Jillaroo

by Rachael Treasure

  They perceived themselves as good churchgoing people following what the Bible said – women serving husbands, children respecting parents. It had always been that way. That was until Charlie had insisted he have time off to go to ag college. His father had yelled red-faced at him that he was ‘disobeying his wishes’. They’d had the same argument a few years ago when Charlie, a fresh-faced school leaver, packed his bags and headed north to work on a cattle station for a year. His mother had cried and his father had raved the day he drove away. The same scene had been played out when Charlie drove off to the Tablelands University.

  They were about to get another rude shock, Charlie thought, when he turned up with Rebecca. He again glanced at her and smiled. She had her feet up on the dashboard and was singing along to a Green Day song, biting her nails at the same time.

  Bec was nervous. She should’ve worn something tidier, she thought anxiously. She shouldn’t have tried to play ‘tough girl’ to Charlie. She’d known it would make him nervous when it came to meeting his parents, so she had done it half to tease him and half out of a growing resentment of the Lewises’ far-reaching control over their son. All year she’d pieced together enough of Charlie’s words to know that his father hadn’t yet forgiven him for leaving the farm to study. Despite his wild side at parties, Rebecca knew Charlie was repressed in so many ways. Bec had painted a picture of his parents in her mind. She thought she knew their types – traditional, conservative mother with dominating, controlling dad, made worse by the isolated upbringing on the farm. But Bec so desperately wanted to see where he lived. When Charlie discovered alcohol and a bunch of wild mates in the district, the foundations of their rock-solid family must have rumbled a little, but Charlie still remained tied not only to his family but also to the community church.

  Bec knew the Lewises were strict churchgoers, the sort who helped with Sunday school barbecues or baked pikelets for the church fair. Their religiosity made Bec even more nervous about the visit. It was so far away from her world. She rarely went to church, especially after the forced services she’d endured each day at boarding school. She remembered going through her hymn book and underlining all the masculine words in red ink. Him. He. His. After leaving school she didn’t like the idea of worshipping a male God in a man-made church. Her religion belonged to the land, her river, the mountains. A female God. A mother nature Goddess. A cyclical God made of earth and air and water. Not one made of man-made rules, one run with money.

  In the ute she looked across to Charlie. She wondered if she should ask him if she would have to go to church with the Lewises. To start with, she hadn’t brought anything to wear.

  As they drove closer to the house Rebecca stared at the tidy square hedge which surrounded the freshly painted white weatherboard house.

  ‘Shoebox’ was all that came to Rebecca’s mind. Pink flowers in rows lined the pathway. She thought they were primulas, but she wasn’t certain. A sprinkler swirled in a circle of droplets on a mown lawn. From the shade of the porch a tiny lady walked out into the bright sun, wiping her hands on a floral pinafore which fell over a flat bosom.

  Bec sighed, stretched a little and wiped her hands on her jeans as the ute rolled to a stop.

  ‘She won’t bite,’ said Charlie as he opened the ute door. Rebecca stepped out onto the red dusty drive and smiled at the lady who had a halo of neat grey hair.

  ‘My boy!’ Mrs Lewis said with her hands outstretched. Charlie gave her a quick kiss on the cheek. ‘Hello, Mum.’

  He stepped back and proudly stretched his arm out in the hot dry air. ‘This is Rebecca.’

  ‘Hello, Mrs Lewis.’ Rebecca moved forward and held out her hand, expecting her to reply with, ‘Call me Joan.’ But instead Mrs Lewis took her hand lightly and said, ‘Rebecca. Let’s go inside. It’s frightfully hot out here.’

  In the small dark kitchen Bec sat at the table and laid her hands flat on the cool laminex surface. Some of the pattern had faded away after years of wiping. Charlie pulled out a chrome chair and sat next to Bec. As he sat she felt him grab her firmly on her thigh with his big strong hand.

  Rebecca bowed her head and stifled a smile as Mrs Lewis said, ‘Cup of tea, dear?’ In front of her, Mrs Lewis placed a plate of peppermint slice and a basket of steaming scones.

  ‘Yes. Tea would be lovely, thank you, Mrs Lewis,’ said Rebecca. Beneath the table Charlie’s hand slid further up her thigh. Rebecca pulled a ‘stop it!’ face at Charlie.

  ‘You may want to wash up first. Charlie will show you where the bathroom is.’

  Along the narrow hallway gold-framed pictures of studio family shots lined the walls.

  ‘Ahh! Little brother Glen, I presume!’ said Bec, pointing to the smiling skinny boy who sat next to a younger looking Charlie.

  ‘He’s not so little now … between year eleven and year twelve he’s shot up at least a foot. Must be Dad’s genetics, because it sure couldn’t be boarding school food.’ Bec looked at the big tall man in the photos who, no matter which way the photographer arranged him, looked out of place. She remembered the man’s face from the day she saw Charlie at the sheep show. It was a face that gave little away.

  Charlie followed her gaze. ‘He’s still not officially talking to me,’ he said. ‘Still mad at me for clearing out to college.’

  ‘I would’ve thought it was a good thing for the farm,’ said Bec.

  ‘Not for my old man. You’ll see.’ Charlie ushered her into the bathroom. ‘Soap. Towel,’ he said as he picked up each item from the white benchtop. Then he wrapped his arms around her.

  Bec let herself fall back against the cool bathroom wall and tilted her head up towards him. She shut her eyes and concentrated on feeling the warmth and pleasure of his wet mouth and tongue. She pushed her breasts against his chest and felt the hardness of his erection under his jeans as he pressed against her.

  Suddenly the image of Mrs Lewis in her pinny and the now cooling scones flashed into Rebecca’s mind and she pushed Charlie away, laughing, ‘Your mum will be waiting for us, Charlie! The scones!’

  He looked into her eyes, bit her playfully on the neck and then promptly left, pulling his shirt out of his jeans and over the bulge in his crotch.

  Closing the bathroom door, Bec turned and looked at her face in the mirror and exhaled a deep breath.

  ‘Yikes,’ she whispered, as she felt the blood still rushing deep within. She shut her eyes before splashing cold water on her face. Instantly she could smell sulphur and was reminded of green rotting eggs.

  ‘Yikes,’ she said again, this time flatly. ‘Bloody bore water.’

  By her third piece of peppermint slice, fourth scone and second cup of tea, Rebecca had managed to avoid answering Mrs Lewis’s tricky questions about her family farm. She had only once mentioned her dad and the word ‘divorce’ had not entered the conversation. It was a word which didn’t seem to fit in this tidy, functional family house.

  Charlie sat on the kitchen bench grinning and gazing at Bec, to the point where she could no longer look at him and concentrated instead on staring at the cover of Woman’s Day as she spoke. One glance at him, Bec thought, and she would burst out laughing and splutter scone all over the laminex.

  Throughout the conversation Mrs Lewis never once sat at the table. Instead she moved around the kitchen as if on autopilot, preparing what looked like the evening meal.

  ‘Are you sure I can’t help with anything?’ Rebecca asked again.

  ‘No! No dear. It’s fine, thank you.’

  To Rebecca’s relief Charlie jumped down from the bench and said, ‘We might go find Dad now … and I’ll show Bec around the farm.’

  ‘She mightn’t want to see the farm, Charlie. She may want to rest up a bit. It’s been a long drive.’

  ‘No! No. The farm is good. Seeing the farm is good,’ said Rebecca, jumping up almost too quickly from the chair, its legs scraping on linoleum.

  In the ute they drove through the yard, past huge skillion sheds which
moaned in the wind, and towering silver silos. She looked around the homestead area.

  ‘Where are your dogs?’

  ‘Dad won’t have them. We used to run a few sheep, but he sold out of them and pulled the fences up. The shearing shed’s now lined with tin and used for grain storage.’

  ‘No horses?’

  Charlie shook his head.

  By the time she’d asked, ‘Where are the trees?’ and ‘Do you have a river anywhere to swim?’, the excitement on Charlie’s face had dropped away and silence filled the cab of the ute. She knew she’d hurt his feelings, so she made an effort to lift his dwindling spirits.

  ‘The sky’s so lovely and huge out here,’ she said, ducking her head and looking up out of the windscreen at the vastness of blue. He looked across at her and smiled a disappointed smile.

  Ahead of them a large Deutz tractor with a wide boom spray unit lumbered up and down the rows and rows of cotton.

  ‘I take it that’ll be your dad.’

  ‘You take it right,’ was all Charlie said.

  When the tractor at last lumbered to a stop, Mr Lewis opened the cab and stepped slowly down to the ground. He hitched his pants up beneath his rotund belly and stood with his arms folded across his wide chest. He looked at Charlie and nodded.

  ‘Son.’

  ‘Hi, Dad,’ said Charlie.

  Then Mr Lewis’s eyes roamed over Rebecca. His face gave away nothing. He stood. He waited.

  ‘Um. Dad,’ Charlie’s voice filled up the silence. ‘This is my … friend … Rebecca.’

  Rebecca smiled, took a step forward and held out her hand.

  ‘Hi,’ she said brightly.

  Mr Lewis shook her hand, but Rebecca was sure she could see a glimmer of distaste roam over his red, round face.

  At dinner Mr Lewis barely said a thing to Rebecca, and spent more time swearing at the politicians who appeared on the ‘7.30 Report’. He said even less to Charlie. Rebecca sat and chased peas around her plate, feeling uncomfortable.

  ‘Another glass of water?’ Mrs Lewis asked with a smile.

  ‘Thank you. Yes.’

  Rebecca was relieved when the meal was over and she could leave the room to carry the plates into the kitchen.

  As Rebecca and Charlie washed up side by side at the sink, he whispered, ‘You okay?’

  Bec smiled kindly and kissed the air between them, as if to say, ‘I love you anyway, even though your parents are completely off the dial.’

  When Mrs Lewis ushered Rebecca into the spare room and told her she could pick either one of the two single beds, Bec’s cordial smile faded altogether. She and Charlie had been virtually living together for the whole year at college. Surely Mrs Lewis knew that. So why separate rooms?

  Grumpily Bec dragged from her bag her only pair of pyjamas, which she never wore, and pulled them on like a sulky child. In the bed the sheets scratched Bec’s skin. Too much washing powder, she thought, then mentally slapped herself around the face for being so critical. Switching off the light and lying in the strangeness of the dark room, she tried to close her eyes and sleep, but she craved Charlie and his naked warmth. She knew his bedroom was down the hall, through the kitchen and in a room on the other side of the house. But could she navigate her way in the dark without Mr and Mrs Lewis hearing her? Pulling back the sheets, she swung her legs out of bed and stood up. She was damn well going to try …

  CHAPTER 27

  ‘Congratulations, Mrs Maybury!’ Tom raised his glass unsteadily and sloshed champagne on his shirt. He took a slurp from the glass and then kissed his mother’s cheek. His kiss left a wet patch on the light dusting of make-up which covered her face. He then moved over to the trestle table under the shade of a large gum and tipped the remaining champagne from the fat green bottles into his glass.

  From the small cluster of wedding guests in the city park, Bec watched him. She saw how his shoulders sloped downwards and his clothes hung from his skinny frame. His hair had grown long and stuck up in a shock of waves. Dark brown stubble grew across his angular jawline. His skin was an odd pale tan colour and yellow circles ringed his eyes. On his brow a frown line slashed his young skin vertically between his eyebrows.

  Bec watched as Sally bounded up to him by the bar and kissed him warmly on the cheek. Tom looked right through her as if she wasn’t there at all.

  His eyes left Bec cold. Instinctively, she moved closer to Charlie and slipped her hand into his as he stood and laughed with Peter who was fidgeting nervously with a length of golden ribbon.

  At the end of the ribbon sat Henbury, who had busily been licking the feathery place where his balls once were. The dog had sat like that all the way through Peter and Frankie’s short wedding ceremony, despite the occasional subtle kick from the toe of Peter’s shoe.

  ‘You did a top job as pageboy, didn’t you, Henners,’ said Charlie as he stooped and patted the dog, letting go of Rebecca’s hand for a moment.

  As Peter and Charlie continued to chat, Bec scanned the crowd and saw, in the midst of the guests, a skinny Trudy holding onto a fat baby boy.

  Her high-pitched monologue floated above the conversations of the crowd and the people she talked to smiled and nodded at her with glazed expressions on their faces.

  ‘Of course Daddy’s given Mike a lot of time off work which is great because Danny’s been such a handful, haven’t you, my big boofie boy? But the new house is just perfect, we couldn’t have coped with anything less modern and spacious, especially when we have number two, although, not yet! Not yet! I don’t think I could handle two just yet. Of course Mum does come over to help a lot. She’s been great. I can’t imagine how I’d have coped if we’d still been living out in the bush.’

  As she eavesdropped, Rebecca felt someone tug on her hair. She turned to see a suit-clad Mick with tidy short-cropped hair.

  ‘How’s the final-year college girl? Feeling important now you’ve almost got a piece of paper?’

  ‘It’s been great … just a shame I haven’t been able to put it into practice anywhere.’

  ‘Ah, from what I hear, young Charlie’s not short of an acre or two. You could take that on. No point worrying about Waters Meeting – Dad and the drought have buggered that. Won’t be long till it gets cashed in.’

  ‘Don’t talk like that!’

  ‘Ah come on, Bec. Getting away from that place has done me a power of good … I’ve actually got my own money in the bank. I would’ve thought it’d done you good too, made you realise those dreams of yours and Tom’s are just that. Dad’s not letting go till he drops off the perch. The old prick.’

  ‘Drunken old prick,’ said Tom as he ambled up behind them, holding his glass at an angle so champagne spilled onto the grass.

  ‘How are things going there?’ Bec asked gently.

  ‘What would you care?’ Tom said, glaring at her.

  ‘Three months, Tom. Three months and I’ll be done. Finished with the course, graduated and out. Then I’ll be home and we can do what we planned to do!’

  ‘Like hell. Have you been there lately?’ He swung his arms about his body wildly. ‘No! None of you buggers have been there lately. Waters Bloody Meeting, my arse! The waters haven’t met in over a year – both rivers have run dry! There’s no stock left, ’scept for Hank and your lonely old horse, and Dad’s shot all the dogs. Didn’t even bury the bastards. Just left them on the end of the chain to rot. Don’t give me all this college “I’ll save the farm crap”!’

  The bitterness in Tom’s voice cut short the wedding chitchat. Guests fell silent and turned to stare at the three of them. Charlie turned to stand behind Bec and put a hand on her arm. Frankie looked up nervously from where she was serving the wedding cake. Amidst the silence, Trudy set her mouth in a grim line. She handed the baby to her mother and walked over to Tom. On his arm she gently placed a slim manicured hand but her fingertips dug into his muscle.

  Between clenched teeth she quietly said, ‘Settle down, Tom. You’re drunk. Don’t
spoil your mother’s wedding, now come with me and we’ll get some cake.’

  ‘Stuff the cake you, controlling witch!’ He shook off her grip and staggered backwards.

  Mick flew towards him, scruffing his shirtfront. ‘Don’t you talk to her like that.’

  Tom took a swing and missed, stumbling onto the grass. From where he crouched he looked up at them. ‘None of you will face it! Piss off, the lot of you.’

  Frankie stepped forward, her cheeks flushed red. ‘Tom! Stop it!’

  ‘What would you care? When have you ever cared? Mum?’ he added sarcastically.

  Frankie froze. She stared in horror at her son’s twisted, angry face. He looked into her eyes, then his face contorted with pain. Tears ran fast and a strangled sob came from deep in his throat.

  ‘Deserting bitch!’ Tom grabbed a champagne from Rebecca’s hands and sloshed it into his mother’s face. He turned and ran towards his ute parked in the street. Everyone watched, silent and still, as he drove away into the traffic and towards the freeway which ran out of the city.

  ‘Charlie, we’ve got to go after him!’ cried Bec.

  ‘I think I’ve had too many to drive, Bec,’ he said quietly as he waved his glass about.

  ‘If you won’t go, I will.’ She turned to leave but Mick stood in front of her.

  ‘Bec. He’ll be right. He’s driven pissed that many times before. He’ll be fine. You’ll get yourself in trouble if you drive. We’ve all had too much.’

  Rebecca turned to her mother. ‘Mum?’

  Frankie stood as Peter placed a hand on her shoulder.

  ‘Mum. For Chrissakes do something! For once in your frigging life, do something for him!’ The anguish in her voice stretched out around the silent wedding guests. ‘Why don’t you face it, Mum. It’s you he needs help from. I can’t mother him any more. It’s you!’