Wattle Creek

by Fiona McCallum

  ‘Oh please, John, we’re about to eat,’ Nancy said. Ethel giggled, which set Nancy off. After marvelling at the ladies having trouble holding their wine after just a couple of glasses, Jacqueline joined in to be polite and was surprised to hear Doctor Squire clear his throat and, after apologising for his insensitivity, also let out a bit of a chuckle.

  ‘Great meal, Miss Havelock,’ Doctor Squire finally said, leaning back in his chair and patting his stomach.

  ‘Yes, just fabulous,’ Ethel and Nancy said together, which sent them both spluttering into fits of giggling again.

  ‘Yes, you’ll make someone a good wife one day,’ Doctor Squire added solemnly.

  Ethel and Nancy both feigned shock, bringing a hand to their mouths.

  ‘What?’ he demanded, frowning deeply.

  ‘Not very politically correct in this day and age, dear,’ Nancy said, patting his hand.

  ‘That’s alright,’ Jacqueline said, cutting in quickly, ‘I’ll accept it as a compliment.’

  ‘Oh … yes … right … thank you,’ Doctor Squire spluttered, as if unsure of what he was thanking her for.

  Chapter Nine

  Thursday afternoon saw Damien driving his tractor rolling stubble, which he’d been doing for most of the week. He was sick of it, but if the weather stayed hot and dry he’d be finished in a couple of days. He really hoped the small amount of rain they were forecasting wouldn’t eventuate. Just his luck they’d get it right for once and he’d have to add this to his list of unfinished jobs.

  Until a few years ago all the trash left behind after harvest was raked into long rows and burnt, but with all the nagging about saving the land and protecting the ozone layer, heavy rollers were now used to flatten it and aid composting. Rolling it also helped to stop sandy topsoil blowing away in the wind, so that was definitely a good thing. Apart from that, to Damien, it was just another pain in the arse job to be done.

  Would be a hell of a lot worse, though, if the tractor cab wasn’t air-conditioned and the seat wasn’t so comfortable, Damien thought. It was the time available for thinking that he didn’t like; there was nothing else to do when you were driving around and around a paddock.

  As he drove, he tapped on the steering wheel along with the beat of the song on the radio struggling to be heard above the deep, throaty hum of the powerful engine up front. He couldn’t have it too loud, though, because then he wouldn’t hear his link to the outside world; his UHF radio. For the first time in ages Damien admitted to himself he was lonely. But he wasn’t really sure why. He had heaps of mates, so why was he so fucking lonely? The more he drove around and thought about things, the worse he felt.

  He slammed the tractor into park and laid his head on the steering wheel. Tears pushed at his eyes and all the muscles around his heart screamed with pain with every beat, like he was being stabbed with a burning stick. He just wanted it all to end – the feeling that life was a waste of time; the feeling of always having to do the right thing but never succeeding; the feeling there would be no end to this loneliness. There were no pleading brown eyes to bring him back from the edge this time and, damn it, no fucking gun.

  He told himself Jacqueline was right and his mum wrong – there was no harm in talking to someone. But Mum getting through all she had, like her husband dying, gave her a lot of credibility. And parents always knew best, right?

  Yep, the last thing Mum needed was everyone gossiping about how her son needed a shrink. God, he really had to phone Jacqueline and cancel. He kept forgetting. He’d do it in the morning; she’d have left for the day by the time he got back inside. So, I’m doing the right thing. That’s what life’s all about, right?

  But why did he feel so low? Like, if it wouldn’t hurt so much he’d get out now and throw himself under the tractor’s wheels. Fatal farm accidents happened all the time. No one would know.

  Damien slammed the gear lever into place and upped the throttle. After a roar and cloud of black diesel smoke the tractor lurched forward, tonnes of machinery behind straining to catch up. If the weather held, the job should only take a few days. He needed to get on with it and stop his whingeing, he thought.

  The UHF radio crackled to life and Damien heard his name being called. It was Jack, his neighbour to the south.

  ‘Damien McAllister, you receiving?’

  ‘Receiving, Jack,’ he replied.

  ‘How’s it going?’

  ‘Alright. You?’

  ‘Yeah, just doing some rolling. You?’

  ‘I’m just heading out to get started. Saw your dust, thought I’d say g’day.’

  ‘Thanks. Good day for it.’

  ‘Yeah. Anyway, I’ll catch you later, I’ve got a gate to open.’

  ‘Righto, see ya.’

  Damien liked knowing someone else was out there, and probably as bored as him. What he didn’t like was that Jack had a lovely wife, Lisa, to bring him out an iced coffee or something later. And if Jack did want something, he didn’t hesitate to call her. He was forever telling her off and ordering her about.

  Damien thought it was a bit rough, especially when everyone as far as the signal stretched could hear. His dad had always said the UHF was for basic communication and emergencies. It pissed him off that some farmers and their families would tie up the frequency with chatter for fifteen, twenty minutes at a time, so no one else could get a call in. During busy times heaps of people talking non-stop was a real pain in the arse because sometimes the UHF was the only way to organise trucks and stuff.

  The area did have mobile phone coverage, but sometimes it was a bit patchy. Anyway, it was so bloody expensive, you’d be mad to use it when the UHF was free. He stopped and got out to stretch his legs and check it was still hot enough for the rollers to do their job. Jeez, he thought, I could do with an iced coffee or something. If only I had someone to call.

  Friday morning Damien felt really weird. He didn’t know what was going on. He’d woken up at the usual time, but instead of dragging himself into the working day he couldn’t make himself get out of bed. He didn’t feel sick, not even all that tired, he just didn’t want to get up. It was like he was too heavy; his legs, his head and everything inside. He knew he still had stubble to roll while the weather held, but he couldn’t seem to make himself care.

  The dogs started howling their protest at being locked up. He wanted to yell at them to shut up but couldn’t even find the energy for that. Even the fact that his mum might turn up any minute – heaven forbid she find him in bed at seven-thirty – didn’t budge him. He tried to think of something worth getting up for, but neither the thought of mushy Weet-Bix nor the walk to where he’d left the tractor in the corner of the paddock worked. That was his life in a nutshell: sodden cereal and work.

  He lay back down with his hands behind his head and stared at the ceiling. If he could do anything today, what would he do? Nothing came to mind.

  He wondered what he’d do differently with a million dollars, not that his luck would ever see that happen. The sad fact was that with all the money in the world he’d probably still be a farmer, just a bloody rich one with a wife and family. He knew people dreamed of travelling the world, but the prospect of sitting in a plane for hours, scared out of his wits, only to arrive somewhere he didn’t speak the language and had no idea what he was about to eat was his idea of a nightmare.

  Damien wondered what would happen if he took a handful of the pills Doctor Squire had prescribed him. Would he go to sleep and never wake up? Now there was a dream …

  Damien woke to hear the ABC radio weatherman saying rain was on its way. It was five-thirty and he’d spent the whole day in bed. He must have fallen asleep. The pills. How many had he taken? Four, five, six? He didn’t know.

  Red-rimmed bloodshot eyes on a pale face stared back at him from the bathroom mirror. He looked like shit and felt even worse. His head pounded and he was dizzy. But he knew he had to get out of the house.

  He couldn’t go to the pub in case Jac
queline was there. She was last Friday night. Shit, he still hadn’t called her to cancel. It was too late now. He’d have to do it first thing Monday morning. He found himself thinking about the journal papers that had ended up in the bin and were now probably under a pile of vacuum dust and food scraps. He’d sort of liked the idea of telling Jacqueline a bit about his life, her being a city slicker and all.

  Not that he’d written much before his mum chucked them away. What would he write about next – not that he was saying he would. Probably about the time they had to walk the sheep all the way to his uncle’s place to use his sheep dip. He didn’t know why the childhood memory jumped into his mind. The walk was about seven kilometres and he and Lucy had insisted on following on their bikes. She was on a tricycle with tiny wheels because she hadn’t yet got her first two-wheeler. He was on a really cool roadster that his parents had got second-hand from someone down the road. He remembered hating Lucy for ages after she got her first real bike because it was brand new and really shiny.

  That day Lucy had lasted about a kilometre before she was tired and bored, and he just enough longer not to be shown up by a girl. His dad’s told-you-so look from the old Suzuki motorbike and the grin of the eager border collie, Tippy, who was hitching a ride on the front, were clearly etched into his memory.

  His dad had loved the dog like it was another son, and Damien thought it was only because his mum put her foot down that he didn’t have it living in the house with them. He couldn’t remember where he’d come from, but his earliest pet memories were of Tippy. He was one of those picture-perfect border collies with the long hair and white collar, belly and feet, and of course the trademark white tip at the end of his tail that used to wave about like the flag on his roadster. Tippy was one of those nervous, overachiever types, forever shaking with excitement and only stopping long enough for further instructions. And he always did as he was told.

  Damien remembered the time they were in town visiting Nanna and Grandpa’s for dinner. He couldn’t remember why, but Tippy was outside in the car. When they went to go home the interior below the side window had been ripped to shreds. Dad was pretty upset about his pride and joy, the volcano orange SLR 5000 Torana, the only brand new car they ever bought. But he was more concerned about Tippy. He and Lucy got the blame though. They’d teased Tippy – and boy did they get told off. But Damien recalled all they’d done was tap on the window occasionally to let him know he wasn’t alone.

  Tippy, like all the McAllister dogs in the early days before the compound was built, slept at the end of a heavy chain in an old forty-four gallon drum lying on its side and filled with hessian wheat sacks. There was a time they had to go away for the weekend to some family do in Adelaide, so Brad, one of his dad’s cousins who lived two farms away, was asked to come over and feed Tippy and let him off for a run. The first thing his father had done when they got home was to go and check on his treasured Tippy. Something was wrong. The kids were sent to bed and his dad sat out watching the dog.

  Next thing they were rubbing the sleepy-dust from their eyes and being bundled into the car. Damien’s mum had had to drive while his dad held Tippy on his lap. The vet was over an hour and a half away and Tippy was dead on arrival. He had a twisted bowel, they learnt when they were old enough to be told. They slept on the long drive home and got the next day off school. It was the only time Damien ever saw his dad cry. He was supposed to be helping him clear Tippy’s bedding away but he just stood watching the tears streaming down his father’s face. He was only about six and was confused and scared.

  Damien reckoned his dad spent the rest of his life hoping for another Tippy, but none ever really measured up. He loved them well enough and took good care of them, but there was never the same bond between master and best friend.

  With the last dog, Damien thought he’d finally seen a glimmer of his dad’s relationship with Tippy. Or perhaps it was just because it also was around the time of his dad’s brain tumour diagnosis and the beginning of the end of life as they knew it.

  Chapter Ten

  At five o’clock on Friday afternoon, after a hectic day of taking bookings and seeing new clients who were present at the CWA talk on Wednesday, Jacqueline realised Damien hadn’t dropped his journal pages in. She pottered about aimlessly until five-thirty, just in case he thought she kept the same hours as the shops.

  After locking her door, she went to the reception desk to enquire if anything had been left there by mistake. Both Louise and Cecile shook their head and said they hadn’t seen anything, but wondered if she wanted to join them for a drink at the pub. Wiggling a scolding finger at them, Jacqueline told them she would have one drink and then she was getting an early night.

  ‘Yeah, right,’ they’d both said in unison and rolled their eyes.

  ‘No, I’m serious. Last time got me into enough trouble.’

  As they walked across the car park, Jacqueline wondered if Damien had just forgotten to drop in his journal. But really, she didn’t know why she was giving it so much thought; it was only a few pages of writing. She was now officially off duty and would worry about Damien McAllister next week.

  In the pub were lots of familiar faces from the last Friday night, and her fun-loving nature was apparently well remembered with some of the bolder types telling her how impressed they had been with her form. She politely played up to their banter until a few of the young men began to push the envelope with comments like, ‘How about laying me on your couch?’

  Ever mindful of the walls having eyes and ears and not wanting to be confronted by Doctor Squire again, especially after last night’s successful building of bridges, Jacqueline politely told them to phone the surgery where they’d be put through to book an appointment. And to the many offers to buy her a drink, she held up the glass of house white wine she was taking tiny sips from and politely declined.

  When she got to her door at seven-thirty, the phone was ringing. Frantically fumbling to get the key in the lock and answer it before whoever it was gave up, she remembered she hadn’t rung her mother back, as promised. She’d wanted to stay at the pub, but knew that leaving early was a good career move. Now she realised a chat with her parents was just what she needed. And for a change she actually had something she wanted to share.

  Kicking the door shut behind her, Jacqueline reached for the phone on the tiny hallstand.

  ‘Hello,’ she almost shouted, as she pulled the handset to her mouth. Silence greeted her and after repeating herself twice, she replaced the receiver. She shrugged, dumped her briefcase on the floor at the end of the sofa, kicked off her shoes, and slumped heavily onto the plush cushions.

  While she was staring at the TV guide for inspiration, her thoughts went back to the phone. Now that she thought about it, she could have sworn she’d heard someone breathing. And there had been no engaged tone to indicate the other person had hung up. She shivered involuntarily and instinctively reached behind her to close the blinds. Her heart began to race and the all too familiar feeling she thought she’d left behind in the city engulfed her.

  Of course she hadn’t told Doctor Squire during the interviews her real reason for desperately wanting the job.

  For the first two months after she bumped into Jacob at a bar one evening she’d had prank phone calls nearly every night, odd pieces of lacy lingerie disappear from the line, and a number of other strange happenings that had given her the eerie feeling of being watched. If only she hadn’t acknowledged him with a nod when he’d turned up in that bar when she’d been out with friends. But she hadn’t known he’d developed an unhealthy fixation on her, and at the time didn’t want to seem rude or make her friends feel awkward and ruin everyone’s night out. She wasn’t comfortable socialising with a client, especially one from the prison. Although he’d been there for a relatively minor offence, and wasn’t considered dangerous, she still wasn’t comfortable about it.

  He’d joined their group without asking, just kind of attached himself to them.
Jacqueline had spent most of the night dropping hints that he’d outstayed his welcome, but he’d refused to budge except to go to the bar for more drinks. It was when Jacqueline turned down his offer to go and get coffee somewhere at the end of the night and instead climbed into the cab with her three girlfriends that she’d seen his eyes narrow menacingly. It would have been barely noticeable to most, but when it came to mannerisms Jacqueline was more tuned in than the average person on the street. She’d tried to convince herself that his being there was just a coincidence. They happened all the time in a place as small as Adelaide. She’d shaken off her eerie thoughts by telling herself that at least he didn’t know where she lived. She’d been wrong about that as well.

  The police said without any concrete proof all they could do was drive past her house every now and then, but of course they couldn’t even guarantee that because of being ‘pretty short-staffed at the moment’. Over the past six months Jacob’s fixation seemed to have waned but just when she’d begun feeling more at ease, she’d had another call. Just like the one she’d had now.

  Jacqueline shivered again as she remembered the time she’d got home from a night out to find her bedroom light on and the feeling someone else had been in the house. She knew the light hadn’t been on when she’d left because she was meticulous about conserving electricity. But that was hardly something concrete to take to the police.

  When she’d changed her phone number to an unlisted one and the calls had continued, she realised someone inside the prison who had access to employees’ files must have been passing information to Jacob. She suspected it was Tom Byrnes. He’d always given her the creeps, sneaking up behind her in the tearoom and popping into her office unannounced on some pathetic pretext. So she’d resigned, leaving her father’s veterinary practice as her forwarding address. And now here she was, having the harassment start again.

  You’re being pathetic, Jacque, she told herself sternly. She was never really physically threatened and there was no way anyone would bother following her halfway across the state. And anyway, wouldn’t Jacob have to be in the city to check in with his parole officer daily? So even if he did call, he wouldn’t be in the area.