up her hands to show four fingers and two thumbs.

  ‘You are six, well.’ He raised his hand and flicked his fingers. ‘That is the very best age.’

  Sophie gripped my leg.

  ‘And I love the Miss Fitzgerald,’ he said, turning to Charlie. ‘She is very good. But too loud for the eating of food.’ He disappeared into the lounge and the volume was lowered as Charlie stared at me with raised eyebrows. Then Enrico was back in the kitchen, kissing his fingers. ‘Thank you, Charlie, that she sings to us tonight.’

  Charlie picked at his food in watchful silence while Enrico talked us through the meal. Did we know that half the Italian politicians were scandalous crooks? That his homeland had gone to the dogs and the European Commission were now in charge? And that it wasn’t possible for him to afford health insurance?

  ‘If I get sick I am done for,’ he said, stabbing a piece of chicken with his fork. ‘I am going to get the visa so I can stay in this special country.’

  ‘Why is it special?’ I asked.

  ‘Because of the opportunity, and the Centrelink. If the work fails, there is a government place to go for money.’

  Enrico waved his hand in alarm and pointed to Charlie’s bowl.

  ‘Sophie has eaten more than Charlie,’ he said.

  ‘Aren’t you hungry?’ I said to Charlie.

  He put his fork down.

  ‘Is it the food?’ I asked. ‘Would you like me to prepare something else?’

  ‘No, the food was very nice. I’m just not hungry.’

  ‘This is not good,’ Enrico said. ‘More food is needed for the body.’

  Charlie looked into his lap to avoid the attention. He tried to stand, but he couldn’t lift himself from his chair and dropped again.

  Enrico pushed his chair back and in two steps was beside him. With one arm across Charlie’s back and the other under his arm, he lifted the old man from his seat. Charlie fell against him and put his arm around his shoulder.

  They didn’t say goodnight. And as they sidled across the lounge room and out the front door, I felt an unexpected gratitude that these two men were in my life. Enrico would help Charlie to his bed. And I put Sophie into hers.

  At breakfast when Charlie said he wasn’t hungry again and wouldn’t eat any of the several options I suggested – not even dry toast – I asked if he should see his doctor. As if he’d been waiting for me to suggest it, his hand went straight under his jumper and into his shirt pocket, where he pulled out a tattered white business card for the North East Medical Clinic. He handed it to me. The names of three doctors were written across the card in a cursive font.

  ‘That one there,’ he said, pointing. ‘She’s the one I see.’ He pushed his knuckles into his lower back and dug in as if trying to alleviate pain. ‘Worries me at night the most, my back.’

  ‘Perhaps because you’re sleeping on the daybed? It’s too hard and can’t be doing you any good.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  I phoned the clinic. To see a doctor that morning I had to answer a question: ‘Is it an emergency?’

  I hesitated. ‘Yes.’

  Charlie dressed for his trip to town in a dark-brown double-breasted suit with wide lapels, a gangster-like faded black open-neck shirt and brown leather brogues. He would have been very handsome all those long years ago, when the suit was new and fitted him and he could stand to his full height.

  When Julie Maxwell ushered him into her consulting room, she held his arm and stood close as he lowered himself into the chair. Her mothering way with him was confronting – I always stood back, on guard, sensing he didn’t like the fuss. I took a seat beside him. On a bookshelf ledge were two framed school photos of teenage boys with mug-shot expressions.

  Her desk was against the wall and when she sat she swivelled around to face us. She wore no makeup and her eyes were grey.

  ‘Well,’ she said. ‘Charlie, who have you got here?’

  ‘My new girlfriend.’

  ‘Is that so?’ she said, turning to me. It was then, at her slight frown, that I knew she didn’t like me being with Charlie.

  She lowered her head, thinking, then slowly looked at us.

  ‘To both of you,’ she said. ‘I’m very concerned you’ve made a decision without knowing what the short- and medium-term future holds.’

  She reached across and lightly touched Charlie’s arm. Her wristwatch had a cheap blue plastic band. ‘Going forward, Charlie is going to require significant medical care.’

  She turned to me and I felt judged. It was obvious Warren had spoken to her and her condescending judgement made me angry.

  ‘Who was going to look after him when he was living alone in a unit?’ I asked.

  ‘There are services: Meals-on-Wheels, a council cleaner. And a
district nurse would visit.’

  ‘I’m not having any of that,’ Charlie said.

  ‘But, Charlie, you’re imposing on Greer. Huntly is twenty-five minutes away. In Euroa you’re closer to the help you need.’

  ‘But I’m okay with him staying with me,’ I said, holding her stare.

  ‘Charlie’s oncologist wants him to commence a course of radiation treatment to help manage his lower back pain. It’s likely to be a series of treatments over a few weeks in Shepparton. Then there will be other appointments – bone scans, blood tests, check-ups with his oncologist and back here with me.’

  I stared into her pale, fat face and thought two things at once: that I didn’t like her and that if I became Charlie’s driver the pruning would get even further behind. Already I was watching my bank account, feeling the first inklings of worry over not having a regular income.

  ‘I’m not having the treatment,’ Charlie insisted.

  ‘But, Charlie, you must. It’ll help you,’ she said.

  And she was right about that. It was inconceivable that I could continue to prune in the orchard with Charlie back at the house not getting the necessary medical care.

  ‘I’ll take you,’ I said. ‘If it’s going to help with the pain, you’ve got to have it.’

  ‘Do you have a medical background?’ Julie Maxwell asked me.

  ‘No. Why?’

  ‘You’ve known Charlie only a short time. I’m just wondering about your attachment to him.’

  She studied me, a long stare.

  ‘Warren has made his position clear,’ I said. ‘But I’m very uncomfortable with his approach. Wanting to take his father to another location against his wishes.’

  ‘Charlie,’ she said. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I’m not putting up with this. We didn’t come here for a bloody counselling session.’ Spit bubbled in the corner of his mouth as he leaned forward and shook a finger at her. ‘I’ve got all my marbles and so has she. It’s time you all got onside or butted out of it.’

  ‘I’m here to help you, Charlie.’

  ‘Well, then, start helping. I need some more pills.’