The Drifter

by Anthea Hodgson

  So, Cate. If we just go back to the night of the accident. Let’s start with where you were drinking with Brigit. Could you tell me, in your own words, what happened at that time . . .

  There was a handful of receipts for groceries from Corrigin. Cate wondered if a friend had done Ida’s shopping for her. She checked the date; they were six years old.

  Now, Cate, if we can just address your drug use that evening, because I’d like to talk to you about that in more detail later . . .

  She stared at a copy of the Narrogin Observer from 2003.

  Okay, Cate, so you were travelling along Welshpool Road in an easterly direction – what speed do you believe you were doing?

  The box still looked full, and she didn’t think she could ever get through it.

  Can you tell me why you were driving the car, Cate? Given that it belonged to your friend Brigit, and that she was also intoxicated, why was it that you chose to drive that evening?

  She picked up a handful of meaningless paper that no one was ever going to miss and buried it savagely in the dark-green plastic bag.

  Well, Cate, thank you for your time today. I believe your parents have provided surety, and you will now be released to appear at the Perth Magistrates Court . . .

  Cate dumped the rest of the box into the bag and went inside.

  That night the air was still and balmy. Ida had a huge stash of old Mary Stewart and Agatha Christie novels piled on the floor. Cate read Death on the Nile for a while, then dropped the book to the floor and settled in to do battle with her bed once again. Ida had told her it had once been a bed for the shearers. Poor bastards. No wonder they had their own digs in Bullaring now. She heard Uncle Jack’s curlew calling from the bush, and felt her skin prickle as the sound moved slowly up and down her spine.

  She went to stand at the window, pretending to herself she could see the bird. Maybe she wanted to see the moon when she wasn’t drunk, but it wasn’t the moon that caught her eye. It was a dim light over at the sheds. She froze, and tried to think of things that could throw up a reflection. She didn’t come up with anything. She fumbled around for her clothes. She had always been of an impulsive and curious nature, and she needed to get over there quickly in case whoever it was got away.

  She crept down the hallway and out into the night, wincing as the flywire door creaked in greeting. Then she was tiptoeing over the rough sandy ground in bare feet, hissing painfully as her tender skin hit a rock or small stone. She wondered if she should have brought a weapon with her, then wondered what her weapon would be. Too late now. She kind of hoped it was a ghost, because she had no idea what she’d say to an actual human being.

  Cate wished her footsteps wouldn’t make so much noise on the dry sand. There was a light in the shed and maybe a soft movement. She drew closer, her courage failing her for a moment. Mac wandered out to greet her. Of course. Mac. He seemed very comfortable. She wondered who or what could make him so happy. She crouched down.

  ‘Shhh . . .’ she whispered into his coat, her spine tight with nervous tension. He panted happily, then, having greeted her, turned quietly to go back to the shed. She followed. Inside, the tractor was resting next to an old harvester. She tiptoed softly, fighting the urge to whisper, Is anybody here? She wasn’t sure if an affirmative would be good news.

  Hang on. There was a light again, in what was left of the old mudbrick house. It had little roof now, and was home to spiders and rabbits, except that tonight it appeared to have a guest.

  She paused. It seemed unlikely that whoever was there was an axe murderer. She crept guiltily into the old house, hoping it didn’t come crashing down around her. It was dark red in sunlight and a shabby black at night, smelling of earth and dust. It was creepy, but Mac seemed happy enough. This must be where he spent his nights. She peeped around the corner of the old kitchen into the most weatherproof room. There was a small gas camping lamp burning on top of the woodstove, but the light it threw was being swallowed up by the blackness and the resulting glow was an eerie grey.

  ‘Hello,’ murmured a deep voice at the back of her neck.

  Cate yelped and jumped about a foot in the air, then whirled around to find a tall man with long, messy hair and a large and alarmingly thick beard watching her. He had presumably been sitting at the old formica table in the opposite corner. Mac looked unconcerned. He sat down with a whoomphing sound that gave away his years. She continued to stare back at the bearded stranger, waiting for something to magically come to her. Nothing did.

  ‘What the fu— who are you?’ she demanded in a whisper.

  His face didn’t give a thing away. He just stared back at her, like he had caught her trespassing. She ran the situation through her brain again. Nope, she was pretty sure she had a right to be there and he didn’t. He didn’t seem to agree with her brain. He was looking at her like she owed him an explanation.

  She stood in silence, refusing to babble because she was nervous, and looked at him closely. It was hard to judge his age. Maybe thirty? The beard made him look older, and the shaggy hair didn’t help. He wore an old work shirt she suspected had belonged to her great-uncle, and black footy shorts. Maybe she would have preferred him in jeans. Or for him to not be there at all, come to that. No response.

  ‘Well?’ she demanded.

  He scornfully looked her up and down again, letting her know that he felt he didn’t owe her anything.

  ‘I’m staying for a while,’ he said, as if it was entirely reasonable.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Empty house. Private.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘Fairly private.’

  She looked at Mac, who frankly couldn’t see what all the fuss was about. He liked drifters. They shared the same barber, and they weren’t overly fussed about personal hygiene.

  ‘You know this is our farm?’ she hissed.

  ‘Yours? You just got here.’

  ‘So did you.’

  ‘I’ve been here a while, blondie,’ he corrected her.

  She tried a different tack. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Henry.’

  ‘Really.’

  ‘No, not really.’

  She shrugged. Okay. ‘Well, I think you should go.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Away.’

  ‘I don’t think so. Mac and I are mates. I mean your old lady no harm. I’ll be gone soon enough.’

  ‘No! You will leave in the morning.’ She paused. ‘How do you know Mac’s name?’

  He looked at the old dog, like they had a secret. ‘The old lady calls him for his dinner most nights.’

  Fair enough.

  He gestured into the kitchen and, assuming she was under no immediate threat, she joined him in the small roofless room, where a fire was burning low in the corner.

  ‘There’s a fire ban on, you know.’

  He nodded. ‘I’m careful. I only use it to cook when I have to. There’s a bucket of water next to it, and four high walls around it.’

  ‘Fancy.’

  ‘It’s not much, but it’s home.’

  ‘No it’s bloody not!’

  He almost smiled, his dark eyes suddenly warm with amusement, and maybe something else she couldn’t place. They stared at each other for a long moment. His eyes were a deep hazel, she decided. The dim light was swallowed inside them, but she could imagine them in sunlight, all at once soft green and bronze, murky and deep. Shining.

  ‘Okay, you got me there. What are you doing here?’

  She gestured to the main house. ‘Visiting my aunt. She’s getting on, so I thought she might like some help.’

  ‘How long for?’

  ‘Until after you leave, you can be sure.’

  He leaned on the wall. ‘I’m getting that you don’t like having a visitor. I’m no trouble. Just ignore me.’

  She crossed her arms. ‘You know Aunty Ida has noticed you.’

  ‘Has she?’

  ‘Yes. Did you fix the chookyard?’

  ‘Yeah, I got sick of
putting the girls back in before the foxes took them.’ He glanced at Mac. ‘I think my mate here got one.’

  Mac looked embarrassed. Cate frowned.

  ‘I’m not happy about having a – a vagrant near my elderly relative,’ she said. ‘It’s nothing personal. I’m sure you’re in no way on the lam.’

  ‘I’m not. I’m just private.’

  She considered him. He was watching her in a way that almost gave her confidence in him, without understanding why. He seemed unperturbed at having been caught in the old house, and he had shown good faith by fixing the chookyard. Maybe his eyes seemed kind to her, in the dark, and his voice sounded gentle. It gave her pause, and she felt the familiar rush that usually overtook her when she was about to make a really bad decision.

  ‘Hang on,’ she muttered, and wandered outside into the warm night air.

  She walked quietly in a small circle, sighing heavily and swearing under her breath. There was something about him, she decided, glancing up at the glittering stars, something somehow good. Was she imagining it because she was sleep deprived, or did he really seem to be someone she could trust? Maybe it was his voice, as if he didn’t much care what she thought, or his face, which seemed sad to her. She recognised him in that moment, living where he didn’t belong, with his heavy heart. She had made mistakes, goodness knew, and she wanted a second chance. Perhaps she should let him stay, just for a while. He looked strong, and she had no doubt she’d need help getting stuff done over the next couple of weeks. And he was a man, so surely he had some kind of practical experience in fixing things.

  She punched her open hand a few times because she knew she was about to do it again, do something dumb. She went back inside to where he was waiting for her to speak. He was huge, and so alive. She felt him, standing there, in the night, and the feeling was disconcerting. He had folded his arms, but had remained completely still since her departure.

  ‘How about I’ll let you stay, unmolested, except by Mac . . .’

  ‘And?’

  ‘You’ll do a few odd jobs around the farm for Aunty Ida and me.’

  ‘Why would you trust me?’

  ‘I probably don’t. But I know where the keys to the gun cabinet are, and I’m pretty sure I could make something go bang given the right inspiration.’

  ‘Really.’

  His expression held a large measure of scepticism. He regarded her for a while longer, which gave her time to regret having asked at all. He looked too big, but she assumed years of alcohol and drug abuse had taken the edge off. That seemed to be how it worked. You signed up for life as a drifter, stole some not-very-cool clothes, drank something fairly awful, like Raspberry Bacardi Breezers, and forgot to cut your hair for the rest of your life. That was to warn people not to stand close enough to get a whiff of your other commitment – not to bathe. She took a tentative sniff. Yep. Man sweat. Maybe not as bad as she had imagined; maybe he had fallen into a body of water recently.

  He kept his arms loosely folded, his eyes guarded. He was probably used to it.

  ‘Well?’ she prompted. ‘Deal? For a couple of weeks?’

  He paused, then appeared to make up his mind. ‘Deal,’ he said and stuck out his large hand.

  She closed her eyes and grabbed it; it was rough and warm and dry. They shook.

  ‘Know anything about farming?’ she asked hopefully, fighting the urge to wipe her hand on her leg. It was still too warm.

  ‘No. I’m not a farmer.’

  ‘No shit.’

  His beard moved. She wasn’t sure why. Bugs, probably.

  ‘Well,’ she said with great authority as she wandered out of the mud hut again, ‘try to keep the stealing to a bare minimum – maybe a couple of eggs here and there – and don’t get Mac whipped up about the rabbits. He’s old and he’s got a dicky knee.’

  ‘I know,’ the drifter said quietly.

  ‘Okay, then,’ she concluded. ‘I’ll see you around. Let’s introduce you to Aunty Ida as soon as possible. I don’t want her to get a fright.’

  ‘Fine.’

  She was out the door.

  ‘Sleep well,’ he added.

  Cheeky bastard.

  She didn’t, as it turned out. The heat was stifling, and she couldn’t get the sound of his deep, soft voice out of her mind. When she felt his hand on her arm, it was large and warm, and completely welcome. And before she knew it, before she had time to draw breath, her lips were on his broad, bare chest, feeling hot, smooth skin, and rough hair, and his touch, exploring the skin on her back, finding she wore no bra, moving slowly to her breasts and stroking her there. His dark eyes were a mystery to her, but the pleasure of his hands was making her ache. He took her chin and gently raised her parted lips to his . . .

  She rolled over, and managed to fall out of bed and onto the floor with a thud. Her eyes snapped open. She was alone. Crap. She sighed and let her hands drift past her breasts again. She may well be going crazy, but at least she wasn’t dead yet.

  CHAPTER 3

  The next day was as bright and clear as the last. Cate woke up, back in her rural torture rack, wondering about the night before. There was some big hairy dude living in the mudbrick house. He seemed normal enough, except for the hair and the lifestyle choice. And maybe he could help out if there was anything on the farm she didn’t want to do. She had to let Aunty Ida meet him. Later.

  She pulled on her clothes and tiptoed to the kitchen to make an instant coffee. Even opening the jar upset her. She glanced about as the kettle boiled, trying to work out her next cleaning target.

  She turned as her aunt made her way into the kitchen. She looked tired. Maybe she hadn’t slept either.

  ‘Cup of tea?’ Cate asked, reaching for a cup.

  ‘Oh, yes please, dear – just what I need so early in the morning.’ She glanced out of the faded curtains. ‘Looks like another warm day.’

  Cate dropped a tea bag in a cup, then loaded up the toaster.

  ‘I thought I’d take the ute out and have a look around, if that’s okay,’ she said. ‘Maybe check the troughs.’

  ‘That’s a great idea, Cate. I haven’t been around them as much as I should. I’ve sold most of the sheep, I’m afraid – they’re a lot of work to do properly, and I’m finding it hard to get out and about in this weather.’ She took her tea with a nod, looking out of the dirty window. ‘Still, as long as I’ve got my home, there’s nowhere I’d rather be.’

  The kitchen table had a large chest freezer sitting next to it, decorated with a dusty desiccated banksia in an orange vase that she was sure she remembered from when she was a girl. The freezer was covered in paperwork, and it had spilled onto the table and a couple of chairs under the window. ‘What’s all this?’ Cate asked, gesturing to the piles of paper.

  Ida looked guilty. ‘Oh, well. That’s a few things I’ve been meaning to get to: letters, some charities, and a handful of bills are in there too, I think.’

  Cate frowned at the stacks. ‘Have you been through these lately? It looks like it’s building up.’

  ‘Oh, yes. Well, I get done what I need to get done, dear. If a payment is outstanding too long, someone usually gets in touch and I pay by credit card over the phone.’

  ‘Don’t you think you should go through this stuff sometime?’ Cate asked gently. Ida looked worried and went over to the sink to turn the tap on then off, as if she was suddenly very busy.

  Cate sighed. It looked like things were being missed, and it was hard to tell how bad the situation had become because Ida wasn’t about to admit to anything being wrong at all. The house wasn’t just cluttered and untidy, it was grimy and stale. Ida’s eyesight was preventing her from seeing the work that needed to be done and her frailty had taken away the energy to do it. Cate wasn’t sure if Ida had always been a hoarder but she was close to being one now. She had discovered that the boxes lining the hallway were full of old mail, newsletters and souvenirs going back twenty years. She hadn’t really been able to open the door
very far on the office, but she could see the disused computer sitting swamped by shopping bags of clutter, old printers, fax machines and a couple of typewriters. It was getting harder to justify leaving her great-aunt out here in the country, but Ida didn’t want to leave her farm for the comfort of city living. Cate would. Hell, she’d be out the door and up the drive in a second if she could. Her coffee was foul. She stared it down.

  ‘Have you had any help around the farm?’ she asked.

  Ida nodded. ‘Yes, I’ve had some neighbours putting in a few paddocks of their own crops – leasing out bits of the farm keeps me afloat.’

  It didn’t sound like a great long-term plan, but it would probably do.

  ‘Now, who’s that?’ she heard Ida say, and snapped her attention back to the conversation.

  ‘Huh? Who’s what?’ Cate put down her coffee and looked out of the window. ‘Henry’ was coming up the garden path in an old T-shirt and torn jeans. He had dark glasses on, and his straggly hair and beard were still as startling in daylight as they had been the night before. He knocked.

  ‘Oh. Um, Aunty Ida?’ Cate was going to the door. ‘Last night I met this man in the old mud hut. I believe his name is Henry, and he might be down on his luck.’ That sounded okay. ‘If you would be comfortable, I thought he could help me out for a few days getting one or two jobs done, then he could be on his way.’

  Her aunt appeared to ignore her and pulled open the door.

  ‘Good morning,’ Ida greeted him, as if he was a well-known neighbour and not a half-bear creature living in the sheds and eating all her eggs. ‘Would you like to come in?’

  Cate looked appalled. Really. In the house? They’d never get him out.

  He shook his head. ‘No thanks. My name is, ah, Henry. I just came over to apologise for not asking your permission to stay over in the old hut there and to see if your friend was ready to check the sheep?’

  Ida looked pleased. She liked a man of action and wasn’t too fussed if the action was employed around the face region or not.