Dark Oasis

by Dulcie M. Stone

  “My mother was too ill.”

  “I’m sure she would have done something, if she’d been able.”

  “Father was very ill when he came home. He never talked about what happened.”

  “They often don’t. When they come back. Both wars … both …” Amy quickly turned away from the Rogues’ Gallery.

  “I think my parents would have liked a son. But when Hitler started it all over again, they said it was one of the good things. No sons meant no.”

  “Will you excuse me? I’ll fetch lunch. Why don’t you make yourself at home?” Amy hurried from the room.

  She’d done it again. Somehow, she’d managed to offend her hostess; not that it mattered. She’d soon be back home and hoped never to have to see Amy Campbell again. Or to have endure her incessant chatter or to pay homage to her pretentious Rogue’s Gallery.

  It was a relief to sit in the luxurious room and for a few moments forget the outside heat and the distance from civilisation, and the fact that if she didn’t get on the train tonight, she’d be condemned to another night in the hell of the Sunview.

  A cat, yellow eyes alert in its black face, pranced into the room and wound itself around her bare legs.

  “I hope you don’t mind cats,” Amy called from the kitchen.

  “They’re okay.”

  “You’re not fond of them.” Tea towel in hand, Amy reappeared in the open doorway.

  “We never had pets at home. The fur affects the lungs.”

  “What a shame.” The tea towel flicked at the cat. “Fred! Outside!”

  “It’s all right. Really.” Wanting to please, she bent to stroke the sleek fur, and involuntarily recoiled. “I’m sorry,” she flushed. “It’s just that I’m not used to them.”

  Amy’s warm eyes chilled, and she again flipped the towel with a peremptory snap. Fred trailed her back into the kitchen.

  Leaving the comfortable chair, she inspected the less dominant photos, blurred group pictures of even-featured sandy-haired blue-eyed tanned adults and robust sandy-haired blue-eyed tanned children. The few dark-haired brown-eyed people scattered among them looked exotically alien. Idly sympathetic, she wondered how these few felt.

  The lunch of chilled potted meat, crisp lettuce and tomatoes fresh from the garden, was served at one end of the honey-coloured dining table. Together with home-made bread and butter, it was a welcome feast.

  “We eat light at lunch,” Amy explained. “Heavy mid-day meals slow us down. Our heavy meals are at night, even on Sundays. On Sundays in picking we … I told you about picking?”

  “I’m sorry about the cat,” she ventured. “It’s very good of you to have me here when you’re so busy.”

  “Fred! He’s tough.” Amy smiled forgiveness. “The timing’s not the best, as you see. At least you are here. We have met, and perhaps we will be able to help you. At least, we shall try. Although … do you think you should go back so soon? Why not give it a little longer?”

  “I’m so glad I’ve seen all this. It’s not like Belleville at all.”

  “Maybe later, after picking when we aren’t so busy, we can have you to stay a while.”

  “I’d like to. Though once I get home, I doubt I’ll come back. It’s such a long way.”

  “All the more reason to change your mind about leaving so quickly. Why not make the most of your four weeks?”

  “I’m not staying.” She was adamant. “I’m so grateful you’re trying to get me a ticket. Really. I’m trying too. The man at the Station has the Sunview number.”

  “To be honest, dear, I really don’t like your chances. These days everyone wants to travel. The trains are so heavily booked.”

  “I can’t stay four weeks!”

  “What about Barbara? What about your doctor? You really do need to stay away from Melbourne for a while.”

  “I can’t! I just can’t!”

  “Why ever not? The Sunview can’t be all that bad. Everyone feels a little down after the train. It’s the way it is. Surely you have to be over the worst of it. Of course, last night’s storm would have been a trial. Things can only get better for you from now on. You are here for your health, you know. Do think carefully about that. Barbara will be quite put out if you risk going back too soon.”

  Enough! Setting down her fork, she blurted, “Have you ever been to the Sunview?”

  “My dear!” Amy chided. “You really must not allow yourself to be so agitated.”

  Pointedly, she surveyed the tasteful room, a world away from the Sunview and the rickety bungalows and the fetid dining room. And polished Amy Campbell, a universe away from Else and Curly and Bea.

  “To answer you,” Amy frigidly added, “I confess I haven’t been inside the Sunview. Or anywhere like it. I believe I understand your distress. Why do you think I’m here talking with you? I should be at work.”

  She flushed. “I’m sorry. Really, I’m so sorry.”

  “As you should be,” Amy curtly nodded.

  “I should leave …”

  “Of course you shouldn’t,” Amy immediately softened. “Believe it or not, Gail, I do sympathise. You’ve been through a harrowing few years, not helped by finding yourself stranded out here in the Never-Never in the middle of a particularly unsettling patch of weather.”

  “I just want to go home.”

  “I know,” Amy gently soothed. “Though you should understand, we do have our moments too. We do have heartbreaks, too. We have beautiful homes and beautiful cars, some of us at least. It’s almost irrelevant. Because the sky rules everything. We’re totally dependent on the weather. Nothing, not even prayer, can influence that. Even though we tell ourselves it does, in the bad times. Nothing comes easily to us farmers.”

  Farmers. How could this place ever be called a farm?

  “So … that said,” Amy collected the used dishes, “I’ll just do these. I’ll be right back. There’s so much I want to show you. You might even change your mind about coming back later in the year.”

  She should offer to help. She didn’t. She returned to the precious comfort of the deep chair. Leaning against the fine linen coverings, she closed her eyes.

  “Rick!”

  Amy’s voice roused her.

  “Come on in!” From the kitchen, Amy was calling. “Rick! Come on in! You must meet Gail.”

  Entering from the kitchen, he paused, a shadowed figure in the lounge-room doorway. Though it was not possible to make out his features, she knew what they’d be. Sandy-haired, blue-eyed and handsome. Only the daughter Phoebe had been dark-haired and brown-eyed. But while he stood there in the shadows, she couldn’t recall which of the three he was – youngest, eldest, in the middle.

  Expecting him to introduce himself, she perched stiffly on the edge of the chair.

  Still in the doorway, Rick Campbell did not move.

  Amy called. “Gail’s father was in the army, too, Rick. You remember. Dad’s friend?”

  The eldest son, the baby-faced boy in the army uniform. He’d been the one laughing at the photographer.

  He moved into the half light. Wearing khaki shorts and shirt, he was muscular, wiry and deeply tanned. Though his features were as expected, this was not the smiling baby-faced young soldier in the photo. Unlike his loquacious mother, he was aloof and reticent.

  In a mere few years, Amy’s eldest child appeared to have completely changed. His face was inscrutable. There was absolutely no hint of the captivating humour of the photo. But then, he’d been to war.

  “Rick …” Following him, Amy was inexplicably tentative. “Do stay, son. It’s Gail. Remember … I told you she was coming for a holiday. She’s been very ill. Remember?”

  His thick hair, clipped close to his head, was greying at the temples; his formerly plump face was angular and free of all excess flesh, his lips were markedly firm. Rick Campbell betrayed no emotion.

  “I’m pleased to meet you, Rick.” Feeling challenged, she determined to pique his interest.

  �
��Pleased to meet you, Gail,” he politely echoed. The voice, a light tenor, was private school and as expressionless as his face.

  He stepped forward, into the full light.

  “I’m hoping to get a seat on tonight’s train. Your mother …”

  His work boots making no sound on the thick carpet, Rick Campbell was striding past her as though she wasn’t in the room.

  “Your mother …” She began again and again stopped.

  “It’s all right, Gail,” Amy whispered.

  Amy’s son reached the doorway, which led to the interior of the house. About to open it, he abruptly stopped, turned and looked to his mother.

  “I’ve told her,” Amy quickly offered. “There’s not much chance of securing a ticket. You know how it is.”

  His hand did not turn the knob of the inner door.

  She shivered. Rick Campbell, though apparently dutifully listening to his mother, was inspiring the same sense of ominous premonition that had preceded last night’s storm.

  She had to leave. Something was wrong. Stupid! She was reacting to the heat, to disorientation, to exhaustion.

  Still Amy prattled, and still her son said nothing. The sense of impending drama was not imagination. It had been evident in Amy’s warning whisper. It was evident in her nervous prattle, in her eagerness to please him. Amy was afraid of her son. Unless … of course. She’d be afraid, not of him, but for him. As her mother had been afraid for her dying father.

  She was surprised. These two meant nothing in her life; she’d be back home soon. She should not even be thinking about them. Amy should have warned her. Whatever all this meant, she should have been warned, she should have been prepared for whatever it was Amy was afraid was about to happen.

  Rick Campbell’s eyes turned to her.

  She flinched, and felt the heat of embarrassment colour her cheeks.

  The taut muscles relaxed. The firm mouth softened. The blue eyes danced. He was laughing at her!

  “Would you mind, Rick?” Amy had asked something. What? She hadn’t heard. Her attention had been fixed on her bewildering son.

  “Not at all, Mother.” Richard Campbell’s sibilant voice was lilting, his enigmatic face suddenly friendly and open. For no apparent reason, the mood in the room had flipped a confusing somersault.

  “If you don’t mind, Gail?” Amy too was smiling and seemingly at ease; whatever she had feared had not happened.

  She’d missed something. It wasn’t important.

  “Gail?” Rick gestured to her hat.

  “Rick will make sure you’re not in the direct sun too long,” Amy promised. “It’s very hot out there. Unless you’d rather wait until evening.”

  It seemed she’d missed an invitation to be shown around the place. By evening she’d be long gone. “Now’s okay.”

  He ushered her across the broad verandah, through the fernery and out into the cruel sunlight. She grabbed for her dark glasses.

  “Good idea.” The moment of ridicule, for whatever reason, was past. The moment of premonition too. Rick Campbell was just a farmer on his parents’ farm.

  The cool green vines, up close, were not cool at all. They were hot and breathless and sticky from over-heated rain and its aftermath of oppressive humidity. The air, thick with moisture, brought a fine mist to her burning skin.

  “It’s cooler in the shed.” He led her towards a huge corrugated iron structure on the edge of the rows of vines.

  She quickened her pace; the sooner this day ended the better.

  Without warning a huge blue heeler, barking furiously, burst headlong from the shed and threw itself at Rick.

  Terror paralysed her.

  “Down! Down, Blue!”

  The dog dropped to the ground.

  “He won’t hurt you while you’re with me.”

  She couldn’t move.

  “He’s safe.” He patted the dog. “I promise. You mustn’t be afraid of Blue. Not when you’re with me.”

  She was shaking.

  “I’m sorry. I forgot,” he apologised. “Mother said you’ve been ill.”

  Starting again for the shed, she tottered, unable to control her legs. “Hold on to me.” He took her arm.

  “I was bitten once.” It was a half-truth, a response to an irrational need to excuse her fear.

  “You’re not accustomed to animals.”

  “It’s a family allergy.”

  The shed was heavy with thick dust. Gasping for air, she could make out little more than glittering eyes and gleaming teeth. Until, eyes adjusting, she saw leather-skinned men wearing singlets, shorts and heavy boots.

  Not unlike the dog, she trotted obediently at Rick Campbell’s heels.

  He paused to tell a worker repairing a tractor, “I’ll be there in a while, Tom. Ten minutes okay?”

  “No worries, Rick.”

  “So … Gail! Where would you like to see first?”

  “I don’t know,” she quavered. “Whatever you think.”

  “You mean it’s too hot for you,” he mocked.

  “Whatever you think,” she lamely repeated. Less than a minute ago, he’d apologised for his neglect of her vulnerable health. It wasn’t important. He wasn’t important. Getting out of here was important. Nothing else. If she offended him, his mother wouldn’t help with the train ticket.

  “I know what I think,” he teased. “Why not tell me what you think?”

  “I’m supposed to see the farm.”

  “Why not tell the truth? It’s too hot for you. Own up. Then we can all get back to where we belong. Be a good girl. Tell the …”

  “I’m not a child!”

  “I didn’t suppose you were.” He turned away. “Do you want to look over the place? Or shall I get back to my work?”

  “Get back to your work!”

  “I’ll see you around.” He left to join the man at the tractor.

  The dog remained at her side, ears pricked.

  She turned to leave.

  The dog snarled, fangs bared, lips quivering.

  She froze.

  The workers paid no attention. No one paid attention.

  Very slowly, she tried a backward step.

  The dog tensed.

  Her heart pounded.

  “Rick.” She kept her voice low, not to further alarm the dog.

  The dog’s front legs stiffened, its hindquarter muscles rippled, its yellow eyes fixed on hers. It was about to spring.

  “Rick!”

  The dog leapt.

  “Down Blue!” Rick hurled a spanner.

  Thrown off balance, the dog brushed past her.

  Rick caught her as she fell to the ground.

  “Shit!” Tom ran from the shed. “That was too near.”

  She must not cry.

  “I’m sorry,” Rick helped her to her feet. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think.”

  “Rick!” Amy was running from the house. “What’s going on?”

  “She’s scared of dogs. How the hell was I to know?”

  “I told you!” Furious, she brushed red dust from the dress.

  Rick left to attend his dog, cowering under the tractor.

  “I told him I’d been bitten,” she complained. “He shouldn’t have left me alone with it.”

  “No,” Amy agreed. “He shouldn’t. I’ll have a word.”

  Back in the shadowed house, after she’d washed and cooled down, Amy explained, “I thought Barbara would have told you. Rick was wounded in the War. He doesn’t talk about it. But … I have to say. He can be very thoughtless. He’s not the same boy who went away. Sometimes I ask myself, where did my beautiful Rick go?”

  It was nearly five when Amy, despite her plea of work overload, drove the Mercedes to Belleville and dropped her off at the Sunview. There’d been no suggestion of catching the bus back. Guilt, no doubt. Guilt for the filthy state of her guest’s clothes. Guilt for being unable to influence the Railway Ticket Office. Maybe even guilt for her son’s appalling behaviour.
r />   CHAPTER FIVE

  Twice daily, morning and evening, she telephoned the Railway Station. There were no cancellations. Each hot and boring day seemed hours longer than any city day and, in fact, was; dawn was earlier and dark later. Each daylight hour stretched forever. Each minute, day and night, was as hot as Else’s kitchen and as devoid of air. She bathed in muddy river water, drank tepid rainwater, ate Else’s revolting meals and cried every night.

  There was no one worth talking to, unless she wanted to risk conversation with the workers who appeared every teatime. The bridal couple had left, and the tourists who slept, ate and rested their way through the dreadful days, disappeared to places unknown in the evening. Which left Bea. Conversing with the Bea was a matter of nodding and agreeing and looking interested – which she wasn’t.

  Occasionally, well before the midday heat, she walked. To the distant shops, the single-storey stores that stocked everything for home, housewife, children, handyman, farm and farmer. There were also two fashion houses whose windows displayed high fashion wear – prices not displayed. Amy Campbell would be a regular client. Except for ice creams, cool drinks and magazines, she bought nothing; she was not going to be here long enough to warrant new clothes, and there was nothing she wanted to take back home, nothing she could afford.

  Once, cramming swimming togs and towel into her bag and defying Else’s warnings of a treacherous undertow, she’d walked to the dehydrated brown banks of the Murray. There was no sand, only a stretch of brittle grass that tore her bare ankles, the muddy water and a couple of dejected willows. She’d left, retraced her steps to the ancient swimming pool that had no shade, coal-hot concrete pathways and stank of chlorine. She’d left that too.

  She made no friends; there was no one to make friends with. At morning breakfast, inevitably the last to arrive, she ate alone. And inevitably, Else and Betty, in a bizarrely flattering verbal contest, competed for her attention. No matter who served her, Else or Betty, each mouthful was swallowed to the accompaniment of unsettling gossip. Paramount were stories of past and anticipated future upheavals associated with the itinerant harvest workers.