The words fell like warm kisses onto Rebecca. Her life had been parched when it came to receiving praise from her father. Nothing she could do, no matter how hard she tried, had ever pleased him.
‘When I first met you at the yards I promised you more to do with the ram shed and the showing side of the operation. I know that hasn’t happened this year and you haven’t been off the place. It’s taken a while to talk Bob around into letting you youngsters have a go, but I think he’s ready now and he can see you’d be a good thing for the showing of Blue Plains stud stock.’
Bec pulled at the label of her stubby so that it came away in a wet gluey patch. She stuck it back on and pulled it off again as she listened.
‘We want you to take as much time off for your brother’s wedding, but we also want you to come back, not as a jillaroo but as our stud promotions manager. There’s a salary set aside to match that title … well almost, but it’s a far cry better than what you’re on. If you can defer your studies for at least another year, it’11 give you the chance to save more and to learn more. I can’t help notice that the local pub gets most of your and Dave’s spare change.’ He smiled kindly.
‘So an extra year is all you’re asking?’
‘Yes.
Bec felt a tinge of sadness creep in. There was no way her father would put her in charge of a whole enterprise on the farm. She couldn’t help wish she had a father like Alastair.
‘Anyway Bec. I’ll leave you to think about it. Let us know where you are by Christmas. I’ve asked head office to draw up a job description for you with details of salary and responsibilities. That should be through on Bob’s email by Tuesday, so if you catch up with him after the weekend you can find out more.’
‘Great. Thanks. I’ll think about it, Alastair. That’s very kind of you.’
Far off outside the window a ‘Wooo-hooo!’ could be heard.
‘Dave must’ve hit a toad for a bogie,’ said Alastair and Bec smiled. ‘You’re not going home for Christmas?’
‘No.’
‘Any family coming to visit?’
‘Ahh. No.’ Bec made a humble-smile face and shook her head self-consciously.
‘Sorry to pry. I know things haven’t improved with your father over the months. Christmas is a good time to make amends, but if you’re not ready, the invitation’s there for you to come to the city to spend Christmas with my family.’
Rebecca smiled warmly. She’d never known a man his age to chat the way Alastair did. She liked him.
‘Thanks, Mr Gibson. That’s really nice of you, but I’d miss my dogs too much, and besides, Marg and Bob are planning a barbecue at the billabong, so I’ll be right.’
‘All right. So long as you promise me one thing.’
‘What’s that?’
‘That you phone your family. Have a yack to your old man. I know if you were my daughter I’d want to hear from you.’
Rebecca looked at the ceiling and pursed her lips. ‘Okay,’ she said like a child. Then they both laughed.
When he’d finished his beer she thought he’d go, but instead he grabbed the golf club resting against the chair.
‘Now,’ he said, ‘let’s go golfing.’
Rebecca’s mouth dropped.
‘Okay!’ she beamed. ‘But you’ll need these,’ and she handed Alastair Gibson a pair of purple swirling wrapround reflector sunglasses, recently bought by Dave from the Price-Buster store in town.
‘What on earth for? It’s dark out there.’
‘It’s not just for looks,’ teased Bec, ‘and it’s not just for the challenge of toad-hitting by torchlight. It’s because their poison can spray you in the eye.’
As Alastair went to pull his boots on he muttered, ‘This is not only sounding dangerous, but also ridiculous.’
‘It’s character building,’ said Bec as the screen door banged a full stop on her sentence.
CHAPTER 11
The dogs on the back put their noses into the rush of heat and squinted their eyes in the wind. Inside the hot little cab, takeaway papers littered the floor and a drink bottle filled with water warmed between Rebecca’s knees. Every now and then she splashed the water over her face and chest. The hot wind rushing through the opened window sucked the moisture from her singlet and left her a little cooler. Bec glanced at her right arm resting on the frame of the door. It was burning red, while her other arm was its usual honey-coloured brown. From the console she grabbed a tube of sunscreen and smeared a glob of white cream over her arm. She rubbed the remainder into her right leg, which was also catching the sun. She shifted a little, her back sticking hotly to the seat of the ute. She turned up the radio and tried to ignore the sweltering temperature.
The towns were getting bigger, more civilised, more standardised. McDonalds, KFC, neat all-the-same servos selling fatty all-the-same food. In one town Rebecca stopped at a large department store and wandered through racks of clothes, looking heartlessly for a dress for the wedding. She moved amongst the shoppers as though she wasn’t there at all. She ran her brown fingers along the racks of pristine clothes while the shop assistant stared at her as if she were a shoplifter.
Bec had left her dogs on the back of her ute in the dark underground car park, and she worried about them. They were good-looking types – they could be stolen easily. Besides, she hated shopping. She turned to leave, but then caught a glimpse of herself in a mirror. Under the fluoro store lighting Rebecca looked at her reflection. A tanned, wind-blown girl wearing torn denim shorts. She frowned at herself. She looked different. She didn’t know how, but something was definitely different about her.
Stuff it, she said to herself. She’d find something to wear in the next town. She rode the escalator down to the shopping centre’s carpark and ran her hands over the ears of all her delighted bouncing dogs.
Hands shaking from gravel-road vibrations and nerves, Bec rang the bell at the Fur Trapper on the Saturday of the wedding. From the bar she heard Darren Weatherby call out, ‘Hold your horses, won’t be a minute.’ Cigarette hanging from his mouth, he rounded the corner juggling empty cardboard boxes. When he saw Rebecca he dropped them at his feet in mock shock.
‘Beccy Saunders, love!’
‘Dirty!’ She flung her arms about him and he planted a stubbly, smoky kiss on her cheek.
‘Home for the weddin’, are ya?’
‘Yeah, thought I’d better do the right thing.’
‘How is it up north? Been hearing a bit from Tom and your postcards. Said you’d been pig shooting, cane-toad golfing and wrestling wild bulls.’
‘Yep. It’s been great. Would rather be home on the farm, but that’s the way of the snake up the gravelly path, ay Dirty.’
‘Ahh! Hear you picked up that Northern “ay”.’
Bec smiled and shrugged.
‘Haven’t seen your old man about much lately. He sends Mick into town to do his jobs.’
Rebecca looked around the pub. ‘This place hasn’t changed.’
‘No,’ said Dirty, also looking around. ‘Worst luck.’
‘Have you got a spare room for a night or two, Dirty? I’m not sure where I’m staying.’ Bec could feel tears welling up.
‘Ahh, love. We’re fully booked with the weddin’. Got a heap up from the city, and all I’ve had are complaints. They keep asking if there’s any “alternative” accommodation round here, something with private bathrooms. Been drivin’ me nuts. We can find you a place for your swag, though, and you can use the shower. I suppose being dogwoman and all, you’ll have all your dogs. He glanced out the window, looking for her ute. ‘You can tie ’em up out the back.’
‘Thanks, Dirty. You’re a legend.’
‘We’ve missed you, girl. So has your brother Tom. Been in here drunk as a skunk most weekends.’
‘Have you seen him this weekend?’
‘He’s out at your old man’s getting groomed for groomsman. Trudy’s at Angela Carmichael’s getting her hair doova’d with the bridesmaids. T
hey’re going to the church straight from there. You should see St Matthew’s … all the ladies are clucking around at the church doing the flowers and fussing and farting. Trudy’s decided to have the reception at Waters Meeting.’
Rebecca felt a stab of shock as Dirty’s commentary washed over her.
‘They’ve done up the garden and ’parently hired a marquee and a jazz band from the city.’
Bec hadn’t expected this. The invitation had said the hall. To return home now to some strange girl’s wedding in her house, in her Waters Meeting house … She felt the hatred for her father rise in her heart, and nausea flooded over her.
‘… for Chrissakes. A jazz band. I ask you, what’s the world coming to!’ continued Dirty. He stopped when he saw the strain on Bec’s face.
‘It’s after eleven, isn’t it, Dirty?’
‘What? Oh.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Just.’
‘Is your bar open? Because I need a Scotch.’
‘Bar’s open any time for you, Bec. I’ll make it a double, shall I?’
‘Yep. Just a quick shot, then I’ll settle my dogs in and get myself frocked up.’
He handed her the drink and she looked at the ice cubes suspended in yellowy-brown liquid. A lump rose in her throat. Large warm tears dropped onto the tufted, green and red bar mat and, as she moved the chinking drink, her tears splashed onto the ice.
‘Hey Bec,’ soothed Dirty, ‘if you’d wanted water with your Scotch, girl, you should’ve asked.’ He moved around the bar, took the glass from her and put his arm around her shoulders. She laughed a little and cried a lot all at the same time, and Dirty tried hard to brush away her embarrassment.
‘They always say bar work involves 50 per cent drink pouring and 50 per cent counselling,’ said Dirty to the top of Rebecca’s bowed head. ‘Between you and Tom, your dad’s been providing me with a lot of business. I should send the rotten old bastard a bill.’
With that, he flicked on the jukebox and selected the saddest Dixie Chicks song he could find. ‘If you’re going to be miserable, you might as well do it properly and sink yourself low as you can, girl.’
The Dixie Chicks filled the empty pub with mournful twanging voices. Dirty handed Bec another Scotch and she looked up gratefully into his lined and kindly eyes. She could barely say thanks as the tears flooded again. The drink flowed into her empty stomach like a balm.
Frankie first saw her daughter standing outside the white weatherboard church. She was about to rush over to her, but something held her back. She watched Rebecca through the crowd and was shocked to realise that her daughter seemed like a stranger.
She looked different. Older. She wore her hair up and stood self-consciously in a sleeveless blue dress. Frankie concluded that Rebecca looked beautiful. Grown up.
Peter followed her gaze, nervously stroking down his tie. ‘Rebecca?’
Frankie nodded.
‘She’s lovely.’
When Rebecca turned and saw her mother, she rushed over and hugged her warmly.
‘Mum! Good to see you. You look great.’
‘So do you! Look at that tan!’
‘Outdoors lifestyle.’
They laughed and hugged again.
‘Nervous?’ Frankie asked.
‘You bet.’
‘Seen Dad yet?’
‘No.’
Peter coughed.
‘Oh! Sorry,’ said Frankie to Peter. ‘Rebecca, I’d like you to meet a friend of mine. Peter. Peter, this is my daughter. Rebecca.’
‘Nice to meet you at long last,’ said Bec, shaking his hand enthusiastically. ‘You feature in Mum’s letters a fair bit.’
‘I do, do I?’ Peter smiled at Frankie warmly.
Rebecca liked the look of him. There was a real kindness about him and his eyes were so friendly. Just then the minister appeared at the arched doorway of the church and began to usher people inside.
‘Mum, the man in the long frock is calling us to go have a yarn to God.’ She nodded towards the minister.
‘Oh, Rebecca!’ Frankie rolled her eyes and smiled. ‘I can see you haven’t got any more respectful of the Church.’ Then to Peter she said, ‘My daughter has a problem with anything that requires conformity. Religion is one of them. And that man in the long dress is Father Peterson. He actually christened all my children and married me and … my … Harr … my ex-husband.’
The mention of Harry made Rebecca’s stomach turn. The thought of him being here, inside that church, terrified her. This morning’s whiskey had worn off and she’d begun to get a headache. Her mother took her by the arm and led her into the cool darkness of the church. Rebecca wondered if Frankie was offering her support or if it was the other way round.
Towards the altar, the old oak pews were crowded with people she mostly didn’t know. The three of them shuffled and sidestepped along an empty pew at the back of the church. A few of the locals turned their heads towards them and made motions for them to sit further up in the pews reserved for family, but both Rebecca and her mother shook their heads, smiled and waved the attention away.
Rebecca could see her father sitting at the very front of the church. His hair was longer and lay in an untidy grey mat on his head. The pinstripes on his suit sloped downwards with the slump of his shoulders. His head was bowed towards his shoes.
In front of Harry sat Tom and Mick. Rebecca’s heart leapt when she saw them. Even though the boys nervously fidgeted with ties and buttons they looked drop-dead gorgeous. Rebecca had forgotten how tall and handsome Mick was. His black hair shone and was freshly cut in a neat line across the back of his neck. He was clean-shaven and even his hands were no longer stained with oil. He looked magnificent. Then Rebecca studied Tom. His unruly sandy hair had been cut shorter and combed back. It suited him. His skin was the same golden honey colour as Rebecca’s. He put a hand to his tie and adjusted it. He had beautiful hands, Rebecca thought. She wondered if he’d found a girlfriend. If one of Trudy’s friends didn’t set their targets on him tonight, Rebecca would be amazed. He was looking like a dish.
Just then a woman in a pink hat, her hair done in a bun of curls, fussed over the boys and smoothed down Tom’s hair. Rebecca stared at her ample bottom sheathed in fuchsia silk, and her chunky legs which ran down to fat ankles and little feet that were crammed into pink strappy high-heeled shoes.
Frankie whispered to Bec, ‘I think that’s Trudy’s mother.’
‘The genetics do not look good,’ Bec said out of the corner of her mouth and felt her mother’s hand thump her gently on the thigh.
The woman at the organ began to press out groaning notes, which sounded like a cat in season. Then the bride made her entrance, swept along by her short, fat, balding father.
‘The genetics are definitely not good,’ Bec whispered again to her mother.
‘Shhhh!’
‘She’s used a lot of mozzie net.’
‘Shhhhh!’
Bec peered through swathes of white tulle trying to make out Trudy’s face. She looked pretty, her face elflike and her eyes shining with tears. Rebecca felt Frankie grab onto her arm and when she looked at her mother’s face, it was contorted with emotion. Rebecca’s self-defence of whiskey and clowning around fell away. She felt raw and alone.
As the booming voice of Father Peterson filled the church, mother and daughter wept silently, twisting tissues and dabbing eyes. When people glanced in their direction Rebecca and Frankie smiled back thinly. Rebecca sighed and looked at the backs of her brothers standing so square and still. She felt like a stranger to the men who stood in their wedding suits at the altar.
Coloured paper lanterns hung along the verandahs of the house. Bamboo torches burned around the freshly gravelled circular driveway and fairy lights glittered in gum trees. Possums skittered nervously in the branches and peered down at the crowd of people who stood about in clusters on the lawn. In the marquee on the homestead lawn, guests chinked wineglasses and laughed, draping themselves drunkenly over wh
ite plastic chairs.
In the corner, a sunken and drunk Harry slumped at his table and continued to throw glances at Frankie and Peter who sat with Rebecca.
At the long white bridal table Mick lolled with his groomsmen, like Romans at a feast. Trudy, in her perfect satin gown, flowed from table to table with a smile set firmly on her face.
‘Thank you so much for coming,’ she purred to Frankie.
‘Well I wouldn’t miss my own son’s wedding, would I?’ muttered Frankie into her wineglass.
Rebecca, hoping Trudy hadn’t heard, jumped up from the table too quickly, knocking over a jug of beer.
‘Oh! Whoops! I was just going to give you a wedding day hug.’ As Frankie and Peter mopped up the spilled beer Bec and Trudy hugged awkwardly. She felt the bones of Trudy’s shoulder blades beneath her bridal gown. When Trudy moved away to another table Rebecca grabbed for her glass of wine and threw back the tepid liquid.
Harry caught his daughter’s eye and Rebecca deliberately turned her back on him. She watched couples dancing tamely to the jazz band. On the edge of the crowd was Tom with his shirt untucked and his hair regaining its normal wild state. He was straddling a white plastic chair, riding it rodeo-style. Tom spurred his chair and threw one hand in the air as if riding a rank bull. The chair leg snapped suddenly and he sprawled on the chipboard dance floor. Rebecca got up to help him, but Trudy’s mother was already trotting over with her pink hat wobbling.
‘Enough’s enough,’ she said through gritted teeth fixed into a smile. Her hand pinched his arm.
‘We can’t have you spoil Michael and Trudy’s special day.’
‘What’s so shpechial about it?’ said Tom to himself as he frowned and watched Trudy’s mother’s large backside wobble. He staggered over to an empty table and grabbed at a glass of red wine, then slung it back, draining it in one gulp.
‘Having fun, Tom?’
‘Ahhh! Bec! Let’s drink to a match made in heaven!’ He glanced over to Mick, who had a glossy taffeta-clad bridesmaid on his knee, and laughed.
‘Come on! Let’s make some merriment,’ Rebecca said as she grabbed Tom’s hand and together they dived under the white folds of linen that covered the long bridal table.
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