They crawled to where Mick sat with the drunken, giggling bridesmaid. Smiling wickedly, Rebecca ran her hand firmly up and down Mick’s thigh.
‘He’s so stonkered he’ll think it’s the chick! He doesn’t even know we’re here,’ Bec whispered. Tom pointed at the bridesmaid’s legs.
‘Go on!’ said Bec grinning and nodding.
Tom stuck his hand roughly up the bridesmaid’s dress. Thinking it was Mick, the curvy girl swathed in peacock-blue taffeta shrieked and fell backwards, trying to slap Mick as she went.
From under the table Bec and Tom wheezed with laughter as they saw Trudy’s bridal shoes march towards Mick and the bridesmaid. In not so hushed whispers she told Michael to behave and Shelley to sober up.
Reaching for his hand, Trudy dragged Mick from his chair on to the dance floor and unleashed her determination to ‘make her wedding day a success’. Still laughing, Bec reached out from beyond the drape of the tablecloth and grabbed a bottle of wine from the table. In their bridal cubbyhouse, both brother and sister prepared their glasses for a wobbly drunken toast.
‘To Dick and Turdy!’
‘To Dick and Turdy!’ replied Tom as they chinked glasses.
‘You’ve got red-wine lips,’ slurred Bec as they sat cross-legged and hunched over, facing each other.
‘So’veyou,’ said Tom, waggling a wavering finger at her until she slapped it away. Both of them fell into silence as they wiped away the red wine crusts which lined their lips.
‘Stuff it, Tom.’
‘Yeah. Stuff it, Bec.’ And they drank again.
‘Stuff Dad,’ said Tom.
‘Yeah. Stuff him.’ They sat in silence drinking.
‘Stuff it, Rebecca … I’m in love with your friend,’ blurted Tom.
‘Who? Which friend?’ asked Bec in mid-swig, eyebrows raised.
Tom shook his head, ‘Na. Na. No one …’
‘Come on, bro. Spit it out!’
‘Sal. I love Sal. Sally Carter-Farter, she’s delish. Trudy wouldn’t ask her to the wedding.’
‘Sally? Sally Carter? You love Sal? Oh my God, Tom.’ Rebecca put a hand to her mouth to stifle her surprise. But Tom, you know what she’s like … she’s still going through her “try before you buy” phase with men. She’s, well she’s … very hard on men, Tom. Much as I love her, she’s not for you. She’d screw you senseless then break your heart.’
Tom ran his hands through his hair and looked away, but she could still see the pain on his face.
‘Just forget I said it.’
‘Oh, Tom.’ Bec gave him a hug. With her arms around him, she felt his whole drunken body crack and slump beneath her touch.
‘Just come home, sis. Just come home. I can’t stand it here without you. I can’t stand it without Mum. I can’t stand it with them. I can’t.’
Rebecca held him at arms-length.
‘Well leave! Come back to Blue Plains with me.’
‘No.’
‘Why not? Why not enrol in uni? Do fine art or something? You know you’ve got a gift. You could live with Mum in the city …’
‘No,’ sobbed Tom as he slapped her hands away from him. His face scrunched in pain. ‘I’m never leaving here. I know it now. No matter where I went, he’d always be there … no matter what I did he’d spoil it.’
‘Who?’
‘You know who. Don’t tell me you don’t hear his voice in your head. Every day. Disapproving. I can’t stand it. I can’t.’ He began to pull at his hair.
All Rebecca could do was hold the wide shoulders of her beautiful brother as he wept. She stroked his hair and said over and over, ‘Shhhh. Shhhh. Shhhhh.’
Rebecca covered Tom’s shoulders with a blanket, then put the ice-cream container at the edge of the bed. She leaned towards him and spoke as if talking to an elderly deaf person.
‘If you feel sick, Tom, there’s a bucket here. I’ve put it here for you, Tom. If you feel sick. Tom, a bucket.’ There was no reply.
From the window she could see the shadows of people moving inside the marquee. Silhouettes dancing to the ‘Chattanooga Choo Choo.’
She walked out of Tom’s bedroom and into the hallway. Flowers on stands lined the walls. It had been years since she’d seen flowers in the house. She ran her hand along the cool wall. Rebecca jumped as a figure moved behind her.
She turned and it was Frankie. It was so strange to see her standing there in the house.
‘Mum!’
‘Don’t tell your father. I’ve been having a sticky-beak. The house is certainly tidier than when I was here,’ she said, ‘but it’s still dark and cold.’ She shivered a little.
Rebecca felt like saying, ‘No wonder it was messy, you were never home!’ But she kept her thoughts to herself and said gently, ‘Mum. It’s Tom. He’s not well.’
‘Don’t worry. He’ll sleep it off. Remember that time after the annual sale when you were twelve and he was thirteen when you got hold of that case of champagne and –’
‘No. That’s not what I mean. He’s not, you know, well.’ Rebecca tapped her head with her forefinger.
‘Bec, he’s always been the sensitive one. You know that. He’ll get through it. His moods pass.’
Rebecca grabbed her mother’s arm. ‘Mum, you need to talk to him. You need to face it.’
‘Face what? He’s my son. I know about his moods. They pass.’ Rebecca stood dumbfounded by her mother’s reaction. ‘Is that all you ever do in life?’ Rebecca said, suddenly angry and charged with emotion.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Run away. Run away from the hard parts in life – like your family.’
‘Rebecca, this is not the time and place.’
‘Oh, so when is a good time and place for you to face the fact that your son is being crushed by his father?’
Frankie’s face twisted and tears came suddenly to her eyes. ‘I can’t deal with this now, Rebecca. It’s hard enough coming back here … You don’t understand what it’s like.’
‘No I don’t, and I hope I never do,’ Rebecca shouted. ‘Why don’t you go and find your new boyfriend and leave this mess for me to sort out, like usual?’ She pushed past her mother and stomped down the hallway, instinctively walking into her old bedroom. She slammed the door shut and leaned her back against its heavy wooden surface, shutting her eyes to keep the sobs inside her. When she opened her eyes, shimmering light filled the room from the paper lanterns outside. It danced magically on the golden lettering of her show ribbons and lit up the tiny faces in the photo frames. She flicked the light switch and suddenly she was standing in front of her past. Her room. Her home.
Everything was how she had left it, except on her bed were boxes filled with wedding stationary and the same golden ribbons that had tied the white roses at the church. Trudy had been in her room. Rebecca clenched her jaw and moved over to the cupboard.
Inside, her hide-tanning and beer-brewing kits sat beneath her clothes, clothes which looked as if they belonged to a stranger.
She stood at her desk and leaned towards the photos on the pin board. A young Rebecca with pigtails smiled out at her. She was sitting on the front steps of the house with her brothers and her cousins. Reg, her old red dog, leaned on her leg and looked up at her. In another shot she was older. Hair flying out as she jumped a log on Ink Jet. Driving the Deutz during hay cutting. Standing on a lookout on a mountaintop, pulling a face. The same stupid face as Tom. Sitting behind candles with her mother at a dinner party in the big dining room. Hanging upside down from the side of a ute with her brothers, grubby and sick after a B&S.
Rebecca folded her arms across her body. She felt chilled. Nowhere was her father pinned to the board and preserved in a picture.
From the cupboard she took a backpack and began to unpin the photos and put them in it. She took some extra clothes and a few of her favourite dog-training books. She ran her fingers across the fuzz of her felted pony club ribbons and closed her eyes again.
When
she opened them, he was standing at the door.
‘What are you doing up here? Come to clean me out?’
‘Dad.’
God. What could she say to him? She looked into his eyes. What should she say to him? Perhaps in that moment he would welcome her back. She stood before him.
‘Get out of my house.’
The words hit her like a slap in the face.
‘Dad?’
‘Don’t think you can just walk back in here after you cleared out like that. Don’t think you can just come back in here after a year away playing cowgirl. After all you’ve done.’
‘I wasn’t … I was just …’
‘You were just getting the hell out of my house.’ He waved an arm in the direction of the stairway and stepped towards her. She could see from his eyes he was drunk. He leaned towards her and said through wine-stained teeth, ‘The nerve of you and your mother to turn up at this house on the same day.’
‘What’ve I –’
‘Shut your face. It’s all about “I”s with you. “I can”, “I will”, “I am”. You never respected me. Never. You’ve always challenged everything I say. Well you’re not getting your way. Mick and Trudy are moving in here and they’re going to make a go of it with me. Trudy’s a good girl. She’ll stick by her husband. She’ll stick inside the house. She’ll bring in the money from teaching. She’ll take the pressure off. Not like you. Not like you and your mother. Nothing like you. Now get out. Get out of my house.’ He grabbed the bag from her hands, threw it on the floor and shoved her out the doorway.
Hazy with alcohol, Rebecca had no retorts. As she backed away from him down the hallway she looked up into his eyes and said bitterly, ‘And I love you too, Daddy.’
PART THREE
CHAPTER 12
The judge raised his red clipboard against the blue sky, then let it fall suddenly. The timekeeper nodded at his signal and blew into the whistle. Dags sat at Rebecca’s feet with every muscle shivering in his body as he eyed the sheep. She motioned to him and said quietly, ‘Dags, get over.’ He cast out clockwise in the yard, belly low to the ground. Trotting steadily, then crouching, slinking towards the stock. The sheep moved away from him and bustled in a group towards Rebecca as she opened the gate.
Sniffing at the air, the lead sheep stood in the entranceway of the next pen. The upstanding wether flinched a little when a breeze lifted the string of red and yellow sponsorship flags. They flapped noisily on the fenceline. The crowd ‘ahhed’ at the unfortunate timing of the breeze. Baulking at the flags, the wether turned and walked out of the entranceway, taking the mob with him. Rebecca kept her cool as Dags instinctively darted around to block and cover the mob. She was racing against the clock, and knew if she wasted time at the start of the trial, she’d run out of time at the end of the course.
‘Walk up, Dags.’
The dog edged towards the sheep. The lead wether stamped its front foot at him. Dags swallowed but kept creeping towards the defiant sheep, his eyes fixed, trying to stare the wether down. The wether stamped again but turned away and soon the mob seemed to fold around itself as the sheep moved into the yard. Rebecca closed the gate. A light applause sprinkled through the crowd. She had made it through the first obstacle, but she still had the race, the loading ramp, the draft and the ‘put away’ to go and time was ticking away.
Her hands fumbled on the gate’s chain, but she at last released the catch and swung the gate open. She sucked in a breath. Now came the hard part. Dags sometimes was too bullish on stock for trial work so Rebecca made an effort to keep her voice tones calm.
‘Steady, Dags. Hop up.’
In the narrow race Dags trotted along the backs of the sheep to the front of the mob, then dropped down to the ground. Within the race, buried beneath sheep, he pressed his body against the weldmesh sides of the race and ran back towards Rebecca. His mere presence, without even a bark, sent the sheep forward in leaping movements. When he emerged again, Rebecca sent him to the front of the race again over the backs of the sheep to clear a space so she could open the gate at the far end. This time when she opened the little race gate Rebecca’s hands were steadier with the chain. Dags was giving her confidence and she was beginning to enjoy the sort of work he was offering. She’d thought the rough work at the station might have ruined his chances as a competitive trial dog, but today he was steady and willing to fall to his belly the moment she whistled, ‘Stop.’
At the loading ramp she sent Dags over the backs of the wethers again.
‘Speak,’ she said, and he barked. The wethers leapt up the ramp and once Rebecca opened a gate, Dags barked again, making the sheep clatter steadily down the other side.
She was making good time, and from what she could tell, they’d made few errors. The judge had barely put his pen to his clipboard and she knew that she would’ve retained most of the hundred points she’d started with when the bell rang.
At the draft, Dags waited for her signal as she counted off the first five sheep through the narrow metal entrance. Then Rebecca swung the gate across the nose of the next ten sheep. One of them propped and stood, breathing heavily, looking up at Rebecca. She knew that if she touched the sheep the judge would dock points.
‘Come up,’ she said. Dags instantly leapt along the backs of the bottleneck of sheep, but the leader failed to move.
‘Get hold of ’im,’ she said. Dags knew what to do. He quickly bit at the topknot of wool between the sheep’s ears. It didn’t hurt the sheep but startled it enough to move it forward through the drafting gate.
‘That’ll do, Dags. Good dog.’ Rebecca knew judges docked points for dogs that bit sheep, but she knew some approved of topknotting because it was a rare skill that made a working dog extra special in the yards. Hopefully this judge would approve.
She swung the drafting gate across and the final five sheep clattered through the race and trotted towards the first five sheep which stood huddled in the gathering yard. Rebecca sighed with relief. All she had to do was put her sheep away and she was finished for the day’s competition.
She cast Dags out again and he gently moved the sheep towards the put-away pen. The sheep knew they were headed towards the safety of their mates in the larger mob so they complied willingly and trotted past Rebecca and through the gate.
As she stooped to fasten the silvery chain around the gate, a smattering of applause broke out in the crowd. Someone called out, ‘Well done.’
The judge, marking the score sheet in his clipboard, walked slowly towards the timekeeper.
‘That was the last run of the day,’ said the timekeeper into the microphone. ‘Just give us a few moments to tally the score to find out who our winners are.’
Rebecca glanced at her watch. She was supposed to be in the ram shed in the next half-hour for the judging of the fine-wool class.
At last the timekeeper switched on the mike with a loud clunk and read out the winners’ names for the open and improver classes. The winners came forward to accept their ribbons and lug away their bags of dog food.
‘And winner of the novice competition, by just one point, is Rebecca Saunders with her dog, Dags, on a score of ninety-four. Well done Rebecca.’
Someone slapped her on the back as she stepped forward to take the ribbon and a glinting gold plastic trophy.
Ribbon tucked in her pocket, trophy under her arm, she carried the heavy biscuits towards the ram truck with Dags following at her heels. At the truck she ran her index finger over the engraved inscription on the trophy. ‘42nd Maranaga Show Utility Dog Trials – Novice Champion.’ Dags stood by her boots.
‘You done good, Dags,’ she said softly, stooping to stroke his ear. He looked up at her with his brown eyes and the end of his tail flickered. ‘Never one to show too much emotion, are you, boy?’
Since she’d been on the show circuit with the rams this year, Rebecca hadn’t managed to win a trophy in the yard dog trialling … until today. She’d had a few good scores, but never a
win, or even a place. As she leaned against the truck, she thought of her grandad. If he were here, he’d take her by the shoulders, stoop to look into her eyes and say, ‘Good on you, girl.’ He’d wink and then return to his serious upright posture and move away again.
As she opened the creaking truck door and reached up to lay the trophy on its dash, she heard a voice behind her.
‘You winner!’
She turned.
‘Basil! Charlie Lewis!’
‘You remember me!’ said the tall boy. He stood there, his green eyes squinting in the sun. His sleeves rolled up, shirt untucked, tanned skin, lean and luscious.
‘Well you did make a bit of an impression. It’s not every day I meet nude men with buckets on their heads.’ Bec’s eyes roamed down to the crotch of his jeans and Charlie felt her gaze. He moved to lean against the truck and smiled at her, looking slightly embarrassed.
‘Yes. Well. Sorry about that. I was having a bit of a blow-out at the B&S. We’d been harvesting at home for weeks and I hadn’t been out to play for a while …’
‘Oh, don’t apologise!’ Bec cut in. ‘It was a great way to meet you, I can assure you.’
Charlie laughed a little and kicked the dirt with the toe of his boot, but he wouldn’t meet her eye.
Oh my God, thought Bec, he’s shy. He’s actually shy! Take the alcohol out of him and he’s a babe.
‘So. What did you win?’ He nodded towards the trophy in the truck.
‘Oh, that! Um, just a novice in the dog trials. With my mate Dags.’ She held up the trophy. ‘It’ll make a good dunny-roll holder.’
‘Good on you! Good on you, Dags,’ and Charlie bent to cup the dog’s head in his big brown hands, scratching behind Dags’s ears. Dags relished the attention and promptly leaned his body against Charlie’s leg, wagging his tail.
‘He likes you. He only does that to people he trusts,’ said Bec.
Charlie looked into Dags’s eyes, ‘Pity I didn’t get to see you in action, fella.’ Then he looked back at Bec. ‘We’ve only just got here. We were passing through town and Dad thought he’d call in to talk grain with a few of the sheep cockies. What are you up to with yourself? You’re miles away from Blue Plains. Are you still working there?’
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