The Drifter

by Anthea Hodgson

  She had felt alone for a long time; even before Bridget had left her. For a while, she had partied all the harder, trying to catch up with the lives she imagined she was supposed to be living. She had to be the centre of things, she had to look good, she had to impress people. Okay, not her parents – she wasn’t about to impress them any time soon – and the window was definitely closing on being a doctor or a nuclear scientist. Accidentally killing her best friend probably hadn’t come as too much of a surprise to them. It had come as one to her.

  The phone rang, and when she answered, a man spoke.

  ‘Good afternoon. My name is Sergeant Doug Glasson from the Wickepin Police Station, and I’m looking for Cate Christie.’

  ‘Yes,’ she answered, sitting down at the kitchen table, ‘that’s me.’

  ‘Hello, Ms Christie, I’m calling you in regard to the investigation concerning the car accident you were involved in recently.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Your file has been sent to me here at Wickepin – the investigating officers have requested assistance in this matter due to their workload at the moment, so I’m calling to request that you attend the Wickepin Police Station.’

  ‘Uh, okay.’

  ‘How about you come in tomorrow? Around ten a.m.?’

  ‘Okay,’ said Cate.

  There was a pause. The cop seemed to be waiting for something. Cate waited, too, staring out of the window into the low light of the dying day, seeing Brigit’s poor face looking up at her, flashing lights reflecting in her open eyes. Cate nodded in the empty room. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow,’ she said. There was a bird in the window now, bouncing up and down on the bottlebrush that grew near the water tank.

  ‘Yes. Thank you, Cate. Ten a.m.’

  She hung up the phone and sighed. She sensed she was about to be charged with dangerous driving causing death. It would mean she could go to prison.

  She wasn’t sure how long she sat there looking at the flowers, but her coffee had grown cold. The windows were darker, and the sounds of the day were fading away into an easy stillness. Sometimes, awake in her bed in the dark, she would stop breathing, pushing out into the absolute silence to find another sound in the world, and sometimes, eventually, she would. The sound of her own heart.

  ‘New beginning,’ she muttered to herself. ‘Everyone deserves a new beginning.’

  She called Alex and arranged to meet the following week.

  ‘I’ll pick you up at five,’ he promised. ‘Really looking forward to it.’

  ‘Me too!’ she responded brightly, and hung up. She walked around the table a few times. It felt a bit weird. Sometimes she felt guilty about anything new in her life. She had cheated Brigit and she couldn’t bring her back, but she could make a difference for Ida. Maybe she could find atonement for her recklessness. She heard Mac outside and decided it was time for a walk. Anywhere. She pulled on Ida’s hat and strode out into the yard.

  Autumn had arrived and still Ida wasn’t home. It had been just over three weeks, and Ida was spending her time recuperating at her parents’ home, carefully monitored, while they waited to see if she was strong enough or willing to undergo the surgery they hoped would save her life. Cate looked carefully at everything around her; she’d call later and describe what was going on. She realised that it would be seeding soon, and wondered if Ida usually put in any crop. She’d ask. They had taken care of the shearing because the sheep were in full wool and had needed to be shorn, but maybe it was too hard to plant a crop and she should lease out to her neighbours again. The Higgins-Devines were just over the fence and could easily put in an extra paddock. Maybe she’d call Audrey and Albert to see if they’d be interested. Their son-in-law, Kel, was an excellent farmer and a very kind man. Maybe he’d give her a little advice.

  She wandered with Mac at her heels up to the top of a hill. She could see most of the farm from there – it wasn’t large – and some of the neighbours as well. She looked back at Ida and Jack’s house, nestled in its garden at the centre of the world. They had lived there forever; Jack had been born on the farm, and Ida born five miles away. They’d never ‘met’, they’d just always known each other, and loved each other with respect and devotion. She envied them that. It seemed simple to fall in love with someone next door, who shared the same background and wanted the same things.

  Mac let out a yip and dashed under the nearest fence in chase of a rabbit.

  ‘Mac! Come back! Remember your knee!’ Mac was barking and running like the gods of the hunt themselves had put lightning in his old veins. There was a rabbit and he was going to chase it until it disappeared, otherwise what was the point?

  Eventually, they made their way slowly back to the farmhouse, and Cate went inside to call Ida.

  ‘Mac nearly got a rabbit!’

  ‘He did? Good dog, Mac! You tell him I said so, and give him a pat for me. Was it under the shearing shed?’

  ‘No, up on the hill.’

  ‘Ah, yes, they love burrowing up there. A few times Jack and I got out the front-end loader and dug them up to discourage the little blighters. It didn’t work. I think they were back again in a few weeks. Now. What’s going on with you?’

  ‘Not much, except that I’ve got a date.’

  ‘With Henry?’

  Cate held the phone away from her ear so she could better look at it in disbelief. ‘No, not with Henry. With Alex Bernard.’

  ‘Oh! He’s a very nice boy. I was in the CWA with his grandmother. I used to go to all the dances with her and his grandfather, Don.’

  Of course she did. ‘Was he a good dancer? I need to know how the genes are looking.’

  Ida laughed. ‘Oh, yes, he was lovely, and Margo, his lovely wife, she was one of the best dancers in the district. Dead, I’m afraid.’

  Cate sighed inwardly. Conversations with Ida often ended with variations of, Of course, he’s dead now. It didn’t seem to bother her. Maybe farmers were more finely tuned to the mysterious cycles of life, and the committee ladies knew that God was waiting to welcome them home. She imagined herself talking about Brigit when she was older. Of course, she’s dead now . . .

  ‘And how is Henry? Is he still there?’

  ‘Well, I haven’t seen him today, but I believe so. He’s been working on the garden – you’re going to love it – and fixing a few leaky pipes out in the back paddock.’

  ‘Isn’t he kind? I could tell I liked that boy the moment I saw him. So honest but so sad. Do keep an eye on him, won’t you, dear?’

  ‘Sure.’ If he takes his shirt off, try to stop me. There was a knock at the door. It was him. ‘Speak of the devil. Want a quick word?’

  ‘Yes, that would be lovely.’

  Cate opened the door and handed Henry the phone. He was filthy, and covered in twigs and bits of old wool. She pulled a chair out from the table for him and hoped he wouldn’t lean on it while he talked. People had to eat on that. He ignored her and talked to Ida standing.

  ‘Yeah, yeah, it’s going really well.’ He glanced at Cate. ‘She’s fine.’ She stood at the kitchen bench and folded her arms. His voice was soft. She liked it. ‘I think she’s eating enough.’ He looked her slowly up and down, and her breath hitched in her throat. ‘Yeah, she looks good.’ His voice went softer still, his eyes on hers, alone in the kitchen.

  She tilted her head at him. Stop it. If you are doing something right now, just stop it.

  He wouldn’t look away, his voice low and mesmerising. He slowly crossed the floor towards her.

  ‘We’ve nearly finished the garden,’ he said. ‘Yes, I think you’ll really like it.’

  He was in front of her now, and she had to look up at him, watching her. He was covered in dirt, and the scent of dust, wool and fresh sweat was coming off his large body, which he had placed between her and the door. He leaned over to her, raising a brow, his mouth still chatting amiably, gently, getting closer to hers. She breathed him in and kept her arms folded, trying to ignore her racing heart,
hoping her deep blush wasn’t visible. His body was about to touch hers. He towered over her and placed a hand near her hip, then turned the phone receiver so they could both share it. She heard Ida’s voice, tired but happy, talking to a swagman.

  ‘Cate can hear you now,’ he murmured, looking deep into her startled eyes, as if he had almost forgotten his conversation with Ida.

  ‘I’m back, Aunty Ida,’ she muttered, wide-eyed.

  ‘Hello again, dear. I just must say it sounds like you two have everything under control. I hope I can see you soon.’

  ‘Of course you will,’ Cate said, aware that Henry was watching her lips. Heat flooded through her. Time to hang up now.

  ‘Well, I must go, dears. I can see a cup of tea and a biscuit waiting. No rest for the wicked.’

  ‘Bye, Aunty Ida. We miss you!’

  ‘Bye, Cate, dear. Have fun on your date.’

  ‘I’ll do my best.’

  Henry’s face kind of froze, and his eyes lost their softness.

  ‘Goodbye, Ida. It was great to hear your voice,’ he said and hung up the phone. He moved back a few paces. ‘Date?’

  Cate turned around to face the window, convinced she needed to do something at the sink. ‘Yeah, check out the flowers. Alex left them for me. We’re going out next week.’

  ‘What night?’ His voice had gone hard.

  ‘Does it matter?’ All the warmth was draining out of the room.

  ‘No. It doesn’t.’ His face was unreadable, except that it was so closed, where it had been so open just moments ago. She saw him purse his lips, as if he wanted to say something. He didn’t. But she stood and watched as he turned and left, ignoring Mac on the way out.

  The next morning Cate attended the Wickepin Police Station. Sergeant Glasson was there to greet her. ‘Cate,’ he said, and shook her hand. ‘Come inside and let’s get this done, eh?’

  She took a deep breath and nodded. ‘Yes. Let’s do it.’

  When they were settled in the interview room, Sergeant Glasson turned on the video-recording device and sat opposite Cate. He gestured to his associate, a younger officer with dark curly hair who sat solemnly beside him.

  ‘For the purposes of the interview, present are Sergeant Doug Glasson and Senior Constable Neil Stacey.’ He nodded at Cate. ‘Could you introduce yourself for the video camera, please?’

  ‘My name is Catherine Anne Christie.’ Her heart was thumping in her chest and her skin felt cold. She was breathing too fast, so she made a concerted effort to slow it down, in case she fainted or vomited in the police station.

  Sergeant Glasson continued with the preamble. ‘Are you affected by drugs or alcohol at this time?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘This interview is entirely voluntary. You can stop the interview at any time – you can just walk out the door. If you have any difficulty understanding a question, just let me know and I will rephrase the question.’

  Cate glanced down at what she was wearing, and wondered why she’d chosen jeans and cashmere to be charged for the death of her friend. Perhaps she’d thought she should look conservative and nice. Because nice people didn’t belong in police stations.

  ‘Anything that you say during the course of this interview may be given in evidence . . .’

  Nice people didn’t do stupid things.

  ‘Now, if we just go back through the Statement of Material Facts . . .’

  Perhaps if she’d worn earrings, she wouldn’t feel like the cashmere was missing the mark. Brigit always had beautiful earrings. Always real jewels, never costume jewellery, just simple shiny perfection. Like Brigit.

  ‘Given the evidence and the admissions you have given us, Cate, we have decided to charge you with dangerous driving causing death.’

  Silence.

  ‘Do you understand the charge?’

  She drove home from Wickepin feeling numb. She had known it was coming, but as Sergeant Glasson had spoken, the familiar chill of fear and shame had surged through her body, and she had wanted to wake up. It was a nightmare, and the charges were in no way the worst part. Brigit was the worst part, because her death was never going to change. Regardless of Cate’s plea, or bargaining, or sentencing, Brigit was still dead, always looking over her shoulder at the life she should have been living. She flicked off the radio and drove home through the end of the day.

  Cate didn’t see Henry for a while. He took the ute out a couple of times, and seemed busy mending fences and picking rocks. It kept him occupied. The days were slowly growing shorter and the nights were cooling. She began to worry about how he was coping over in the old house, with barely a roof to cover him as he slept. She left a few blankets and windcheaters in his kitchen, but found them again on her doorstep the same day.

  Dear Brigit, I met a guy – you’d love him, he’s a farmer, handsome, and very charming. He gave me flowers. We’re going out next week.

  Dear Brigit, there’s a swagman living in my aunty’s shed. You’d hate him. He’s got long hair and a beard – yes, a full swaggie beard. He’s usually dirty, and he thinks I’m a princess. In a bad way. I think maybe he’s on the run, or hiding from a drug cartel. He drinks cartons of beer down at the dam, and he keeps them cold in the fridge he stole from us.

  CHAPTER 18

  It wasn’t a long drive to the Higgins-Devines’ farm, only a few minutes, but most of it was along internal farm roads, and they were in pretty bad shape. Cate went slowly, unwilling to have car trouble on the way in case someone mentioned why she was going. Knitting. What a dumb thing to say, in the lifetime of dumb things she’d said. She winced. She couldn’t bear Henry to find out she was a liar and a pretender. She was going to damn well knit the jumper, and then hang up her needles forever. It would be a lesson to her to just own up. Oh well, she thought, as her car lurched over another speed hump in the middle of the gravelly road. Maybe this is my chance to develop a new skill.

  Audrey Higgins-Devine was very pleased to see Cate pull in to her front drive. She had pulled out her large basket of wool and her range of knitting needles of all sizes, and had put the kettle on for a nice cup of tea.

  ‘Here, these are for you. Thank you very much for helping me.’ The roses were beautiful, softly scented, and Cate knew Audrey would recognise them.

  ‘Ida’s lovely peace roses are still going? How beautiful!’ She took them inside and placed them in a vase on the kitchen table.

  ‘I think that’s definitely the last of them,’ Cate said. ‘They’ve been great to have in the house.’ Audrey led her into the lounge room. It was old-fashioned and cosy, and she could tell that Audrey was an artist because the walls were groaning with paintings of landscapes and still lifes, golden pears in bowls, and storm clouds smothering the horizon. There was needlework displayed on cushions, and tatting and crochet work under every vase and knick-knack. The effect was cluttered but not unpleasantly so; the room was welcoming and warm, like a hug from a friend.

  ‘How’s Ida today?’ Audrey asked. ‘I gave her a call last week, and she said she was resting at your parents’ place.’

  ‘I think she’s resting, maybe a little reluctantly. My parents want her to stay in Perth until she’s had the surgery, but she isn’t well enough at the moment.’

  ‘Poor Ida. I hope she’s up and about soon.’ She sighed. ‘Well, let’s get started now so that we’ve earned our cup of tea. What sort of wool would you like? What sort of colour?’

  They looked through Audrey’s seemingly endless supply, and Cate chose a dark grey-blue colour she thought couldn’t cause any offence, then they settled in to her first lesson of casting on. Audrey was a good teacher, and Cate soon got into the rhythm of knitting – in, around, under, off. Her tension was often wrong, and got so tight that Audrey had to take over and knit a row to loosen it up again, but she did so with such patience and good humour that Cate decided to stay longer than she had intended, until she thought she could remember enough to practise at home in front of the ABC. She wondered
if the combined effect of her new lifestyle would be enough to bring on spontaneous menopause.

  ‘Now, do I hear you might be striking up a friendship with young Alex Bernard?’

  ‘I, err – I’m just hanging out with him sometime; it’s no big deal.’

  Audrey twinkled with enjoyment. ‘Did I say it was?’

  Cate concentrated on her knitting. ‘No, but news travels so fast out here, I’m not sure if you’re actually speaking from the future at this point.’

  Audrey took a sip of well-earned tea. ‘No, Cate, but I was wondering if the jumper was for him. It’s a bit big for you, and very masculine. I assume you have someone in mind?’

  She thought of Henry. Big beardy Henry. He was certainly that. She looked at the few centimetres she had produced and wondered if he’d actually wear it; he didn’t seem too fussy about clothes, and it must be getting cold out in the old house at night, so he would probably wear anything that wasn’t pink. Then she had time to wonder why she was learning to knit to impress him.

  ‘I just wanted to learn, really badly,’ she lied. There was no way she was going to have to give this bloody thing to Alex. ‘Tell me about Ida, when she was my age.’

  ‘Ah, well, that’s easy,’ Audrey replied, studying her crochet. ‘She was a lovely-looking girl, clever, and very strong-willed.’ She gave Cate a significant glance. ‘She’d had a few boyfriends by the time she decided on Jack, but he was by far the best for her. He was very strong as well, and very kind. He discussed the farm with Ida and sought her opinion on a number of topics. Some of the other men found it very amusing, but it worked for them. I think she didn’t want to be left out of anything.’

  ‘Were you always friends?’

  ‘Oh, yes. As soon as I moved into the district with Albert and we met our new neighbours we were great friends. I used to ride my bike over to your place to visit on Wednesdays. And later, when I had the kids, I’d throw them in the back of the ute and take them, too. Of course I spent most of the trip yelling out of the window: Sit down! On your bottom! Hold on!’ She laughed. ‘They were terrible little daredevils, always hanging off the back and sticking their legs out – it was a miracle they survived at all!’