We had talked about setting up a long table in the garden, and he was going to cook duck with orange and potatoes with truffles.
‘I will return soon, but not for the Christmas Day.’
‘When will you go?’
He glanced away, then back at me, but not into my face. ‘Tomas and Nikolas want to go today.’
‘What do you want to do?’
‘I am happy to go.’ He rattled his bucket, the blueberries bounced. ‘I have loved this orchard with all my heart. But the blueberries do not love me. This I do not understand.’
I knew the names of his brothers and sisters – which ones were in school and what a big deal it was for his family that Loreto now had a job as a municipal clerk, keeping records on building maintenance. In my mind’s eye, I had walked Pisticci’s alleyways and could picture his mother’s tired face and his father’s bony, wiry body, like Enrico’s.
‘This was too hard for me to tell you,’ he said.
‘But what about Charlie?’
‘He said I must go to the Manly beach and the Venus Bar for the music. But I think I have had enough of the jazz.’ He smiled at his confession, showing the full display of his gums and crooked teeth. ‘The Sydney Opera House has La Bohème and Carmen. This is pleasing me very much.’
It was all worked out. I had too many questions and none of them was important. It was just this hurt, the throbbing pain in my back and now this.
He reached out his hand and we shook in a strange and formal way. It was all wrong and completely inadequate, but it was the only thing we could do.
‘You must come back. This will always be your home.’
‘This is my promise.’
I believed him.
At lunchtime, although we hadn’t yet eaten, I watched Enrico and Charlie embrace. They gently rocked from side to side while Charlie patted Enrico’s back. Something was said, but I could not hear. When they pulled away, Enrico had tears down his face. He wiped his eyes on the back of his hand.
Then he quickly hugged me, and in my bewilderment I barely responded.
‘Grazie, grazie. Too much for everything. Goodbye to Shane.’
He gave Sophie an envelope. ‘For the Christmas Day.’
They drove away. Enrico was behind the wheel, Nikolas sat hunched and round-shouldered beside the gear stick, and Tomas’s shoulder was pressed against the passenger window.
I walked the length of the driveway, through the avenue of overarching green liquidambars, and stepped on the iron bars to cross the cattle grid. Out on Josephs Road, past Shane’s place, was the blue dot of Enrico’s van. With his sudden departure I had forgotten to give him his Christmas present, a pair of pure wool brightly coloured polka dot socks.
The back braces were in the letterbox. Standing beside a flowering encalypt with drooping branches, I ripped the package open and wrapped a wide black elastic belt around my waist. It sat high, up to my breasts and down to my hips. I pulled the flaps as tight as I could and pressed the Velcro hard to keep them in place. It was instant, the tightening and holding in, like an old-fashioned laced girdle. Back at the bench I tilted forward to finish the day’s packing and I breathed against the tough elastic and relaxed my shoulders. It was good.
The distributor’s truck arrived on time at five. I had stacked one hundred and sixty-four trays onto a pallet and secured them with industrial cling-wrap. The paperwork was taped onto the top. It was my first delivery to Melbourne market and I tried to do the sums, to work out what the income might be. My guess was just over five thousand dollars. Whatever it was, it was already committed.
Walking across to the shearing shed, I tried to keep the calculations going, projecting over the twelve-week picking period what money I would make, but I had no clue about what volumes I would end up picking or what the wholesale price would be. I turned the shed’s wobbly door knob and stepped inside. Enrico had left some old books on top of the bar fridge. I looked at the covers – some I recognised. One Hundred Years of Solitude, As I Lay Dying. The Count of Monte Cristo was a French edition. Even though it was summer and Sydney would be hot, he had taken his winter coat and boots with him.
Back at the house, Charlie confirmed he wasn’t coming back.
‘He told you?’
‘He wasn’t cut out for picking. And he liked those new fellas.’
I stared at the empty wall, where Marilyn had once hung. ‘He should’ve been straight with me.’
‘Let it go. It’s all changed.’
I stared at him. ‘What’s changed?’
‘Work it out for yourself. Shane seems to be in the picture. I’m not going to be around for long, and Enrico is a young man on an adventure and it’s time for him to move on. It’s all working out.’
‘Don’t say that. It’s not all working out.’
‘Make me a cuppa, love.’
31
CHANGE of plans. Will be in Oz for Xmas. Lunch at your place? Nick
When I asked Sophie if she wanted him to come, she looked at me side-on and shyly smiled and nodded. He did not deserve her adoration, and I felt anxious what Shane would think. Yet, he had not committed himself to any Christmas plans.
Okay
Bring anything?
Prawns from Prahran market, fish monger 2nd stall up, where we used to get them.
No worries
The days leading to Christmas started and ended at six. Every move felt robotic – the systems in the orchard and packing shed were known and down pat. The blueberry volumes were increasing. Four Dutch girls arrived and set up a row of tents. An English couple, Derek and Brenda, towed their posh caravan over the cattle grid and parked it where Enrico’s van used to be. The surrounds of the shearing shed were like a tiny refugee camp filled with strangers who seemed slightly lost when they weren’t working. I had a portable shower installed on the north side of the shearing shed – a hard plastic cubicle that only allowed three minutes per shower, and the water wasn’t very hot.
Late afternoon Christmas Eve, I packed two hundred and fifty-six trays onto the shelves in the cool room. Then Shane arrived and we fetched and cleaned all the irrigation filters from the various stations across the orchard. We drove along the grassy lanes – my hand was high on his thigh, my statement of familiarity and belonging. Yet it wasn’t really like that. He hadn’t introduced me to any of his friends, he was vague about future plans between us and he never said how he felt about me. Following the unease of those thoughts, I took my hand away and he didn’t seem to notice.
We parked at the pump shed and got out. Cockatoos shrieked somewhere at the end of the orchard in the lower bushes or perhaps the tea tree.
‘You’ll need to get bird netting,’ he said.
‘That’s in the three-year development plan. Bird netting and I’m changing the drippers for micro sprays.’
‘So you’re sticking around then?’
I laughed. ‘No, I’m leaving first chance I get. What are you on about?’
‘Nothing.’
I stopped laughing. ‘What the hell. Why would you say that?’
We stared into each other, avoiding each other’s eyes.
‘Just because Jess left you, doesn’t mean I will.’
His tensed, like he was in pain.
‘Do you think I’d sleep with you if I wasn’t serious?’ I said.
I followed his gaze to the dam; a flock of ibis were wading in the reeds.
‘Aren’t we serious?’ I asked.
He turned to me, but with his shoulders back, chin up. ‘I’m taking a job in Canberra.’
‘What?’
‘Plus I’ve had an offer on the farm.’
A sudden breath. So there. Of course, it was always too obvious and good to be true. And I’d heard a soulful voice telling me this and ignored it.
‘I’ll be back some weekends, until the place is settled.’
‘You’re selling your farm?’
He tried to pull me to him, but I would not be tou
ched.
‘Don’t be like that,’ he said.
‘When did all this happen?’
‘You know I’ve been working on the research grant in Canberra. Well, it came through yesterday.’ A small smile, he was pleased. ‘And the Melbourne people who bought the two thousand acres from me earlier in the year made me a good offer. They want the house.’ He shrugged. ‘So I took it.’
‘So what’s going on with us?’ I said.
‘Greer, I think you’re a fantastic person.’
‘Your point is?’
He didn’t want the fight he could see in me, so he went inside the pump shed and fitted the filter. I hit the red button, and the pump thumped to life. We hurried away from the noise and stench out into the light, and the distance between Huntly and Canberra was already between us.
‘How long have you been planning this?’
‘The appointment was only confirmed yesterday.’
‘You never said the grant meant you’d be moving to Canberra.’
We drove alongside Row 60 towards the house. Shane was behind the wheel, his arms stiff, his face tense, wanting to be gone.
‘What about Charlie?’ I said.
‘This was always the point, wasn’t it?’ he said. ‘What about Charlie? The retirement village was first, then aged care. But you let him stay here.’
I shook my fist. ‘How could I not?’
He repeated, slowly, ‘How could you not?’
‘What the fuck are you on about?’
‘I’m sorry,’ he said.
‘What exactly are you sorry for?’
‘We can still see each other.’
‘When you want to get laid?’
‘Don’t put it like that.’
I swallowed a scream, but it came out in words. ‘You’re a bastard. How long have you been organising this? A new job? And selling your property? You haven’t mentioned one word of it to me.’
‘That’s not quite true.’
‘Bullshit.’
He breathed deeply, slowly.
Approaching the house, there was a small silver hatchback beside my ute. Without seeing him, I knew it was Nick.
Shane parked beside the too clean and compact car, and didn’t move from behind the wheel.
I got out and flung the door shut.
He called after me. I didn’t look back.
Nina Simone was singing quietly to a double-bass beat. Sophie had changed into her favourite skirt and was sitting at the dining table, staring into her father’s face. She was playing hostess. Nick was holding a mug of milky tea, and a full plate of Charlie’s macaroons was on the table. They looked too alike – their colouring, curls, and body line. I wondered what part of me was in her.
When Nick saw me, he stood. ‘What’s up?’
‘Nothing.’
‘I got an earlier flight, so decided to come straight up.’
‘Did you now?’
‘Problem?’
If Sophie wasn’t there, I would have reminded him that this was not his home and that he had no right to turn up whenever he pleased. So instead I glared at him with all the negative energy I had in me from Shane.
Then Charlie came in, and balanced two hands on the back of a chair. ‘I’m not bothered with this backpacker barbecue tonight,’ he said. ‘I’d rather sit quiet and have my dinner in here.’
I looked at them, one face to the next. They were all relaxed and themselves, looking back at me, waiting for something.
‘I got the prawns,’ Nick said.
I walked away from them – down the hall and into my bedroom. I shut the door, sat on my bed, then collapsed back and stared into the chipped greying cornice. I replayed Shane’s words – that he had a job in Canberra and he had sold his farm. There was some unexpected relief in it, but I really had no idea how I felt. I needed to think. Curling and lifting my knees, I thought of the sex we’d had in this bed. I couldn’t lie there, remembering, so I jumped up and stripped the sheets off, and the pillow cases. As I was yanking the doona from its cover there was a knock on the door.
‘Hey, Greer.’
Nick.
‘Not now.’
‘What’s up?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Can I come in?’
‘No.’
He called through the door, ‘What’s the deal with the backpacker barbecue? Do you want me to do anything?’
What I wanted was for him to fuck off, and for everyone else to leave me alone.
He knocked again.
‘What?’ I yelled.
‘Are you all right?’
‘Just leave me.’
He pushed the door slightly ajar. ‘Something’s up.’
Then he was there, his head through the door, frowning with concern.
I stared at his older face, the new grey in his short hair.
‘Just leave me alone.’
‘Someone called Brenda just came to the back door saying they wanted to know what time the barbecue is.’
It was Christmas Eve and I had offered the backpackers some Aussie hospitality. I had kangaroo fillets, beef sausages and salad in the fridge. But it was simply not possible for me to be sociable.
‘What are you doing?’ Nick said.
‘None of your business.’
‘Why are you changing the sheets now?’ He stepped into the room. ‘There’s a problem here and I don’t know what it is. So how about I get this barbecue going? What’ve you got?’
‘Everything’s in the fridge.’
A thumbs up.
‘Nick.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Please tell everyone I don’t feel well and that I’m going to bed. And send Sophie in when she’s ready for bed. You can sleep in her room.’
‘You okay?’
‘I will be. And please make sure Charlie eats something.’
‘No worries.’
He closed the door and left.
I unfurled clean sheets and remade the bed. I soaped my body in the shower and lingered there too long, washing Shane away and the emotional neediness that I despised in myself. I held my breath and the water kept coming as I remembered how he never held me after we made love, that he did not ever really look at me. I should have listened to the disquiet and quit weeks ago. Stupid woman.
Fading light leached behind the blind. I lay in bed, clean and warm, staring upwards, hearing the eruptions of distant laughter, the murmur of conversation. The barbecue was going well. Nick would be waving the tongs, filling glasses, making jokes, telling his stories. No backpacker could match his yarns.
I didn’t move, but lay still on my back, trying to focus on important things – the harvest and the next irrigation cycle and whether twenty-five pickers was going to be enough. And later, after I’d drifted to sleep, I stirred to the sound of Sophie being ushered in beside me, and Nick’s height and presence hovering.
32
NICK skewered the prawns, lightly grilled them on the barbecue and served them as our Christmas lunch entrée with lemon juice, capers and salt. He followed that with poached chicken and glazed ham, salad and roast potatoes – and a last-minute pudding he’d prepared the night before and nursed till one in the morning while it simmered in my biggest pot.
We ate outside on the camping table, which was covered with one of Audrey’s finely embroidered linen tablecloths. Above was a canopy of Japanese maples, their tiny red and green leaves fluttering gently. It was overcast and hot, with a whiff of smoke from bushfires two hundred kilometres away in Gippsland. The news was full of it – a suspected arson, they were saying.
There was a rhythm to the day – a quiet normalcy that put me on guard. I’d done the backpackers’ wages while Nick worked in the kitchen, and once he’d put the prawns on the barbecue, he’d handed me a sangria in a large wine glass, filled to the brim. ‘Get that into you,’ he’d said. Charlie stuck with his whiskey.
The Dutch girls had gone for the day to visit some never-before-met relative
who lived in Wangaratta. Brenda and Derek had driven off in their 4WD to bushwalk at Mt Buller. And with Enrico gone and Shane not even bothering to text me a Happy Christmas message, it was just us. Charlie’s Christmas present from me – a 1996 Stan Getz Live in Paris recording – played softy from the dock on the veranda. We sat under the maples without any hurry, ready to settle in. The warm breeze was enough to keep the flies away and even when the ice-cream and pudding dregs in the dessert bowls had dried, we didn’t move. Charlie napped in the chair, Blondie at his feet. Sophie sat on Nick’s knee. We watched our daughter colour in, humming a repeated tune, as she concentrated on staying inside the lines.
It had been agreed that Nick would take Sophie with him to visit his mother in Adelaide for a week. They’d go to the beach, do some shopping, see a movie.
‘We’re on an 11 am flight,’ he said.
‘I’ll be in the packing shed at seven.’
And somewhere in that space – the flitter of a honeyeater, a bee hovering over a rose – Nick said he had scored a new job in Geneva, as the European editor for the UN Chronicle. He raised his glass in Cheers to himself.
‘Congratulations,’ I said. ‘Your dream job.’
‘You bet.’
And that’s where Lila was, of course. So there were no hard feelings between us and he would fly away once again and I didn’t care. It was too tiring to muster the energy to argue about his passion for promoting the plight of the poor, war victims, the marginalised in whatever the latest cause was. I had learned to believe it was more about him, his addiction to the rush and notoriety, than the people he professed to represent. Anyway, that argument was now well and truly cold.
I asked questions about people we knew, and felt piqued as he ticked off titbits of information about old friends who hadn’t bothered to keep up with me. More like, I hadn’t bothered to keep up with them. I remembered why, the sense it was brilliant Nick they were all so attracted to, with me, the sold-her-soul PR chick in his shadow. Well, then, none of that mattered any more. I didn’t miss any of them, they were all in the past, including Nick. So when he suggested the three of us go to Polly McQuinns for a swim, I said no.
Blueberry Page 23
