Lunch with a Soldier

by Derek Hansen

  Barb switched on his torch, saw his enemy and fired almost instantly. Two shots because he wasn’t fast enough to prevent the second. He turned away and vomited. Oh Christ, sweet Jesus …

  ‘Barb!’

  He heard Motsa calling his name as he slumped against the side wall, exhausted, drained, beaten and sick in his guts.

  ‘Barb! What’s happening, for fuck’s sake?’

  ‘I’m okay, mate, it’s okay.’

  He heard Motsa crawling towards him, felt his hands on his legs as he pushed past to gawk.

  ‘Holy shit.’

  Holy shit. What did that mean? Under the circumstances, what did any words mean?

  ‘You okay, mate?’

  Motsa’s torch was pointed right at his face. Barb flinched at the glare.

  ‘Sorry, mate.’ Motsa directed his torch lower. ‘You hurt?’

  ‘No. Get on the radio and tell Brennan what happened.’ Lieutenant Brennan was the platoon commander and leading the section. ‘Tell them it’s secure.’

  ‘Right-oh.’

  Barb forced himself to turn and look back at his victim. The old Russian K44 rifle lay where it had probably lain since the artillery bombardment, centimetres out of reach and useless. The hands, which had been turned upwards in submission, now lay palms down, flat and lifeless. The fear-filled face, which for the briefest of instants had pleaded for clemency, was now destroyed and oozing blood. If only he’d known. If only he’d taken a microsecond longer to look. All the while he’d been crawling through the tunnel, his enemy had lain trapped from the shoulders back beneath tonnes of earth, helpless and terrified, listening to his approach and watching the glow from his torch that offered both the hope of rescue and the threat of death.

  Barb started to shake uncontrollably. He’d faced his worst fears and come through. But he hadn’t expected it to end this way, hadn’t expected his enemy to be so helpless, or to be a young woman hardly more than a girl.

  The tunnel felt unutterably cold.

  Chapter Three

  Billy gazed northwards at a view that changed little no matter which way he looked. The homestead was surrounded by baked red soil, sparse grass and strips of metre-high saltbush, which protected the garden and provided a wind and dust break. Beyond, the coolibahs, whitewoods, myalls, boonarees and belahs gradually combined to form a screen which limited his range of vision to not much more than a kilometre. The view hadn’t changed since he was a kid, except that now it was impossible to look anywhere without seeing the green plastic water tanks and pipes that delivered bore water to his sheep and cattle. The tanks and pipes were a necessity, an expensive necessity, without which his six thousand, five hundred hectares of grazing land would be worthless, but it didn’t stop him resenting their presence. They were an intrusion upon a timeless landscape and, like the spiky thorns from the Hudson pear, impossible to ignore.

  He put his head back and swallowed the dregs of the tea in his mug. He liked his tea strong with just a couple of cat’s licks of milk which did nothing much more than turn it dark red-brown, almost the colour of the soil. He reached forward and placed his mug on the veranda rail, alongside his crossed boots. A family of lousy jacks descended on the kelpie’s food bowl and began to help themselves to the leftover dry dog food. Out of habit Billy picked up his packet of Drum and rolled himself a cigarette. He didn’t take his eyes off the bush. When he was working around the house he always had a rollie after his mid-morning cuppa and his fingers knew what to do. They made their way unguided to his mouth, where his tongue made a practised pass along the edge of the paper. He cupped his hands out of habit, even though he was sheltered from the cool westerly wind, and struck a match. He pulled his head back as he took the first long drag, forced the smoke deep into his lungs where it’d do the most harm, and slowly exhaled.

  The action momentarily disturbed the numbness inside his head that enabled him to drift off into daydreams about nothing. His daydreams were unusual in that they lacked dreams. Chair back, feet up, a cuppa and a rollie, and Billy could drift off into a state of meditation devotees took years to achieve. When Billy thought about these occasions, which was rare, he simply regarded them as ‘white-outs’ as opposed to ‘blackouts’ and just a bloody waste of time. But so much was wasted.

  The day didn’t look like it was going to amount to much. High grey clouds spread from horizon to horizon but brought no promise of rain. They hung motionless, aloof from the winds that swept the plains, a dull, depressing undercoat to a painting no one was inspired to finish. The grey day was just a part of the home Billy had come back to at a time when he needed to get his act together and when his being home served a purpose. But times changed, needs changed, and his purpose in being there had uprooted and cleared out. Billy stayed on for no good reason other than that he couldn’t think of where else he fitted. People had told him he just needed time, but time was a trap laced with the comfortable and familiar, lacking in urgency. He’d stayed, and his white-outs made a convenient barrier that restricted the range of his memories and regrets as effectively as the scrub restricted his view.

  Billy was good with his hands, especially where carpentry was concerned, and he’d fixed the family’s old weatherboard home to suit his needs. He’d enclosed the veranda, which encircled the entire house, with mesh to keep out the sandflies, mosquitoes and bushflies, building screen doors at the head of each set of three steps leading down to the yard. There was a set of steps on each side of the house. Billy always had his breakfast on the veranda on the eastern side, which had a table and chair dedicated to that purpose. He had lunch at a table and chair on the northern side and dinner at a similar arrangement on the western side. Each side also had a day bed, though Billy spent most nights in his bed out on the veranda on the southern side, which was generally the coolest, until the sub-zero winter nights drove him reluctantly indoors. He kept his television on an old chrome tea trolley that had once borne his mother’s prized cut-glass sherry decanter and glasses, so he could wheel it out to wherever he happened to be. The television and his transistor radio kept him up with the news. Bob Hawke had just been reelected prime minister, which meant less to him than a one-cent shift in the price of wool.

  Billy’s thoughts began to take on shape and substance. They often did as he emerged from his white-outs. Normally they took the form of a repair he had to figure out or a problem he had to solve. He’d lost count of the problems he’d solved with his feet up on the rail and the glowing tip of a burnt-down rollie creeping up on his fingers. Today he worried about his lambs and the potential losses. His ewes were three weeks from lambing and the cold August winds still swept in from the west, taking the temperature down to freezing at night. Out of the wind, the mid-morning sun held a false promise, which Billy could feel through his shirt and the legs of his trousers. But the weather pattern was troubling and promised no let-up. On the positive side, his sheep were in reasonable condition for the end of winter and he could expect a healthy crop of lambs. But he worried whether they’d be strong enough to withstand the cold if the winds kept up. There was little margin for stock losses. He was wondering what his brother would have done, what other factors he would have added to the equation, when his working dogs began barking a warning and straining at their chains. He rose to his feet, puzzled. He wasn’t expecting anyone. The lousy jacks abandoned their free feed and took off to the safety of a nearby tree. He didn’t recognise the Range Rover emerging from the scrub lining the road to his property.

  A Range Rover? Billy didn’t know anyone who owned a Range Rover, or even anyone who knew anyone who might conceivably own a Range Rover. Around Glengarry, Grawin and Walgett you were either a Ford or a Holden man, unless you had the cash to spend on a four-wheel drive, in which case you chose between Toyota and Nissan, with Nissan a distant second. The Range Rover had no bull bar, no CB radio antenna and, as far as he could see, no dents. Maybe it was someone from the bank paying a courtesy visit, a salesman or a representative fr
om the National Party. But the election had come and gone, he was square with the bank and hadn’t seen or heard from a salesman for years. Dust and reflections on the windscreen concealed his visitor’s identity.

  The kelpie had come out from under the veranda steps and stood motionless, head to the side and ears cocked, as the four-wheel drive pulled to a stop. Whoever was driving it knew enough to let the dust settle before opening the car door. Billy was prepared for just about anyone to emerge, except for the person who did. His visitor was from another world.

  He could see that she’d learned to wait and let the dust settle the hard way because a film of red dust coated her denim jacket and jeans. The denim was so faded it all but matched the white paint on the Range Rover. She wore pale blue-rimmed sunglasses that had mirrored lenses and was quick to put on a broad-brimmed straw hat before the sun had a chance to get at her. Even from the veranda she looked amazing. His kelpie obviously thought the same, judging by the way it wagged its tail and danced around her.

  ‘Billy Dwyer?’

  Billy opened the screen door and held it for her.

  ‘Yeah, I’m Billy.’

  She stepped up onto the veranda and removed her hat and sunnies. Without them she looked even more amazing. Her hair was an intriguing combination of honey-gold and a rich gum brown. She was city beyond doubt and, without remotely intending it, made him feel like a hick. She overwhelmed him with her poise and confidence, the clarity and freshness of her skin and her scent. Her eyes had the quickness and brightness of a good working dog and were totally disarming. He wasn’t good with women’s ages but guessed she was probably older than she looked, maybe late thirties. That put her only a few years younger than him but somehow she managed to make him feel ancient.

  ‘Come in,’ he said pointlessly. She was already in. ‘I’ll put the kettle on. How do you have your tea?’

  ‘With lemon.’

  ‘Lemon?’

  She laughed. Even her laugh was amazing; so pretty, so uncomplicated, so natural.

  ‘Black will be fine. Not too strong.’

  ‘That, I can do.’

  She wasn’t as tall as he’d first thought but she was still taller than most women he knew.

  ‘I’m Linda Sinclair.’ She held her hand out and he shook it automatically, swamped by unfamiliar sensations. Her touch was pretty amazing, too.

  ‘I’ve been talking to Jimmy at the stock and station in Walgett,’ she said.

  ‘Oh yeah?’

  ‘He sends his regards.’

  ‘I bet. Sit down. I’ll go make the tea.’

  Billy escaped to the kitchen, leaving her to face the trees to the north. The dogs had begun to settle, saving him from the indignity of bellowing at them. He warmed the teapot, emptied it and shovelled in his usual two heaped teaspoons of Bushell’s. He had two minutes at least before the water boiled, time to adjust to the fact that he had a visitor and try to come to terms with the kind of visitor she was. Christ Almighty! Where had she come from? What did she want? What in God’s name was she doing out in the mulga and where the hell did he fit in? The kettle whistled its readiness and he tipped the boiling water into the teapot. How strong was not too strong? For some reason he was anxious to get it right.

  ‘How strong is not too strong?’ he yelled. ‘How long before I pour?’

  ‘Thirty seconds and a stir.’

  He heard her laugh again. Such an amazing sound.

  He poured her tea and sweated on his own. He liked to give it at least three minutes for the tannins to infuse. Bugger it! He couldn’t keep her waiting that long. He filled his mug, splashed in the token drops of milk and one heaped spoonful of sugar. It wouldn’t be quite right but it’d do.

  ‘Here you go,’ he said and put both mugs down on the table. Something was different and he picked it immediately. The woman had brought a second chair around from the east side.

  ‘I hope you don’t mind,’ she said.

  ‘Of course not.’ He felt obliged to explain his system to her.

  ‘That’s brilliant,’ she said, and sounded like she meant it. She took a sip of her tea. ‘Perfect.’

  Without thinking, Billy leaned back in his chair and swung his feet up onto the rail. Almost immediately he realised his error and how rude and hick he must appear. But then she surprised him. Everything about her surprised him.

  ‘May I?’ she said. He watched, fascinated, as she swung her legs up onto the rail as casually as you like. That wasn’t something women generally did. Her legs were long and slim and ended unexpectedly in a pair of sneakers. She crossed her ankles.

  ‘Don’t you ever get tired of the view?’

  ‘There’s more to it than you think,’ said Billy defensively. ‘You’d be surprised at the variety of trees out there. There’s a lot of coolibah and myall, but that’s a belah tree over there where the crows are. It’s as good a specimen as you’ll see. Some people call it a scrub oak. You get other kinds that are stunted and don’t have much of a spread on them. Over there you’ve got some boxes and a silver-leaf ironbark. That big dead gum is a favourite perch for cockatoos and galahs. They fight over it sometimes and the cockies usually win. Mostly it’s the white cockies; the blacks seem to have their own favourite trees but they don’t come round much. Everything changes with the light and the weather. Sometimes you can feel the struggle going on out there, but other times, you’re right, it’s just wallpaper.’

  ‘Is that why you eat at different tables? For variety?’

  He snorted.

  ‘I follow the sun. Makes sense to watch the sun rise and set. Biggest events of the day. But west, I look out towards the Grawin and the sand ridge country where the property ends. That’s hard country up there. Lots of black pine and gidgee. Some mulga. I’ve got the yards and races to look at, and power poles taking electricity out to the shearing sheds and the shearers’ quarters. South, I look towards Cumborah. I’ve got the work shed and barns where I store feed and the road you came in on. The trees on the southeast corner are wilgas my dad planted. East, I’ve got the old windmill pumping water up for the house. With the new pumps it’s a bit redundant, but I keep it going for old times’ sake. The trees thin out a bit the closer you get to Walgett and, if you look hard enough, you can see through to the grey soil plains. In the end it doesn’t matter much which way I look. I always find work to do.’ Billy stopped talking to take a swallow of his tea. He had no idea why he felt the need to explain himself or why he was rabbiting on. Usually he wasn’t much of a talker. But the sheer presence of the woman and her scent … Jesus Christ! He had to drag his thoughts back to matters at hand.

  ‘So what brings you here to the Downs, Miss … uh …?’

  ‘Call me Linda.’

  ‘Okay. What brought you here, Linda?’

  ‘I want to rent a house.’

  ‘Out here?’

  ‘Yep. Out here.’

  Billy focused on an old ironbark, which was the last individual thing he could see before the trees all merged into one. It stood head and shoulders above the others and was a gathering place for black cockatoos whenever rain threatened. Looking at it reminded him of the dead branch beneath it he’d been meaning to saw up for firewood. He was glad he wasn’t standing under it when it fell. That would have hurt, but it was doubtful whether it would’ve stunned him any more than the woman had. What the hell did she want to rent a house out here for? There was nothing for her at Jindalee Downs and her soft, smooth hands were as ill suited to country life as a poodle was to mustering. Why here? He wanted to ask but didn’t want to appear rude. She might tell him to mind his own business and he didn’t want things to come to that. He sneaked a look at her and discovered she was watching him with a wry smile on her face. For some unaccountable reason he felt guilty.

  ‘Jimmy said your parents’ house might be available.’

  Bloody Jimmy would. Jimmy knew all there was to know about people in the shire, not that it always amounted to much, and liked to ke
ep the rest of the world informed. Billy had built a house up among the ridges at the opposite end of the property for his parents to live in once they’d retired and he’d taken over running the place. Somebody had to. Trouble was, both his sisters had families and had settled down, one in Dubbo and the other in Newcastle, and neither had the slightest desire to return. That had been one of the reasons Billy had come home and one of the reasons he’d stayed. But then his brother had delivered, as his parents had always hoped he would, and they’d had no further need of the house. They’d abandoned it with indecent glee. He thought of all the work and materials that had gone into building it and the months he’d spent on it. More waste.

  Yeah, he thought, the house might be available. His parents had picked the site well. It was an anomaly and, but for the covering of trees, would have been a landmark in an otherwise featureless landscape. The house nestled on a geological fault where tectonic forces had pushed the rocky substrata up through the top of a sand ridge. The sand ridge was like a long, broad, gently rising ocean swell. It lifted the house more than twenty metres above the surrounding plains and the rocky outcrop lifted it another twelve. Together they provided enough elevation for the house to catch the breeze in summer and overlook the trees and scrub all the way to Lightning Ridge and further north towards Queensland. But for all its prominence, the site was no more than a wart on an elephant’s hide; you’d never find it unless you went looking for it.

  Water wasn’t a problem. Tanks gathered rainwater from the roof and they’d also tapped into bore water at twelve metres at the foot of the sand ridge, which could be pumped up to the house. The Namoi County Council had run electricity out to the house at the same time they’d done the main homestead. Billy shook his head at the cost. It had set them back almost five hundred dollars for each pole, plus wires and transformer. All for what? He blamed his brother for the waste.

  ‘Spent a couple of nights in it some months back, while I was repairing fences out that end.’