by Lily Malone
Liv cast her eye to the sky. The grey mush wasn’t ominous. The worst thing was, now she didn’t know if she wanted sunshine, or rain. Her head filled with cosy images of being tucked up with Owen under her coat.
She walked with him across the gravel, stepping off into lush grass high enough to lick at the top of her boots. The dogs came too, black and white balls of energy, sniffing at every post.
“So where do you want to start?”
Liv shrugged an arm into the strap of the Felco carrypack. “This is as good a spot as any.”
The unit wasn’t heavy. The batteries were full and she knew from experience she’d get close to two days before they’d need recharging. Two days should be plenty of time to finish the job.
Where is the other strap? She flailed for it with her right arm.
Then Owen was by her side. He guided her arm into the strap and tugged lightly to make sure it was secure. Liv could feel his strength with every jostle, only he didn’t stop at her shoulders, he followed the line of each strap down the front of her chest, pulling to test the strain.
“Those straps shouldn’t pinch, Liv. You had them too tight.” His voice was rough, and it came from a place way too close to her temple for comfort. She didn’t dare look up. If he saw the expression in her eyes, he’d know the slide of his knuckles was… Oh God, how it was turning her on.
What’s wrong with me? It was a hysterical squeak inside her head.
“Thanks.” Liv swallowed hard and stepped away. “Your aunt’s had this vineyard pre-pruned. See? The canes are trimmed back. We pick the healthy vines and clean them up. Okay?”
He saluted.
She ignored him. “Watch and learn.”
She switched the Felcotronic on and moved to the start of the vine row. As she talked, she demonstrated. “These vines are about twenty years old, I’d reckon. So they’re still teenagers, but they’ve been around a while and some need taking down a peg or two. See?” She indicated a spot near the end post where there was a cluster of crossed canes.
“It’s a bit like pruning a rose bush. We want to clean everything out to let air circulate. Cut out any dead wood and make lots of room for the new buds to grow. Grapevines fruit on new wood.”
Owen’s boot nudged hers as he leaned around her to watch and the contact sent butterflies cartwheeling through her stomach.
Focus, Liv.
“We want to pick the healthiest spurs and cut them back to two buds. Here,” Liv moved the electric pruners into place and touched the trigger. Shining blades sliced through the vine as if it were a stick of soft cheese. She moved to the next spur, squeezed: “And here.”
Canes swished to the ground.
“When do I get a go with that thing?” Owen asked.
“You don’t.” Liv moved down the row, snipping as she went. “If you come across knotty bits like this where there are no new spurs growing at all, you can cut that section back completely. That’s where those loppers come in to it.”
“Okay. It looks simple enough. I’ll give it a go.”
She pointed him to the row of vines behind her so that they would be working back to back. It was safer that way. He couldn’t accidentally chop her finger off, vest or no safety vest.
See? Level headed. Liv gave herself a silent cheer.
Owen cut into the vine. The secateurs cleaved easily in his capable hands. Liv watched for a minute, made a couple of observations and let him go. She pulled on black wool gloves with the fingers cut out and began work in earnest.
It was quiet in the vineyard, there was no wind to rustle the canes and they were a long way from the main roads. The only sound was the snip of blades and the gentle sigh of sticks falling to the ground. The dogs huffed around them for a while, but when they were convinced their humans would do nothing more exciting, they returned to the shed.
Grudgingly, the thermometer rose and the fog lifted.
“What did your cousin mean about you not feeling the cold?” She asked once, readjusting her beanie over her ears.
Owen counted two buds and pruned back his spur, then stood straight. He swapped the secateurs from his right hand to his left and flexed his fingers. When their eyes met, Liv felt the contact shimmer between them.
“I spent last summer in Antarctica. I only got back to Hobart in early May. It was minus twelve degrees at Wilson the week I left, so I kind of have a whole new perspective on cold.”
His penchant for tee-shirts and shorts suddenly made more sense. “Antarctica? Wow. What were you doing? Are you a scientist?”
“Nah, a mechanic.”
She shivered. “I can’t imagine doing something like that. What’s it like?”
“White. Dry. Freezing most of the time.”
“Good people?”
“Yeah. Some really good people. Some idiots too. And there’s no getting away from them. It’s not like you can get on a bike and ride off if you need to clear your head.”
“I guess not.” Liv turned her attention back to the vine. Spur. Bud. Slice. She finished her row first, moved across two, and started up the next one.
“Why Antarctica?” She asked, once she’d worked back close enough that she didn’t have to shout.
“I needed to get away for a while.” His face clouded and she thought he’d been about to say something else, then he shrugged: “If you want to earn good money these days it’s either do it in the mines, or go somewhere else remote. I didn’t really like the idea of working fly in, fly out, and in the mines I’d probably just drink whatever I made. I looked into spending a season in Antarctica and talked to a few people who’d spent time down there and it sounded good. I’m glad I did it.”
“Was it lonely?”
“Not lonely. Not exactly. I took my guitar and a couple of instructional DVDs and I promised myself that by the time April rolled around I’d have some John Renbourn arrangements down pat. There’s nothing like trying to learn Renbourn to teach a guy like me patience.”
He played guitar? It didn’t fit with the Owen she was trying her hardest not to like. “Who’s John Renbourn?”
“He’s a guitarist’s guitarist. Take it from me.”
“I’ll have to. I’ve never heard of him.” Then after a beat: “So are you going back?”
“I’m not sure. I haven’t decided.” Snip. His cane fell cleanly and he looked up. “It’s complicated.”
“Because?”
“There’s a few reasons,” he said. “One is my grandfather. He isn’t well.”
“Where is he?”
“Usually he lives here, with Aunt Margaret and Mark. But my aunt needs to get the vineyard ready for winter and now that Mark’s hurt his leg, she can’t have two invalids to look after. That’s why I offered to come up here and help out. She’s registered Granddad for respite care this week at the centre in Hahndorf.”
Owen made another cut. “He’s not happy about that either. He reckons all they do all day is sit in their chairs and dribble until someone turns on the TV. If there are more men in the room than women, he reckons he might get some football to watch. Otherwise, it’s Bold and the Beautiful.”
Liv giggled. “The centre in Hahndorf has a good reputation. I don’t think it’s like that there.”
“That’s what we told Granddad, but he’s a stubborn old bugger.”
She was moving steadily up the hill away from him and had to raise her voice to ask her next question. “What about your parents? Couldn’t your Pop have stayed with them for a week?”
“My mother has point-blank refused to look after Granddad. She’s left it all to Aunt Margaret. Mum says she can’t cope, but that’s because having to care for someone else cramps her style. My mother doesn’t like to put herself out.”
Owen finished his row, walked up two, and started working back up the hill. This time he used the loppers on a gnarled stump of vine and the muscles in his biceps clenched. The vine shook under the force.
“What’s the other reason?” Li
v asked. Don’t look at his arms.
“Ah, well.” Owen came up from the vine with a crooked smile. “That would be a girl, of course.”
Somehow, the day suddenly seemed darker, the air colder.
“The one who wouldn’t like helmet hair?” She said, fighting the fierce stab of disappointment that wanted to knife through her belly. She should have remembered there was a girl. With guys like Owen there was always a girl. She definitely should not feel disappointed.
“I think that was how you put it the other day, yes,” Owen replied, returning to his vine with a wink.
A tumbling cane fell across her boot and Liv kicked it viciously under the vine row.
The morning went like that. When their paths crossed, they chatted—about work, family, music. When they were too far apart for easy conversation, they pruned in companionable silence. The only time it was different was when she mentioned his grandfather again. Three of her four grandparents were still fit and healthy, living in their own homes. Pop Murphy had died from a heart attack when Liv and Luke were at primary school.
“How many years is it since your Pop could look after himself?”
“He’d been doing great for a guy in his eighties,” Owen said, lining up the loppers. “Then someone broke into Granddad’s place at Mount Gambier and tried siphoning off some fuel from his old Landrover. It was two o’clock in the morning and Granddad’s dog woke him up with his barking. He took a baseball bat out to the shed to investigate.
“The guy was too high on drugs to even notice the damn dog’s barking. When Granddad confronted him, he knocked Granddad down and stole the bat and hit him twice around the head. The guy broke his arm. Granddad was in hospital for weeks after the attack because his bones wouldn’t knit and when he got out, he didn’t want to live by himself anymore.” Owen crunched the handles on the loppers. “That was eighteen months ago.”
Liv felt sick inside. “Anyone who could do that to an old person is the lowest of the low.”
“Scum of the earth.” Owen bent his head over the vines again.
Chapter 5
By lunchtime, the mists had lifted. Every now and then the sun peeked through, but didn’t stay long. The wind had freshened during the morning and the canes on the unpruned canopies swayed like stiff reeds.
To the west, a deep line of heavier clouds lumbered over the hills.
It was almost one o’clock when Owen announced he was starving and hung the loppers over the trellis wire.
“I brought lunch with me,” Liv said, shrugging off the carrypack.
“Come up to the house. I told Mark he could manage to put together a few rounds of ham and cheese toasted sandwiches for us. Or you eat what you brought. Whatever works.”
They climbed the hill toward the house. The dogs trotted out to greet them. Owen kicked off his boots and laid his vest on the couch and Liv laid everything over her Blundstones, shoving her sunglasses on top of her head.
When Owen opened the door, the scent of melted cheese made Liv’s stomach grumble. There was a football game on the widescreen, commentary turned up loud. Mark was perched on the couch in the first room on the right in front of the TV, foot elevated on a small stool.
He tore his eyes away from the screen long enough to wave his hand down the hall. “Saw you coming up the drive. They’re in the toastie oven now.”
“Thanks, man,” Owen said.
Aunt Margaret’s kitchen formed part of an open plan rectangle that opened off the end of the hall. It was divided by furniture into dining room and living area, with bookshelves and a couch near a slow combustion fire that glowed against the far wall. On the kitchen bench, a toastie oven hissed and spat tomato juice and melting butter.
“Your aunt likes bright colours,” Liv said, looking around. The walls were the colour of daffodils in spring. “So where is she anyway?”
“Saturdays she has a stall at the Wilunga Market. She reads palms.”
“Serious? I wonder if she’ll read mine.”
“If she does, she’ll only ever tell you the good news. That’s the type of lady she is. She’s one out of the box, my Aunt Margaret,” he laughed. “Hey, if you need the toilet or anything, it’s that way. Last door on the right.”
“Thanks.” Liv followed where he pointed.
There was stuff everywhere in this house: clothes over chairs and bedspreads; umbrellas and hats on hooks; books and magazines open on—shock, horror—their spines. There were cheap and cheerful hall runners, photos, drawings and paintings. Lamps. Figurines. Indoor plants. Ornaments. Everything had a faint patina of dust that would have sent Liv’s mother running for a cloth.
Sneaking a peek inside another bedroom door, Liv saw a guitar propped against the window sill and thought she might grab it on the way back. Maybe Owen was in the mood to show her some of his John Renbourn skills.
On the back of the toilet door a sign read: If it’s brown, flush it down. If it’s yellow, let it mellow. Liv was still smiling at that as she re-entered the kitchen carrying the guitar.
Owen had his back to her, cutting ham, cheese and tomato toasted sandwiches diagonally on a thick slab of bread board. He tossed the cut halves on a plate and turned, a smile warm in his eyes.
“Uh oh.”
“Look what I found.” She raised the guitar.
“I thought you were going to the toilet? I’m sure I didn’t leave that in there.”
An embarrassed flush climbed up her cheeks. “I kind of, might of… snooped a little bit.”
“Well don’t drop it. It’s worth about four grand.”
“Four grand?” Liv clutched the guitar tighter and made sure she it didn’t bang it with her knees as she walked. Its timbers shone golden brown and it gave off an elusive scent. Vanilla beans, maybe.
“I like collectors’ items, remember? That’s a Martin. I bought it online from the States.”
Liv shook her head. “I’m in the wrong industry. Since when did mechanics earn enough to buy four thousand dollar guitars?”
“When they’re mechanics at Wilson base.”
“Well, step in and take it any time you’re ready.” She held the guitar out gingerly. “I can’t believe you’d take something like this to Antarctica. Doesn’t the cold affect the strings?”
He grinned and brushed crumbs from his hands using a piece of paper towel. “I took my old cheapie down there. I’ve got two.” Then he swished the sandwich plates to opposite sides of the table and held his hand out. Liv passed him the expensive toy then chose a seat opposite and started eating, burning her tongue as she bit into melted cheese.
Owen pulled out a chair and cradled the guitar across his knees. “See if you know what this is.”
He started to play. The guitar chords drowned the football game commentary and Mark’s occasional cheers—more like sneers—that wafted from the lounge. It didn’t sound like the game was going well.
Then she forgot about football. She forgot about everything. The music filled her head.
Owen’s grip on the beautiful instrument was relaxed, yet strong and sure. Head bowed, brow furrowed in concentration, it gave her a chance to really study him. His fingers flew over the strings and he didn’t miss a note.
Watching him, a thrill shivered across the skin at the nape of her neck. She couldn’t help but imagine those skilled fingers plucking at her own body, treating her like he did those frets and strings.
“House Of The Rising Sun,” she said when he finished, the notes lingering in the air like smoke. “John Renbourn wrote that?”
“Not Renbourn. I don’t know who wrote Rising Sun. I just like the song.”
“Me too. You play really well.”
“Don’t sound so surprised,” he smiled, leaning the guitar against the seat beside him.
“I didn’t mean… I guess I thought you might strum out Darling Clementine, or something. Not a proper song.”
He cocked an eyebrow at her. “Since when wasn’t Darling Clementine a proper
song?”
“If a six-year-old can play it on a recorder it isn’t a proper song,” she said defensively.
“Fair point,” he conceded.
Liv could feel an answering smile curving her lips. “I have to admit I’m impressed. You play really well.”
“I’m getting there, slowly. One day I’d love to get good enough to be able to teach acoustic guitar. Maybe get a few guys together so we can jam on Sunday afternoons in someone’s shed. Stuff like that.”
“Sounds like you have it all planned.”
They chewed in silence broken only by the football game and Mark’s increasingly voluble groans.
Owen finished his sandwich and drank half his apple juice in one go. “So speaking of plans, Liv, what were your plans for the long weekend? Before I turned them arse-about.”
“Ben and I planned a motorbike ride on Monday. We were going to take the Ducati on a road-trip up to Mannum.”
Owen locked his charcoal gaze to hers. “And Ben is?”
“Ben is…was…my brother’s boyfriend. They always used to ride up to the river on weekends when they were together and we thought doing a commemorative ride would be a great way to say goodbye.”
“Haven’t you said your goodbyes? I thought he died years ago.” He must have seen the hurt flash across her face because he raised his hand. “I’m sorry. That didn’t come out right.”
“It’s okay. Sometimes I think you’re right. Luke died three years ago and I don’t know why it’s been so hard for both of us to move on. The Ducati was special to all of us.” She didn’t really expect Owen to understand. This was between her and Ben and Luke. How did she explain that the goodbye ride just felt like the right thing to do? “My dad had a problem with his only son being gay. He tried to stop Luke and Ben seeing each other—”
“Aw fuck, Crows!” The shout erupted from the hall, making Liv jump. The football game volume cranked up a notch.
Owen’s gaze never wavered from hers. “Sorry about Mark. He’s a mad Crows’ fan. You were saying?”
“The day my brother died–”
“Christ! Tackle like you mean it Crows. You’re playing like a bunch of faggots!” Mark roared.
