by Helen Brown
Sharky curled his lips and growled.
‘He certainly is not,’ Lisa snapped. ‘The job’s cancelled.’
Mojo crouched low and hissed.
‘What?’ Scott was bemused. ‘I’ve ordered a front-end loader.’
‘I thought we were just at the planning stage,’ Lisa said.
‘So did I. That’s why I ordered the front-end loader, to get an idea of the outlines . . .’
Yapping, Sharky shook his head and wriggled. Two white paws appeared over the top of Beverley’s zipper.
‘Well go ahead an un-order it.’
Dexter took his handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed his forehead. ‘Now the formalities are sorted, I’d like to discuss Chapter One . . .’
Sharky sprang into the air, forming a perfect arc. He landed a few inches in front of Mojo and drew back in momentary alarm. It was Sharky’s first encounter with a one-eyed, half bald, lion cat.
‘Scottie, you’d better pick that thing up before it gets shredded,’ Beverley said in a measured tone. ‘Sharky hates cats.’
The two animals sized each other up. Mojo was taller than the snarling ball of wool. His muscles rippled under his skin. Sharky emitted a falsetto growl and lunged.
Scott bent to grab Mojo, but the cat slid through his hands and charged at the dog. Yipping pitifully, Sharky turned on his tail. A white streak zigzagged through the chairs and tables. The small ginger lion was gaining on him.
‘Mojo, stop!’ Lisa yelled.
But after four years in the wild, her new pet wasn’t about to be humiliated by a wad of yapping cotton wool. Gathering speed, Sharky executed another circuit of the room and dived into the comforting depths of Beverley’s cleavage.
Mojo sailed after him, colliding mid-air with Beverley’s hardback copy of Three Sisters: Charlotte.
‘Get that thing out of here!’ Beverley commanded, replacing the book on the table and zipping up her top. Sharky squirmed and settled in a lump, giving her the appearance of having three breasts.
Momentarily stunned from the impact, Mojo crumpled on the floor. Lisa gathered him up and shut him in the library.
When she returned, the Women’s Monthly had regained composure. Scott had mercifully shoved off.
‘Anyone for tea?’ she asked.
‘Actually . . .’ Beverley said.
Lisa set her jaw. She’d had enough of Beverley to last several lifetimes.
‘I think you’re wrong about the book, Dexter,’ Beverley continued. ‘It’s hilarious.’
‘You liked it?’ Lisa asked, astounded.
‘Hell yeah. And the sex is a hoot.’
Beverley wasn’t a monster in pink sequins after all.
The Women’s Monthly squirmed in silence.
‘She’s right,’ Juliet finally chimed in. ‘Maybe you’re not the target market, Dexter. I loved it, too.’
Chapter 23
Lisa woke next morning with a powder puff in her face. She tried to blow it away, but it pressed against her nose. She pushed it off and rolled over. Something brushed her lips. Whatever it was had moved to the other side of the pillow. It padded each of her eyelids, urging them to open. A mane of scraggy fur came into focus. An amber eye glowed like an off-centre sun. She removed the earplugs. They were useless against the insomniac kookaburra colony, anyway.
Mojo gave a gentle meow.
‘Hello there,’ she said, stroking his forehead. She was pleased he wasn’t a person she had to be careful not to breathe on in case she had bad breath. Jake always winced and closed his mouth when she kissed him in the mornings.
Mojo’s purr reverberated up her arm into her chest. He looked more like a circus animal than a pet, but she was grateful for his presence. The business of finding human friends was too complicated. While Lisa hadn’t warmed to the Brontë’s father, Patrick, she was beginning to understand him better. Soon after his wife’s death he told a friend, ‘In this place I have received civilities, and have, I trust, been civil to all, but I have not tried to make any friends, nor have I met with any whose mind was congenial with my own.’ The Brontë sisters had also been famously antisocial. A modern psychiatrist would have a field day with them. Emily muttered. Anne was ‘reserved even with her nearest of kin’ (Social Anxiety Disorder?). Charlotte swivelled her chair and hid her face while she spoke (Asperger’s?). Severed from the outside world since birth, the Brontë sisters had minimal interest in anyone beyond family. Ordinary life was dull compared to the wild universes they shared in their imaginations. If they’d been medicated into chattier, more ‘normal’ young women, they would never have penned masterpieces.
Usually by this time of day the Grey Army would be scraping away in the guest bedroom. Ted and James had chosen the décor, being her most regular visitors. Flocked gold wallpaper and a king-sized four-poster bed from the Restorer’s Barn wasn’t her usual style, but the boys were excited. But today, the old boys were taking the day off from wallpapering to go to a funeral in Daylesford. Twenty-four hours of glorious solitude spread out before her.
Mojo bounced off the bed covers and asked to be let out onto the balcony. As she opened the doors, a sharp eucalyptus scent tickled her nose. Sunlight tipped the trees with 24-carat gold. Cool air filled her lungs. The resident cockatoo waddled through the long grass where Scott had talked of putting a pergola.
Mojo pranced towards her and wove a figure eight around her legs. He arched his back and shivered with delight as she stroked his spine. As she stooped to pick him up, he squirmed out of her grasp. She was a little hurt he still refused to let her pick him up, even without the burden of his matted coat. He was doing it either from habit or because he refused to relinquish independence. Still, dancing across the floorboards as if he couldn’t believe he was loved, the cat was clearly heartbreakingly grateful to have a home.
She threw an old cardie over her nightgown and headed downstairs. Mojo trotted after her, then sat mesmerised while she sliced a piece of chicken breast. When she put it in front of him, he hesitated, as if unworthy of such a banquet.
‘Go on,’ she said, chomping through a leftover egg sandwich.
The cat devoured the chicken with appreciative wet noises before licking the bowl clean. Then he sprang onto her lap and purred prettily. Mojo placed his paw on her hand, gave a deep sigh and gazed up at her as if she was the moon and stars combined.
She’d read that blinking is the way cats express love. She blinked at him. He winked in return.
‘I love you, too, Mojo.’ People were impossible. Thank God for cats.
They were interrupted by a tap at the back door. Lisa ran a hand through her hair. If the caller was selling anything, one glimpse of her would scare them off.
She opened the door. Her breath froze. Scott stood on the step looking solemn and well-scrubbed.
‘Don’t worry.’ he said, studiously avoiding looking at her attire. ‘I parked on the road. I’ve just come to get my stuff from the stables, if that’s okay.’
‘Sure,’ she said. ‘What’s in there?’
‘Just a couple of spades and a rake.’
‘Okay. Wait. I’ll get them.’ The last thing she wanted to do was go near the stables, let alone inside them, but Scott had done enough snooping around her property.
‘Cute cat you’ve got there,’ Scott said, crouching and clicking his fingers. ‘It is a cat?’
To her annoyance, Mojo raised his lion’s tail and trotted over to him then, purring loudly, butted his head into Scott’s hand.
Lisa stepped into her ugg boots, strode across the yard and pushed open the stables door. Inside, the air was dark and dry like an Egyptian tomb. The smell of ancient timber mingled with rotting hay, creating an earthy perfume. As her eyes adjusted to the darkness she could make out hefty beams running across the ceiling. Lisa wondered what ‘terrible accident’ could’ve happened there. A row of three chest-high doors drifted on their hinges. Shivers ran across her shoulders as she walked past the stalls. She could
almost hear the neighs of ghostly stallions.
Where had Scott left his damned spades? Lisa made out the shape of a wheelbarrow and some tools leaning against the back wall. She shuffled towards them, but her foot collided with a bucket. There was a clunk. For a moment, she thought nothing was going to happen. She’d simply continue her journey to the wheelbarrow. Then she felt a crunching sensation, as her foot rolled sideways. The bucket flew forward. She extended an arm, not to catch it, but because she was falling. The instinct to reach out and break a fall was natural, but hadn’t she read somewhere that it was the wrong thing to do? That people broke their wrists or caused other dire injuries when they landed on their hands? But what, she thought, as she succumbed to gravity’s force, were the alternatives? Landing on her head or shoulders? Surely concussion or shoulder surgery would be worse than a broken wrist? Then again, wasn’t she supposed to curl up like a caterpillar and roll?
As she crashed to the stable floor, her wrist twanged like a guitar string. The soil was hard and unforgiving after years of being trampled by horses’ hooves. Her knees felt raw. Her ankle throbbed. A burning sensation ran up her right arm.
She’d landed in this ridiculous position with speed and efficiency. Getting out of it was going to be more complicated. One thing was sure. She wasn’t going to do the ‘helpless woman’ thing and cry out for Scott.
A ladder reared up in front of her, lit by a cone of light admitted through a hole in the roof. It was missing several rungs and looked as fragile as an old woman’s spine, but with any luck it would be solid enough for Lisa to pull herself up on. But as she reached for the ladder with her good arm, she felt something soft ripple across her lower leg. It moved with the delicate touch of a masseur.
Lisa glanced down. A shape resembling one of Aunt Caroline’s draught stoppers was slithering over her calf. Reptilian scales glistened in the half-light.
She screamed. The guttural yells she’d barked at Jake were nothing compared to this. It was pure, distilled terror.
The door burst open and the stables were flooded with light. Scott ran towards her. She pointed to the snake’s tail sliding under the wheelbarrow.
Scott put his hands on his hips and smiled. ‘That’s all?!’ He laughed. ‘It’s just an old brown snake.’
‘Only the second most venomous snake in the world.’ Lisa had been indulging in bedtime reading with Australia’s Deadliest Animals.
‘Yeah. I’ve been handling these things since I was a kid. This hot weather makes them more active. Here . . .’ He reached for her good arm and helped her to her feet.
She pulled her nightgown over her knees.
‘Anything broken?’
She didn’t think so.
‘He’ll be in here looking for mice and stuff.’ Scott strode over to the corner and grabbed a spade.
‘No!’ Lisa was horrified.
‘I’m not going to kill him! I’ll just take him outside.’
Who did he think he was—Steve Irwin? She hobbled across the floor to the horse stalls and nursed her wrist.
‘Now, where are you old fella?’ Scott chirped as he moved the wheelbarrow away from the wall. ‘Time to come out.’
The snake had arranged itself in a straight line and was gliding discreetly across the floor towards the ladder.
‘Wow! He’s a big fella,’ Scott called. ‘Nearly six foot long, I reckon.’ He stood with his legs apart, knees bent in what seemed to Lisa a vulnerable pose. ‘The trick is to get them by the tail,’ Scott’s voice was higher than usual, his breathing shallow with excitement.
The snake undulated swiftly across the floor. Scott grabbed the tip of its tail and raised his arm. ‘Look at that!’ he called.
Lisa pretended not to be impressed by this display of macho exhibitionism.
The reptile coiled back and with an elegant swoop tried to strike his captor.
‘He’s cranky with me,’ Scott said, dropping the snake onto the floor.
The snake coiled into an S shape. Raising its head, it opened the red diamond of its mouth and confronted Scott.
‘See? See that? That’s what they do when they’re going to . . . OWWWW!’ Scott doubled over.
The snake put its head down and slithered out the door.
‘My God! Are you all right?’ Lisa hurried over. Scott was cringing over two small puncture wounds just below the line of his shorts. ‘Lucky it didn’t go any higher,’ he whimpered.
According to Australia’s Deadliest Animals, victims of the brown snake can collapse within minutes. Lisa’s wrist wasn’t hurting any more. Nor was anything else. ‘What should I do?’ she asked. ‘Aren’t I supposed to suck it?’
‘Not this time,’ he said. Pain hadn’t deadened his sense of satire. ‘Have you got a bandage?’
‘What sort of bandage?’
‘A bandage bandage. A tourniquet.’
She tore off her cardigan and wrapped the arms around his thigh and knotted them together as tightly as possible.
‘Is that a new nightie?’ He had to be delirious. He needed an ambulance. But she had no idea how far away the nearest hospital was. Scott could be dead by the time paramedics arrived.
Lisa grabbed Scott’s elbow, hurried him out to Dino and bundled him into the passenger seat. There was no time to change. She dashed inside and threw a parka over her nightie. Hands trembling, she grabbed her handbag and fumbled for the keys. For once they were where she thought she’d left them. She galloped outside and drove a whining, moaning Scott to the medical centre.
She recognised the receptionist from the book club. ‘Your timing’s good.’ June cast an eye over Lisa’s attire. ‘We’ve just opened.’
‘He wasn’t staying over,’ Lisa explained. ‘He was just collecting his stuff. And I went into the stables . . .’
June twisted her mouth. She wanted to know the colour and size of the snake. Scott said it was brown and at least two metres. She escorted them to a small room. It had a bed, a steel chair and an array of tubes and boxes.
Lisa’s mistrust of the medical profession stemmed back to childhood, when the doctor promised that having her tonsils out would be fun because there’d be ice cream afterwards.
The nurse told Scott to sit on the bed rather than lie, to keep the bite below his heart. ‘Take his boots and socks off,’ she said. ‘Keep him calm. Don’t let him move. The doctor will be here in a tick.’
Lisa knelt on the floor and untied Scott’s boots. He watched as she slipped the laces out of their holes. She loosened the heels and placed the boots under the bed. He asked how her wrist was. It was fine. She asked if there was anyone she wanted him to call.
He shook his head. ‘I made a dick of myself,’ he muttered.
She told him he hadn’t and rolled his big woolly socks down his legs. She’d never touched them before. The muscles were hard under the surface of skin and hair. She asked how he was feeling.
‘Like I’m on one of those rides at Luna Park.’ His breathing was shallow. His forehead gleamed. ‘Look, I’m sorry about this,’ he said. ‘I didn’t mean . . .’
‘It’s okay, Scott,’ she soothed. ‘Have you ever done yoga breathing?’
‘What’s that?’
‘Keep nice and still, that’s it. Breathe through your nose. Take it deep into your diaphragm . . . in, two three four . . .’
His eyes flashed wildly over the ceiling. ‘There’re spots in front of my eyes!’
She looked up. ‘Those are real spots, Scott. The ceiling tiles have little holes in them.’
He rubbed the back of his hand across his nose. ‘I might be going to snuff it and there’re a couple of things you should know.’
His strength seemed to be waning. She wondered if she should press the red button on the wall behind his bed.
‘Don’t worry about ghosts and stuff,’ he said. ‘Some bloke shot himself in the stables once, that’s all. It was years ago . . . It’s how they dealt with depression in those days.’
‘Real
ly? What about the Wrights?’
‘They’re just old and nutty,’ his voice trailed off.
‘The other thing is . . .’ he drew a jagged breath. ‘I think . . .’
Lisa leant forward to catch what he was saying.
‘You’re spunky.’
She sprang back.
‘And beautiful,’ he whispered.
He latched his hand over her shoulder and drew her towards him. To her astonishment, he pressed his lips to hers. The room, with all its stainless steel surgical feel, melted around her. Erotic syrups coursed through her and blossomed in places that had been asleep for years. He was hallucinating because of the snakebite, obviously. But the sensations were so unfamiliar and delicious she was overcome by the urge to reciprocate. She closed her eyes, latched her arms around his tree-trunk neck, and let her mouth move softly against his. Relishing the sensations of desire, she thought that this must be how astronauts feel when, after long journeys through space, their feet finally touch earth again. Or how a desert feels in a deluge, after years of drought. She was alive. Her teeth scraped against his. Clumsy. She was out of practice.
He pretended not to notice.
‘Excuse me.’ The voice was cold, disapproving.
Lisa tried to disentangle herself. Scott held on.
A man with the face of a boxer dog peered around the door. ‘The patient needs complete rest,’ the doctor said. ‘Could you wait outside, please?’
Scott sighed and released his grip.
Lisa rearranged her parka and clumped down the corridor to the waiting room. Thumbing through a 2007 March issue of Women’s Weekly, she went cold with panic. If Scott really was dying, she needed to tell him a few things, too:
• For all his issues, he had a good heart.
• She would’ve been stranded in the flood if he hadn’t shown up.
• If it hadn’t been for him she’d never have met the Grey Army. Well, she might have, ultimately, but it would’ve taken longer.
• That she’d probably overreacted about him letting himself into the house a few times.
• His ideas for the garden were inspirational. She’d been mean to correct his pronunciation of pergola.
