‘Bugger,’ she said as she got out of the car and ran back to her friend. ‘My wipers. They won’t work.’
‘No probs. I’ll call Jeremy on the two-way. He’ll know what to do.’ Sophie picked up the hand piece of the two-way radio that sat on a shelf above the phone in the kitchen.
‘Jez, are you on channel?’
Soon his friendly, crackly voice came over the airwaves.
‘How’s it going babe? How’s Eliza? Over.’
‘She’s sick of playing with Ken’s plastic mound and she wants to get back to town for the real deal. But her wipers won’t work. Over.’
‘Do her pissers work? Over.’
Sophie turned to Eliza. ‘Did your pissers work?’
‘My what?’
‘You know. The things that wash your windscreen.’
‘I don’t know! Mother Nature was pissing on me so hard I didn’t think to check. And can’t other people hear you on that thing? Do you mind not talking about my pissers in front of the whole valley?’
‘She didn’t check her pissers, babe. Over,’ Sophie said.
‘Could be the fuse. Drive the car down to the shed, get the fuse out. You’ll figure which one. Then look for a black case on the workbench full of spare fuses. Grab one of those. Over.’
‘Got it. Thanks. How are you going? Over.’
‘Rotten. Bogged up to the eyeballs. Both the ute and the tractor. And it’s still belting down. No more harvest for this little black duck for the next few days. Don’t reckon I’ll get home tonight. I’ll have to camp here in the quarters and see you in the morning. Over.’
‘No worries, babe. See you then. Over.’ And Sophie hung up the hand piece. Eliza could see it really was ‘no worries’ to Sophie. This sort of thing happened all the time round here. Mother Nature clearly ran the place.
‘You’d better borrow a coat,’ Sophie said, handing her a strange-smelling DrizaBone on the verandah and throwing her a pair of massive gumboots.
‘Might pong a bit on the sleeves. I gutted the wallaby in it. Was in a hurry. You know.’
No, thought Eliza, she didn’t know. She was a city-slick city chick, with a hot date tonight. As she ducked back out into the rain she wondered if she’d have time to shower and blow-dry her hair again before the not-so-Ken-doll got off his plane.
Safely back in her car once more, with Sophie waving from the verandah, Eliza turned the engine over, flicked on the windscreen wipers, which gave a satisfying swish, and rattled off over the grid and up the now muddy drive. She tooted the horn merrily for good measure.
‘Hot date, here I come!’
In the darkness, the massive pines that lined the driveway whirled above her and she could just make out the white blobs of cockatoos battling to stay on the branches as the wind hurled bullets of raindrops at them. She was about to pull onto the highway when she noticed the fuel gauge.
Empty.
Back at the kitchen door, she wailed at Sophie, ‘I meant to get some at the store on my way here but I was so excited to get back to the country and your place that I forgot!’
Sophie looked at her watch and shook her head.
‘Too late. It’s after seven. The garage is shut. Seven until seven, seven days a week.’
‘Are you sure it’s not nine-eleven or twenty-four-seven?’ begged Eliza, thinking desperately of no-plastic-mound man, who was probably in the departure lounge at this very minute. Thunder rumbled from the inky black sky and more rain lashed down. Eliza knew what Sophie and Mother Nature were thinking. Bloody city slickers. Where life is easy and everything is on tap twenty-four hours a day.
‘Come on,’ Sophie said, handing her the coat again. ‘Jez has got some unleaded in the shed. In case of people like you.’
‘Sorry,’ said Eliza, frowning. She realised how selfish she was being. This was Sophie’s night in. Almost childfree. A chance to catch up with her old mate. And here she was, flitting in for an hour or two before flitting off again for a night of shagging. Eliza pulled on the gumboots, angry at herself.
At the machinery shed, rain zinged in silver sparkles in the bright floodlight. The giant machines were parked like sleeping beasts, warm and dry, in their cave.
‘Hold this,’ said Sophie, handing Eliza a fuel funnel. Eliza imagined running her petrol-smelling fingers through Suit-man’s hair in a couple of hours’ time. He’d hate it. Eliza inserted the funnel into the petrol tank as Sophie lifted the jerry can up and the fuel glugged out with a heady waft and a gurgle.
‘It’s kind of sexual, isn’t it?’ Eliza said, surveying Jeremy’s shelves. ‘All these male and female bits that fit into one another or screw on to one another. It’s a turn-on, really. Very macho.’
‘Why do you think I fell for Jez? I love a man with diesel on his hands and dust on his boots. A real man. You know.’
‘Yep. You picked a beauty. He’s a machinery man to the core. So masculine and sexy.’
And suddenly Eliza wished for a machinery man herself. She longed to know what it was like to kiss a man who didn’t smell of the latest scent pour l’homme. To feel a rugged jawline, rough with stubble, and have work-worn hands on her skin. To find a man whose eyes creased with the sun and who had not a scrap of vanity in his soul.
‘I’d better go. His plane will be halfway here,’ she said, almost reluctantly this time. ‘Want a lift back up to the house?’
Sophie shook her head.
‘Nah, I’ll walk. I love it when it pours like this.’
The girls hugged, and again Eliza drove off into the wet, dark night. Her foot hit the brakes hard. At the top of the drive, the little car fishtailed and stopped just short of the giant tree trunk that lay across her path. Eliza sat breathing heavily, listening to the swish and drag of the wipers. Through the falling rain she watched the headlights capture spindly pine needles swirling madly in the wind. She clutched the steering wheel. That was close. Very close. She sucked in a breath. Shaken, she sat for a time before looking to see if she could drive around the fallen pine tree. But it was completely blocking the drive.
‘That’s the third time,’ Sophie said, offering Eliza another gin. ‘Mother Nature is telling you not to leave here tonight. It’s an omen. It’s not safe. Three times. It’s a message.’
‘But my date! My hot juicy date?’
‘If you insist I can get the tractor and the chain and drag it out of the way for you. Do you want me to do that? But if you die in a car accident between here and town, don’t blame me. You’ve had enough messages for you to stay.’
‘I won’t be able to blame you if I’m dead, will I?’
‘Don’t make jokes. You know what I mean. This is a serious message. You are not meant to leave tonight, Eliza.’
Eliza thought of Sophie’s baby, sleeping in the nursery, who would be awake in just an hour for another feed. Sophie had enough on her plate. She didn’t need to be out on a night like this hauling a giant tree off her drive, just so she, Eliza, could go and shag some high-flier. She nodded. Sophie was right. She should stay.
‘Can I use your phone then? Ring him. He’s only down here for one night.’ Of course, his phone was switched off so she left a message.
‘Oh, stuff him,’ she said, slamming the receiver down.
‘That’s it then,’ said Sophie. ‘It’s officially a girls’ night in. Let’s get cracking!’ She began to rummage in the kitchen cupboard and pulled out a breast pump. ‘Ta-da!’ she said, holding it up proudly.
‘What the …?’
‘Express milk now, get drunk now, feed baby Mummy’s wholesome alcohol-free milk in bottle later. Perfect.’ She sat down on the couch and plugged in the pump. Bottle in place, breast in place, the pump set off with a groan and then loudly and rhythmically began to suck milk from Sophie’s breast.
‘My hot night out with a hot-rod has somehow turned into some sick lesbian fantasy,’ said Eliza wryly, looking at Sophie’s plump white breast.
‘Get over it. Mother Nature h
as saved your life.’
‘Well, where’s my cock-or-two, like she promised?’
Then the phone rang.
‘I’ll get it,’ offered Eliza.
It was Noggin from the shop.
‘River’s burst its banks so I can’t deliver your pizza. Flood’s made it over the road in the dip just out of town. Tell Soph I’m sorry ‘bout her pizza, but we can’t help the weather.’
‘No, we certainly can’t,’ agreed Eliza before she hung up.
‘No pizza?’ asked Sophie, switching to the other breast.
‘Nup.’
‘Baked beans on toast then?’ Sophie asked. A vision of the midnight room service feast of oysters and caviar that she would now never eat flashed before Eliza’s eyes. Strangely, she felt almost relieved. Sitting with her friend on the couch eating baked beans on toast seemed like the right place to be.
‘Shall we light the fire too?’ Eliza asked eagerly. ‘Make a proper rainy night of it?’
‘Yes! And I’ve taped all the McLeod’s Daughters episodes. We could watch them … perve on Alex Ryan. Oh, to die for!’
‘Mmm,’ said Eliza, suddenly excited. ‘And Dave the vet. Just so yum.’
‘I thought you were into suits?’
‘Mother Nature just might have converted me. I like a man who’ll take her on … When I think of getting a glimpse of your husband’s giant machinery, so … robust, I get the shivers.’
‘Oh, you do, you do. I just love a massive tractor.’
‘Mmm. Me too. I think, now, me too.’
The gin bottle was empty. They were wheezing and snorting like pigs as they freeze-framed the vet’s backside on the TV screen for the tenth time when a knock at the door sent them screeching into each other’s arms.
‘Who the hell is that?’ said Eliza. ‘The tree! The flood? How did they get in here? Are you sure it’s not a serial killer?’
‘I’ll get it,’ said Sophie, who was clearly not frightened by the strange after-hours visit. She flicked on the light and opened the door.
‘Pizza delivery!’ exclaimed a tall man, sitting the box down on the kitchen table. Sophie clapped her hands.
‘You legend! But how …?’
‘Saw Noggin from the shop,’ he said. ‘I was bringing my tractor back home, so I offered to drop your tucker in. Got the dual wheels on her so she’s high enough to clear the flood. Shifted that tree for you too. Big bugger. She’s got the horsepower to move something that large. Should see the size of the chain I had to use. Lucky I had it handy. Pizza might be a bit cold though.’
The man took off his rain-darkened Akubra hat and shook off his oilskin coat. Eliza drank him in. The size of him. The flash of his blue eyes, the bloom of dark stubble over his square handsome jaw. She swallowed. Lightning flashed right outside the door and suddenly all the lights went out and the TV fizzed to black. Thunder roared in Eliza’s ears as she sat in the darkness. The image of the handsome man was etched in her mind. Then she heard Sophie say, ‘Hang on. I’ll get the candles.’ As the flames flickered to life, Sophie waved the match in Eliza’s direction.
‘This is my friend Eliza. She’s staying the night.’
The man looked straight into Eliza’s eyes. Lightning and thunder again. This time in Eliza’s heart.
‘Weekend,’ Eliza said, a smile coming to her lips. ‘I’m staying the weekend.’
‘Looks like I am too,’ he said with a glint in his eye. ‘I just heard on the two-way that the river’s cut me off from my house. Can’t get back there. I’ve got a couple of kelpies in the tractor that need a kennel too. That’s if you don’t mind?’ he said, turning to Sophie.
‘Not at all,’ she said, smiling knowingly. Then she turned to Eliza. ‘This, by the way, is our neighbour, Owen. Owen the omen. A good omen, that is.’
‘Pleased to meet you, Owen,’ said Eliza smiling, ‘I’ll help you settle your dogs in the pens while you show me your massive tractor. I love a good tractor.’
Feathers and Fast Horses
Emily’s mother Gillian was off and racing in a swathe of royal purple silk, bustling to the ute carrying baskets and eskys in readiness for Melbourne Cup Day. So bright was Gillian’s dress Emily could see her from where she sat on her horse in the mountain paddock. Even Emily’s grey mare pricked her ears and stared in wonder at the distant shimmering purple sight.
‘Come on,’ Emily said, gathering up Snowgum’s reins. ‘She’ll be spewing we’re so late.' She urged the sweating mare into a loping canter along the ridge line, heading for home. The adrenaline was still coursing through her and her breath was coming fast. It had been a close shave today. She’d nearly been caught.
Outside the homestead Gillian marched towards her and handed her a green supermarket bag.
‘Where have you been?’
‘Checking cows and calves,’ Emily said, trying not to flush red from guilt.
‘You’d better not have been in the national park again. It’ll be a police matter before you know it.’
‘Park!’ Emily snorted in disgust. ‘It was a mountain and now it’s a mess.’
Ignoring her, Gillian called over her shoulder on her way to the ute, ‘I found you a dress. It’s hanging on the bathroom door. So there’s no excuse. And don’t forget to wash your hair.’
Emily rolled her eyes. The last thing she wanted to do was go to a Melbourne Cup Day luncheon with the old chooks at the community club. Worse still, the women would be spending the morning drinking champagne and making fascinators to wear on their heads. It was going to be excruciating.
Couldn’t her mother see she just wanted to be left alone on the farm? Ever since the government had banned cattle grazing on their family’s mountain runs, Emily had grieved the loss. She no longer spent whole weeks at a time with her father amidst the snow gums on droving trips. She missed her dad sorely now he worked off-farm, and the more her mother tried to cover up the hurt, the angrier Emily felt.
‘Please don’t roll your eyes like that,’ said Gillian as she rummaged around in the ute, her large purple bottom gleaming in the bright sunlight. ‘I need you to drive the bus. You’re the only one with a truck licence.’
‘But that’s the point. It’s a truck licence, Mum. I’m not licensed to drive a bus.’
‘If you can drive a truck, you can drive a bus. Come on! Put that in the front please,’ she said gesturing to the Woolies bag. ‘I don’t want it to blow about on the back.’
Emily peered inside.
‘Oh my God! What’s that?’ she said when she saw the mass of light-as-air feathers within.
‘That is the remains of Roger. Found him dead on the roost this morning. It would have to be my younger Silky rooster. The hens must’ve pecked him to death.’
‘Poor bloke,’ Emily said, pulling a face at the snow-white feathers, ‘to end up as decoration on race day.’ She shook her head. In the interests of fashion, her mother had plucked a dead Silky bantam rooster for a fascinator. ‘You can’t take him to the craft workshop!’
‘But it would be a crime not to use such lovely feathers,’ Gillian said, snatching the bag back again. ‘Shower,’ she said. ‘Now.’
Fumes billowed from the exhaust as Bob yelled to Emily, ‘Give her more throttle!’ With an oil-stained rag in his back pocket and shifter in hand, he frowned as Emily awkwardly pressed the accelerator down in her high strappy shoes. The old bus engine hiccupped, coughed and then rumbled to pitiful-sounding life. Bob gave her the thumbs up. ‘Sorry I can’t take ’em meself.’ He handed her some ear plugs. ‘You might need these.’
‘Thanks,’ said Emily.
Bob shrugged apologetically. ‘What fella would want to drive a busload of cackling women when you could quietly sink a race-day beer at the golf club, eh?’
Emily nodded, grating the bus into first gear, the way Bob had shown her.
Five minutes later Emily parked outside the squat weatherboard hall, and summoned her strength before going inside. The women were on thei
r second bottle of champagne and their voices were echoing in the rafters like feeding time in a chicken shed. Brightly dyed feathers and sequins were scattered over the table tops and the glue gun had cast a chemical smell about the room. The women looked up from their fascinator-making, fell silent for a second, then let out a collective ‘Oooh!’ as they admired Emily’s dress. It was one of Gillian’s old ones, dragged out from a chest in the attic, still smelling of mothballs.
‘What a transformation! Very Audrey Hepburn,’ said Vera Thompson as she stroked the vintage cream silk and the long satin gloves Emily carried. The dress had a neat empire bustline and a high-rise hemline to make the men ogle.
‘Gosh, Gillian, you were tiny back then.’ Vera gave Gillian a ‘What happened?’ glance. ‘Pity there aren’t any dark horses to race you home, Emily, like your father did with your mother after the Young Farmers’ party!’ she said as she held a black fascinator up to Emily’s dark hair.
‘No, not that one,’ said Betty Jones. ‘All wrong. The colour’s too strong for the dress. Looks like a crow died on her head. How about the Silky rooster Gillian brought with her? What do you think, Gill?’
Gillian clapped her hands. ‘Yes! Perfect! Perhaps add a pastel-blue feather or a soft beige.’
Through gritted teeth Emily said, ‘I am not wearing Mum’s Silky cock on my head!’
The women tittered, quickly gathering up hair combs and feathers, fussing around Emily.
As they drained the champagne dregs, the ladies decided to get more ‘supplies’ from the pub, sending Mavis on a mission.
‘Empty beer cans would definitely look good in our designs,’ suggested Vera. ‘That’d be a cack.’
‘I could do with a laugh,’ said Emily.
Vera looked at Emily sympathetically and with a cigarette-dry voice said, ‘Still not over the grazing bans?’
Girl & the Ghost-Grey Mare Page 7
