by PJ Vye
Jack watched the excitement cross Carolyn’s face as she spoke to the fake Jeff Winn, outlining her experience and ambition. Gaining Willa’s trust would be a lot more difficult than the ambitious reporters. All his experience told him she wouldn’t fall for the usual tactics—fame, money or power. He had to find her motivation—her secret desire—and then exploit it for all it was worth.
Jack moved his chair back into the shade of the gum trees, shifting the sticks with his foot so that the legs would sit straight. He might be here a while, listening to Carolyn asking question after question in an effort to make up her mind.
By the time he heard Carolyn handing out her contact details, Jack was planning what he would cook Willa for dinner.
“Good news?” Jack asked, taking back the phone she handed him.
She watched him briefly, biting her bottom lip as she thought. “Alright, I’ll go. But I swear Jack Gilmore. If I find out that this is all a scam, I swear I’ll—”
“Say no more,” said Jack, throwing up his hands. “But in all fairness, Winny owed me a favour. And look at you. He’d be lucky to have you.”
She couldn’t resist the complement, blushing like she believed it was true. “Thanks…then.”
“Glad to help.” He packed up her tent as she gathered her things and together they walked the long trail through the bushland.
After loading the car, Carolyn turned to Jack and said, “Can I just say, helping the woman, rather than hound her…it was a brilliant strategy…brilliant! Watering her plants, feeding the animals…damn cleverest thing I ever saw…I have to admit it…you are the master.”
“Good luck to you, Carolyn.”
“Thanks Jack.”
They shook hands and Carolyn climbed into her car and drove away, dreaming of a life about to start.
Chapter 6
It took another three days of weeding, wood chopping and chicken yard maintenance before Willa trusted him enough to accept his food. Another three days after that before she agreed to sit down with him to eat. Jack traveled to town every few days to purchase supplies and update himself on the media fallout from the Hermit show. It seemed the lack of information and footage had helped the Australian public forget about their obsession with the songbird and, with the exception of some scary repeated “Get out” vision, there was no further news. This worked in his favour. While interest was low he would be able to convince her that cooperating with him meant her privacy could be guaranteed. Of course, there was also the advantage of not having to counteract any better recording offers from competing studios. There had been twenty-seven messages from Phil, with increasing degrees of urgency, to call him back. He had ignored them all. He didn’t need the pressure of the board tightening their grip as he moved into the most important phase of his strategy.
Today, he had purchased the very best steaks he could find in the small town and was trying his best not to look amused as the smoky aroma of barbeque enticed Willa from her shack. He saw her watching from her door as he deliberately laid out two plates with cutlery, tossed a salad and set it on the table, then poured two glasses of wine into plastic cups. Earlier in the day, he had stood in the bottle shop for an hour, going back and forth, wondering if he could justify having a drink tonight. Just the one bottle of wine—shared, of course. In the end he relented and purchased a bottle, and then returned for another five, convinced he could manage the temptation.
As he lifted the steaks onto the plates he salivated with anticipation. They made the bush smell like the kitchen of a fine restaurant, and as he let the warm summer breeze settle over him as he sat beneath the rustling gums and filtered evening sun, he wondered if he’d ever been so contented.
Willa sat down opposite him at the table and they ate in silence but for the sounds of chewing and scraping cutlery. He thought about all the fancy business dinners he’d endured in his time, the small talk, the uncomfortable clothing. This was the best business dinner he could remember, and once again that wave of inner peacefulness drifted over him, catching him by surprise. His body had found calmness without alcohol. Despite this, he took his first long swig of wine, sucked it between his teeth, savouring the sensation. When he looked up, she was watching him, and for a second he was embarrassed to be caught enjoying his weakness so overtly.
When they had finished eating, and she had declined a second glass of wine, he put the kettle on the gas ring and prepared a single cup.
“Thank you.” The words seemed intrusive in the dome of silence that had surrounded them for so long. But he was glad of it.
“You’re welcome,” he said.
He watched her as she broke a dried-up gum leaf between her fingers and scattered it on the ground.
“I miss steak the most,” she said. “I mean— I don’t get it very often.”
“Yes, I know,” he said.
Her eyes creased and flashed that angry look. “How do you know?”
“Your brother,” he answered quickly.
She stood and took a few steps away from him and he rushed to explain. “On the TV show. They interviewed your brother. He said steak was your favourite food.”
“Oh.” She remained standing and he searched for something to say to make her comfortable again. “That’s about all he said though. A man of few words. He didn’t seem very happy to be disturbed, actually.”
“No, he wouldn’t.”
“Do you have any other siblings?”
“Thanks for the food. Goodnight.”
He watched her leave and when the door had closed behind her, he firmly put the cork back in the wine bottle and went to bed.
The following night the routine was much the same, only this time it was lamb chops and salad with the addition of some coal fired jacket potatoes, an offering from Willa. If she was enjoying the company of eating together, she didn’t show it. Dinner chatter was limited and they ate their meal quite quickly as a result.
Afterwards, Jack nursed the single glass of wine he permitted himself while she held a hot cup of tea between two hands. With the cup perched close to her mouth, she asked unexpectedly, “Who else did they interview, on the TV show?”
He could see she was invested in his answer and had probably been simmering over the thought since last night, so he chose his words carefully. “Some work colleagues from the factory. They explained how you work eight weeks of the year and then nobody sees you again for another year.”
She accepted this with a nod, so he continued on. “They asked what you spent your wages on,” he said.
Her throat moved as she swallowed slowly. In a voice he could barely hear, she asked, “What did they say?”
“They assumed you were hoarding it somewhere,” he said. “Or giving it away. It’s fairly clear you don’t need much to live on.” He gave her a smile that usually worked on women but she was focussed on the cup she held and didn’t look his way.
Her brow wrinkled. “Was there anyone else?” she asked.
He wasn’t sure how much more he should tell her. The more exposed she felt, the less likely he was to get what he wanted from her.
He went on tentatively. “Not really. They found your old year twelve English teacher. He pretended to remember you but I’m not sure he did…he said you were a hermit in his class as well.”
Finally, a smile erupted from the woman. “Mr. Thurthrew. He was a space cadet. He would have no idea who I was,” she said shaking her head.
“They mentioned you had been a social worker for a short time.”
“I see.” Although she barely moved, he could see the tension in her hands, holding the cup tightly, her fingers white. He hurried on with reassurance.
“They said after university you worked for a year before moving back to your home town and retreating from mainstream living. That was the end of it.” He purposely failed to mention how the reporter had left the segment dripping with an air of mystery, insinuating some kind of scandal.
Jack knew humankind well enough
to know that Willa wanted something kept secret. He, of all people, understood how important it was to keep your past hidden. It was less painful than to have people constantly remind you of your mistakes.
“Willa, that’s all there was. Your brother, a work colleague, the teacher and a brief mention of uni and work. It went for less than ninety seconds. Mostly they focused on the recordings…of your music.”
“So if I had kept my mouth shut, I would not have to share my one piece of the world with you right now?” She gave him an accusing stare and he nodded in reluctant agreement. He wasn’t sure if she would punch him in the face or storm back to her tin shack. Instead, she did neither, remaining in the chair and sipping her tea.
“I just can’t believe that the one thing that was mine—that was private—has left me feeling so exposed and…and…violated.”
He felt an unexpected rush of sympathy for her. “Tell me about the music,” he said. “What makes you choose the songs you sing? How do you breathe such life into them? Do you practice or are you just improvising? It’s fascinating, Willa. You’re fascinating.” He took a big breath after the tumble of words were out and realised in his enthusiasm he had moved very close to her, sitting on the edge of his chair. He wasn’t surprised when she stood and moved away from the intensity of his questions.
“Thanks for the food. Goodnight.” And then she was gone.
The following day was hot. It was the kind of day that sapped your energy and stole your will to live. Even the flies were passed out somewhere in the shade.
Willa spent the day near the water, thankful that all the uninvited guests, bar one, had gone. The four iron walls of her home were like an oven, the inside temperature hot enough to roast a chicken.
During the worst of the day, Willa sat with Jack on the beached, rocky part of the river in their camp chairs, under the shade of the huge gum trees that hung over the water. With their heads out of the sun and their feet deliciously cool, it was a tolerable way to escape the heat.
Willa appreciated the man’s ability to remain quiet and not fill every silence with words. It was an odd feeling to have another person in her space and not be going crazy about it. When he did speak it was to comment on the colour of a bird or to find the name of a plant. When he saw a mob of kangaroo’s quietly feeding on the other side of the river, he didn’t jump up and run for his camera, instead sitting very still and enjoying the tranquillity of the moment. A joey was attempting one of his first solo jumps outside the sanctity of his mother’s pouch and Willa never tired of these moments. It crossed her mind that she was enjoying having someone to share it with. A shared moment. It was difficult to deny—it was kind of nice.
Long after the animals had moved on and the sun was sitting just below the protection of the tree branches, Jack readjusted his chair to avoid the glare and pulled the rim of his cap down.
“If you could be anywhere in the world right now…say you could teleport yourself somewhere magically…where would it be?”
Willa raised her eyebrows, thinking it was a stupid question but unable to stop her brain from imagining, just for a moment, a day without the weight of guilt that she carried with her.
Jack didn’t appear to be rattled by her silence. “Would it be someplace with air-conditioning?”
“What’s wrong with right here?”
“Nothing—nothing—I just mean…what do you dream of?”
“That is such a predictable question.”
“Perhaps it is. But still, I want to know.”
“What do most people wish for?”
“More money, more power, more time. And of course, fame.”
“Well you know what I think about fame. And money and time tend to be mutually exclusive to the average person, don’t they? It’s impossible to have both.”
“Well, if you have too much time and too much money—that’s when you start getting into trouble, don’t you think?”
“A simple, uncomplicated life. That’s what I dream about.”
“What about a family, kids?”
Willa couldn’t hide her annoyance at his audacity. She gave him a scorching look.
He lowered his eyes. “Sorry,” he said, his voice small.
“Just to be clear, we are not friends, you and I. My thoughts and dreams are my own—and I wouldn’t share them with you, even if we were friends. Which we’re not!”
“Well…just to be clear, I think we are friends. That is why I intend to tell you my dreams.”
“Must you?” she said. She slid down in her chair and closed her eyes in an effort to make him stop.
“I dream I am at the Grammy’s and I’m surrounded by my recording artists who are all nominated and all of them thank me in their acceptance speech when they win. And the old man who chairs the board tells me how outstanding I am and insists I take his place as chairman.”
Willa opened just one eye. “And that would make you happy?”
“Damn right.”
“For how long would it make you happy? Until the following year’s awards?”
He gave her a penetrating look and then waved her comment away. “At least I have a dream. Didn’t anyone tell you not to dis’ a man’s dream?”
“Alright. I’ll tell you one thing, just to make you feel less like an idiot. I sometimes dream about what it would be like living by the ocean.”
“Well that’s not a stretch.”
“Well, it wouldn’t be just anywhere. It would be a house right on the beach that you could step out the front door and be on the sand.”
“Of course.”
“And remote.”
“That goes without saying.”
“Not another person or house in sight. Just a long, private stretch of beach, all to myself.”
“You know you can’t own the actual beach?”
“You can’t own a river either—yet here I am.”
“Good point.”
“But seriously, I have everything I could ever possibly want, right here. Why would I leave? I’m living the dream.”
It was the first time she had invited anyone into her home, her space. She wasn’t house proud in the least, and cared little for his or anyone’s opinion on her choice of lifestyle. Nevertheless, she did glance over the room as if seeing it through his eyes. The dusty fireplace where she cooked, the single threadbare armchair, comfortable despite its years that sat low to the ground with wooden arm rests that made it impossible to play guitar in. A wooden table with thin legs and an old school chair designed for function over form. A single bed was tucked beneath a mosquito net which helped separate it from the rest of the room. The floor was swept clay with two pieces of linoleum; one under the food crate and one by the bed. There were no windows, only a moveable piece of tin that let in the light and flies during the day and a cool breeze and mosquitoes by night. A single gas lamp hung from a long nail and as she lit the wick, a warm glow spread across the room.
In a stack of wooden fruit crates from the floor to the ceiling were cassette tapes. Some were store bought with original printed sleeves, but most were handwritten, compilation tapes with the dates listed on the front spine. She watched him take in the vast collection, and felt compelled to explain. “Growing up I had a double tape player. I made a lot of recordings.”
“Tell me about these,” he said. “Homemade Feb ‘86, Mar ‘86…”
“I used to record off the radio,” she said, “or sometimes I would record from a TV show or movie by putting the tape player against the TV speaker.”
He nodded his understanding.
“The quality is pretty poor, though.”
He smiled. “I’m not surprised.”
She watched him move past the tapes and search the room with his eyes. “But you don’t listen to music anymore?” he asked. “You have no electricity to power a player.”
“My Walkman,” she said. “It works on batteries and headphones. I was so excited to buy it when I… ah…” How had he managed to g
et her talking about herself so freely? She was committed now. She had to finish the sentence. “…got my first pay cheque.”
“I understand.”
“Tea?”
“Sure, why not?” He shrugged, took the hint and changed his line of questioning. “So you pick a song you like, work out the chord structure, the lyrics, and then you sing it.”
“Yep. Well, sort of.”
“Sort of?” he asked.
“They never sound much like the original.”
“We like to call that, interpretative covers.”
She smiled as she confessed, “I sing only for myself, so accuracy is irrelevant to me.” Her mouth tightened into a straight line as she remembered that, more recently, in fact, her performances had not been only for herself. “Those people recorded me without my permission,” she asked. “How did they do it?”
He took a deep breath and indicated the low armchair, meaning to sit. She nodded her permission and he backed into the seat, crossing his ankles in front of him before answering. “Recording devices have come a long way since the days of leaning your cassette recorder against the speakers of your television cabinet.”
She smiled to herself as she poured the tea. “Mmm. I imagine so.”
“They probably put a mic somewhere in the room,” he said.
“But I would have seen it,” she said.
“Not necessarily. It was probably wireless and smaller than a matchbox.”
Her eyes widened in horror. Maybe it was still here. What if this man had one in his pocket right now?
He anticipated her fear and hurried on to reassure her. “Don’t fret, Willa. They’ve gone. You need to be close enough to pick up the wireless signal and I’m the only one still here.”
