by Helen Brown
‘I’d better go,’ Lisa said.
‘So had I,’ Jake said, suddenly faking busyness. ‘I’ve got a meeting. See ya.’ Jake’s image melted into the screen.
The cat sniffed the cupboards. Their encounter over the carrot cake had been brief. He’d scurried away when she’d approached.
‘So you’ve come for another visit?’ Her voice echoed across the kitchen. The cat became rigid and flattened his ears. She needed to adjust her tendency to boom. ‘Don’t be shy,’ she crooned in an uberfeminine tone that didn’t sound like her. It was the first time he’d stayed still and close enough for her to have a good look at him.
His coat was flat and mostly ginger. Grubby cream chunks dangled from his throat. Dirty white socks rose over his feet. He was a mess of a cat.
She rubbed the scar on the back of her hand. Those claws were daggers, potential harbingers of disease. She searched for his good points. The nose was rose pink. There were tiger stripes on his forehead. But the tail was a disaster. A dishevelled duster, it was home to an assortment of twigs and leaves. As for the permanent wink, her heart turned to olive oil. Maybe he’d lost the eye in a fight. Back at the shelter she’d met felines who’d developed eye ulcers as a result of cat flu. A few unlucky ones ended up blind.
The animal was filthy. And yes, ugly. Yet there was something mesmerising about him. She itched to reach out and touch the matted fur. She leant forward.
The cat cowered.
‘It’s okay,’ she said, leaning back in a less aggressive pose. ‘Do you like Kitty Treats?’ She might as well have been speaking Vulcan. ‘See those cans on the windowsill?’
The lighthouse beam of his eye followed her sightline to the cat food. Maybe he’d had a home once.
She stood up slowly, trying not to make a noise scraping her chair.
The cat hurtled to the no-man’s land of the doorway.
She trod noiselessly across the room like an underwater diver.
The utensil drawer rattled when she reached for the can opener. The cat darted outside.
Damn. He could’ve trusted her a little. Still, she’d come this far . . . She latched the can opener onto the tin and felt it sink through the lid. As it chomped the tin with a satisfying rhythm, she sensed a presence in the doorway. The cat was back. She scraped the food onto a saucer and laid it at her feet.
The cat stared longingly at the food, then up at her.
She was too close. She stepped backwards and leant against the new stove.
The cat skittered towards the saucer and buried his face in Kitty Treats.
‘What shall I call you?’
Giving him a name was lining herself up for heartache. Still, what else was new?
‘Cyclops?’
He appeared to have no interest in the classics.
‘Marmaduke,’ she said, edging towards him.
He continued hoovering up the food.
‘Okay, how about something simple like Mojo?’
The cat stopped and gazed up at her. ‘Meow.’ His voice was quieter and more high-pitched than she’d expected.
‘Mojo?’
The cat winked.
‘Okay. Mojo it is.’ She bent and reached out to his shaggy coat.
As though her touch connected him to the electricity grid, Mojo jumped. Tail down, he turned and scurried out the back door.
Chapter 20
It wasn’t a date. Obviously. The only reason he’d asked was because he felt sorry for her. And because she couldn’t say no.
He’d said to wear something comfortable. She interpreted that to mean layers of deodorant, concealer under her eyes, an African print skirt and a dark top. Dangly red earrings made from bottle tops added devil-may-care festivity. Footwear was problematic. She settled for a pair of black, orthopaedic-looking Mary Janes.
Thirty minutes after he said he’d pick her up, Scott still hadn’t arrived. He’d probably forgotten. Unreliable. No wonder Bev had dumped him.
A glass of wine seemed a good idea. On the other hand, it might make her talkative. She cast about for a diversion. There’d been no sign of Mojo since he’d run out on her. She opened the back door and called. No answer. The Kitty Treats had done nothing to seal their friendship.
The only good thing about the dance was that it’d be over in a few hours. It wasn’t too late to flick him a text. Better to be the rejecter than the rejectee. She reached for her phone.
‘Hi there, Scott. So sorry . . .’
Headlights flashed across the panelling in the entrance hall. Seconds later the doorknocker emitted a series of thumps. Damn.
His eyes flashed with boyish charm as she opened the door.
‘You’re late,’ she snapped.
‘Yeah, I know,’ he said, looking sideways. ‘Todd and I were horse riding. Took a while to clean up.’
For someone who’d been dumped because he was a lousy dad, Scott seemed to be the patron saint of fatherhood. Maybe he was trying to get Beverley back.
‘You look nice,’ he said, breathing peppermint in her face.
Of all the words in the English language ‘nice’ was her least favourite. Still, it wasn’t a date.
‘So do you.’ It was the first time she’d seen him in long trousers. He looked surprisingly grown up—apart from the ear to ear grin he was now dazzling her with.
‘Gee, thanks,’ he said, shifting the weight in his elastic-sided boots. Thank god she hadn’t worn hers. His skin glowed in the half-light. Some men looked less attractive freshly shaven, especially if the stubble camouflaged a disappointing chin. Scott was even better looking without a day’s growth. He smelt of cinnamon and soap.
She offered to take Dino. He insisted on the ute, opening the passenger door with a flourish. The interior smelt of dry dust. It was pleasingly utilitarian, apart from the pine-tree deodoriser dangling from the rear-view mirror.
As they rattled into town, a jazz trumpet oozed from the radio.
‘Been practising your dance steps?’ he asked. In profile, his face resembled a warrior in a Grecian frieze.
‘Can’t I just sit on the sidelines and watch?’
‘Relax.’
Easy for him to say when his attitude was permanently horizontal.
‘A bush dance sounds like something under the stars around an open fire with boomerangs.’
‘Not quite,’ he said, shifting the gear stick. ‘Try to imagine how you’d feel after a day’s harvesting somewhere in England in the 1800s.’
‘Who’ll be there?’ she asked.
‘Just about everyone,’ he replied.
‘The Wrights?’
‘They don’t go out much these days. Why’d you ask?’
She told him about the carrot cake. He said not to worry about old Aunty May.
‘You’re related?’
‘You know what it’s like in the country. Everyone’s your aunty, even when they’re not.’
Another Aussie peculiarity.
‘I’ve been meaning to ask you about the stables at my place. Who was it that committed suicide there?’
Scott swerved to avoid a human-sized shadow bouncing across the road.
‘Kangaroo,’ he explained. ‘The stables? It’s old stuff. I wouldn’t worry.’
A boulder weighed on her abdomen. But at the moment, far worse than her stables having a sinister history was the prospect of appearing in front of the entire town of Castlemaine with Scott. Tongues would wag, assumptions be made. If he hadn’t already ruined her reputation spreading laughable stories around town, he was about to make things worse.
They reached the centre of town. Everything was quiet, the windows of the town hall reassuringly dark.
‘Must be the wrong night,’ she said hopefully.
‘Nah,’ he said, yanking the hand brake. ‘The girls have been making soup all afternoon.’
Soup? At a dance? She followed him past the main entrance and down an alley along the side of the building. A rectangle of light shone from a doo
rway.
‘I’ve changed my mind,’ Lisa said, grabbing his elbow.
‘What?’
‘I can’t dance.’
‘C’mon.’ He seized her shoulder and steered her through the doorway into a brightly lit foyer.
A group of women sat at a table. They raised their heads simultaneously, their eyes flashing from Scott to Lisa and back again.
‘Evening ladies,’ Scott said, oblivious to the undercurrent. ‘This is Lisa Trumperton. She’s new in town.’
The women’s smiles were wide but shallow. She recognised Juliet from the garden centre. She was wearing black lace and a Frida Kahlo headband made of imitation roses.
‘Where do I pay?’ Lisa asked.
‘All sorted,’ Scott said, taking two small cards from his pocket and pressing them in her palm.
Juliet asked if she’d like a two-dollar raffle ticket. Desperate for approval, Lisa bought ten.
Scott wandered off to talk with an elderly couple. He towered over them, smiling and chatting. The old man laughed and his wife’s eyes shone. Scott could certainly pump out the charm.
Lisa handed their tickets to a man guarding a set of double doors. As the doors swung open a wave of heat and folksy violin music washed through. She peered anxiously into the soup of moving bodies.
‘Let’s get started,’ Scott said, backing into the doors and ushering her through.
Couples stood in a large circle around the perimeter of the hall.
‘And now for the Bush Polka,’ a voice drawled through the sound system. ‘Gentlemen on the inside, ladies on the outside.’ A Gandalf lookalike in a red check shirt was directing proceedings from the stage. He surveyed the crowd the way Julius Caesar might inspect his troops. A violin dangled from his gnarled hand. A morose guitarist with lank dark hair stood next to him. A woman in a bright-green dress raised her violin and nodded amiably to a man nestled behind a set of drums. A flautist in a tan Akubra moistened his lips.
‘Face your partners!’
‘I’ll sit this one out,’ she muttered, casting a longing gaze at the kids and old people seated around tables at the back of the hall.
Scott grabbed her elbow and nudged her into the circle.
‘Right, ladies and gentlemen,’ the caller announced. ‘I’ll walk you through, then you’re on your own.’
The violins started up a reedy whine. It was the sort of music an Irish granny would knit to in her rocking chair. The drummer set a sedate pace.
Scott latched his arm around her waist and enveloped her hand in his. As she rested her left hand on his shoulder, she could feel solid muscle through his shirt. She floated almost doll-like in his arms, but there was enough distance between them to keep a nun happy.
‘Heel and toe, heel and toe . . .’ droned the caller. ‘Four steps to the right, four steps to the left . . .’
For a solid guy, Scott was nimble in his boots.
‘Clap right hands together . . .’
Scott swept his arm diagonally across his body and nodded at her to do the same. Their hands collided.
‘Now the left.’
She was coping.
‘Clap both hands together.’
She raised her hands in surrender. Scott’s double-handed clap almost knocked her backwards.
‘Now slap your knees . . . swing your partner.’
He twirled her on his elbow.
‘And change.’
She was suddenly in the grip of a man with an orange moustache.
Lisa glanced over her shoulder at Scott. ‘What do I do now?’ she shouted.
The music accelerated to the beat of a slow jog. No wonder most of the dancers looked lean and fit. If they were going to keep this up for more than one song, someone would have to scrape her off the floor.
Orange moustache flung her into the arms of a man with sweaty palms. She tripped over his shoe. ‘Sorry. I’m not much good . . .’ Before she could finish her sentence she was heel and toeing with a young woman in a floor-length gown.
As the music sped up to a dizzying pace, the woman fitted in an extra twirl, delivering herself to a man and Lisa into the arms of another woman.
Lisa looked behind and craned to see who was in front of her. She’d been manipulated into a line of men. Her next partner was a teenage girl, who didn’t hide her disappointment at dancing with a woman.
‘I’ve had a sex change!’ Lisa shouted.
A middle-aged woman in a floral skirt adjusted her arms to ensure Lisa took the masculine hold. None of them wanted to dance with another woman—except maybe for the young lady with cropped hair and dungarees.
Heel and toe, heel and toe . . .
Lisa wondered if she could spin out of the dance altogether and head for the tables at the next partner change. But that would leave some poor woman stranded on the floor. She twirled again to find herself chest to chest with a jacket of pink sequins. ‘Beverley!’ she cried.
The estate agent shot her a snakey smile. Her hair was up in a beehive bedecked with crystal beads. A tiny pink skirt clung to her buttocks. How she could heel and toe in six-inch heels was beyond Lisa.
Beverley swung off to the following man, scraping Lisa’s arm with her fingernail extensions.
Lisa’s next partner was a teenage boy, thin and translucent as a prawn. His hand lay damp in hers. Somehow or other, he too had been the victim of gender exchange.
‘Do you want to be a man?’ Lisa bellowed over the music.
The boy looked startled, as if she’d made an indecent proposal. But this was no time for political correctness.
‘Are you READY TO BE A MAN?!’
He nodded, earnestly.
With the next spin, Lisa and the boy completed an extra half-turn and threw themselves gratefully at the opposite sex.
Lisa glanced across the circle. Scott and Beverley were slapping hands. She whirled into the arms of Ron from the Grey Army. With a natty sense of rhythm, he passed her on to Ken, who danced lopsidedly because of his knee. Doug was outside having a smoke.
A moist strip formed over her spine. Her lungs pumped. Blisters erupted between her toes. She stopped caring about the steps. The challenge was to stay vertical. As the dance took on a power of its own, she became a particle in a swirling universe. She was compelled to keep spinning till the music stopped. Just when it seemed the band was slowing down, the fiddlers raised their chins to begin another cycle.
No wonder this sort of dancing was popular in the old days. It was preindustrial speed dating. In societies where physical contact was formalised to the point of extinction, dances supplied huge quantities of non-verbal information. Each encounter was sex in a trial package under controlled conditions. The pompous man who told her off for not knowing the steps would have no idea how to please a woman in bed. The handsome labourer who stepped forward, offering himself as a gift to womankind, then crushed her toes, had the hallmarks of a premature ejaculator. Talent was tucked away in unpredictable packages. A short fellow with sultana eyes guided her gently through the steps. His touch was firm yet appreciative. With impeccable rhythm and tolerance, he made her a better dancer. A man in a blue shirt pressed against her abdomen, introducing more anatomy than necessary. She almost choked in a cloud of aftershave she recognised as Brut.
‘Well hello there! What’s your name, young lady?’
‘Lisa.’
‘Charmed to meet you. Bob Hogan.’
‘Of Hogan & Hogan?’ she said, panting.
‘That’s right.’ He gripped her to his body and almost spun her off her feet. ‘The Younger.’ As he moved on he squeezed her hand, as if saying farewell after an intimate act.
Two schoolboys, one potential heart attack victim and a farmer later, the music stopped. The circle collapsed as dancers returned to their tables. Lisa waited for her breath to return to normal. The whole town had shown up for the dance—from babies and school kids to old folks in wheelchairs. She looked for Scott. He was standing in a circle of blokes, apparent
ly oblivious to her presence. She wandered over to a table where Juliet was serving drinks and asked for a wine.
‘You’re out of luck,’ Juliet said, handing her a plastic cup. ‘We’ve only got cordial. Lime or orange.’
She opted for lime.
Juliet eyed her for a moment. ‘So are you and Scott an item?’ she said, before turning to pour bright-green fluid into a paper cup.
The cordial burnt the back of Lisa’s throat. She coughed extravagantly. ‘God, no!’ she said before scuttling away to take refuge in a group of women gathering outside the Ladies.
When the band packed up around 9.30, everyone was ready to go—the dance-floor work-out had taken its toll. Scott was suddenly at her side, but quickly disappeared again to issue drawn-out, hearty farewells. Lisa befriended the local osteopath while she waited. The osteopath had moved to Castlemaine as a solo mother a few years ago. People were friendly and welcoming, she said. She’d found new love in the form of a local electrician. Lisa had noticed them on the dance floor, a handsome couple emitting sparks of mutual attraction.
At last Scott tapped her on the shoulder. She trailed after him like a sheepdog, back to the ute, and they drove home in silence.
‘You certainly know how to dance, Ms Trumperton,’ Scott said as they shuddered to a halt under the portico.
‘Thanks.’ She fumbled for the doorhandle.
‘Allow me,’ he said, leaning across the gear stick.
She savoured his woody smell. His breath landed on her face in little puffs of cinnamon. Surely he wasn’t about to kiss her? His right hand was drifting dangerously close to her breasts.
‘The pleasure was all mine, Ms Trumperton,’ he added, lowering his face towards hers.
She recoiled against the passenger door and assumed the posture of Queen Victoria with a bad case of haemorrhoids.
Innocent hurt flashed across his face.
She scooped her handbag off the floor and bolted, hobbling across the gravel to her front door. When she reached the top of the steps she turned and waved. But he was already back behind the wheel and careering towards the gates.
Chapter 21
It was insane to expect him to call the next day. Especially after a non-date. However, he had mentioned he might come over and measure the garden.
