“Why don’t you ring him right now and ask him?” she said. “I know what you Poms are like, you’re so polite you’ll be too shy to ask us again if we ‘really’ meant it—and we do really mean it, don’t we Johnny?”
“Sure,” he said. “I’d love another bloke around the place. Specially one I can recruit for the team.”
Jenny went inside and got the phone. I did some mental arithmetic. Eleven hours difference, it was Friday night in Australia, so it was Friday morning in England, he should be talkable to. He picked up on the first ring.
“Heeeuuuurgh?”
“Oh Horsehead, you can’t have a hangover on Friday morning . . .”
Johnny laughed and slapped his thigh in amusement.
“Big Bum? Is that you?” I hoped Debbie hadn’t heard his nickname for me. “Well, yes, I have rather, but it’s only a minor one. It’s so bloody cold over here and I had to do something to keep warm. How are you, anyway?”
“I’m fine—listen. Remember that guy I wanted you to kill?”
“What’s the arsehole done now?”
“Nothing, but remember our deal? I had to find you a job out here? Well, I’ve found you one.”
“Have you really, Big Bum? That would be marvelous, I’m jack shit of this bloody weather, let me tell you. Is it a big place? Can I ride?”
Johnny was grinning and making beckoning gestures.
“Why don’t you ask the owner? Here’s Johnny Brent.” I handed him the phone. “He wants to know if he can ride here, Johnny.”
“Hamish, how are you? Johnny Brent here. Heard a lot about you from your ravishing sister. She says you’re a polo man. What’s your handicap? Really? That’s pretty good. Well, we can always use another man on the team and Georgia tells us you worked on a ranch in Argentina, yes? So you know what it’s all about. That’s great. OK, well I’ll hand you back to your sister, she can give you my number and we’ll be in touch. OK, mate. Bye.”
I took the phone.
“Happy?” I asked Hamish.
“Rock and roll, Big Bum. He sounds like a good bloke. Is there a decent pub?”
“Hamish wants to know if there’s a decent pub here, Johnny . . .”
They all laughed.
“Tell him the Walton Hotel is a fine old establishment,” said Jenny.
“Yes,” I told him. “There’s a pub.”
“Excellent,” said Hamish. “I’ll be over there before you know it to disgrace you. Thanks, Big Bum.”
“My pleasure. I’ll call you soon, you bad dog. Goodbye. And give your liver a rest.”
They all shouted cheery ’bye’s as I put the phone down. I couldn’t stop grinning. It had been so nice to have some connection between my new life and my old life.
“Thank you so much for that,” I said to Jenny. “I do get a bit homesick sometimes and it would be great to have him here.”
“We look forward to meeting him,” said Jenny, smiling kindly at me.
I glanced at Debbie, who was looking thoughtful. She was picking at something on her jeans. Jenny noticed too and put her bright face on.
“So, Johnny,” she said, filling our glasses. “Are you going to do some steer-roping tomorrow?” She nudged Debbie and winked at me.
“Yeah, Dad,” said Debbie. “Let’s see you up on one of those bucking broncos. Or perhaps you’re just a polo pansy and couldn’t handle a real horse.”
“I’ll handle you two in a moment, if you carry on like that,” said Johnny, clearly loving having both his “girls” with him. “Actually, I’m running a rodeo of my own tomorrow.”
“Oh yeah?” said Debbie. “What’s that? The seniors’ event?”
“Nooo . . . it’s the junior rodeo,” said Johnny, shaking with laughter. “I’m going to be leading the nippers around on a Shetland pony.”
As we were carrying all the plates back into the kitchen later, Debbie sidled up next to me and spoke out of the side of her mouth, so Jenny wouldn’t hear.
“Hey, Georgie,” she said, “I didn’t know your brother played polo. What does he look like? Is he cute? Or is he ugly like you—Big Bum!”
And she slapped me on the backside and ran off shrieking, with me in hot pursuit.
Chapter Ten
“Is this a rodeo or a festival or erotica?” I asked Debbie the next morning, as we sat on the fence by the corral watching the cowboys strut around in their jeans and boots, all bandy-legged and lanky. “Why do you think cowboys are so attractive?”
“I think it’s the hats,” said Debbie. “They’re like dinner jackets—they make all men look gorgeous. If you saw one of these blokes walk into Wine Banc without his hat on you wouldn’t give him a second look.”
“I guess you’re right. It only works in their natural habitat, which I must say feels very much like my natural habitat. Do you think the hat does it for me?” I tipped my old straw Stetson at her.
“Ten-four, rubber duck. You look like you were born wearing it. Do you have rodeos in England?”
“Not that I know of, although I believe boot-scooting is very popular. I suppose the closest thing would be point-to-points, or Pony Club. Not quite the same.”
“Did you do all that?”
“No, too hearty for me. Hamish, as you’ll have gathered, is horse mad, but I got thrown off one when I was ten and never really fancied it after that. I can ride and I like horses, but it’s not a big passion for me.”
“I love it. Not as much as Dad, though. These days I just do it to make him happy, really.” She paused. “Drew and I used to ride a lot. We’d go out for a couple of nights and sleep under the stars. The Stewart property joins ours, so we could ride for miles and miles and never see a soul. Heaven.”
It was the first time I’d ever heard her mention him.
“Do you miss him terribly?” I asked her.
“When I’m up here I miss him almost more than I can bear. That’s why I don’t come home very often—and it’s really nice to have you with me, let me tell you. Anything that makes it different from the past is good. I would have been to this rodeo maybe twelve times with Drew. We started out in the kiddies’ rodeo, where Dad is helping right now. We grew up together.”
“Did you always think you’d marry him?”
“I think so. I did have other boyfriends and I went out with all of his brothers over the years, and of course we went through those stages where boys and girls just taunt each other, but he was always special to me. I’m pretty sure he sent me a Valentine’s Day card every year from the age of ten until he died. He’d never have admitted it and they were never signed—and of course I always got so many—but I could always tell which one was from Drew. I have twenty-two of them.”
I nodded, swallowing.
“You see, there was always one card with a rabbit on it. He used to call me Bunny—he said I had buck teeth and big ears and looked like a rabbit. The first Valentine’s Day after he died I got fifteen cards and not one of them had a rabbit on it.”
She kicked the wooden paling a bit and then pulled herself together just as her mother had done the night before, pasting that big smile back on her face.
“I’m thirsty,” she said, jumping down. “Let’s go get us some beers.”
In the beer tent I just toyed with my drink, but Debbie drank three or four stubbies in close succession. Some cowboys standing around the beer tent watched us with interest. Interest which increased with every beer Debbie downed. A couple of times I suggested we go back out to see what was happening at the corral, but she always wanted another beer instead. Soon there was no mistaking it—she was pissed. She was starting to stagger and sing along loudly with the country music that was playing. I didn’t know what to do. Jenny was off helping with the sausage sizzle and Johnny was with the junior rodeo, and I didn’t dare leave her to go and find them.
Then two of the cowboys came over to talk to us.
“You two girls look like you’re having a good time,” said the tallest one.
>
“Yes, thank you,” I answered in my best clipped snotty Pom voice, which didn’t make any difference because Debbie had already thrown her arms round his neck and said, “We’re having a faaabulous time, big boy.”
Then she started dancing with him in the middle of the beer tent. It was a total nightmare. There were no other women in there and somehow the boys had edged us over to a corner where people coming in to grab a beer couldn’t see us. The other cowboy realized his mate was cracking on to a good thing with Debbie, so he thought he’d better make some fast progress with me.
“So are you going to have a good time like your mate and dance with me?” he said, putting his arms around my waist, with his groin thrust well forward.
“No, thank you,” I said, pulling myself sharply away and sounding like Julie Andrews in full Mary Poppins mode.
“Oh right, you’re a snobby little Pom, are you?”
“Yes. I am.” Well, it seemed the only reply.
Debbie was nuzzling the tall one’s neck and I could hear him suggesting they go off “someplace private.”
“Debs,” I said, looking at my watch theatrically. “It’s nearly three o’clock. We’re supposed to be meeting your father JOHNNY BRENT now. We’d better go.”
I’d hoped the name would register, but these guys were on the rodeo circuit and had never heard of Johnny or any other Brent, and Debbie—now on about the twenty-fifth beer Buffalo Bill had bought her—didn’t even seem to hear. There was only one option—I had to go and find Johnny and bring him back as soon as possible.
“I’ve just got to go for a pee,” I said, suddenly smiling at my cowboy as though I thought he was adorable. “Why don’t you just wait here until I get back?” I tapped him playfully on his lariat. Debbie didn’t notice me leave. She had her hand down John Wayne’s jeans.
I ran out of the beer tent with no idea where to find the junior rodeo. All the formerly gorgeous cowboys hanging around suddenly looked like prospective rapists. Then I heard a voice say: “Georgia? Is it you under that hat?”
It was Rory Stewart.
“Rory! Oh thank God, you’ve got to help me, quick—Debbie’s drunk in the beer tent and a hideous cowboy is about to rape her.”
“Which tent? Show me.”
I grabbed his hand and we ran back to the tent just in time to see the cowboy bundling Debbie out the back of it.
“BUNNY!” shouted Rory. “Get back here.”
She instantly stood up straight and looked at us. The cowboy tried to push her out of the tent but Debbie pushed back past him.
“Hey, what’s going on?” said the cowboy. “I thought we were mates . . .”
“BUNNY, COME HERE NOW!” said Rory, his hat pulled down low over his face.
The cowboy gave Debbie another shove, but she managed to squeeze past him and came running over to Rory.
“Drew!” she said. “DREW?”
Rory just grabbed her hand and pulled her out of the tent as the cowboy came running after her.
“Hey! What the fuck are you doing? She’s with me,” he yelled.
“Not anymore, she isn’t,” I told him, running after Debbie and Rory.
When I got outside she was screaming at him. He held her wrists while she pummeled his chest.
“How could you do that to me? How could you pretend to be Drew? You know your voice sounds just like his. How could you do that? No one calls me Bunny except Drew. You bastard. I hate your fucking guts. Why didn’t you die?”
She burst into racking sobs and Rory just grabbed her and held her tight in his arms. I could hear him making soothing noises like you’d make to a frightened horse. Then he looked up at me, an expression of pure pain on his face.
“I think you’d better go and find Johnny,” he said.
I went over to the corral and asked a friendly looking family where the junior rodeo was. It wasn’t far and I found Johnny holding a tiny toddler on the back of a Shetland pony. It was hard to say which of them was enjoying it more.
“Hello Georgie,” he said. “Having fun?”
“Yes thank you, Johnny. Um . . . Johnny, Debbie’s a bit upset. I think you need to come and see her.”
His face dropped immediately. He gave the child back to its mother and handed her the reins to the pony.
“What happened? Where is she?”
“She um . . . we bumped into Rory Stewart. He had his hat on. She thought he was Drew.”
“Oh, God.” He stopped and looked at me. “Had she been drinking?”
“Well, we did have a couple of beers.”
I took him over to where she was still sobbing in Rory’s arms.
“I’m really sorry, Johnny,” Rory said. “I had my hat pulled low against the sun, and Drew had a similar one . . . it was a terrible mistake.”
I was glad to see he didn’t give Johnny the whole story either.
“That’s OK, Rory—thanks for looking after her. Hey, where’s my little baby? Come on. Daddy’s here. Everything’s going to be alright. We’re going to go home. Come on, let’s go and get Mum.” And he led her away.
I put my face in my hands and groaned. I felt awful. It was all my fault. I should have stopped her drinking. Rory pulled my hands away.
“Georgia, it’s not your fault. Debbie still has a lot of grieving to do and she’s going to be a mess until she does it.”
“Thank God you came along, Rory. It was getting really ugly in there.”
“I can imagine.”
We just stood there for a moment, still in shock.
“Are you staying at the Brents’ place?” he asked.
“Yes—we came up for a relaxing weekend in the country . . .” We both laughed more than this remark warranted.
“Well, it’s good to see you anyway.” He smiled. “Do you want to go for a drink? Not in that beer tent, don’t worry. There’s a really nice pub just up the road. And then I’ll take you back to the Brents’ later. It’s thirty ks so I don’t think you’ll want to walk.”
The Walton Hotel was a nice pub, old—by Australian standards—with verandahs round the front and a big garden at the back. Rory and I sat outside with our beers.
“It’s really beautiful here,” I said.
“You reckon?”
“Absolutely. How far away is your place?”
“Twenty ks that way.” He gestured in the opposite direction from the road to Bundaburra. “Yeah, it is beautiful. You’re right,” he said after a while. “But I think I’ve stopped noticing it. It’s just where I have to be. I look out at all this and dream of sitting outside a café in Darlinghurst, or looking at the books in Berkelouw’s, or walking along Bondi checking out all the crazy people. Like we did that time.”
He smiled his sweet smile at me. Then he seemed to snap to attention.
“Have you seen Billy recently?”
“No,” I said, slightly too quickly. Not since that weird morning and not since I found out he was rogering your sister . . . There was a silence.
“Are you always looking after people, Rory?” I asked. I don’t know what made me say it. I could have commented on the weather.
“What do you mean?” he said, surprised.
“Well, you looked after Debbie before and you’re looking after me now, and I know that the reason you’re not sitting outside a café in Darlinghurst is because you have to look after your mother, your father and the farm . . . That’s a lot of looking after.”
And you’re looking after Billy’s messy little secret, I thought. And your sister’s reputation.
“Well, I suppose you’re right. I hadn’t thought about it that way. It just happened . . . It’s just the way things are right now.” He shrugged. “I do miss the life I had in Sydney, but I wouldn’t enjoy it if I knew my parents were suffering here without me. And Georgia, I’m very happy to look after you. That’s a pleasure, not a duty. Come to think of it, I’d better give Jen a ring and let her know you’re OK.”
He came back a few minutes
later with more drinks.
“Well, that’s all sorted. Debbie’s in bed—they got the doctor to come and give her a shot. Jen said she’s sorry they won’t be going to the dance tonight, but why don’t you go and have a good time with me? Which I thought was an excellent idea.”
“Were you going anyway? Are you sure I won’t be cramping your style?”
“Are you kidding? I’d love to take you. It’s really fun—they have it in a big old shed.”
“Will there be as a live band?”
He nodded. “Too right. You can’t have a bush dance without a live band.”
“Great. I can’t wait. But won’t I need to change or something? I’m not exactly dressed for a dance.”
“No, you’re perfect,” he said. “It’s a bush dance, everyone will be in jeans and boots—and anyway, you’d be the most beautiful girl there whatever you were wearing.”
Well, I don’t know whether that was true or not, but I certainly danced more than any other girl there. Bush dancing was quite similar to Scottish reeling and while shaking your thing in a free-form way is fun, there’s something very satisfying about doing a dance with a set format and getting it right. Especially if you get to hold hands with Rory Stewart while you do it.
I couldn’t stop laughing—it was all such a hoot. I was a long way from home, but I was doing one of the things I love most. It would have made my grandparents so happy to see me charging around that hall. Especially, it occurred to me, with someone with a name like Rory Stewart.
“Rory, is your family Scottish?” I asked him, as he whisked me round in polka time.
“Well, we’re Australian now, but my great, great, great—er . . . something like that—grandfather was a Scottish soldier called Andrew Stewart.”
“My family’s Scottish too.”
“Is that right?”
“My grandparents live on the island of Mull. My brother Hamish can play the bagpipes.”
“So can I,” said Rory, grinning.
“You’re kidding.”
“No, I’m not. I went to Scots College and they have a school pipe band. I was in it.”
Pants on Fire Page 16
