The Drifter

by Anthea Hodgson

  ‘Hey, Aunty Ida, you still haven’t told me how your angiogram went,’ she prompted, before she launched into the news of the day. ‘Did they find anything?’

  There was a long pause. ‘Well, dear, I had the angiogram today, and it did show I have a narrowing in two of my blood vessels in my heart. They seem to want to perform surgery on me, dear, but I don’t know.’

  ‘But, Aunty Ida, if it fixes the problem, then why on earth not? You’d like to be up and busy again, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Back on the farm?’

  ‘Well, yes, of course, but I do worry, dear. I’m not a young woman anymore. My friend Ellen had the same problem as me, and she spent the last months of her life in a hospital in Perth. She never came home again, dear. I just feel that I’d like to think about it, that’s all.’

  Cate felt anxiety crawling back through her. This was not going to end well if Ida wasn’t willing to have the operation.

  ‘Okay, Aunty Ida. We’ll think about it together,’ she said confidently. ‘Meanwhile, you concentrate on getting your strength back, and on beating Dad at chess. It’ll do him good to have a decent match – I’m way too easy to beat!’

  Her aunt laughed and Cate slipped easily back into her Windstorm news report. Matt Dray was home after his knee operation; Luise Hofmann was going to a wedding in Geraldton. Cate did her best to remember the names, although Ida filled them in the instant she forgot.

  During the next week, Cate took to cooking rather nice meals for herself. She didn’t invite Henry; he was definitely an outside person, and he didn’t seem super house-trained. He was usually around the sheds somewhere, tinkering with something, or fixing something else, but sometimes she wouldn’t see him for a few days, and she’d begin to wonder if he’d headed off again on his mysterious tour of the country, but then he’d come past, dragging a gate, or she’d hear him filling the old ute from the pump.

  She found some very respectable sage in the garden and decided to cook it up with lamb as a cheat’s saltimbocca. She pounded out the lamb fillets, added the perfect leaves of sage and a thin slice of prosciutto, found by crazy chance at the Windstorm co-op. This was going to be great. She began to wonder what was on TV. She was going to have a nice dinner, then settle down to watch something on ABC. Was it period drama night? Or did it just feel like it? She went to the stove and lit the hob. Nothing. Lit it again. Nothing. Tried the other hobs. Nothing. What happened to the fire? There was just a windy noise and no happy blue flame. Seriously. How hard was it supposed to be, living in the extreme outback, a few hours from Perth? She looked out of the window to see Henry patting Mac next to the workshop. Perfect.

  ‘Henry!’

  He looked up, then apologetically rubbed Mac’s stomach one last time and came slowly over.

  She had time to fold her arms and feel irritated, like he was deliberately trying to make her wait.

  He looked down at her, hands on his hips. ‘What?’

  ‘Do you know anything about gas stoves?’

  ‘Not much,’ he admitted, ‘but I could give it a go.’

  ‘Thanks, just come in and have a look at the stupid thing for me?’

  He shrugged. ‘Sure. Lead the way.’

  She took him into the house, which felt slightly strange. He didn’t seem like a kitchen sort of guy, really. She heard his large footsteps loom behind her, and then they were both gazing at an old white stove, which stared resolutely back without any intention of providing any form of flame-based heat.

  Cate looked around him to glare at it accusingly. ‘Can you do something with it?’

  His shoulders were huge. They were fantastic. She was glad she was standing behind him so she could check them out.

  ‘Like what?’

  She tried to imagine what sort of job he’d done that gave him shoulders like that. ‘I dunno – kick it?’

  He switched on the dials at the front and attempted to light the hobs. No luck. She held out her hands behind him in the air, to measure the distance between them, as if she was demonstrating the size of a really big fish.

  He turned around and saw her. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Oh. Err. Just measuring you up for a jumper. I love to knit.’

  ‘You knit?’

  ‘Oh, yes, lots of . . . woollen stuff.’

  ‘Really.’

  ‘I was just thinking that I’d knit you something, but it’s silly.’

  He turned back to the stove and flicked off all the gas dials. Phew. For a moment there it looked like she’d have to —

  ‘I’d like you to knit me a jumper.’

  Knit something? Crap. She was going to have to go to a shop and cut the label off something from Country Road.

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘Sure. I can see it’s a passion of yours, which surprises me. I’d love to see something you’ve knitted.’

  ‘Just how closely would you be looking?’

  He laughed, and his eyes lit up. It was totally worth lying through her teeth.

  ‘The gas cylinder needs changing,’ he said. ‘It’s not a big deal, unless Ida hadn’t swapped the old one that I bet is sitting on the wall outside.’

  Oh. ‘There are two out there. I never actually thought about it.’ She gestured to herself. ‘City girl.’

  He nodded. He’d worked that out already. ‘I’ll just change them over, and you’ll be cooking with gas.’

  She rolled her eyes. Swagman humour.

  She cut thick slices of bread as he fiddled about with the tanks outside. She could hear the metallic clanging and tapping as he checked the second one was full. It was.

  ‘Give it a try,’ he said from outside.

  She turned on the hob, lit the gas and it spluttered to life. ‘It’s on, but it’s not happy,’ she reported.

  He was coming back in the door. ‘It’ll take a minute to clear the air out of the line, but it’ll settle down.’

  ‘You won’t stay to eat, will you?’

  ‘No.’

  She hadn’t expected him to. ‘Just stand there for a couple of minutes,’ she commanded, ‘I, um, think the tap’s leaking.’

  He frowned but wandered over and checked the taps.

  She flashed the salty meat in the pan with parsley, garlic and a squeeze of lemon. It smelled wonderful. She was suddenly very hungry. She grabbed a piece of fresh crusty bread and popped two saltimboccas inside, capped them with another slice of bread, and wrapped it in foil.

  ‘Take it with you,’ she demanded. ‘As payment for fixing the stove.’

  He looked impressed, and she felt a little burst of, well, if not pride, at least not embarrassment, so that was nice.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said quietly, and was gone.

  She wondered where she was going to get a bloody jumper.

  It was the next week that Cate’s phone rang. It was Sarah.

  ‘Hi, Cate! Haven’t seen you for ages,’ she said.

  ‘No, sorry. I’ve been busy for a while, sorting out the garden, drenching the sheep, that sort of thing.’

  Sarah laughed. ‘I’ve got a bottle of wine here and I’m coming over.’ The phone went click.

  Cate looked at it. Okay. She did a quick tidy, and pulled out a couple of wineglasses, a packet of nuts and a bag of chips. After fifteen minutes or so she heard a car in the driveway. Sarah didn’t muck about.

  ‘Well, you’ve been busy in the garden!’ she said.

  Cate nodded. ‘I want it to look good for Ida when she comes home.’

  ‘And you found time to fix the fence along the front road.’

  Cate looked blank.

  ‘No?’ Sarah seemed surprised. ‘Well, it’s been done. I’ve been watching it slowly disintegrating for a while, but today I see it fixed and standing to attention.’

  ‘Henry. Our workman must’ve found some fencing supplies in the shed. He seems to like to be busy now that he’s officially here.’ She made a mental note to go down to the front road and
check later.

  Sarah was even more impressed. ‘Well, he’s a handy guy to know. I bet Ida’ll be happy with it when she gets back. Any idea when that is?’

  ‘No idea. She’s still recovering in Perth, going to endless heart appointments.’

  ‘Poor old thing,’ Sarah murmured.

  ‘Yeah, well, I’m not sure what they can do for her; apparently there’s bypass surgery, but she’s not keen on the idea and she’s very frail at the moment. But she doesn’t want us standing about moaning – bring the alcohol and come sit on the back verandah with me. We can look over Ida’s domain and toast her forthcoming health.’

  Sarah grinned and led the way, brandishing the bottle of Classic White.

  It was good. Beer had not been her friend. They were no longer speaking.

  ‘Business first,’ said Sarah. ‘I’m here because you missed a church meeting.’

  ‘Huh? I didn’t know I was on the Church Committee. I thought I was just driving Aunty Ida because I am intensely nice.’

  ‘I’m certain that’s the case, but we’re short on numbers, so it’s kind of like a really nice cult at this point, made up of ladies who love the Lord. One visit and you’re in. And the cake stall is next week. You’re baking.’

  Cate took a sip of wine. ‘Ah, that’s it. You want my kitchen skills. You won’t be disappointed. Unless you want cakes, then you’ll be bloody devastated.’

  ‘Why? Bad cook?’

  ‘Pretty good cook, I think, but I never bake. We have things called cafés and bakeries in the city. Takes the need away.’

  ‘I thought I saw you volunteer to supply the cake stall? So you’ll do scones. Everyone can do scones.’

  ‘Can they?’

  They both had a handful of chips and crunched contemplatively.

  ‘Scones it is,’ announced Sarah.

  ‘Maybe I could buy a Jubilee Twist and just butter it?’

  ‘Nah, we let Margaret do that; she’s been on something-buttered duty for years. She’s getting pretty good at it.’

  Cate sighed. ‘Don’t you have enough bakers out here in the bush?’

  Sarah rolled her eyes. ‘Of course we do. It’s not the baking – it’s the effort. You’ve got to participate, Cate, do your bit.’

  ‘Uh, why? I’m not even from here.’

  ‘But you’re here now, and we are raising money for motor neurone disease. You can get on board and help out. You’ll be part of it, and you’ll see all the girls in town while we stand around buying each other’s cakes. It’s a community thing.’

  Cate sipped her wine and nibbled a chip. ‘Why motor neurone?’

  Sarah put down her glass. ‘A local girl died from it last year. She was from Wickepin, but she was a great mate to the girls here as well. She died from it, but not before it took everything. No movement. Couldn’t breathe, couldn’t swallow.’

  ‘Crap. How old?’

  ‘Thirty-six. She left her husband and two beautiful kids.’

  Cate swallowed hard. ‘Okay – scones. How many?’

  ‘I don’t know, a couple of dozen.’

  ‘Fine, fine.’ It didn’t seem too hard anymore. ‘Hey, do you know how to knit?’

  ‘Do I look like I know how to knit?’

  ‘Not really. But you look like you know people.’

  ‘Why do you want to knit?’

  ‘To save face, mostly. I’ll tell you about it another time, maybe. It’s still a bit awkward.’

  ‘Audrey Higgins-Devine knits like a dream. Paints, knits, crochets. You should ask her – we’re sitting here practically staring at her house.’ She gestured into the distance.

  ‘Oh, maybe,’ Cate said vaguely.

  ‘Now, Dave tells me you had a couple of admirers the other night.’

  ‘Greg Norman? We’re taking it slow.’

  ‘Alex Bernard is coming calling, from what I hear. I didn’t see him put the moves on, sly dog.’

  ‘Frankly, neither did I.’ Damn you, beer. ‘He seems nice, though. Is he nice?’

  ‘Very. Maybe you could go to Narrogin for dinner?’

  ‘Yeah, maybe.’

  ‘You don’t sound too enthused; is there someone else?’ She twirled her wine speculatively. ‘That Henry guy seemed to have a close eye on you all night. What’s his story? You two dating?’

  ‘No, he was probably just being weird – it’s like his hobby and his profession.’

  ‘Amazing bod. Crazy hair.’

  ‘God is cruel.’

  It was at that moment that Henry chose to knock at the front door. Had he heard? Farms were often pretty quiet. They froze, like they’d just been busted.

  ‘Who is it?’ Really. Like she needed to ask.

  ‘Me.’

  Sarah pulled a smirky face. Familiar.

  ‘We’re out the back. Come through.’

  He came around the side of the house instead, and looked surprised to see Sarah there, glass in hand.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I saw your car and wondered if everything was okay. It obviously is, so . . .’

  ‘Stay for a drink,’ Sarah suggested.

  He hesitated. ‘No, you girls have your chat in peace. I’ve got stuff to do.’ He wandered off around the corner. ‘Weird stuff.’

  Damn.

  CHAPTER 14

  The garden was starting to take shape. Cate hacked away at everything that needed pruning or removing, which represented a large portion of the garden, and dragged out some weeds, which had taken up new status as actual plants. As she worked, she dumped piles of offcuts over the fence and into the small paddock beyond. She’d burn them when they’d dried off. She was sitting with a glass of water, surveying her handiwork, when Henry came over.

  ‘Need a hand?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t think this counts as helping on the farm,’ she said.

  ‘I want to help.’

  He came in the gate and sat next to her. ‘Have you thought about a watering system?’

  It was probably a good idea; it would be one less thing for Ida to worry about. ‘No, but I like it. Do you know anything about stuff like that?’

  ‘No. Well, yeah. I can work it out. It could run along the fence line, then around the back to the old tree. I can send it under the path, too, so it’s not a hazard.’

  He sat back and leaned on his arms. Now his right arm was propped behind her.

  She straightened her spine in case she moved and touched him accidentally.

  ‘I was also thinking we could rip out the lavender – they’re pretty much cactus, anyway – and put in a raised vegie patch.’

  Cate looked at the lavender bushes. They were straggly and woody. She liked the idea. ‘What if it’s still too much for Aunty Ida?’

  He smiled and shrugged his huge shoulders. ‘You could work on it for her.’

  ‘I don’t think I’ll be here.’

  There was a pause then. He wouldn’t be there either. Even the willy-wagtails hunting for small white moths near the old water tank knew that.

  ‘Well, then we could fill it with rosemary. Tough as old boots.’

  ‘So you were a gardener before?’

  He turned to her quickly, so quickly he startled her. His beautiful khaki eyes were sad, his hair wild and ignored, as if he had far more important things to think about. She caught her breath; his face was so close.

  ‘Stop it, Cate,’ he whispered, and every hair on her body stood and saluted.

  Okay. ‘What say we go to Narrogin tomorrow and get some garden stuff?’ she said.

  ‘I’ll buy you lunch,’ he offered.

  ‘Deal. Will I have to skin it?’

  It must have been a special occasion because Henry put on a clean T-shirt and pulled his scrappy hair back into a man bun. He looked almost presentable. He drove, and they took the old EH Holden.

  ‘So this is your car?’

  ‘Yep,’ he said. ‘Like it?’

  She made a quick assessment. It was kind of like him: messy,
out of place and full of holes. She’d been in nicer cars, not her own, obviously, but in nice cars owned by nice, well-off men with actual jobs they could brag about. She glanced over at him, driving through the autumn air with his elbow jutting out in the air conditioning, an unaccustomed expression of peace across his face. ‘I think I do. Has it taken you far?’

  ‘Yeah, I’m from Victoria originally, but I’ve been on the road for a while.’ He slapped the outside of the door with his palm, like he was patting an enormous dog. ‘The old Red Dragon has been good to me. Not too bad to sleep in, either.’

  He looked across the horizon for a moment.

  ‘Have you been home recently?’

  ‘No.’ A flock of twenty-eights swooped across the road.

  ‘What I want to know is, how did you find Aunty Ida’s old house? Why?’

  He smiled. ‘I was parked near her driveway, sleeping, when she pulled out to go to town. I thought I may as well check out the sheds – I’d had it in mind to sleep outside during summer, and I knew there were probably old houses on farming properties. Lots of old farmers. Lots of broke ones, too. So I drove up. Saw the old mudbrick, realised Ida probably wouldn’t be over to notice I was even there, and I settled in for a few weeks.’

  ‘Are you hiding?’

  No response. Then, ‘Not in a bad way.’

  He seemed happy not to talk for a while, and she enjoyed flying through the paddocks sitting next to him in the old red car. They passed slowly through Wickepin, then picked up speed again, and Cate wound down the window to feel the wind slap her face. The old glove box opened as she did; perhaps it was loose after years of corrugated roads, and she gently began to push back the maps, the air-pressure gauge and old tissues that were sliding out of the open tray and onto her lap. Her hand touched something metallic. She paused and glanced at Henry, who was watching the road, lost in thought, his face relaxed, and his mind miles away. She slowly pulled out what looked to her like a medallion. It was round, with a star design in the centre, and it was attached to a golden chevron ribbon. She ran her thumb over its raised design. Maybe it was a medal.

  ‘Put it back.’