Christmas at Waratah Bay

by Marion Lennox

  He loved the fact that Waratah Bay was his alone. He’d had a lifetime of chaos. This place was home and nowhere else had ever felt that way.

  But it was about to get invaded.

  They were bumping down the track, off on a Christmas tree hunt. Sarah was sitting beside him, dressed now in jeans, t-shirt and trainers. Dressed for work? He didn’t think so. The jeans were pristine and both her t-shirt and trainers were gleaming white. She’d tied her sleek hair back into a pony tail with a white ribbon. She’d emerged from her bedroom declaring she was ready for work, but she still looked like she could sashay down any catwalk in the world and look at home.

  Home. There was that word again.

  Home now for Max was glorious solitude and this woman was moving right in.

  One woman and one elderly man. Just for Christmas. He could do this.

  Get the tree and get on with it.

  He had three dogs and a chain saw in the back of the truck. There was a disused pine plantation on the boundary of his property. The big stuff had been cleared years ago—his plan was eventually to clear it completely and reforest it with natives to help form a wildlife corridor—but for now it was a barren piece of land with young pines springing up all over.

  It was Christmas tree heaven. He was off to bring a Christmas tree . . . home.

  “So why are you living in that great big homestead all on your own?” Sarah asked, and it was like she was slicing right into the heart of his thoughts. She’d barely spoken since she’d followed him back to the homestead in her car. He’d ushered her into the house and she’d gone silent. She’d greeted Paddy and Tip, Harold’s ancient dogs, Paddy a grizzled border collie, Tip a fat little fox terrier, by kneeling on the floor and bursting into tears as she’d hugged them. “I’m so glad to see you guys again—so glad.” But, that was all she’d said. She’d gone from room to room, occasionally touching, seeming awed. She’d entered the room she’d apparently used when she was a child, and when she came out he could see the tracks of more tears.

  There’d been things he wanted to ask her, but couldn’t. What had gone wrong with her family that meant she’d had to leave school and put herself through nursing? Where did she fit?

  But he didn’t ask. It wasn’t his business. He was surprised when she’d insisted she come with him to find the tree, but for the first half of the bumpy trip she’d stayed quiet, looking out at the paddocks, at the big, sleepy Hereford cattle dozing under the great river red gums, at the sea beyond. Occasionally, she sniffed but he’d ignored it. He wasn’t getting personal.

  He could do this, he’d thought. If she kept silent, if she kept her herself, he could get through this Christmas.

  But then . . .

  So why are you living in that great big homestead all on your own?

  The question hung.

  “It’s my business,” he said at last and she nodded.

  “Okay. I won’t ask again.”

  She didn’t. She went back to staring out the window and he thought . . . she’s restful. She really wouldn’t ask.

  Why did her decision not to push make him really want to tell her?

  “I lived on a farm as a kid,” he said, as if goaded, because suddenly goaded was how he felt. “Well, farms plural, really. Two of my step-dads were farmers.”

  More window gazing. More silence. Wasn’t she going to ask more? He’d said more than he ever said. Most women would be in there with questions.

  He didn’t want questions, he told himself. He didn’t talk about it. Why would he?

  For some reason, he wanted to tell her. Why? He didn’t have a clue, but the compulsion to explain was almost overwhelming.

  “My Mum was . . . ditzy.” It was as if the words were forced out of him. “And selfish.”

  “Perfect parents are harder to find than you might think,” she said at last, almost nonchalantly, but he heard pain behind her words. If he told her his story, then she might tell him her hers, he thought, and besides . . . He didn’t know why but he wanted to explain to this slip of a girl.

  Except, she wasn’t a slip of a girl. She was every inch a . . .

  Um . . . don’t go there. That was one complication he didn’t need.

  “My mum had two loves, horses and babies,” he told her. “She had easy pregnancies. She loved being pregnant and she loved the drama of birth.” His hands tightened on the steering wheel, trying to suppress the anger that kicked in whenever he thought of his mother’s flippant approach to parenting.

  “She got pregnant with me when she was seventeen, but she never said who to. I was never convinced she knew. She loved the pregnancy bit, but she wasn’t interested in me, and of course, my grandparents and my uncle were there to support her. My grandparents were small-holding farmers, struggling financially, and when I was born my Uncle Eric was all of fourteen, but they adored Mum. All their money went on Mum’s horses. Mum did little to help. Finally, when I was about five, Grandma died of a heart attack. Eric got a job in IT in the city and Mum got pregnant again. Gramps finally asked Mum to leave.”

  “With you?”

  “Gramps had arthritis and couldn’t care for me. But Mum didn’t seem to mind. She was little, cute, persuasive, and within weeks of Gramps’ ultimatum, she and I moved in with a local small-time horse trainer. I still don’t know if he was the baby’s father. Ron was kind, but useless. They had three kids and then Ron went bankrupt and disappeared. Mum moved on, to a widower with a horse stud and three kids already. But, it didn’t stop the pregnancies. They had four more kids between them before Pete died of a heart attack, probably brought on by worrying about where the next meal was coming from. Mum’s still on his farm, but she’s had two more kids, and no one’s asking who the father is.”

  “So that makes?” she said faintly.

  “Thirteen in total,” he said, wearily now, remembering the endless pregnancies, his mother screeching that he’d have to look after the kids, he was the oldest, how did he expect her to cope? “She just . . . didn’t notice us. I remember when I was about fourteen the social welfare people came to our house. My step dad was recently dead. The welfare worker was horrified by the chaos, but there was no way she could re-house so many. She turned on me—“You’re old enough to take responsibility. Surely you’re old enough to get your brothers and sisters on the school bus.” That’s pretty much all I was to everyone. The oldest. The responsible one.

  “Oh, Max . . . ”

  “I don’t blame the welfare worker. It was the end of a long day and she’d had a frustrating session with my mother, who was only concerned that her favorite horse was lame. And she was right, I was the responsible one. But, from that moment I decided all I want for the rest of my life was to be alone. I loved my brothers and sisters—I still do and I see them from time to time, but on my terms. Not here. If they came here they’d overrun the place. I visit them—when they need me.”

  “So, how did you manage to be here?”

  “Kids find solitude any way they can.” Why was he telling her this? He had no idea. He didn’t tell anyone. Keeping himself to himself was a skill he’d learned early, but the way she was looking at him . . . There wasn’t sympathy. It was more . . . empathy. Like, she saw things? He couldn’t explain it, even to himself, but the compulsion to explain was almost overwhelming.

  “I keep in touch with Eric,” he said. “Mum’s brother. He’s a bachelor, a loner. He does something nerdy in the US in Silicon Valley. He hardly ever comes home, but he did when my grandfather died. He was appalled by Mum’s tribe and couldn’t get away fast enough, but as he was leaving he gave me a computer. A small laptop I could hide, so Mum couldn’t sell it for horse feed. He also sent me money from time to time so I could access the internet, and spent time with me online. For me, it felt like a lifeline. Eventually, he encouraged me to build some of the games I loved playing. I never told my family, but I lived in that computer.”

  “So you studied computing?’

  “
Money for university when Mum needed any available money for horse feed? Ha. It didn’t matter though. By the time I was sixteen I was designing games. I got a job as a jackaroo on a bigger farm near ours where I could still live at home and keep an eye on the kids. I learned about farming from people who really knew it, but I kept on designing. Then, I hit pay-dirt. My uncle helped me sell a game for a fortune. Finally, the kids were old enough to be independent, this place was for sale and I had money. So, here I am. Harold keeps teaching me about best farming practices. I still design and sell games, but I love the farm and I still love silence.”

  “I can imagine,” she said faintly. “Thirteen . . . ”

  “They’re okay,” he said, with satisfaction. “All of them. I’ve helped out—the youngest have been able to go to university—but I don’t interfere with their lives and they know not to interfere with mine. Here, I listen to wildlife at night. Here, no one barges into my headspace and demands I take responsibility for things I had no hand in creating.” He shrugged, thinking of the past chaotic Christmases and the Christmas he’d envisaged this year. More silence. He still valued it above all else, but now . . . he had to share. It was only for a couple of days, though. He might as well make an effort to be sociable.

  “So what about you?” he asked. “What’s your story? You don’t seem to be doing family for Christmas.”

  “Why do you think I’m here?” Harold was her family, she thought, or the closest thing she had to it.

  “So, where have you been for the last ten years?”

  “Not here, and of course I should have been. Moving on, Mr. Ramsey.’

  “Hey, I got personal.”

  “Yeah and I asked, but there was no deal about reciprocation. Are these the pines?”

  “Yes, they are.” He glanced at her face but she was looking resolutely impersonal. Don’t go there, her look said. Okay by him, he decided. He was the last to push personal boundaries, but he would like to know.

  Her face said he wouldn’t get an answer.

  Right. Pine trees. Christmas trees. Moving on. “You choose and I’ll chop,” he told her.

  She glanced backward into the truck tray, at the massive chain-saw, and suddenly the wooden expression on her face disappeared. Mischief took its place.

  “With that?”

  “That’s the idea.”

  “Can you choose and I’ll chop?”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Harold taught me to use a chain saw.” She beamed at the memory. “It was awesome. Harold was the coolest teacher. I’ve chopped trees down that were at least ten feet tall!”

  “Wow!”

  “We were working up to the big guys when I . . . when I had to leave, but I know the techniques down pat. I cut a wedge out of the side where I want it to fall and then I slice from the other side and I yell before I do. I need to be very careful or I’ll brain someone. If I promise not to brain anyone and you hold onto the dogs, I’d love to try.”

  “You’ll get your shoes dirty.”

  She looked down at her pristine white trainers and wriggled them in front of her.

  “Excellent,” she said, sounding supremely satisfied with the way this Christmas was working out. “That’s what I’m here for.”

  *

  So he stood and watched her as she chopped down her Christmas tree. It wasn’t exactly a dangerous job. The tree was barely four inches thick at the trunk, but Sarah was taking no chances. She worked with a precision that would have done Harold proud. Her only problem was controlling the great beast of a chain saw. It roared into life and she rocked. Max would have supported her—or better yet, taken it away from her—but she shook him away.

  “This is girl’s work. Stand back, Mister.”

  So he watched as somehow she guided the massive beast into cutting a neat wedge on her decreed felling side, then stood back, set the chainsaw down on the bed of pine needles around them, spat on her hands and wiped them on her jeans, checked the dogs were well behind Max—and then moved forward for the final cut.

  The chain saw touched, and Sarah’s yell of “Timber!” made Max and the dogs practically jump out of their skin. Even over the noise of the chainsaw, her yell was blood curdling.

  And her tree fell, exactly where she wanted it. She swiped her hands once more, grinned a grin of supreme satisfaction and then went forward to examine her “kill.”

  And Max had a sudden vision of Harold teaching a much younger version of Sarah how to do this. Harold must have loved it, he thought. He must have loved Sarah.

  Max was starting to see why.

  Um . . . enough. She’d heaved up the base of the trunk, seemingly ready and willing to drag the tree to the truck by herself.

  Um . . . not. A guy had some pride.

  “I can do it,” she said, as he moved to take her place, and she sounded indignant.

  He grabbed the trunk but she hung on. “I will do it,” she snapped and all of a sudden he heard . . . what? Longing in her voice? It didn’t make sense, but it was enough to make him stand back, then grab the tail end of the tree so the two of them were doing the carrying. She conceded that to him at least, and together they hauled the tree back to the truck.

  It really was too big, he thought as they heaved it onto the tray. This was a tree for a major Christmas celebration instead of for a quiet Christmas for one reclusive farmer, one New York supermodel flying in and out for a fleeting visit, and one dying old man.

  “It’s not over the top,” Sarah said grimly, as if she could read his thoughts. “I haven’t ever given him a Christmas. I will do this.”

  Forget boundaries. “Why haven’t you ever given him a Christmas?”

  “For reasons that don’t concern you.”

  “You’ve written every week but never visited?”

  “Don’t judge me.”

  But, she’d told him nothing, and it was pissing him off. He’d bared his soul; what about her? “I already have judged,” he snapped. Your whole family . . . Do you know how alone Harold’s been? He broke his hip two years ago and no one came near?”

  “He broke his hip?” She turned and stared. “He never . . . ” She stared for a moment longer, saw the truth of it, then closed her eyes as pain washed over her face. “How . . . how badly?”

  “Bad. It got infected. There were a few days . . . “But he stopped as her look of anguish deepened.

  “He never said,” she managed. “He never told me. There’s hardly been a gap in the letters until now. A couple of late ones, but none missed. It must have been while I still couldn’t afford to phone. I guess . . . ”

  “I guess he only told you what he wanted you to know.”

  “I did the same for him,” she whispered. “I’m just glad that finally this time I could come. You know, I guess I hoped he’d go on forever. Just the same. Harold would always be here for me. But then, the letters stopped and I panicked and rang the hospital. I should have . . . ”

  “Your whole family should have.”

  “Leave it,” she snapped. “I’m here now. I came. I know I should have come earlier, but your judgment isn’t helpful. And, don’t you dare put on that scornful face in front of Harold or he’ll have your guts for garters. He loves me.”

  “Guts for garters?” he said faintly. She was glaring at him, her fury and distress a heady mix. She had a smear of pine-sap marring one of her extraordinary cheek bones. There were pine needles in her hair. She looked . . . she looked . . .

  Um, don’t go there. You do not want to feel desire for a woman who’s a fleeting apparition, a shadow from Harold’s past, a woman flying in and out of the country to assuage a guilty conscience.

  Except desire wasn’t something he could turn on and off at will. He looked at her, and he knew very well what he was feeling.

  She was gorgeous.

  She was angry, accusing, upset. She was sap-stained and lovely.

  She was not the least interested in desire.

  “Let’s get
this over with,” she snapped in words eerily reminiscent of his past vows, and he caught himself and grabbed a rope and started tying the tree down onto the tray.

  And then, they both paused.

  A car was heading toward them along the unsealed road. It was dirt-white, old, battered, and flying toward them far too fast.

  Max’s truck was parked by the roadside, not far enough off to be safe. Instinctively he grabbed Sarah’s arm and hauled her back, behind the tray. The car was swerving in the dust, skidding, obviously driven by someone trying to impress, someone out of control, a hop-head or an idiot.

  It didn’t slow as it reached them, just swerved dangerously close, then braked, skidded and swerved outward again.

  But not before an arm had come out the window, holding out . . . a sack?

  The sack was lobbed straight at them. A head appeared from the window, a youth, yelling in a drunken roar.

  “Get a load of that,” he yelled. “Merry Christmas, guys. It’s all &%$# yours.”

  The car swerved, only to do a crazy donut further down the road that almost rolled them. It steadied, straightened and roared off. The sound faded to nothing. The dust started to settle.

  Max was suddenly aware that he was still holding Sarah. He’d tugged her into him, protective, and he held her still.

  Her hair smelled of citrus. She felt . . . she felt . . .

  Um, thinking of how she felt was maybe inappropriate? A sack lay close to their feet, a crumpled pile of hessian.

  It moved.

  Uh oh.

  Max had lived in the country long enough to know what this represented. An easy way out. Townies with animals they no longer wanted.

  Dump it on a farm. It’s far cheaper than taking it to the vet to euthanize. Tell the kids it’s gone to a nice farmer who’ll look after it.

  He’d lost count of the number of strays he’d had to take to the local animal shelter, knowing for most of them their fate would be euthanasia. Except, sometimes he couldn’t.