He nods.
‘How often?’
‘Tends to be a bit sporadic, I’m afraid.’
‘Oh. Well, long as it’s not too sporadic! I’d love to see the garden,’ she says, fishing the last spoon out of the water and drying her hands.
‘Of course. After you’ve met Mara.’ Larry folds his glasses into his breast pocket. ‘Ready?’
He takes them not further into the house but outside and down the veranda steps to a long low hut opposite. The hut has two blue painted doors – one into each half. ‘This houses the generator – at the other end,’ Larry jerks his beard towards the far door, ‘and Mara stays in here.’
Cassie looks at him. ‘She doesn’t live in the house?’
‘She prefers – well –’ Larry seems to struggle for a moment. ‘Well, you’ll see.’
Cassie looks at the door, the slivers of peeled blue paint showing up a rusty undercoat. She’d barely noticed the shed last night. Certainly never dreamed that Mara might be inside. Beside the door is a window, the glass dusty like all the glass, like everything, and swathed with a thick curtain.
Larry opens the door into a dark room. They go in. Larry closes the door and the drape that covers the door falls with a muffled gasp.
Cassie grabs Graham’s hand, seized by a fierce urge to giggle. Once the door is closed she can see nothing for a moment, eyes full of sun-dazzles – and then the detail creeps back: red Turkish carpet on the walls and floor, cushions, piles of them, long and square and round, all shades of red from black to vermilion. The shadows are solid, beastlike, everywhere, lounging in corners, slumped against the walls. There’s a strong smell, female, a thick perfume, a woman’s private odour, familiar and shocking.
‘Could we –’ Cassie begins. Not funny now, she needs the door open, needs to breathe. Feels about to suffocate or faint.
‘Wait,’ Larry says. ‘Mara? They’re here.’
‘I can see that.’ The voice comes from a corner. Despite the stifling heat, Cassie’s arms riffle with gooseflesh.
‘Perhaps you’d like to greet them?’
The darkness stirs and a jumble of shadows jumps together. A woman becomes visible, struggling up. Short and wide, her eyes gleam in the sparse pinkish light.
‘How do you do?’ Her voice sounds creaky, as if not lately used.
Cassie takes a deep breath and pulls herself together. She lets go of Graham and shakes the moist, spongy hand held out to her. ‘Fine, thanks,’ she says. ‘And you?’
Mara yawns hugely. Cassie looks away from the gape of her throat. They stand in silence for a moment.
‘They’ve been very keen to meet you. Cassandra and Graham. I told you. Graham is a painter,’ Larry says.
Graham holds out his hand. ‘Hi.’
‘I used to be a painter,’ Mara says, taking his hand and frowning down at it before letting go.
‘They were beginning to think you didn’t exist,’ Larry says. ‘That you were a figment –’
‘I am no figment,’ she says, her voice rising, panicky.
‘Of course you’re not.’ Larry pats her arm. ‘Now I’m going to show them round. And later we’ll have lunch together. Get properly acquainted. Eh? I’ll come and fetch you in time for lunch.’
‘I’ve not been well,’ Mara says, leaning towards Cassie. ‘I have these – turns, Fred was here, he helped me.’
‘And now Fred’s gone and we have Cassandra and Graham.’
‘Cassie,’ Cassie says.
‘Come.’ Larry lifts the curtain over the door. Mara turns away but as the door opens, a blade of sunshine flashes across the room, illuminating heavy black hair tied loosely back, a red velvet dressing gown, deep sadness sketched in round a full-lipped mouth.
‘See you later, Mara.’ Cassie picks up a prickle of the woman’s sadness.
Outside, she presses her hands over her eyes, the sun making her reel. Like coming out of a theatre into the brightness of a sunny afternoon. She pulls her sunglasses down from her hair but still it’s blindingly bright. Above them the pump creaks, a bird shrieks and far above, deep in the sky, a plane draws a chalky stripe across the blue.
‘Fucking –’ Graham starts but Larry puts a finger to his lips and leads them away from the door.
‘Yes?’ He smiles, a curl of eyebrow rising from behind his sunglasses.
‘Nothing.’
‘Good, and if you don’t mind, I’d really rather you didn’t swear.’ Larry turns and walks away. Are they meant to follow? Cassie takes Graham’s arm. Words have failed him and she doesn’t blame them.
The dog comes stiffly down the veranda steps and walks with Larry, nose pressed against his knee. Devoted. Larry walks with his hands clasped behind his back, panama tilted forward, shirt blinding white. He clinks slightly as he walks, a bunch of keys clipped to his belt.
He turns and beckons. ‘Ready to see the garden?’
The garden is squashed between the far side of the house and the pump – a steamy rectangle, shadowed by nets to keep the sun from burning the tomatoes, lettuces, peppers, beans. Relieved, Cassie pinches and sniffs the catty reek of a tomato leaf. Small birds with spiky voices hop and cheep amongst the leaves. There are tomatoes begging to be picked, big rough ones, some fat enough to split their skins. She’s pleased to see a bushy basil plant growing alongside. If they stay, she’ll plant parsley too, chervil, fennel. Companion planting. She can’t wait to get at it.
‘I’m not much of a gardener, as you see,’ Larry says. ‘Fred has a go but now that you’re here –’
‘No, it’s great,’ she says, ‘isn’t it, Gray? And there’s so much more we can do.’
‘Well, order any seeds you like. And use the vegetables of course. We find we are almost self-sufficient as far as salad is concerned.’
‘You water from the pump?’ Cassie asks. There’s a lovely refreshing sound, the rhythmic gush of water into a great galvanised tank. Larry shows them the overflow tank, shallow and open to the sky, the water glazed with dust, floating with dead and dying bugs.
‘This is a good well,’ Larry said. ‘Excellent, cold water, not saline. It’s never failed us yet. Without it Woolagong Station could not exist. Watering cans.’ He points to a couple of big ones along with bags of chemical fertilizer and pesticide (which will have to go), a jumble of forks and trowels and a fearsome-looking rake.
‘Splendid. And now,’ he says, ‘let us take a little walk. I’ll show you the glories we have to offer.’
They trudge off again, following Larry away from the house for five minutes or so. The crust on top of the dust is crisp under their feet, their sandalled toes etched red around the nails with dust. Here and there feeble patches of prickly grass push up through the dust, lifting flakes of the crust with it.
Eventually, Larry stops and bends down. ‘See?’ He cranes his neck round to look at them. He cups his palm open under a blossom, clear crisp white, many-petalled, on a fine green stem. Cassie crouches beside him, marvelling at the frail stalk emerging from the sun-baked dust.
‘Beautiful,’ Graham says.
‘And look.’ Larry stands and points to the downward slope before them. They blink and focus on a pale shimmer, like a mist, hovering above the ground.
‘Everlastings,’ he says. ‘Miraculous, aren’t they? It’s against the law to pick them, but here in this – nowhere – who would miss a few? Mara would love them. A centrepiece at lunch perhaps?’
Cassie wobbles upright and smiles. Sounds like a crossword clue. She tries to think of an answer but it’s much too hot to think.
Larry turns to face them, tilts his hat back, removes his sunglasses. He looks into the eyes of each of them for a level moment. ‘I do admire your discretion,’ he says.
‘You what?’ Graham says.
‘You must be curious about Mara but you have restrained yourself from asking. Mara – you must allow me to explain.’ Larry closes his hands as if in prayer, puts his fingers to his lips for a moment in contemplation before he sp
eaks. ‘Mara has a condition which makes her incompatible, shall we say, with society. But she is a good woman, a fine woman.’
‘Urn what is it?’ Cassie says. ‘I mean, is it a physical thing?’
The corner of Larry’s mouth twitches. ‘You think it is possible to separate the body from the mind. How much you have to learn!’
Cassie bristles. ‘Of course not, not always. But there are things – what about tonsillitis? Or flu – are they mental?’
Larry laughs. ‘It is nothing like tonsillitis.’
‘I didn’t mean that I –’
He holds up his hand. ‘There is little point in me attempting to explain Mara’s – condition – in those terms. You are here now. You’ll have ample time to judge for yourself. She has phases –’
‘Like the moon?’ Graham says.
Larry smiles sadly. ‘Phases when she is – out of sorts, shall we say. When she has to take a medication that sedates her. And then she recovers – as now – I think she is recovering from a “phase”.’ He pauses. ‘Fortuitously. You will soon have a chance to make these observations for yourselves.’
He shades his eyes and looks into the distance. He looks so sad that Cassie’s crossness melts. Poor man. He does need help. How can one man on his own work and run this place and care for someone who needs – who seems to need – so much looking after? No wonder he is a bit strange. Anyone would be strange. It will be good to help.
‘Shall we meet for lunch on the veranda?’ Larry says. ‘I’ll leave you to your own devices. Something light for lunch, a salad perhaps? There is bread but you might like to bake some more? Everything is there. I’ll get a little work done and see you later.’ He does a sort of salute against his hat brim and walks briskly away, keys clinking, Yella trotting at his heels.
‘Well,’ Graham says, soon as he’s out of earshot. He pokes her in the ribs. ‘This is another fine mess you’ve got us into.’
‘Don’t, Gray,’ she says, but she’s relieved at the humour in his voice. ‘Her in that shed!’ She reaches for the giggle she’s been suppressing – but it has died away. She hunkers down, sweat squishing in the creases behind her knees, and fingers the papery petals of the flower.
Box 25
Keemarra Roadhouse
(Woolagong Station)
22nd October
Dear Mum,
Well, here we are safely arrived at last. It’s hot and really does seem to be miles from anywhere. We’ve got no proper address even! At least, the post isn’t delivered here, it’s picked up and delivered from the roadhouse. You’d love the wild flowers, but they’ll soon be over apparently. Nice garden, tomatoes, beans etc. Larry and Mara are an unusual couple, but seem very nice. Well, must go now, bread to bake! (I’m trying your failsafe recipe to start with – thanks.)
Love,
Cassie
xxxxxxxxx
Seven
Cassie stands in the hall of the shearers’ shed. The floor is made of wide-beamed wood, silky with age, needing a sweep to rid it of the dead bugs, leaves, drifts of dust. The doors stretch either side of her, three each side, a door to the outside at each end. A bit like a railway carriage. Larry said they could look at the other rooms but still her heart beats as if she’s doing something wrong. Snooping. Dark in the corridor and almost cool. The walls are papered with a design of flowers and vases. Was that appreciated by the shearers? A couple of framed photos on the walls: sweaty men swilling beer down their gullets; a shearer with a sheep struggling between his thighs.
She tries the far door. Narrow bed, khaki blanket, pair of boots, kerosene lamp. Must be whatsisname’s – the neighbour. She shuts it. The next is stuffed with junk: broken bed-frame; drawerless chest; bundle of stuff, old covers and curtains. A faded calendar dated 1979: half-naked women on farm machinery, advertising sheep dip. On the opposite side is a room with a sagging single bed, the window patched with a sheet of tin. And there is a room filled with light, bigger than their room, a lovely feel to it. Not that there’s anything wrong with theirs but – she steps in.
The floor slopes but still – they could bring the double bed across – the curtains are buttery yellow, the walls dappled with faded roses. A pretty room. Why did Larry give them the other one? White chest of drawers, rag rug. She crouches and examines the bits of different material, just tiny cotton rags individually but gathered into a subtle mottled swirl, like a dust storm. And on the small humped bed a patchwork quilt, fantastic, a pattern she’s never seen before, shading from cool blue in one corner, diagonally across to fiery reds and oranges. Cold to hot. Hand-done. She could make a quilt, while she’s here. Copying this pattern. She can just see it on her – their? – bed at home. People will say, How exquisite and she’ll tell them, her children, even, she’ll tell them about this place, this odd chapter in her life. My Year in the Outback. Will Graham be part of her life then? Will he be their father? She sits down on the lumpy bed and sighs.
Graham stands by the kitchen window, looking through the smeary glass to Mara’s shed outside. The shut blue door. He takes a roll-up from behind his ear and lights it. What is that woman doing in that shed? She must have some story to tell. What is he doing in this kitchen, in this sheep station, in this country, in this hemisphere?
Least he’s alone. First time in days. The tap drips, the fan squeaks, flies buzz studiously over the table, his jam-smeared plate. He turns the tap and waits for the water that comes cloudy at first, almost as if soapy, and then clears, though it never gets completely cold. He swigs some anyway and goes to look again at the little painting. If she did it she’s amazing. The brush strokes fine; the finish shiny. Maybe shellac? Good. Not his sort of thing, but pretty good. But then what is his thing any more?
He thinks back to college. Hell of a long way back. He knew his parents were disappointed. Art college after the packet they spent on school. Couldn’t have a kid but they’d adopted him, at four years old, and spoiled him something rotten. He knows he’s spoilt – what’s he meant to do about it? Nothing he couldn’t have – that you could buy. Remembers the piles of presents, the silver-wrapped bike under the Christmas tree; the room full of stuffed tigers and elephants. ‘Jungle theme,’ his mum would say, showing it off to guests. The computer before everyone had computers. Wanted him to be lawyer like his dad. Sold a pup, weren’t they?
He remembers walking into that room for the first time: the frieze of animals stalking, more toys that he’d ever seen outside of a shop. The smell of new paint and plastic toys. Lawyer! But he could draw. So, architect they thought, but no. Not straight lines but grey skies, sulphur yellow reflected in puddles, oily rainbows on the canal. Got him a first at college. ‘Difficult Light,’ his dissertation. No difficulty here, the light is all too easy.
‘If I had your talent I wouldn’t squander it.’
‘Cheers Jas,’ he mutters. What would she say about this setup? Where his leap has landed him. Twenty thousand miles away. She’ll be in her studio now – but no, maybe not. What time in England? Eight hours difference one way or the other, can’t be arsed to work it out.
He picks three oranges up from the table. Throws one up, another, till he’s juggling, each orange landing with a cool thwack in his hand, a smell of citrus rising with the bruising of their peel.
Cassie bursts into the kitchen and he drops an orange. She chucks her sunglasses on the table and, before she speaks, drinks down a glass of water, not even waiting till it clears. Her face is deep pink, the spray of freckles on her nose looks almost green.
‘What’ve you been up to?’ he asks, putting the oranges down. One has rolled under the table and he leaves it.
She wipes her lips on the back of her hand, comes over and kisses him, her lips cool and wet. ‘Just poking around,’ she said. ‘Exploring. I found us a new room! Come and look.’
‘You’ve caught the sun.’
She squints at her shrimp-coloured arms. ‘Yeah, went for a walkabout before. Forgot to put more cream on, never
mind. Mmmm,’ she snuggles her hips against him. His arms go round her like a shot, but she peels herself away.
‘Come and look at the room. Larry said we could –’
‘Which one?’
‘Opposite ours. It’s got a much bigger window.’
He hesitates. ‘Thought I’d use that. For painting. Better light.’
‘Oh – but –’ Her mouth turns down. ‘I thought you’d be painting outside.’
‘Still need a studio.’
‘Studio!’ she snorts.
‘Our room’s OK. You said you loved it. Want me to paint, don’t you?’
She goes to the fridge. ‘Did you find any bread?’
‘Not yet.’
She turns. ‘I think it’s really selfish of you. You could easily paint in the other room.’ Sounds like she’s about to burst into tears.
‘Hey Cass –’ He grabs hold of her again. ‘You said you liked our room.’
‘Before I saw the other one.’ She turns her face away. ‘Must get the lunch.’
‘Premenstrual?’
‘Oh fuck off.’
‘Tut tut.’ Her shoulders are smooth and sun-flushed. He pulls her to him, kisses her hair, snuffles up the salty, sweaty scent.
‘Must get the lunch,’ she repeats, stiffening.
‘No rush is there?’
She pulls right away. ‘Why not go and paint or something? Do some sketching. You’ve got an hour, at least.’ She crouches down to peer into the bottom of a cupboard, pulls out a bowl, leaps back with a little cry as something live falls out. ‘And we can talk later.’
The threatened talk. He goes quickly out of the kitchen and round to the shearers’ shed to get his pencils.
Cassie takes a basket round to the garden to pick tomatoes for lunch. Premenstrual! But anyway, lovely breathing in the thick green smell, listening to the dull gush of water in the tank, the cheeping of the birds, the rasp of a grasshopper or something like. Something chips at her, like a beak. Maybe this is all a mistake? Herself and Graham? No. Give it a chance.
She cups a tomato, still attached to its plant, in her palm. She wonders what variety it is. A hot heavy handful, rough-skinned. Digs her thumbnail in and the skin grins open, revealing an ooze of cloudy flesh. She does feel sexy, could have done it if she hadn’t felt so cross, they would have had the time. Why should he have the best bloody room all to himself? She licks the juice off her thumb. The taste is warm and sweet, pungent in a way that English tomatoes just aren’t. The tomato unclips itself easily from its stalk. She picks three more. So huge that one each will be plenty.
As Far as You Can Go Page 5
