Small Mercies
Page 10
‘Did you really?’ She appeared bemused.
‘I didn’t have a choice.’
‘Yes, you did.’
‘Not a responsible one.’
Ruthie didn’t reply, just examined the top for longer than was needed.
Then she asked, ‘He was all right with it?’
‘Yep. Calm as.’
‘Well, well done, I suppose.’
‘I might just kick you out first, the way we’re going.’
‘You didn’t want to kick me out of the motel room last night.’ She sniggered cheekily, adding to his suspicion of being in a dream. But while there was a drought, she was his. That’s what he would hang on to. He put a hand on the small of her back, possessively, and followed her to the stall holder, who held out a card machine. Ruthie paid for the top, and they moved to the next stalls. Dimple thought someone looking on might have thought they were newly, happily together. And they were happy. He was sure of it. If only for this day.
When they were back on the road, Ruthie said, ‘I enjoyed that. Fancy there being a nice little market like that in the middle of nowhere, when we just happen to be passing through.’ After a moment’s satisfaction, she consulted the GPS on her phone. ‘I’ll tell you where to turn.’
Dimple was thinking again about Wally Oliver. His father had been a driven prick, but maybe nothing more than that. But Wally gave off a sense of corrupted power. He might never have known anything except wealth and influence. It was probably whispered in his ear from an early age: you are special; you are better than others.
And what about those Asian women? Were they just normal staff? Backpackers? Concubines while his wife was ‘away’? How could he tell if a man like that was making a serious offer? How could he make sense of anything that man did? Dimple would ring a real estate agency from the area and ask them what they thought about it and how Wally usually operated. A plan always made him feel better.
He let himself relax into the driving. Of course there would be no need to ring anyone. When they got home, Ruthie would return to her committed self. She would be worrying about the animals, the garden, her sons, and the wellbeing of her friends: the things that kept her anchored. All this was like a holiday romance: so important and life-changing, until you got home and realised it was none of those things.
‘Take the next left,’ Ruthie said. ‘It should say Bark Haven.’
Seven
There were low hills all around them now, and from the top of a rise they saw water: the first part of a scribbly edged lake. Ruthie pointed. It wasn’t beautiful, but at least it was a big body of water. Both of them had wondered if the drought might have reduced it to pools and muddy flats.
They entered the lake ‘holiday area’ through a security gate with a boom, and followed a track down to a reception area and office. They both went inside, where a short, spindly woman sat behind and below a long counter with a thick, ancient computer in front of her and paper files all around.
She lifted her head, put on a professional smile, and asked how she could help them. Ruthie noticed she had the name Alyssa on a badge on her chest.
‘We were wanting to stay a night. In a cabin. A powered cabin.’
‘Sure. We’ve got plenty available. There’s only two other cabins occupied tonight.’ The woman looked at a board of hanging keys, and selected one. ‘How about number 14? It’s closest to the water and away from the car park. If you follow the road past this office, it’s like the middle one in the front row. Eighty dollars, thanks. There’s an ablutions block up behind the cabins.’
She passed the key, and Dimple reached out to take it and give her some cash. ‘Do you have barbecues we can use?’
‘Yes. There are three down here to my left.’ She pointed. ‘They’re standalone units with a roof and seats. You’ll see them as you go past.’
‘Great, thanks.’
‘You need to be out by nine in the morning. Unless you want to pay extra.’
‘No, nine o’clock will be okay. Thanks.’ Ruthie said this because she knew Dimple would be restless by the morning and ready to go home — no doubt pacing by 7.00 am.
They drove slowly down the road as directed. There were fifteen pine cabins, small rectangular boxes that looked like they could hold a double bed and nothing more. The grass in between the cabins had given up struggling. The water’s edge was obviously further from the cabins than normal, but it wasn’t too far away and didn’t look muddy or desperate. They found number 14, and parked in front of it. When Dimple opened the door, he said, ‘There’s a fridge,’ and went to collect some beers.
They carried their food and bags inside. Ruthie looked around and said, ‘This is a bit strange, but it’s still fun. The bed’s better than the one at the pub, at least.’
‘And the outlook.’ And he was right. Through their front window they could see a great, steely expanse of water, and Ruthie could almost pretend it was the ocean. It was mid-afternoon, and after they unpacked they made love, not as successfully as either of them would have liked. But it still felt like a luxury they could afford.
They walked along the sandy edge of the lake, managing to appropriate some of the floating introspection a beach walk might have given them. It was flat and open in the section they were in, and there were no trees close to the water. In the distance, a man and a woman appeared, walking towards them, their shoes in their hands.
‘Turn back or say hello?’ Dimple asked.
‘Say hello. If we don’t like the look of them, we keep clear.’
The couple approached. They were both tall, slim, and grey-haired. They were chatting happily, laughing at each other’s comments. When they got close, the man said, ‘Hello.’
‘Hi,’ Dimple said.
‘Are you staying in the cabins?’
‘Yes.’
‘Oh good. We were hoping there might be some other guests. I’m Paul, and this is my sister Janice.’
They nodded their hellos. They were attractive people, Ruthie thought: fit-looking, and their skin had the unweathered youth of city people. Only the colour of their hair gave away their age.
‘So where do you guys hail from?’ Paul asked.
‘We’re from Stony Creek — near Fresh Well,’ Ruthie said.
‘I know where that is,’ Janice said confidently. ‘We’re from the city. We thought we’d take some time out in the country. We’ve heard so much about the drought, and everyone’s been saying city people should visit the country and spend some money in the small towns, so we thought, Why not?’
Dimple said, ‘Good on you. Brother and sister travelling together. That’s good, too.’
‘Yes. It’s nice.’ Janice turned to her brother and put a hand on his shoulder.
‘I lost my wife a few months ago. Janice has been working hard to get me out of myself. I think it’s working.’ Paul smiled, not quite ruefully. He looked like a man who thought losing your partner was something you had to expect. A painful part of a rich life. ‘What are you two up to?’
‘We needed to get off the farm for a couple of days. This was just a random choice. Seems okay, though.’ Dimple said it quickly before Ruthie could give any other explanation. He looked out across the water.
‘I’m glad you could get away. It must be very tough. The walk up this way is nice,’ Paul pointed behind him. ‘Calming, which I like, but you might be wanting something else.’
‘Calming is good,’ Ruthie said, making to move past them.
The other couple stepped forward together, and Janice said, ‘Nice to meet you.’
‘You too,’ said Dimple.
‘We’ll be having a drink out the front of my cabin later on if you want to join us. But, you know, no pressure.’ He put his hands up and spread them to illustrate.
‘Okay. Thanks,’ Ruthie said, careful not to commit.
‘They seemed nice. Do you want to?’
‘Guess so. Could be a long night for me if you fall asleep early.’
Pelicans landed in the water close by, and the sun was bright off the water around them. Dimple and Ruthie walked without talking. Before they turned back, they waded out into the water up to their knees.
‘Makes me feel like a Pom on holidays,’ Dimple said. ‘Should be wearing a sleeveless pullover with a knotted hanky on my head.’
Ruthie leant down, dipped her fingers in the water, and scooped out a splash of water at him. He hardly moved. ‘That’s a very dangerous move, Mrs Travers.’ He squinted his eyes at her. ‘You could find yourself very wet.’
She was already running away from him, picking her feet up out of the water and squealing. He skimmed a hand across the water, sending a spray towards her that fell short. Then he gave chase, splashing at her at every second step.
He caught her near where the grass was supposed to start, scooped her up like a child, and ran back to the water, where he held her low down and pretended to be about to drop her.
‘Now, say you’re sorry.’ He dipped her head close to the water, but she was laughing too much to reply with anything but a strangled version of the word. He spun her so she was the right way up, and then placed her feet-first into the water. She leant against him, her laughter reduced to groans. Then she stood on her own, straightening her top, and walked a few steps away. He followed, knowing that if she reverted to the girl she was thirty years ago, the next thing she would do was splash him again. She did not let him down. The water ran down his face as she sprinted away and he half-heartedly gave chase. When they were both at the water’s edge, he picked up his speed, and she did her best to stay ahead of him. But the rules of the game said he was always faster and stronger, and it was important that he show her this was still the way it was. He caught her quickly, held her tightly, and kissed her on the cheek against her will. Then he guided her towards their cabin.
Dimple used the ablution block first, in case there were pitfalls that needed to be managed. He told Ruthie they were clean and functional, with enough hot water and water pressure in the shower to make it a pleasant experience. Spiders and other insects were at a minimum.
Ruth walked up to the block with her towel and her toiletry bag. The non-ensuites were beginning to make her miss her bathrooms at home. But Dimple was right — the shower and toilets were clean enough. She had a long shower, as if that might compensate for the distance from her cabin. She felt for the lump that was creating so much change. On the radio, there’d been a science story about cancer cells being able to regenerate endlessly, in effect cheating death. It made her hope for surgery — to cut something out of her body, so she might cheat death at least for a little while. In the sunlight that streamed through a high window, she examined the rest of her body: the cut on her forearm where the barbed wire had let go and whipped across her skin when she was helping Dimple fence the Hill Paddock; the marks and strains from carrying two boys; the slice on the back of her leg where she fell off a horse onto an unforgiving fence post; the faded scar of a melanoma long removed. She walked out in a robe with her hair in a towel, repeating random words of solace to herself, and almost walked into Paul.
He looked a little startled, holding his own towel and toiletry bag.
‘Oops,’ she said. ‘Sorry. The glory of shared bathrooms, eh?’
‘I’m not complaining,’ he said, looking her up and down, and then proceeded to the men’s showers.
Ruthie strolled back to her cabin, thinking about his comment. It was vaguely sleazy, but it gave her a little lift. It was good to be appreciated, even if it was only for how you looked.
If treatment does not occur, breast cancer will usually spread to other areas of the body.
Most days, she didn’t have to think too much about how she looked. She took care of herself and didn’t like Dimple to see her messy or too dowdy, but she never put in much effort. She knew he liked the look of her, but never expected him to ‘appreciate’ her on a normal work day. It was hard enough to stay clean and not too sweaty. Tonight, she thought she might make an effort.
Dimple took a beer, and sat outside on a deckchair while she dressed. He felt at peace despite all the worrying things that awaited him. Like Ruthie, he had managed to put them out of his mind. It was an essential skill of existence. And why not be at peace? The drought — the thing that he hated, that he could no longer see as a challenge as he had as a younger man, that he wished away every day by paying homage to forecasts — was actually doing him a good turn. He had his wife’s word that she would not leave him while the drought continued. Bring on the dry, he thought, slugging down his cold beer. When Ruthie was ready, he grabbed some alcohol from the little fridge and told her how beautiful she looked. The order was unintentional.
They walked across to Paul’s in the dusk like they were wedding guests or soiree attendees. Ruthie had even gone for some lipstick, and Dimple held her hand. They could hear Paul and Janice’s genuine laughter in the half-dark.
‘Here they are,’ Janice said as they came into the circle of their light. Paul stood and asked if he could get them a drink, but Dimple waved the wine bottle and a couple of beers he was carrying. The four of them sat in the light of Paul’s room and an outdoor bulb.
‘How was your walk?’ Janice asked, which started them on an easy conversation about small things: the cabins; the place they were in; the time it took to get there and where they might go next. Janice had never spent much time out of the cities, and knew very little about farming. So Dimple and Ruthie answered her simple questions, and in return received expressions of amazement and a sense they were extraordinary.
When Ruthie asked him what he did, Paul said he’d been an archaeologist but had retired after his wife’s death and kept his life’s work as a special interest. He’d specialised in Indigenous archaeology, focusing on evidence of the first arrivals. It had meant years spent camping near cave sites and being based in small towns and isolated communities. ‘I didn’t see my wife as much as I would have liked. She got sick of the rough digs pretty quickly.’ He talked about the remarkable things he’d seen and the magic he’d uncovered. He appeared reluctant to talk about himself, but Ruthie prodded him forward.
‘We’ve never given the first peoples their due, as far as I’m concerned,’ he said. ‘But it’s worse than that. We deliberately erased their achievements from our histories. We know so little about them: the complexity of their farming methods, their trade interactions, their food, the way they treated the land.’
‘They didn’t do much farming, did they? It was hunter-gatherer most of the time, as far as I know.’ Dimple was briefly engaged by the possibility that he might catch Paul out.
‘That’s what we’re supposed to think. There’s a fair bit of evidence that’s not true. Fish traps and grain stooks. But it’s not actually my field, so I wouldn’t want to pretend I’m an expert. But the plain to the west of here that you came across before you came up into the hills? The first explorers said it was a treeless plain, a natural phenomenon that precluded trees. But there’s now forensic evidence that the local indigenes burnt it, maybe for centuries, hundreds of centuries, to attract kangaroos and other grass-eaters. They would choose areas to progressively burn the tussock grass, which would result in fresh shoots that would entice kangaroos in numbers into confined areas where hunters could ambush them.’
‘We live on the edge of a plain like that,’ Dimple said.
‘Might be the same circumstance,’ Janice said helpfully.
After that, Dimple tired of Paul’s anecdotes. He was a good storyteller of smart stories, but there was only so much Dimple could take of the rich selflessness of his life. Especially as R
uthie was entranced by him. Dimple tried to talk to Janice, questioning her about her life and her work, but it was obvious she was more interested in what her brother had to say. When he asked carefully about a partner and children, she told him she had neither, and went back to listening to Paul.
Dimple had already had several beers, but he opened another one because it seemed the only consolation available. The women were giggling at every urbane suggestion from Paul. Dimple tried to peer out into the dark, but the light above them stopped him from seeing anything further than their group of chairs. He noticed he wasn’t the only one drinking a lot. The bottle of wine he’d brought was empty, and Paul had produced two more and refilled Ruthie’s glass. Ruthie was commending it.
‘Yes, it’s a favourite of mine,’ Paul said. ‘Pretty pricey, though. Life’s too short to drink crap wine, you know?’
Ruthie apparently did know. Ruthie was also fascinated by archaeology and Aboriginal history, which was news to Dimple.
Janice suggested some music, and Ruthie enthusiastically agreed. When they’d selected a song, the two women got Paul to his feet, and the three of them began to dance. It took some minutes before Ruthie tried to encourage Dimple to join in. When he declined, she didn’t bother again. She danced with Paul, who smiled and shrugged at Dimple but took Ruthie in his arms. Dimple thought he might hit the other man, but he also knew from years of drinking that if he did, he would be ashamed in the morning. He wanted to go back to his cabin, but he realised he couldn’t trust his wife. After all she’d said and the ways she was responding to this sweet-talker, Dimple couldn’t convince himself that she wouldn’t do something that would hurt him. So he sat and waited, slowly drinking his beer and good-naturedly enduring their occasional jeers. He tried not to watch them, because it seemed voyeuristic, but he felt stupid. At one point, Ruthie clumsily took something from Paul, and Dimple looked away as if they had a right to privacy.
Eventually the three of them ran out of party spirit. Ruthie said good night effusively, and Dimple guided her back to their cabin. All the way, she exclaimed how much fun she’d had; how amazing Paul was and what a stick in the mud Dimple turned out to be. When they were in bed and Ruthie was immediately asleep, Dimple lay on his back, telling himself to be calm, but feeling that a strong thing inside him might be breaking.