She went to walk away, to find a taxi to take her back to the penthouse, to pack a bag. But before she did she spat one more line towards the man who was sitting with his mouth open like a frog trawling for a fly.
‘I’m leaving for Merinda when I get home. Tonight. Then I’m heading to the wedding. You can find your own way there – that’s if you can bear to mix it with a bunch of country hicks and cattlemen, you arrogant shit.’
Chapter 24
After arriving at Merinda, Bella wearily collapsed into her bed and spent the rest of the morning fitfully trying to sleep. Justin saw her car in the driveway at lunchtime and called in to check on her and say hello. She blamed her groggy and bedraggled appearance on lack of sleep.
During the afternoon, the phone rang a few times and Warren’s strident tones boomed through the answering machine, echoing around the old house.
‘Bella, look it’s Warren. You mightn’t want to speak with me at the moment, darling, and maybe I said a few things I shouldn’t have . . . we both did. I just want to know if you got there safely . . . Ring me, will you, darling?’
He could grovel all he liked.
‘Bella, Bella! I’ve just rung your brother’s place and Melanie said you’re there. Pick up the phone, will you, darling? We need to talk . . .’
She wasn’t going to talk to the bastard.
‘Bella! For fuck’s sake, pick up the phone! Look, I’m sorry. What else do you want me to say?’
She’d heard enough.
Pulling on her mother’s old gumboots and slamming a hat on her head, she headed out the door to find Justin to see if she could help him bring the cows up to milk. Sensing all wasn’t right but not wanting to pry, Justin sent her off on the motorbike to set up the paddocks for the cows that night. Bella adored being out in the fresh air, the wind streaming past her as she rode along on the bike. It was just what she needed to push Warren and their troubles far to the back of her mind.
It wasn’t until the next morning when Bella headed off into the mountains, towards Ben Bullen Hills, that she started to cry again, thinking about their argument and the tumult of emotions it had wrought. Emotions that went far beyond this latest disagreement.
All the things she had been feeling about their relationship, about herself, but hadn’t wanted to examine too closely, had come crashing in around her on the day Caro made her big announcement: after the wedding, she and Trin were leaving their jobs and lives in the city and moving to Ben Bullen Hills Station.
‘What? You’re moving to Burrindal? Back home? You’re leaving me here by myself?’ she’d responded, incredulous.
Caro had looked at her, a bemused expression on her face. ‘You’re hardly alone, Bella. You’ve got Warren.’
It was then Bella had started questioning whether Warren and their life together were enough. Why did she feel so alone and insecure? Why did she feel restless but at the same time so lacking in direction it was like magnetic north had tilted? And why, in this bustling city, didn’t she have an inherent sense of place, of belonging?
She was suddenly reminded of Wendy Anderson all those years ago, up on Ainsley Station. She remembered wondering then, in the arrogance of youth, how such a woman could lose her confidence so completely. Her drive. Her motivations. Herself.
That was Bella now. It was a shocking thought.
How the hell did that happen?
And what was she going to do about it?
It was fate. The first person Bella spotted as she drove under the big metal archway proclaiming entry to Ben Bullen Hills Station was Will O’Hara. Unwanted memories came flooding back.
It had been seven years since she’d last seen him, and here he was leaning on a solid cattle-yard fence. Every nerve in Bella’s body urged her to turn the car around and drive like hell away, while her eyes, heart and mind drank in the sight of him.
He looked like he belonged there, a rumpled and weathered figure blending into the background of mountain ash trees as he rested against battered, rough-sawn timber rails, yarning to a bloke on the opposite side. The other man also looked startlingly familiar. Clad in dark moleskins and a big black hat, he stood out against the blue-grey horizon, a blob of colour blotting the surrounding bush like black ink.
It couldn’t be anyone else. Macca.
The toothpick shoved in the side of his mouth was wobbling up and down as he talked. Bella whooped at the sight of her cousin and pulled the purring Merc to a halt. Opening the door, she clambered out of the vehicle and yelled and waved.
Both men glanced over, a different expression crossing each face. Will frowned and dipped his head before looking back up. The O’Hara dimples weren’t winking but lines like crow’s feet marched in the crinkles around his eyes. Macca grinned, leaped over the high fence and came striding towards her, spitting the toothpick out onto the ground, roaring, ‘Hells Bells! Gidday! What’s with the Merc, you toffy little sheila! Where’s your ute? Bloody hell, it’s good to see you!’ She was engulfed in a massive hug, and found herself breathing in stale beer, wood smoke and Brut deodorant while pressed to a bear-like chest.
‘Bloody hell, I haven’t seen you for ages!’ Macca released her and she gasped in another breath, this time of scented eucalypts and sunshine – and the cow shit now smeared down the front of her shirt.
‘Give me a look at ya,’ said Macca as he moved back, thrusting a hand into his pocket, no doubt rooting for a fresh toothpick to chew into shreds. He hadn’t changed, Bella thought. But she had – and so, before Macca could grab her arm and look into her face and see eyes that were swollen and bloodshot from crying, she turned and leaned into the Merc and snatched her old Akubra off the dashboard. Flipping her sunglasses down from where they were perched on top of her head, she quickly slammed on the hat to shadow her face.
As Macca slung his arm across her shoulders, she noticed that while the big man looked healthy and fit, he couldn’t hide the lines of sorrow that still ringed his eyes, spreading out across his temples where the dark hair was touched with early grey.
She threw a quick glance across at Will. He hadn’t moved. He was still leaning against the stockyard fence, taking in the sun. She looked at his lean body, the way his faded and weathered work clothes fell in soft creases; those wrinkles that glued the clothes to the hard planes of the man spoke of many hours’ manual labour.
She raised a hand in the air in acknowledgement. The answering flick of his pointer finger against the bone-coloured felt hat sent her heart into an erratic beat. Christ, he still did it to her. She hadn’t seen him in seven years and still her mind and body reacted violently against her will, instinctively leaning in his direction, pining to share the same space as him.
Would it ever stop – this chemical reaction that seemed genetically infused into her whole being, making her want this man. She knew if she lifted her feet, allowed her body to drift in his direction, any words she said to him would come out wrong. On the drive up here from Merinda, she had practised every possible conversation with him, knowing she would have to see him this weekend for the first time since she’d listened to his ute drive away. Regardless, she stood looking across at the man who still had the ability to turn her insides to mush.
Her mind stumbled. You’re engaged to Warren, you’re over Will, her mind whispered to her heart. In response her heart started to thump and her guts began to spin. Macca was looking at her strangely. ‘Hey, are you all right?’ he asked.
Forcing her eyes away from the spectre of the cattleman who caused so much confusion, she turned and concentrated on her cousin. Grabbing his big hand she said, ‘Come with me to the house and tell me what you’ve been up to, you big boofhead. Mum said you were in Mount Isa, with a girlfriend in tow. Who is she? Is she here? Have you just come for the wedding, or are you back for good?’ Words tumbled from her mouth.
‘Hang on, hang on, one question at a time. I’ll come up to the house and have a beer with ya.’
‘But it’s only midday, you
old soak!’
‘I know, I know.’ Macca waved both hands up and down in front of himself, a placatory gesture Bella remembered of old. ‘But it’s five o’clock somewhere in the world and there’s a wedding goin’ on. Can’t expect a man to be a camel, can ya? Gotta start on the piss sometime. Come on, let’s get in this fancy set of wheels of yours and you can take me for a spin. Where’s wanker Warren? Do I finally get to meet him?’ Bella spun to punch Macca in the arm, but the big bloke just laughed and yelled to Will, ‘Just goin’ to grab a beer! See ya round the fire tonight for a rum!’
And the silent man in the bone felt hat just raised his pointer finger in acknowledgement again.
Will watched the woman he’d once thought would be his wife get into her fancy all-wheel-drive Mercedes. A black sporty-looking number with shiny plates barely smudged with kamikaze bugs, the vehicle had an alloy bar angling around the front grill scarcely capable of nudging a canary, let alone a roo or wombat.
Where did she go, the girl he had once loved beyond all reason? The one who drove a Holden ute with a bullbar as big as any bloke’s, mounted above a bug-splattered number plate with a deflector proclaiming the driver as ‘Hells Bells’? Where had she hidden herself inside this glamorous creature who had exited the flashy car, the woman who had stared long and hard at him but with a blank expression, before flipping sunglasses over her eyes?
The woman who had jumped from the Merc had straightened, honey-coloured hair with a trendy fringe cut to accentuate a made-up face with a fake complexion. Where were those unruly, tumbling white-gold ringlets, the smattering of summer freckles that stretched across a wide-open, laughing face?
He could hear Macca yelling from inside the car, something about the speakers. It took a minute then Lee Kernaghan came blasting out, thumping country music across the paddock. Macca had obviously taken control of the stereo. The slowly moving Mercedes stopped just before it topped the hill while a pair of out-of-kilter voices joined Lee’s gravely tones. There were a few moments of purring silence before suddenly the engine revved up to full throttle, the wheels started spinning and dust flew through the air, as the car took off in a hail of fine stones. A roar of approval came from the passenger side, while a high-pitched ‘Yee ha!’ erupted from the driver’s seat.
Will allowed himself a small smile. Maybe there was hope yet for the glamorous creature whose engagement ring had winked brilliantly at him in the sun.
When Patty died, a part inside Will had curled up and died too. His sister’s death really screwed him up.
He didn’t see anything but his own grief, couldn’t see Bella holding out her arms to seek and give comfort. He thought she was just another person silently demanding his strength, looking for answers and deliverance from this all-consuming loss. He’d lumped her in with his parents, who were like sad dodgem cars, bumping into grief each time they turned around, searching for answers and demanding his strength to give them the will to fight on.
But he didn’t have salvation wrapped up neatly in a pretty gift box, daubed with a gaudy bow. And he couldn’t be their strength when he didn’t have any himself. That was why he hid, up on his station at Tindarra, far beyond the reach of anything else that could hurt him. He shut himself away and then tormented himself over the rights and wrongs of what he’d done. Patty was gone; Bella he loved and had so nearly lost too. Much better to shut it all away, slam a door on any more potential pain, because he was struggling to hold himself together just dealing with this one loss.
He’d really fucked up.
It had taken Maggie to bring him to his senses. She’d sat him down in her kitchen ten months after the funeral and given him the what for. Slamming a cup of strong coffee onto the table in front of him one morning when he’d called to drop off some drench. ‘You bloody idiot. Just look at yourself!’ she’d said. ‘I should take the bloody frying pan and bash it over your head. What will it take to make you see what you’re doing to yourself?’
She’d then stomped out of the kitchen, grey bun flipflopping in her agitation, and returned minutes later holding an old thick, round shaving mirror, which she shoved in front of his face. ‘Take a long, hard look at yourself, William O’Hara, and tell me what you see.’
So he’d picked up his steaming coffee first, and then taken the mirror from her and slowly brought it up to view a face he hadn’t seen for around ten months. He took a look, and then looked again. And he had to admit what he saw wasn’t pretty. Then the mirror fogged up from the steam coming off his brew. To be truthful he wasn’t sad his image had blurred.
But Maggie swiped the mirror real quick, so he had another clear view at what was in front of his eyes. Grimy dreadlocks were all that remained of his tousled russet hair; his eyes were sunken holes of misery buried so deeply into his skull even he couldn’t see if they were brown or black. His cheeks were sunk into the lines on his face, before being covered by a mangy beard that staggered drunkenly across his jaw. It was the face of a stranger, someone he wouldn’t want to know.
‘I don’t know how long you plan to let this nonsense go on,’ said Maggie, wagging an accusing finger in his face. ‘But I’m not having it. Not anymore. One niece has died, the other’s moved to the bloody city, so I’m not losing you too! When are you going to wake up and see that it’s not your fault. You didn’t kill Patty, for Christ’s sake! It was an accident. Stop blaming yourself!’
‘I don’t blame myself.’
‘Yes you do!’
‘I don’t!’
‘You do! God knows why, but you do!’
Will sat for a minute and thought about that. Maggie probably had a point – as usual. ‘Okay, maybe I do,’ he said and then he let it rip, the thing that had been hammering around his skull since he’d seen what was left of his sister in the morgue.
‘You didn’t see her, Maggie. Oh, they’d tried to fix her up, and you couldn’t see too much – but she was icy cold, and they’d put a fucking carnation on her lapel. Patty. A fucking carnation. It should have been a can of rum-and-coke.’
Will flung himself forward in agitation and curled his hands around the edge of the table, fingertips and knuckles white with tension. ‘I walk around all day in a daze, and working is the only thing that keeps me going. If I don’t bugger myself out I can’t sleep, and when I do sleep all I can see is her.’
The last image of his sister lying dead in that rosewood coffin would remain with him forever.
‘Hell, Maggie, I should have been there to protect her, look after her. It was my job since she was born, for fuck’s sake!’
Maggie stood beside him, wringing the half-apron she wore between her hands, frowning at her wild-looking nephew. Pulling out the chair next to him, she sat down with a thump. ‘Will, my darling boy, you couldn’t have saved her. You know that. Stop flogging yourself with something you had no control over. She was a big girl, and you couldn’t have done a thing.’ Maggie tried to pat his hand.
But he was having none of it.
‘Yes, I could’ve. I should have driven them; I should have taken them to bloody town. She asked me to, you know. Knew I had stuff to do. But I said no. “What man wants to be around a bunch of women shopping for dresses?” says me. And now she’s dead. Gone. Forever. I should have been there that day, Maggie.’
‘But, Will – we all make choices. On any other day the choice you made to stay behind would have been a good one. A cranky bloke tapping his toes waiting would’ve really taken the shine off their day. And they’d had a fantastic day, Frank told me. Francine rang him at lunchtime, bubbling with happiness – a fun day in town with her girls, she’d said.’ Maggie stopped, and Will could feel her eyes boring into his head, willing him to face her. ‘It was an accident, for heaven’s sake. You couldn’t be everywhere, and goodness knows that girl, much and all as I adored her, she wasn’t a saint. It’s a wonder with all her shenanigans she hadn’t already done herself some damage. She was driving that vehicle, not you. It was Patty who didn’t s
ee that give-way sign. It was completely beyond your control!’
Will let go of the table and grabbed his coffee mug instead. Gulping at the thick black liquid he stared at his aunt’s brown-spotted hands as she drummed her fingers on the table. He took a few deep breaths and tried to regain some control. Maggie always did this to him. She always got him with the truth. So much wisdom, so much compassion and strength.
Silence reigned in that cosy country kitchen, red-and-white gingham curtains fluttering in the afternoon breeze above the sink. Will listened to the regular tick of the old Ansonia clock sitting on the mantle above the slow-combustion stove. He could see a crow sitting in the crab-apple tree outside the kitchen window, black beady eyes with a dead gaze on someone or something. A dead gaze he could relate to these past ten months, a black hole inside his skull.
‘And what about Bella?’ Maggie asked, breaking into his thoughts.
Will turned back to her. ‘What about Bella?’
‘I thought you two had something going together.’
‘We do. Well, we did . . .’
‘And so you’ve let her go too, haven’t you? You’ve turned your back on that poor girl so you could wallow around in your own self-pity.’
‘Self-pity? Self-pity? Jeez, Aunty Maggie, I lost my sister, for God’s sake. She fucking well died! AND I SHOULD HAVE BEEN THERE FOR HER!’ Will was shocked to hear himself shouting. He flung himself from his chair, spilling his coffee as he went. To his surprise, he began to shake, sobs welling deep from within his throat. He sank down, his back against the kitchen wall. Grief spilled like vomit from his mouth and wracked his shoulders into a rounded ball. Water leaked from his eyes and he realised he was crying for the first time since he’d heard his sister was dead.
He wasn’t aware that Maggie had moved quietly from her chair to sink down on her knees in front of him. The first he knew was when she laid her soft but firm hands upon his matted hair and gave him absolution just by sitting and letting the grief and loss finally have its head.
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