Saturday. After breakfast, following the still-unproductive phone call to the Railway Station, she’d again walked through town down to the Murray. A few children rode bikes along its edge, an elderly sun-hatted couple sat on one of the few wooden benches, a lone rowboat dawdled under the distant bridge, the sun burned overhead in its unchallenged sky. The place was dead. Not even the weekend break was going to provide interest.
She walked back, bought yet another paperback from the inadequately stocked newsagent, took her place in the almost deserted dining room, picked at tepid beef stew and tepid stewed peaches floating in melted homemade ice cream, went to her room and read, cried, slept and cried.
The telephone in the hall rang while she was at tea – paper-thin lamb roast leftovers, limp lettuce, sodden tomatoes, thick coarse bread and butter that ran like yellow milk.
From the passageway, Betty called, “Gail! Phone!”
Dropping knife and fork, she rushed to take the receiver.
“Hullo? Hullo? This is Gail Mitchell.”
“Gail … it’s Rick.”
“From the Station? You’ve got a cancellation?”
“Not the Station, no. It’s Rick … remember …”
Rick?
“Remember?” The stranger’s voice crackled derision through the speaker. “My dog doesn’t like you.”
Not the Station. She started to replace the receiver.
“Gail!” He’d anticipated her reaction. “Don’t hang up!”
“I have to leave the line free. I’m expecting a call from the Station.” An easy lie; only a half lie.
“They’ll phone again if the line’s busy.”
“What’s wrong?”
“You do remember us.”
“I remember.” Of course she remembered the dog. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong. We thought you might welcome a bit of relief. There’s a few of us going on the River tomorrow. Would you like to come?”
“I’m sorry.” She also remembered Rick Campbell’s arrogance. “I’ve made other arrangements.”
“It’s Mother’s idea. She thought you might like to join us.”
Of course. His mother had been twisting his arm. She wanted no favours from him. “I told you. I won’t be free.”
“Suit yourself. I’ll tell.”
“Wait!” Urgently, she interrupted; anything had to be better than today. “Who’s going? Your mother?”
“No, not Mother. Just a few of us younger ones.”
Young people. “What time?”
“One. We’ll pick you up.”
Maybe there’d be someone worth talking to.
Just before one o’clock on Sunday, wearing a thin-strapped floral sun-frock, low-heeled sandals and her straw sunhat, she was waiting at the front gate.
A few minutes later, the Mercedes pulled up. Rick was at the wheel, the seat at his side empty. A young man who, except for his less worn face, might have been Rick’s twin, and two young women were in the back seat.
Leaning across, Rick opened the front passenger door. “Hop in.”
She hesitated.
“Hop in,” he waved at the back seat. “The kids aren’t interested in the front seat. Say hello to Gail. That’s Jake, my brother. Julie and Carol are cousins, on Uni holidays.”
Gratefully acknowledging the sounds of welcome from the back seat, she obeyed.
“I should have warned you,” Rick u-turned back towards the city centre. “I hope you told them you won’t be back till late. There’s a party later at the block. Unless you don’t want to come.”
The sounds of laughter in the back seat were persuasive. “I’d love to.”
“What about the people at the Sunview? They’ll be expecting you back for dinner.”
“They’ll work it out.”
Leaving the outskirts, they crossed the shopping area and turned into a two-way avenue. Running along the town’s outer edge, it was bisected by a centre plantation of thick green lawns, tropical flowers, tall silver gums and shimmering poplars. Casually dressed tourists wearing wide-brimmed hats were gingerly skirting an unkempt itinerant asleep on the immaculate lawns.
A minute only, and the colourful strip was interrupted by a broad crossroad. Here there were no thick lawns, no bright flowers, no tall shade trees, only a tiny central square and a statue of Belleville’s founding father, the American engineer who’d brought water to the desert. Even featured, bearded, bareheaded, and chubby, his sculptured figure wore a morning suit; one hand clutched a pocket watch, the other rested at his side. His empty eyes looking into the distance, he might have been a successful banker. A rare pioneer, he probably had been. Half a block away, in front of an anonymous red brick building, was the statue of an Australian soldier, uniformed and impassive and on eternal guard.
Crossing the square and arriving at the river, they travelled on the adjacent roadway to the wharf. Rick pulled into a line of parked cars, waited for his passengers to exit the car before locking it, and led her down the slight slope to the Paddle Steamer Gloria. One of a late nineteenth century fleet of Mississippi style paddle steamers, the Gloria had been handsomely refurbished to entertain and amuse the post-war tourist influx. It boasted a tourist guide, a restaurant that served its highly reputed Devonshire teas, and a three piece dance band.
Tentatively crossing the rickety gangplank, she stepped onto the firmer boards of the lower deck. As though it had been waiting for them, and it may well have been, the Gloria blew its whistle, pulled in the gangplank and started off down river. With Rick, his brothers, cousins and a few tourists, she surged to the front.
Cutting through the muddy water, the Gloria passed under the ramshackle bridge and the unnerving clatter of car wheels rhythmically clanking on the overhead strips of timber. Whistle blowing a warning, it emerged from the shadows and set course for the clearer mid-stream water. A few boats, a pair of swimmers and a flock of ibis retreated to safety. Both sides of the river were fringed by hefty gums and trailing willows. A few manicured lawns ran from distant low-slung farms to the water’s edge, a few precise vineyards squatted at irregular intervals along the way.
Everything was still hot and friendless and infinitely boring. Following hurried introductions in the car, no one had made any effort to even pretend ordinary civility; she was obviously here because Amy Campbell had requested they invite her. The youngsters, and Rick too, had done their duty. If she could jump off, she would. She couldn’t.
She’d never felt more alone. On a crowded boat, she was more alone than ever before in her life. Leaving the bow, she turned back indoors where couples were dancing to the music of a country and western trio. Dozens of chattering people were at a small bar, queuing for trays of afternoon tea. Music and voices and the clang of metal trays combined in ear splitting sound. Everyone seemed to know everyone else. No one paid attention to her entrance. No one even saw her enter.
Retreating, she climbed a steep narrow stairway to the Gloria’s upper deck. It was empty, except for Rick Campbell. Sitting in a canvas chair by the rail and facing the left river bank, his broad-brimmed farmer’s hat was pulled low; only the lower profile of his face and the glowing tip of his cigarette were visible. She was returning to the stairs when a slight movement caught her attention. Involuntarily, she turned back. No longer looking at the river bank, he seemed to be watching her.
Hesitantly, she waved.
He did not respond. As before, in the lounge room of his home, he was looking through her. Confused, she was again turning away when, leaving the chair, he started towards her.
Relieved, she asked, “How long before we go back?”
Not answering, as though sleep walking, he brushed past her and descended the stairs. The repulsive smell of tobacco and the subtle scent of aftershave lingered. He’d come too close. She could have fallen. His mother’s fear no longer seemed illogical.
Unnerved, she leaned on the steamer’s rail. She must find the air fares to go home. She
must ask Amy Campbell for a loan. Whatever it cost, she had to get away. Yet she dared not visit the farm again. Something was not right and she didn’t want to know what it was.
“Penny for them.”
Startled, she turned. He might almost have been Rick Campbell. He wasn’t. He was his younger brother, open and friendly and inspiring no fear.
“Jake,” he prompted. “Jake Campbell. I’m the middle one. Ryan couldn’t come.”
“You crept up on me. I didn’t hear you.”
“You were miles away. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. You shouldn’t be all alone out here. What’s wrong?”
“When do we get back to the car?”
“We’ve only just left it. Why? What’s the hurry?”
She shrugged.
“Sorry again. I’m prying, aren’t I? One shouldn’t pry. Especially not into the affairs of pretty girls.”
“I’ve seen your photo.”
“Of course you have.” His laughter was light, a silvery tenor that reflected his difference from his unsettling brother. “Mother shows her gallery to everyone. Don’t let her trap you.”
“I’m not family.”
“Lucky you. I am family and I’d rather not be. Well …” He tilted his handsome head to one side. “Though I do have to admit there are benefits. Sometimes, not too often, I’m more than happy to be one of them.”
Tall and slim and athletic and an obvious Campbell, Jake was nevertheless totally unlike his brother and the farm men. His hands were as smooth as his face, and his tanned skin was not the sun-toughened leather of an outdoor man but rather the cultivated tan of an indoor man. He was no farmer. His attention was welcome.
“What’s wrong with Rick?” Though the question was blunt, and she wasn’t in any way interested in its answer, it would probably ensure his continued attention; at least for a few minutes.
“Nothing’s wrong with Rick. Why do you ask?”
“It’s just a question. He seems a bit distant. Have I offended him?”
“Would that matter to you?”
“It’s just a question. Forget I asked.”
“Aha!” he teased. “In case you are interested, take my advice – forget him. Pretty girls and Rick don’t go well together.” His white teeth gleamed and his blue eyes danced; the image of his brother, yet the opposite.
“If you want to know,” she retorted. “I’m not interested in anyone here.”
“That’s it! Poor child, you’re pining for the boy back home!”
“I’m not a child.”
“For God’s sake, Gail. Lighten up. You’re on holidays. Come on … tet’s watch the turn.” He led her to the prow to watch the steamer negotiate a clumsy river-wide circle for home.
Disturbed birds screeched from brittle trees, sun-baking kangaroos sprang for shelter, a herd of cattle took off up the incline to a farmhouse hiding under its secret trees and trembling willows trawled long green tresses in the churning current. In mid-river, the Gloria straightened, the churning current settled, and the birds and animals and trees went back to sleep.
The view was captivating. She’d never before seen a kangaroo in the wild, or trees smothered in a cloud of yellow-crested white cockatoos, or pelicans slowly cruising in a matronly parade, or even cattle dozing under river gums. Though she never wanted to see it again, it was memorable.
She was watching the kangaroos, when a voice interrupted. “Desdemona.”
She turned. “Jake?”
It wasn’t Jake, it was Rick; open faced and friendly and ready to talk.
“Where’s Jake?”
“I haven’t a clue. Was he here?”
“We were watching the turn. I’ve never seen kangaroos in the wild.”
“That explains it. Jake’s not strong on scenery.”
“I don’t think it was the scenery. It was me.”
“Why? What did you do?”
“It’s not important.”
“If you say so.” He gestured to the river’s edge. “Desdemona. Do you know her?”
“You mean the willows? They’re so beautiful, especially when the water stirs them up.”
“You do know her!”
“Actually, I do,” she boasted. “She’s Othello’s wife. I know the aria. A green willow will be my garland.”
“You are a surprise! Is it a fluke? Or do you know your operas?”
Reassured, she reacted to his unexpected interest. “My father was very ill for years. He was bedridden.”
“Mother told me.”
“Even reading was an effort. A lot of the time all he could do was listen to his wireless, book readings when they were on, which wasn’t often. He learned to appreciate classical music.”
“Classical books and opera. I’d like to have met him. He sounds …” He fell abruptly silent, his eyes all but hidden under the broad brim, his full lips half open.
She waited, though not uncomfortably.
When he did not continue, she said, “I take it you like opera too.”
The Gloria moved closer to the riverbank, the birds took off, the willows swung into violent movement.
“My father loved the Italian operas best,” she added. “He said they were more lyrical. He always regretted not going to the opera when he was fit enough to go to one. Have you ever seen one? What’s it like?”
He did not respond. Eyes glazed, he was not seeing her.
“Rick!” Moving closer, she snapped her fingers. “Rick!”
Re-focusing, his eyes came to sudden life.
“Rick … are you all right?”
He stiffened, the muscles of his jaw flexed, as though he was trying to speak; but he did not speak. In a barely perceptible movement, he shook his head, then lowered the concealing brim of his hat and stepped deliberately away from the railing.
“Rick.” Fear returned. And yet …? Was her fear of him? Or for him?
For him. A too-familiar feeling, she recognised it. She’d never for a moment felt fear of her ailing parents, but she had felt fear for them – almost all her life. She knew it intimately, that fear. She’d sensed it in Rick’s mother. Now she was feeling it for her son. The reason had to be very powerful, the cause extreme.
“Rick,” she spoke more surely, “are you all right?”
He was already walking away.
On the lush back lawn of the Campbell farm, there were about thirty people. She’d been introduced to none of them. When she’d arrived, Jake had left to play ping pong on the table in the shaded verandah, Rick had disappeared through the side door to the kitchen and the cousins had joined the crowd.
Though canvas awnings had been erected, there was no relief from the fierce late afternoon heat; not even a thin breeze. Spread along trestles on the back lawn were cold meat, country bread and butter, fresh farm vegetables, trifles thick with yellow cream, sponges, fresh fruit, bowls of punch, jugs of freezing beer and bottles of chilled wine. Occasionally, assisted by friends, Amy replenished empty dishes via the kitchen annex door. Once, catching sight of Gail, she quickly welcomed her before returning to the kitchen. If there was to be any chance of asking for a loan, it was not going to be for hours. As on the paddle steamer Gloria, she was being left to fend for herself.
Collecting a plate of food from the over-laden tables, she joined the cousins and their friends on the lawn. Following a quick nod, an exchange of names, a mild interest in the fact that she was trying to get a train ticket out, they returned to talk of university studies, boyfriends – and the weather.
Identifying the Campbell men was easy. Amy’s husband, Gus, his sandy hair streaked with grey, was as expected; a blue eyed, leather-skinned hard-muscled farmer. He ate quickly, spoke briefly to a few men and women his own age, then disappeared. Third son, Ryan, was as his photo foretold. A big young man, as obviously outdoors as his father, he mingled easily and drank heavily. There was no sign of Rick and no mention of him.
Behind the nearby jacarandas the sun began to sink and th
e sky was bathed a bloody red that darkened until, magically, it was suddenly a huge dark blue canopy lit by glittering stars close enough to touch. The visitors gossiped, giggled and drank the mysterious punch and gallons of frothing beer. A couple, locked in each other’s arms, slept.
A half moon climbed above the trees. Still no one came to rescue her. She sat on the lawn’s edge, bored, tired, hot, desperate to escape. The record player had been brought from indoors; the hysterical music woke even the sleeping couple. There was no sign of Amy or Gus or anyone who could possibly be past their twenties. All the older people had either left for home, or were somewhere indoors.
It was after ten when Jake Campbell appeared. “I guess you’re waiting to get on back to the Sunview?”
She started up. “I thought you’d never ask.”
“Not me,” he shook his head. “That’s up to Rick. He brought you here.”
“He left ages ago.”
“He won’t be far away. He’ll be back when he’s good and ready.”
“I’m ready now!”
“Hey! Relax! Ease up. What’s wrong with having a bit of fun while you’ve got the chance?”
“I’d rather go back.”
“Rot.” Locating an empty glass, he poured a beer, froth dribbling onto the lawn at her feet. “Drink up. It’ll relax you.”
“No thanks. I don’t drink.”
“It won’t hurt you. One drink, for God’s sake!”
She’d never tasted beer, never intended to. “I told you. I don’t drink.”
“So let’s dance.” Jake Campbell smelled of after-shave and leather and pungent tobacco, and beer.
“I want to go home.”
“Okay! I’ll fix it! After we dance.”
High heels sinking into the spongy turf, muscles of her legs groaning to maintain balance, she reluctantly followed him to the dance space.
Hands low on her back, he pressed her to him.
“Don’t!” She balked.
At their side, a couple sniggered.
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