The Drifter

by Anthea Hodgson

  ‘Here she comes,’ Fiona said cheerfully. Margaret was always late. Just like clockwork.

  ‘Hi, darl,’ Tricia said, as she put the kettle on in Ida’s kitchen. ‘I’m Trish.’

  Cate shook her hand. So this was the horsey, gardening Tricia. She’d make a good team with Fiona, who had headed outside to assess the areas that needed the most work.

  ‘Very pleased to meet you. Thanks for giving up your time for this,’ she added.

  ‘Absolutely no problem, I’m happy to help. I’ve brought a few bits and pieces from my garden at home that I thought would go well in Ida’s garden – all very low-maintenance.’

  ‘I think it’ll give Ida a real boost to see the garden brought back to life again,’ Cate assured her.

  ‘Well, Ida was so kind to me when I moved to town with my horses. She insisted on including me in all the local goings-on – I was doing tai chi and hosting the book club before I knew it. I’m glad for the chance to pay her back.’

  Cate laughed. It sounded like Ida.

  ‘But do you know what I like best about Ida?’ she asked, standing in the doorway, surveying the worksite.

  ‘What?’

  ‘She always looks on the bright side, no matter what. She doesn’t complain or sulk. She looks to approve of things – it’s like she wants to like the world. Every meal she has is excellent, every person she meets is interesting, every setback is only temporary. I love that about her.’ She adjusted the hat on her head. ‘It’s a great energy.’

  She quickly tied her hair back in a ponytail and headed out to confer with Fiona.

  The kitchen was filled with cakes and biscuits, and Ida’s room was filled with women stripping out anything that could be a tripping hazard, a slipping hazard or difficult to clean. Then Sarah stayed behind to tidy, dust and vacuum. It took three of them to sort out the bathroom and the kitchen and to add non-slip surfaces to the doorsteps. They had a large supply of handles they needed to affix, so that Ida could navigate the bathroom and her bedroom. After a small number of micro-committee meetings, they decided to set up a couple of sitting areas for Ida in case she needed to take a rest. They added safety lights along the corridor, then found Deirdre cleaning the windows when they stopped for a cup of tea.

  ‘Ida loves a clean window,’ she proclaimed with great authority. ‘I remember she used to always clean them on a Friday before she came to town.’ She rubbed even more furiously, as if Ida could feel her love through the shining glass. ‘We used to joke about it. You know – No cup of tea for you, dear, if you haven’t made those windows shine!’

  Lara and Sarah had been sorting through Ida’s pantry and ditching foodstuffs bought in the last century. They sorted out what was left, making things easier to find and reach. Then they moved to the spare room and emptied a large old bookshelf of junk. The seventies and eighties had obviously been good to Ida and Jack. They had collected endless ugly things – plates, cups, knick-knacks, dishes and mismatching furniture. It was like they had given a home to things no one else could possibly want. If it was a terrible colour or a depressing shape, it found sanctuary at the farm, the place where taste went to die. On the top of the bookshelf a badly stuffed owl was staring cross-eyed both at a deep-purple fondue set with a broken base and the open doorway, in case it might yet fly away.

  Cate gestured helplessly towards the piles she was halfway through sorting. ‘I’m not sure what you can do with some of this stuff,’ she began. ‘It’s all crap I can’t see Ida using again, but maybe we should store it for her.’ She eyeballed the owl, who stared back with one accusing eye. ‘It’s all just so ugly,’ she complained with a sigh.

  ‘Yes, but as it happens, you can make a beautiful life out of ugly things,’ Lara declared sagely, peering deeply into a khaki urn.

  Cate shoved a couple of threadbare sheets into the ragbag. ‘You’ve got a point,’ she muttered at a large bowl shaped like a deep-pink lettuce leaf. Ida and Jack had lived a great life here, surrounded by this junk. They loved it, they forgave it, and maybe sometimes they ignored it and let it stay, but they were obviously people who cared little for home decorating. Their lives were lived out. With friends, neighbours and the larger community. She couldn’t imagine them fussing about the shape of a bowl or the thread count on a set of sheets. They didn’t notice clutter, or wear; it didn’t interest them.

  The house was filled with Ida’s friends and it was sort of overwhelming. Cate went out to the garden to see the girls working there and was shocked to see half of the rosemary hedge had been torn out.

  ‘Oh my God! Did the rosemary have to go?’

  Fiona and Trish looked up and smiled at her. ‘Yes, it did,’ Fiona explained. ‘It was way too leggy and damaged.’ She lifted a bunch of smaller, brighter plants. ‘But look, these are cuttings from Ida’s own rosemary. She gave me some cuttings twenty-five years ago, when I moved to the district, and they’ve thrived ever since. I thought I’d bring back the same plants for her now.’ She looked to where Tricia was digging. ‘And they’ll shoot up in no time; the wheatbelt is perfect for rosemary. Just give them a clip and they won’t get too straggly.’

  Wow. They were kind and loving friends. They were sentimental and practical and dedicated; they had earned each other and they deserved each other. Standing in the cold sunlight with the happy chatter of three generations of women, Cate thought about her own friends. Would any of them even know her in twenty-five years’ time?

  She thought of Brigit, who had partied harder than anyone, and who had disappeared from their world as if she had never been there at all. Beautiful Brigit, who had studied, and who had laughed first at all her stupid jokes and had always insisted on another round of drinks, another poor fool to bring them, another one to take her home. Cate had wished to be her. And now she wished that Brigit had seen through her earlier, and had grown up and survived.

  She knew why her parents judged her harshly. She judged herself the same way. But it was unfair. A million young women got to grow up the same way, with parties and clothes and men. They all took stupid risks, and they nearly all survived. Surely she was no worse?

  Trish walked by, holding what looked like a large tree over her head. ‘Coming through!’ she called, then launched it over the back fence and onto the pile of dead plants.

  Dear Brigit, I am sorry I wasn’t a better friend to you.

  An electric drill sounded in her ear.

  ‘Wakey wakey, Catie! It’s time to put some holes in some stuff!’ Sarah was armed and dangerous. ‘Where does the first handrail need to go?’

  Cate was impressed. ‘Do you know what you’re doing with that?’

  ‘Yep. Pretty much. I figure we’ll work it out together. It goes whiz whiz – it’s not that complicated.’

  ‘Okay, let’s go,’ she said. ‘The box of stuff is in the spare room.’ They ended up with Lara’s help as well, lying or sitting in position, then reaching out to the perfect spot. Holding, marking. Drilling, swearing, drilling again. It was brilliant fun.

  ‘What’s that rule about measure once, cut twice? We are totally on it.’

  They grinned happily and passed the drill around like a peace pipe. After a while there was a knock at the door. Cate was lying on the floor of Ida’s room, having fallen out of bed to demonstrate the effectiveness of the rail they had just installed. She could see the front of the house by turning her head. Henry. What was he doing here? Didn’t he know she had the busy bee today? Man, she sounded like she’d been a committee lady for at least four months.

  ‘Henry. What’s the problem?’ she called. ‘Too noisy? Want us to keep it down?’ There was laughter from the kitchen. Sarah looked around the doorway and did a double take. Is that the beardy guy? she mouthed.

  Cate ignored her. Too embarrassing.

  Henry looked awkward. ‘Uh, no. I just wondered if I can do anything to help?’

  The rest of the women were coming out now. A few of them had been working on afternoon tea so they w
ere holding baked goods and knives.

  Deirdre spoke up. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Henry. I work for Ida. And Cate,’ he explained.

  Deirdre looked slightly suspicious. ‘Well, she told me she had some sort of vagrant helping out.’

  ‘That’s me.’ He looked at Cate, who was still lying on the floor. She felt slightly stupid, but she thought she could carry it off. ‘I shaved.’

  ‘Looks good!’ Lara and Sarah called from their side of the doorway.

  Cate sat up. ‘Of course you can help,’ she said. ‘We’re not sure about drilling tiles. The bathroom’s next.’

  He looked grateful to end the whole shaved-vagrant thing, and came hesitantly inside. He pulled her to her feet. ‘I’m pretty good with power tools,’ he said quietly, and there were impressed noises from the more accommodating of the ladies. Suckers.

  His hands stayed on her a moment too long and her pulse flipped. She glanced at him. Did he do this stuff deliberately? Every time he touched her he seemed to carry an electric charge. Couldn’t be static from the beard anymore.

  ‘Excellent.’ She was rubbing her hands nervously and he was watching them. ‘Bathroom’s this way,’ she muttered. He held out his large hand and took the drill from Lara.

  ‘I’ll help,’ Lara said quickly, ‘and I’ll need Sarah, too.’

  He glanced quickly at Cate again. ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘Sounds like you girls know what you’re doing anyway.’

  ‘Many hands make light work,’ supplied Sarah. ‘That’s the busy-bee motto.’

  ‘I thought it was “What happens away stays away”?’ said Lara.

  ‘That’s the first rule of the footy trip, dear,’ Audrey Higgins-Devine called from the kitchen.

  When Tricia handed her a mug of tea, Cate was determined to make peace with it. It was tea. It was brown, hot and lacking in flavour. But a gazillion little old ladies couldn’t be wrong. She looked to the heavens and took a sip. It was bloody fantastic! She smiled gratefully at Tricia.

  ‘It’s champagne,’ she explained. ‘I got a case of bubbles for Christmas, and we never used them, so I figured – party time!’

  ‘Everyone, to the kitchen. The rest is in the fridge!’ There was a lot of movement and laughter then, and pouring of fizzy bubbles into mugs and cups. Cakes were handed around, and biscuits and slices and a wonderfully buttered Jubilee Twist. Cate finished her first cup a little too quickly, then moved on to her second. There were all the greatest carbohydrates in the world in one kitchen and she was going to meet them all.

  The Church Committee ladies knew how to busy-bee, she had to give them that. They got in and got the job done with good humour, hard work, and then food and alcohol. She looked out at the vegetable patch and the new hedge. It had been a great morning.

  She knew why Henry had come. He’d had the same impulse: to help Ida, who had faith in him. He knew the girls would be fine, or that she’d come and find him if they needed help, but he wanted to be there. She poured him a cup as well and went to find him, happily abandoned and working alone in the bathroom. He was kneeling on the tiles, screwing in the final handle. She perched on the bath and handed him the cup. He looked at the contents suspiciously.

  ‘What is it?’ he asked.

  ‘Champagne. It’s pretty good.’

  She leaned in because she couldn’t help herself, and his skin smelled of man. It was kind of delicious. ‘You’re drinking with the busy-bee ladies now,’ she whispered.

  He stretched out, sitting on the floor, leaning back on the tiles, and took a fizzy sip. Chick’s drink. But it came with a really beautiful chick, and he wasn’t stupid. He took another so he could look at her close up some more. It was a great view. She was watching him, too.

  ‘Again,’ she whispered, and he dutifully took another sip, eyeing her mouth. Like she could get him drunk. Like she’d need to.

  He slowly handed her the cup. ‘Come on, don’t make me drink alone,’ he complained, his voice both soft and rough.

  She took a sip and it was so much better than tea. She could hear some raucous laughter from the kitchen. The girls wouldn’t even notice she was gone. The bathroom was quiet and echoey, and someone had brought in a bunch of lavender from the garden and placed it carefully on the bathroom vanity in an old vase. She handed the mug back. ‘You forgot to shave again,’ she murmured.

  He downed the rest of the fizz and took her hand in his. ‘You sure?’ he whispered, and guided her palm to the side of his face.

  Yeah, it was rough, and it was sending hot chills through her entire body.

  His eyes were on her again, warm and questioning. ‘You know I’m a shaved vagrant.’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘And you know I’m leaving sometime soon.’

  ‘Me too.’

  ‘So if I kiss you now, you know it won’t mean anything.’

  ‘Nothing at all.’

  He stood up and pulled her from the edge of the bath and into his arms, then paused for a moment – staring down at her like this was a really bad idea.

  Her heart was pounding. This was nothing. This was a pissy snog in an old lady’s bathroom. Bloody hell, she’d done a lot worse. His eyes ate her up. And then he kissed her, softly and gently, just moving his mouth against hers, letting his lips fall on her where they wanted, until the feel of her, the taste of her was too much and he kissed her hard and took every thought from her. He turned her quickly, so that her back was to the wall, and he pressed her there, while his hands moved through her hair and traced her jawline. Her blood was racing, and as she reached for his chest, she felt his heart pounding, keeping time with hers.

  It wasn’t what she was expecting; it was warmer and brighter. She felt as if she could see him very clearly, and feel him as if he truly knew her, and she knew him and where he’d been. It was just a kiss, but it was more like a promise, it was more like a letter from her heart, it was an invitation. She had to kiss him again. She was swamped with his delicious warmth and scent, and she felt her body push into him, her torso meet his and her breasts crush against him. More. She had to have more. Her hands found his huge shoulders and his chest, and she started to unbutton his shirt.

  There was another loud laugh from outside in the kitchen. He swore under his breath, then carefully held her away from him, resting his forehead on hers and closing his eyes as she tried to catch him again. ‘Hey – ’ he breathed heavily – ‘stop for a second.’

  It was her turn to swear. ‘Henry, I’m sorry.’ She looked at his now partially revealed chest. ‘Who took your shirt off?’

  ‘You did.’

  ‘Really? Crap, sorry. We didn’t cover that in our state of the nation.’

  ‘Cate, it’s fine. It’s just – I can’t go there knowing I’m leaving. It’s too painful. And I think you’ve forgotten you’ve got a room of booze hounds out there and they’re going to come looking for you in about two minutes.’

  She looked up, horrified. The gossip nerve centre was sitting in her kitchen. There was a knock at the door. She yelped. ‘Just a sec! Just a sec! Just a sec!’

  He clamped his hand over her mouth. ‘I think they got it,’ he whispered.

  ‘Cate? Are you in there? We thought we’d lost you! Come and have another champers and something with chocolate on it.’

  ‘Okay, there in a sec!’

  Henry clamped her mouth again. ‘Shut up.’

  She nodded. He carefully removed his hand and she stared at him with wide eyes.

  ‘What was that?’ she said.

  He briefly rubbed his short hair with his fingers until it was standing up in frustration. ‘A bad idea,’ he told her.

  She watched his deep-hazel eyes avoid her, but she wasn’t going to let him get away this time. She took his large hands; she inspected the dark hair on his wrists and the small scrapes on his tanned skin. He let her hold him there for a moment, but she could feel the tension rising in him.

  ‘It didn’t feel like a bad idea to me,�
� she breathed.

  She glanced up at him apologetically and made her way to the kitchen, practising looking like she hadn’t just been completely and utterly kissed. Halfway there she had time to wonder which of the Church Committee booze hounds had closed the bathroom door.

  ‘Here she is!’ said Tricia happily when she made it back to the party. Cate grinned, embarrassed, and looked for her cup. There was no need; one was provided immediately and she took a sip.

  ‘Here, try this. I brought this dark-chocolate-chip pecan biscuit that’s been dipped in white chocolate. It’s pretty amazing!’ Lara offered her the plate.

  Cate took one and bit. It snapped and crumbled, with the soft crunch of dark chocolate and pecans, and generous shards of sweet white chocolate filling her mouth. This was it. She was never eating another vegetable again.

  Deirdre had made tea, and she was contentedly sipping a very weak brew, inspecting the butter cake in front of her as if she was a judge at the Narrogin Show. She appeared to approve and took a large bite to prove it. There was general chatter and good spirits in the room and Cate started to relax again. A few of them began to talk about seeding. Quite a few had been ripping up already and most were confident of a fairly early break to the season, and intended to wait it out.

  ‘Are you putting in any crop this year?’ Fiona asked Cate.

  ‘A few hectares, mainly to cover feed and maybe some to cart to the bins. Not much. I’m not a farmer.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Audrey. ‘You seem to be doing all right. And Kel is happy to help get you going. I hear he met Henry?’

  ‘He did. I think Henry really appreciated his help. And so did I.’

  Mrs Higgins-Devine looked pleased.‘Well, you let me know if there’s anything we can do to help you. Ida is like family to us.’

  ‘And this Henry. Is he a good worker?’ It was Deirdre, and she was regarding Cate too closely.

  ‘Yes, he is. He’s always over at the shed fixing things or up the race checking the sheep.’