by Cathryn Hein
Nick took it and they enjoyed a brief man-hug, grins as wide as Minette’s.
‘Still ugly, I see,’ teased Lachie.
‘Still a boofhead.’
‘But a good-looking boofhead.’
Nick rolled his eyes. ‘You just keep telling yourself that if it makes you feel good.’
The joke was an old one. From boyhood, Nick had possessed the sort of looks that made people stop and stare. By the time he reached adolescence, wherever he went, girls swivelled so fast for a second glimpse they tripped over their feet. With his long dark eyelashes, and eyes even more green-golden than Lachie’s, skin that tanned with the merest kiss of the sun, a perfect straight nose and a kissable mouth, Nick was the poster boy for handsome. Feeling it was his fraternal duty to prevent Nick gaining a big head, Lachie had always teasingly put him down.
‘Leave your brother alone,’ said Minette, slapping at his arm. ‘You’re both gorgeous. Now, come inside and tell me all about your new job, Lachie. I’ve baked your favourite jelly slice for you, but there’s lemon cake too if you want.’
‘Slice sounds perfect, Mum.’ He bent to plant another kiss on her cheek. ‘It’s really good to see you.’
Moisture returned to Minette’s eyes. ‘And it’s wonderful to see you.’ She looked from Lachie to Nick. ‘Both of you.’
At the sound of the screen opening they all turned towards the door. Harry Cambridge stepped out of the house. Expression as cemented as his wife’s was animated, he moved towards Lachie, leaving verandah boards groaning behind him.
The expression Lachie had anticipated. His father had never been one for displays of affection, and the rancour between father and son made greetings difficult. What he hadn’t expected was his father’s diminished frame. The Olympic-swimmer-sized shoulders were as broad and muscled as ever, the hips as narrow, the legs as long and powerful as Lachie remembered, but they’d lost their edges, like an eroded Greek statue, sandpapered down by the elements and time. His father wasn’t thin – not sick or frail – more essence-deprived, as though his thick skin had sprung a slow leak.
Shocked, Lachie flicked a look at Nick, who returned it with a minute ‘don’t ask me’ shrug. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught the purse of his mother’s lips, the worry crinkling her brow. Whether it was for Harry or a reaction to the sudden tension, he couldn’t tell.
Stomach clenched, Lachie focused on his father. He held out his hand, keeping his tone neutral. ‘Dad.’
Harry gripped his palm and fingers too hard, as though needing to prove his strength. ‘Son.’
‘How’s things?’
Harry sniffed. ‘All right.’
‘You’ve lost a bit of weight.’
‘Hard work’ll do that to a man.’ Harry jerked his chin towards Lachie’s ute. ‘How’s that flash bus going?’
‘Good. No problems.’ He rubbed his neck and hunted for something else to say, but his brain remained jammed on his father’s appearance and what it could mean. Perhaps nothing. The man was in his fifties, after all.
Harry looked him up and down, eyes narrowing as he took in the new shirt with its polo pony logo, which Lachie had bought off Patrick at mate’s rates when he collected his Panthers jersey from Musgrove’s Menswear. His lip curled. ‘Looks like you’re fitting in.’
‘It’s been good,’ Lachie replied, refusing to bite. He was here to celebrate his mother’s birthday and catch up with Nick, not fight with his father. Delamere had seen enough bile. He could resist, be strong. Like Brooke.
Except his father had a way of getting deep under his skin, working and working with his bitter, jealous barbs about his neighbours, their thriving crops, fat sheep and well-finished cattle. So Harry had lost his father at fifteen. So an inexperienced, unskilled, and barely literate boy had been forced to become a farmer and run a business as his grief-stricken and shocked mother succumbed to depression. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t learn. All he had to do was ask for help, but that would cost Harry too much of his manhood. Stubborn fool.
Minette tucked her arm in Lachie’s. ‘Come on. A cuppa awaits and I want to hear all about your new job.’
He smiled at her, grateful for the break in the tension. ‘And I have a special present I want to give you.’
‘Your being here is present enough.’
‘Oh, and what about me?’ objected Nick.
‘No one cares about you, shortarse,’ said Lachie, earning a jab from his mum’s elbow.
‘I meant both of you.’ She glanced at her husband with a cheer that seemed forced. ‘Come on, Harry. Let’s get some cake into you. Can’t have you fading away on me.’
Lachie’s eyes met his father’s, and for a brief, intense moment, Lachie thought he saw regret, perhaps even guilt, flicker across Harry’s face. Then it passed, replaced with the disapproval Lachie had tried and failed for so long to inure himself to.
Copying his father, he set his jaw, steeling himself for the afternoon ahead. They could pretend happy families all they liked. If Harry’s welcome told him anything, it was that true reconciliation remained a long way off.
Nick emerged from the house and handed Lachie his beer. They leaned against verandah posts, staring out across the land towards the tree line of the river. Lachie surveyed the run-down irrigation plots and cereal paddocks with a weariness that bordered on defeat.
Nothing had changed. Perhaps it never would.
After afternoon tea, he and Nick had driven around the farm in the Hilux, barely talking as they took in Delamere’s unhealthy winter crops, the thin lucerne stands, ground so overworked it had turned to powder. Harry had stood in the tractor shed, feet apart, wiping his oily hands on a rag, watching as they drove off. Nick had asked him to come along. Tossing Lachie a look he couldn’t interpret, his father refused. Just as well. Harry had made a smart comment moments before about Lachie finding his niche in the Valley with all the Pitt Street farmers. Lachie had retorted that he’d rather be at Delamere, which resulted in a shot back ‘And whose fault is that?’, which had nearly seen Lachie lose it.
But as the day passed, as Lachie tuned out dark thoughts on the years of hard slog that lay ahead and concentrated on inspecting pastures, fences and stock, adjusting again his mental notes of all the improvements needed to bring the property up to scratch, he found his once insuppressible enthusiasm for the place waning. He could barely summon it now. All he could think was what a waste Delamere was.
He took a slug of beer and frowned, confused by his feelings. He wanted to be here. This was home, his dream, and yet he couldn’t shake the idea that something had altered. Something deep inside himself. Maybe Delamere reminded him too much of what he’d lost, what he feared he’d never regain. Maybe he was simply tired from the drive and tension of the day.
Maybe it was the way Brooke seemed to constantly interfere with his thoughts, and his fear of what she might attempt in his absence.
He pressed his hand over his shirt pocket, feeling the hard surface of his phone, wondering if he shouldn’t call her, check everything was all right, that she hadn’t tried to tow the float by herself.
Nick gripped his shoulder, interrupting his brooding. ‘We’ll sort it out one day,’ he said, voice low to prevent it carrying it into the house.
‘What’s this we business?’ Lachie replied, copying his brother’s tone. ‘Another year and you’ll be off teaching brats and earning more bucks than you ever would at this place.’
Something unreadable flashed across his brother’s handsome face. ‘This is my home too, Lachie. Teaching’s only an insurance policy. That was the deal, remember.’
‘I know. I just want something better for you.’ Better than the heartache and frustration Lachie faced at Delamere. He lowered his voice even further. ‘Has Mum said anything to you about Dad?’
‘I asked but all she’d say was that she was trying to get him to the doctor.’
‘She thinks he’s sick?’
‘Must do.’ Nick
picked at his stubby label. ‘Maybe he’s depressed. Wouldn’t be the first bloke around here.’
‘No.’ And given the state of things, depression wouldn’t be a surprising diagnosis. ‘Do you think we should say something to him? See if he’ll talk?’
Nicked gave a half-bark of wry laughter. ‘I’d like to see you try.’
The two exchanged a look, one of shared knowledge.
Lachie drifted back to staring into the sunset while Nick regarded Billy with exasperated amusement. The terrier had found an ancient tennis ball and had taken to walking around with it in his mouth, dropping it at the feet of any human he came across, head swivelling between the ball and the human, eyes pleading for it to be thrown. Initially, Nick and Lachie indulged him, but as the ball became wet with slobber, their interest waned. Billy’s, however, hadn’t.
Nick shook his head at the dog. ‘It’s your own fault, slobberchops.’
Billy put a paw on his ball and whined.
‘Oh, all right.’ He nudged Billy out the way with his boot and kicked, firing the ball down the drive. Lachie laughed as Billy dove off the verandah and streaked after it, almost tumbling end over end as he skidded to a halt and snatched the ball in his mouth. ‘That dog’s nuts,’ said Nick.
‘No he’s not. He’s great.’ Billy galloped back and dropped the ball at Lachie’s feet, tongue lolling as he panted. Lachie reached down to give him an affectionate pat. ‘Best dog I ever had. Isn’t that right, Billyboy?’
In response, Billy picked up the ball and dropped it again, flopping down with a reproving look to gnaw on the rubber when his master chose to ignore his unsubtle hint.
They lapsed into silence. Around them, beyond the house lights, the night settled, quiet except for the occasional call of a nocturnal bird and the swish of the breeze through trees and grass. Lachie tucked a hand into his pocket. A chill sharpened the air, but he had no intention of moving inside – not yet, anyway. Maybe when his father had gone to bed.
Nick broke the hush. ‘I’ve met a girl.’
Immediately, Lachie’s mind went to Brooke. He shook her away and regarded his brother, peering closer as he detected the unmistakable moonishness of love in Nick’s face. ‘Shit.’
Nick gave him a ‘piss off’ sneer.
‘You’re meant to be studying.’
‘I am. Gaby helps me.’ A secret smile tilted his mouth, leaving Lachie in no doubt about what their study involved. ‘She’s in her last year of teaching so she knows what’s up. Anyway, you should be grateful I met her. I might have quit otherwise. All that study gives me the shits, and I miss this place a lot. And you’re not one to talk. You met Tamsyn at uni. Didn’t stop you from passing. Speaking of which, I suppose you’ve heard.’ Nick took a mouthful of beer. ‘Looks like she got her wish.’
Lachie stared at him, alarm raising goosebumps on his skin. ‘What do you mean?’
Nick’s eyes widened as he realised his error. ‘Fuck. You don’t know.’
‘I don’t know what?’
Nick sucked in a deep breath. ‘There’s no easy way to say this so I’ll give it to you straight. She’s married.’
‘What?’ Lachie forced his voice to normalcy but it still emerged rushed. ‘When? Who to?’
‘Month or so ago. Some rich cotton farmer from Mungindi, apparently. I only know because she changed her Facebook status and then I checked her wall and it was all there.’
Lachie turned to face the rising moon and stars, feeling numb. ‘So it’s really over.’
‘Of course it’s over. It was over before it even started.’
He set laser eyes on Nick. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘It means she never loved you, and the only person who couldn’t see that was you.’
Lachie’s fist closed hard around his beer.
‘I’m sorry, bro,’ said Nick, placing his hand on Lachie’s shoulder. ‘But she wanted the farmer fairytale, like on the telly. One look at you and she thought she’d found it, but then you brought her here.’
Lachie tried to think, to go back to the day he’d driven her down Delamere’s drive. He knew the property was run-down, that compared to others in the district it appeared broken, unfixable, but he’d thought she’d see its potential, recognise that a prosperous future could rise from the powdery soil and rampant weeds. The district was home to some of the best livestock-finishing properties in the country. In time, Delamere would join their numbers. He’d make sure of it.
She’d said little, been polite but cool to his parents. He’d put it down to nerves. After all, he’d been as bad when he’d met her parents, not wanting to stuff anything up in case it jeopardised his chances with Tamsyn. He’d never considered she might have been disillusioned – that she’d found Delamere, and him, wanting.
And he’d warned her before they visited, told her how things were. She said she didn’t mind. That she loved a challenge. That nothing mattered as long as they were together. Had she lied?
‘How do you know all this?’
‘Overheard her on the phone one night, talking to a friend about what a shithole Delamere was. She thought it was going to be like you, but instead she found this.’
Lachie rubbed his forehead, hating what he was hearing, knowing it explained so much. ‘Why didn’t you say anything?’
‘How could I? You were so in love with her you couldn’t see straight.’
Nick was right. Lachie’s brain had disengaged the moment he met Tamsyn. Not only was she very pretty, with cascading blonde hair and eyes the colour of the sky, but when she smiled his heart would flutter and float like a released balloon. Besides finishing uni, making her happy became his only purpose in life. He’d even reconciled with the old man so they could have a future together. At Delamere.
He thought back to Kingston Downs and the ring sitting in the top drawer of his bedside table. The diamond he’d wasted too much money on but couldn’t bring himself to get rid of. But he would now.
That dream, at last, was over.
He drove home the following morning with his head full and Billy’s paw on his leg, the sensitive terrier releasing the occasional sympathetic whine. Since Nick’s revelation about Tamsyn Lachie had felt lost, overflowing with unanswered questions, doubting his ability to see people for what they were. Wondering what other screw-ups he’d made.
Only when he spied the pristine paddocks and fences of Kingston Downs, so different to Delamere, did his mood lift. His family home, despite his mother’s best efforts, rang with bad memories of frustrations and fights. Of disappointment and heartache. Whereas Kingston Downs’ neat blue and white cottage, with its short timber verandah and cosy, if incongruously furnished, interior evoked feelings of warmth and happiness, the way a proper home should.
He cruised down the drive, Billy yapping excitedly as he spotted Brooke near the yards. She stood on a plastic crate, a pair of clippers in her hand, beside a stoic Robert, who appeared not in the least perturbed at the piles of thick hair building around his feet. Lachie waved and slowed, caught by the sight of her T-shirt riding up from the waistband of her tight brown jodhpurs. His foot pressed the brake as his gaze dropped to her bum.
Her jodhpurs were the style with an inlaid suede seat, designed to help the rider grip the saddle, but Lachie couldn’t help but notice how the contrasting arc hugged the globes of her rear, accentuating their muscular leanness. Putting the car into neutral and muting the stereo, he wound down the passenger-side window and leaned across to talk to her, easing Billy out of the way as the dog tried to take centre stage.
She turned off the clippers and smiled at him. ‘How was it?’
‘Good. Mum liked her present.’
‘That’s great. Nancy makes lovely stuff.’ She waved the clippers at Robert. ‘What do you think? Different horse, isn’t he?’
In the sunshine, the clipped surface of Robert’s coat took on a lighter, almost purple-grey hue, but it shone with good health and exposed his massive muscula
r frame. Where thick feathers had covered his hocks and hoofs, now strong-boned, clean legs ended in broad feet, a rear one of which he rested on its toe in relaxation.
‘He looks good.’
And so did Brooke. Though slim and fit, her body still curved in all the right places. Places he’d like to touch. He blinked, stunned with himself, and eased back to the driver’s seat to stare straight ahead. Where the hell did that come from?
He glanced back at Brooke, who regarded him with bemusement, and forced a smile. ‘I’d better leave you to it.’
She nodded, but when he drove off towards the machinery shed, he watched the rear-view mirror. The clippers remained stationary, her gaze never leaving the ute. And as he walked to the cottage with Billy on his heels and his overnight bag in his hand, he could still feel her scrutiny, and savoured the surge of pleasure it gave him until common sense slapped him back to reality.
He put off doing what he knew he must – taking his time to sort his dirty clothes and put on a load of washing, checking and filing the letters that had arrived in the last two mail drops, casting an eye over this week’s copy of The Land. Finally, he returned to his bedroom and slid open the top drawer of his bedside cabinet. The blue velvet box sat in the corner. White flecks of lint speckled the fabric from when he’d tossed it in with his clothes on its various travels.
He stared at it, waiting for the pain to start, but the emotion affecting him most strongly was relief. He reached into the drawer and drew the box out, holding it loosely, elbows on his thighs and leaning forward, hands dangling between his legs. Mouth grim, he opened the lid. The single one-carat diamond blazed as bright and clear as the day he bought it. The carefully cut facets reflected and dazzled with kaleidoscopic intensity. Unable to afford the purchase straight off, he’d placed the ring on layby, paying it off week by week, working himself stupid, taking every bar shift he could fit around his uni schedule. Tamsyn didn’t know what he’d done. He’d kept the purchase a secret, wanting to surprise her with the white gold and diamond ring that caught her attention each time they walked past the jeweller’s window. Her disappointment when she noticed it gone from display told him that he’d chosen well.
