When he was still none the wiser Janelle had supplied an example: ‘Remember when I was talking about my trip and your dad said it was a great opportunity but your mum said, “It’s not safe for a young girl to go off travelling alone”?’
Damien was annoyed at Janelle for mimicking his mum and defended her by saying she was just being sensible, like all mothers are. But he did know what Janelle meant, and that she was spot on. He’d lived with it his whole life, just hadn’t ever realised exactly what it was. Hell, that was probably why he’d never questioned becoming a farmer.
He wondered what Janelle was doing with her life. Was she some corporate high-flyer? Was she a happily married stay-at-home-mum with a couple of kids? Divorced or struggling to make ends meet as a single mother? Hell, why was he even thinking about her? It had been over for years, and hadn’t really been that serious in the first place. Why couldn’t he find a nice woman to settle down with? What he really wanted was one that would be happy to get her hands dirty with him out on the farm. With every passing year Damien could feel his chances dwindling. It was far too depressing to think about. He forced his attention to the dirt he was shovelling over the pipe he’d just finished fixing.
Back inside the house he was relieved to see the marker on the tank finally moving to indicate a rising water level.
Early on Friday morning Damien absently pushed and poked and eventually ate his Weet-Bix. He’d buy something more interesting next time, he decided. Through the window he noticed the tank on the hill was at last looking full. So far he was free of early morning disasters. Not that he felt particularly jovial. In fact, he didn’t think he felt any different for swallowing Doctor Squire’s tablets but supposed it would take a while, like the doctor and the woman shrink had said.
Damien started wondering how he really felt and why. Down, he just felt down, and there really wasn’t any reason. It wasn’t like he was homeless or starving. Even cereal resembling sodden cardboard had incredible nutritional value, according to the panel on the box. He felt heavy. Not like the day of the ‘incident’ – that had crept up and jumped him. Actually, if he was forced to be honest, he felt like this a lot – most of the time actually.
Usually he could get himself into the shed or engrossed in some physical or mental task to escape. But for some reason today was different. No matter how much he willed his legs to get him up, he continued to sit staring at the milk droplets, old and current, splotched on the plastic tablecloth. He even allowed the trail of white sugar marching away on the backs of some ants to go by undisturbed.
Damien had no idea why, but he found himself reaching for the TV remote and looking for the guide in the weekly paper he still hadn’t read. As he flicked past the classifieds something caught his eye.
Shit! He was sure his heart missed a few beats as he frantically checked his battered watch for the tiny date numeral at the side of the face. The heaviness in his gut was replaced with the burning of guilt higher up in his chest. He tipped the pile of papers over searching for Jacqueline’s journal sheets and only when he found them did he realise he’d been holding his breath. He scribbled notes in both columns and was surprised it made him feel better, calmer even.
Nine years had passed and still Damien’s mum was putting a memorial in the paper about his dad. He wondered if maybe she’d really loved him after all. Or perhaps she was just doing what was expected. Who would know?
Personally he didn’t see the point of bringing his father’s death up publicly every year and was annoyed his name appeared on the bottom of the short message. But that was his mum, always doing what everyone would consider right. He thought it was lucky he’d seen it in the paper before he’d headed into town and had old Esme and Gladys clucking motherly and fondly remembering his father to his blank, bewildered stare.
‘Fuck, I can’t believe I forgot,’ he cursed.
He managed to get himself out to the shed, and after a couple of mundane hours of beating bits of steel straight, changing oil and servicing engines, Damien got in the ute and drove around the property that had doubled in size since he took over. Everything seemed in order, as much as the poor soil, lack of time and money allowed, and he made his way back to the house.
He stopped at the gate of a small sectioned-off paddock and climbed the fence. Gazing at the straggly skeletal trees, he smiled sadly at his father’s scheme for surviving drought while still retaining stock numbers. His father had been quite the visionary, always pursuing some dream or other. Most of them, like the orchard of tree lucerne for fodder, came to nothing. Damien remembered the day Mum, he and his sister, Lucy, helped to hand plant the thousand-odd seedlings his dad had grown from seed in his shadehouse.
Back in the house, over a cup of Milo, Damien added another note to the journal sitting on the table. This time it was about how frustrated he was that his dad had never concentrated on the important bits of farming, namely fencing and general maintenance, but got distracted with other, less important things. It was weird, but again Damien felt a bit better, sort of warmer and lighter inside, like when you’d spent days being pissed off at someone and finally told them what was on your mind and everything was fine and things could get back to normal.
He didn’t think his father would be angry about what he’d written, well he hoped not anyway. Bugger it, he was going to the pub to have a drink for his dad. His father had never spent much time in the pub, or even drank much for that matter – his mother saw to it that he faced up to his responsibilities. But there was nothing else Damien could do for him now.
The five o’clock pub crowd consisted of four old blokes who would have spent enough money there over the years to have bought the place, and a few farmers who’d knocked off early or were still on post-harvest holiday. The office and shop workers didn’t usually turn up until nearer six, about the same time trays of biscuits with cubed cheese and mettwurst were handed around.
Everyone grunted their responses of ‘G’day’ or ‘How’re you going?’ Perched on a stool with light beer in hand, Damien discussed yields versus chemical usage with Barry, one of the Department of Ag agronomists. He was liked well enough, but public servants in general were considered a slack mob of bastards.
Damien was ordering another round of beers for Barry and himself when he spied Cecile and Louise coming through the glass door, followed by the shrink. He wondered what he was supposed to do. He couldn’t exactly just disappear, but the last thing he needed was the whole pub knowing he was seeing a shrink and that he was on drugs to calm him down.
Jacqueline stood slightly behind him while the other two women took up positions at the bar to Barry’s left.
Louise sneered a trashy, ‘Hi Damien, long time no see,’ greeting and Cecile was already in deep conversation with one of the farmers. Damien ignored Louise. They had what might be called a history. One night about five years ago she’d got offended when he’d suggested he wasn’t into one-night stands. After telling him they were at a B&S event – Beer and Sex, not the once fashionable term of Bachelor and Spinster Ball – she’d stormed off. Barely rated a blip on the radar of life he would have thought, and put it down to it being a girl thing. Or perhaps it was a country girl thing? Anyway, ever since then her behaviour towards him had been either nasty or sleazy. Now he could feel her breasts pushing into him as she stepped between him and Barry and leant forward to order a drink.
Damien turned on his stool to include Jacqueline in the group – dictated by his good upbringing.
‘Jacqueline, have you met Barry?’ he asked. ‘He works for the Department of Ag.’ They exchanged handshakes. Cecile and Louise wandered off together and were instantly absorbed by the growing mass of bodies. Barry waved to someone across the bar and, taking his beer with him, excused himself.
Alone with Jacqueline, Damien was both pleased and disappointed to find her claiming the recently vacated stool and ordering a drink. Asked if he wanted the same again, he nodded. He looked around, embarrassed at havi
ng a woman buy his drink. He should have had more manners and got in first.
Ordinarily he would have jumped at the idea of being the sole company of a beautiful, intelligent woman, but he knew tongues would soon be wagging. He politely leant away when she reached in front of him for a coaster, but still managed to catch a breathtaking glimpse of smooth, pale breast cupped in red lace.
Damien was sure she’d have a bloke back in the city. Meanwhile, he was desperately hoping she wouldn’t mention the journal or Monday’s appointment. The place was packed and someone would hear. He got in first and asked, ‘So, how are you settling in?’
‘Great, everyone’s so friendly. Thanks. How was your week?’
Damien wondered if it was a ‘tell me how you feel’ question, or one from the same category as talking about the weather or asking after one’s mother. He hoped she was professional enough to have left all probing questions back at the office. He also wondered if it might be true what people said about shrinks, that they were always checking everyone out.
‘Okay I suppose,’ he answered. He thought she was sensing his unease, because suddenly she was firing questions about farming at him. And she seemed genuinely interested. Slowly Damien started to relax a bit and the hot needles of fear began to creep back down his neck.
He thought about how it was true that farmers in general were only really comfortable talking about three main topics – farming, football and sex. Usually in that order and dependent upon the amount of alcohol consumed. He found himself not answering her polite questions about his particular enterprise but instead spewing a load of shit about organic farming, something he knew little about.
He was trying to stop himself, but it was like some higher force was controlling his mouth. It was freaky. He was hearing himself blabbing while trying to analyse why that subject, of all he had to choose from, was what had come up. It could only be because Jacqueline was from the city.
Jacqueline smiled politely while Damien blundered on, barely pausing for breath. He knew there hadn’t been a chance for her to ask any questions or tell him she really wasn’t interested, but then it wasn’t really him talking.
‘City folk wouldn’t understand. They go into their local shop looking for “certified organic” produce thinking we pump all that stuff into the ground for the hell of it. Trust me, we don’t. It’s too bloody expensive for that …’
He told her that over the years there’d been the odd farmer who had put his foot down, or his wife had after reading about birth defects or something in some trashy women’s magazine, and tried to go organic and got into huge trouble. The first problems started with the neighbours whose various weeds sent seed through the flimsy wire fences. Or perhaps, Damien suspected, they were paid by the chemical companies to do it. Rather than not reap any crop, the well-intentioned farmer would have to spray, ruining all chance of ever becoming ‘certified organic’.
‘You see,’ he continued, ‘to receive certification the property has to have been free from chemical use for a certain number of years, depending on the type of products that were used. Even the odd litre here and there will ruin all hope. What the city shopper doesn’t understand is that certified organic produce is more a privilege than a right. Prices have to be considerably higher because of the limited amount of produce. It’s the old demand versus supply scenario. Anyway, there’s more to it than just eliminating chemicals – the farm has to be managed completely differently.’
Damien was relieved to finally fall silent. He reached for his glass, which was still three-quarters full. Jacqueline was smiling, almost mischievously, with a challenging glint in her eye. He took a big gulp of beer and she put her empty glass down on the sodden towel running along the bar and opened her mouth to speak.
‘Personally,’ she began boldly while Damien cringed, waiting for the onslaught, ‘I’m not that fussed about organic produce. The meat is twice the price and the vegies are often shrivelled and have grubs living in them. Anyway, you could get hit by a bus tomorrow and what a lot of energy and time you’ve wasted on such trivialities.’
Damien realised, too late, that his mouth had dropped open and he’d blinked a number of times. He couldn’t believe what he’d just heard. She was normal after all. He had to get out of there before he said or did something else he’d regret. He downed the rest of his beer and leapt from his stool. Issuing hasty apologies, something about an early start the next day, he hurried away before Jacqueline had a chance to say anything.
The drive home was a blur and Jacqueline’s natural, cheerful features etched in his memory were the only clarity. Jesus, how was he supposed to face her on Monday now?
Chapter Six
Jacqueline stared after Damien, bewildered at his sudden departure. All she’d said was that she wasn’t that fussed about organics. Hell, she’d been agreeing with him. So why would he be upset? She shrugged, collected her newly arrived beer from the bar and looked around for Louise and Cecile. When she spied them over in the corner between the jukebox and dark green toilet doors she hastily pushed her way through the mingling patrons. She could feel eyes staring at her as she passed and there was the occasional low-toned wolf-whistle and ‘Come back ‘ere, luv’. She ploughed on, offering polite apologies as she went.
‘Here she is,’ Louise said warmly as Jacqueline arrived.
‘Rob, this is Jacqueline, our new psychologist. This is my husband Rob, pig farmer extraordinaire,’ Cecile said proudly.
‘Hi.’ Jacqueline offered her hand, which was firmly grasped and pumped by the beaming, slightly red-faced and balding stocky man with his arm around Cecile.
‘Great to meet you. Hey, now we’ve got four, how about that game of doubles? You do play, don’t you?’ he asked Jacqueline, pointing at the well-worn pool table in front of them.
‘Very badly,’ Jacqueline replied with a laugh.
While Rob racked up the balls Louise sidled up to Jacqueline. ‘So, what happened to Damien?’ she asked quietly.
Jacqueline shrugged. ‘Don’t know, just suddenly got up and left.’
‘Yeah, he does that, don’t worry about it.’
‘So do you know him well?’ Jacqueline asked.
‘Yeah, I suppose. Went through school together, our parents were quite friendly. You can’t help knowing someone when you live in such a small place, if you know what I mean.’
Rob handed Jacqueline a pool cue and told her it was her break because she was the ring-in. Her shot scattered the balls perfectly around the table with a number finishing very close to pockets. The trio by the jukebox began cheering and clapping wildly.
‘You’re my partner,’ Rob quickly said.
‘Hey, what about your darling wife?’ Cecile asked, rolling her eyes and pretending to be miffed.
After blowing her a kiss he said, ‘You can have me for the whole rest of the night.’
‘I’ll keep you to that,’ Cecile said. ‘And anyway, Louise and I are going to whip your butts. Aren’t we, Lou?’
‘Damn right,’ Louise replied, roughly pulling the cue from Jacqueline’s grasp.
Jacqueline watched the happy and competitive banter with a smile spread across her face. It reminded her of her university days. Yet tonight, she mused, she was definitely not going to consume that much alcohol. Those messy nights are far behind me, she told herself. I’m a professional now.
The banter continued and the tension went up a notch when Rob and Jacqueline had over half their balls sunk and Louise and Cecile were yet to pocket one. A crowd had gathered around them and they began to chant whenever it was either Louise or Cecile’s turn. Jacqueline thought they were calling, ‘Pants down, pants down,’ but wasn’t sure and before she had a chance to ask Rob, Cecile sank a ball. Instead of a cheer and applause, the crowd gave a slow howling boo and gradually dispersed. Louise hugged Cecile like she’d just saved her life.
‘You were lucky,’ Rob teased, as he poked the pool cue playfully at his wife’s stomach. Jacqueline stared
at the spectacle, unsure of what to make of it. Rob noticed the bewildered expression on her face. ‘Don’t they have that rule in the city?’ he asked.
‘What rule?’ Jacqueline asked, her brow creased in confusion.
‘Pants down if you don’t sink a ball.’
Jacqueline shook her head slowly, still confused. ‘No.’
‘Well,’ Rob explained, ‘the rule here, and I’m sure it differs place to place, is that if you don’t pot a ball by the time the game is over you have to run around the table three times with your pants, or skirt as I guess the case could be, around your ankles and the pool cue held above your head.’
‘Oh,’ Jacqueline said, ‘I didn’t know.’ She wondered if underwear was counted as pants but was certainly not going to ask. What was just a bit of fun was made so much more serious and potentially humiliating when there was a pub full of people. Surely they wouldn’t make you go through with it? But then she absolutely did not want to put the theory to the test. Poor Cecile and Louise, no wonder they had been so red-faced and stressed and were now panting with relief.
Rob and Jacqueline quickly finished the game, victorious without Louise and Cecile potting another ball, but with all the tension obviously over they didn’t seem to care. They laughed about how they’d let the newcomer win, just to be polite. Louise announced she was starving, and the four of them migrated to the lounge area for a counter meal.
According to the blackboard menu it was Schnitzel Night, and on offer was a long list of options, some obscure. Jacqueline settled on the Hawaiian, despite knowing it would probably taste like deep-fried lard and be just as bad for her.
Now her mouth watered as she saw half a cow, posing as a schnitzel on a plate, being delivered to the table next to theirs. While they waited for their meals, Rob bought a bottle of wine and poured them each a glass. Accepting one of the heavy, thick-stemmed glasses, Jacqueline tried to calculate how much she’d already had to drink and vowed to slow down. She thought about some of her less attractive moments induced by excessive alcohol. They were rare occurrences these days, but nevertheless bound to pop up again if she wasn’t vigilant.
Wattle Creek Page 6
