The Drifter

by Anthea Hodgson

  ‘Bigger. Now, please excuse me while I remove my work boots. It’s what we do out here in the country – we find it charming and useful for keeping the mud out of the kitchen. It’s a gesture that’s appreciated by our womenfolk.’ She waved to his feet. ‘You may do the same. Boots only, please – let’s not go crazy.’

  He gave her a weary grimace, did the same, and followed her inside.

  She found a bottle of red, and he found the fireplace and quickly lit the fire.

  ‘Is it worth having a fire?’ she asked. ‘I’ll be asleep in an hour.’

  ‘Of course,’ he answered, taking his glass. ‘It’ll keep you warm if you leave the door open. I set it for you earlier when I thought you’d be home soon.’ It began to crackle and burn. She lowered herself onto the couch and he sat on the floor near her, his back resting against the lounge.

  ‘Well, it certainly is welcome,’ she murmured. ‘Here’s to the two best farmers on the place.’

  ‘Here’s to them,’ he responded. He probably thought she’d shriek and tear her top off if he said Here’s to us. She was twenty-six years old and still a dick.

  They sat without speaking for a while. She was enjoying sitting near him, but her whole body was too aware of him, too fascinated by everything he did. She wondered about his tattoo again.

  ‘Hey, Henry,’ she whispered. ‘When did you die?’

  He took a sip of wine and watched the flames. ‘Nearly two years ago,’ he said. ‘I died and left everything and everyone I knew.’ The whole house was stilled and the shadows leaned in to listen to him speak. Crackle. Hissss.

  ‘Why?’

  He didn’t hear the question. He was far away.

  ‘Henry?’ She leaned in closer. ‘What happened? And surely it’s done now?’

  She tentatively reached out to touch his shoulder and his hand snatched hers. She was startled. He turned to her, his face open and sad, and he slowly kissed her palm. The sensation of his hot mouth and smooth skin made her flush with warmth. She put down her glass and knelt in front of him on the floor. He looked tired, his expression wary, like he was warning her to stay away. She kept her hand in his and reached out again to touch his rough face. He seemed to stop breathing then and his deep-water eyes flickered momentarily shut, like burning candles going out.

  ‘Cate . . .’ he said roughly, and she kissed him in the firelight, after midnight, on the crazy blue carpet from 1973. His delicious mouth tasted of wine and he kissed her back, passionately, completely. His arms were finding her back and her long blonde hair, his warm hands stroking her and pulling her slowly closer, so that she was crushed against his chest again, and she could feel his heart pounding with hers, and she could feel her own heart. Listening to him.

  She let her lips move against him until he groaned and let her undo the buttons on his old flannel shirt. He tensed a little as her hands trailed down to the scar and skimmed over it, then traced the shape of his muscled torso. He leaned forward, pushing her back firmly, taking her shirt with him as he lay her on the floor and flicked off her bra. He gave her a long, appreciative and remorseless look as he dragged it down and lowered his mouth to her chest.

  ‘Jeez! Henry —’

  ‘Shhh.’

  He felt amazing. He was unzipping her jeans and moving down her body, taking her with his hot mouth. Her heart, her whole body, was open to him. Sorry, Aunty Ida. She shuddered and squeaked helplessly, panting and touching his beautiful dark hair, until the urgency overtook her and she dragged him up to her again.

  He kissed her deeply while she undid his jeans and dragged them from him, then he paused above her for a moment, looking deep into her as he took her slowly. They moved together until she needed more of him and she urged him on, taking him with her, feeling passion and something more powerful, more basic, explode within her. She was racing now, and he was with her. She came. Hard. Her whole body. Even her elbows. She bit into his shoulder with a strange guttural sound, and he buried his face in her neck and became still. Then breathed in. And slowly out, in relief.

  ‘What’s with the biting?’ he murmured into her neck, nuzzling and kissing her there.

  ‘I didn’t want to make any noise.’

  ‘Why on earth not?’

  ‘Because Uncle Jack’s ghost might be here.’

  ‘Are you kidding me?’

  ‘Well, you’re a dead man, and I just screwed you.’

  He snorted lightly. ‘Point.’

  His hands kept tracing her shape, as if he was committing it to memory. She moved under his weight.

  ‘Sorry, sweetheart, I’ll —’

  ‘No!’ She grabbed him. ‘Stay right there. You feel great,’ she mumbled. ‘And I don’t want Uncle Jack to see my boobs.’

  ‘Whatever, Cate,’ he muttered happily.

  They dozed. Well, she reasoned, he probably dozed. She passed out. When she came to, the room was dark and warm, and the fire had burned low. She moved a little under his heavy arm and he shifted his weight, pulling her into a hug. His voice was a low, sleeping rumble against her back and it made her smile. She stopped. What did he just say? It sounded like I love you. She turned around so she could see his face. He looked asleep.

  ‘Henry?’ Nothing. Probably just nothing. It was none of her business anyway. He was leaving. Everybody knew that. He’d said so more than once, and it came with the job description. It would be pretty hard to keep being a drifter with a Volvo in the garage and a two-by-four brick and tile in the northern suburbs. No, you had to move on. Because . . . She wasn’t sure about that part, so she lay watching his beautiful chest rise and fall, full of life and hope and heart. Then she finally fell asleep.

  ‘Cate! Cate! Get on!’ It was freezing cold in Claremont, and the rest of their friends had gone home long ago. Brigit was riding someone’s bike up and down the pavement, wobbling horribly because she was wearing heels so high they were practically stilts, and because she’d drunk a couple of bottles of champagne over the course of the evening.

  Cate tottered to the corner and waited for her to come back around. ‘Are you sure?’ she called. ‘Shouldn’t we just wait for a taxi?’

  ‘Wheeeeeee! Nah – I spent our taxi money on this!’ She held up a pie.

  ‘Bridge, that’s a pie.’

  Brigit nodded sagely. ‘Yes.’ She took a bite. ‘A very nice pie. But I also bought some other stuff, like about a dozen hot dogs for those boys from the club.’

  ‘You shouted a bunch of freeloading uni students?’

  ‘Uh, yeah. Nice pie though.’ She waved it around in front of Cate, who swooped in for her share. If it was going to mean she was about to get dinkied home, she may as well have a final meal.

  ‘Remind me not to trust you with transport again.’

  ‘What do you call this?’ she demanded, rattling the handlebars. ‘Get on, and don’t flash any of the locals. This is a classy suburb!’

  Cate clambered onto the handlebars and crossed her ankles. This was such a brilliant idea.

  They were off into the night, singing ‘Dancing Queen’ at the top of their lungs, waving to drivers who tooted their horns and demanded they get off the road before they got themselves killed.

  CHAPTER 29

  When Cate woke in the morning, Henry was gone. He had stoked the fire, so she was still warm. She checked her watch. It was after eight o’clock. He was probably working on the last paddock. She rolled off the floor, stretched and decided the floor was absolutely more comfortable than her bed. Maybe it was the company. She pulled on some clothes and picked up the two empty glasses and took them to the kitchen. The coffee pot was primed and ready to go. Henry. Nice guy. She lit the gas and leaned on the kitchen bench to think about him. He was going to leave. Last night was fun, but now he was going to leave in the Red Dragon.

  She put a load of washing through the machine and cleaned the house. She had been neglecting housework a bit with her interest in ripping up. She was relieved it was done, but she felt guilt
y for letting Ida’s house look untidy. She spent an hour or so sorting out her bedroom, folding, ironing and dusting, then she called Lara to see if she had a home for a few boxes of books she’d been allowed to cull from Ida’s collection.

  It was after eleven o’clock when she heard the tractor come trundling back down to the sheds. They were finished. She smiled and looked for a couple of beers in the fridge. Henry would be over soon. Maybe he’d hose down the tractor first. She felt a chill of fear. She was getting too attached and he had told her not to. She needed to wind it back. The phone rang and she assumed it was Ida, or her mother.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hi, Cate. It’s Alex.’

  ‘Oh, Alex. How great to hear from you.’ There was a pause. Did that sound right?

  ‘Look, I’m sorry I’ve been missing in action – we’re only just getting on top of seeding.’

  ‘Yeah, we’ve put a few paddocks in, too. Henry’s just come back with the Massey.’

  ‘Henry’s still there, eh?’

  ‘Yeah, he’s a good —’

  ‘Worker?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Uh-huh. Isn’t he leaving soon?’

  ‘Uh, I think so.’

  ‘Anyway, I was thinking about the pub. Want to meet up there sometime?’

  She paused. She did want to see him. Alex was very nice.

  ‘Of course. When?’

  ‘How about I call you when we finish seeding?’

  ‘Deal.’ She looked at the beer in her hand. They said their farewells and she went outside to find Henry. The Red Dragon was taking flight down the front drive.

  She stood and watched as it turned left, heading towards Windstorm. That was odd. She opened her beer and began a solo celebration. He’d be back. It wasn’t until later in the day that she began to question when. She went over to the tractor and noticed he’d hosed down the scarifier with a pressure hose, and that he’d thrown any rubbish in the cabin in the 44-gallon drum next to the workshop they used as a bin. She shrugged and went back to the house, and called Ida to tell her the good news.

  ‘And how’s my swagman?’ she asked.

  ‘He’s gone somewhere,’ Cate answered.

  ‘Dear, I know we’re pretending he has, but where is he really?’

  ‘Uh, I’m not sure. I was on the phone to Alex Bernard when he came back, I think.’

  ‘Alex Bernard? Another date, dear? Really, you seem to be doing very well with the local boys!’

  A small chill tickled her back. Had Henry heard her conversation? What if he had? She hadn’t lied about Alex. Or maybe he had left because they’d had sex the night before and he was unhappy about that. Disappointing. Or, he had intended leaving after seeding, and now it was after seeding. He didn’t owe her anything, did he?

  ‘Uh, yeah. I’m having a great time. Bye, Aunty Ida, gotta go.’

  There was movement on the other end of the line.

  ‘Hang on, Cate.’ It was her father.

  ‘Oh, hi, Dad.’

  ‘Hello, I wanted to catch you to see if you’ve been in touch with Helen? Is there anything happening with your case?’

  Cate rolled her eyes. Talking about it didn’t change it.

  ‘No, Dad. There’s nothing to be done until the court date. We just have to wait it out. She’s been great, honestly, but there’s only so much she can do.’ Cate closed her eyes and breathed. She couldn’t blame her parents for stressing about her case, of course she couldn’t, but she hated their well-meaning calls. She hated thinking about it at all – the sordid aftermath of her huge mistake. ‘Anyway, I wanted to have a quick word with you about Aunty Ida.’ She sat on the floor. ‘How’s she doing?’

  There was a brief pause. ‘She’s okay. Seems a little down. We’re taking her in to hospital tomorrow, and I suspect they’ll try antidepressants if they can. She’s already on medication.’

  ‘Hospital? And no one told me? Why?’

  ‘We didn’t want you to rush down for no reason. She’ll be out again shortly.’

  ‘How do you know? She’s a million years old!’

  ‘Excuse me, Cate. Please try to be an adult. We managed to keep you alive for twenty-something years. I believe we’re capable of looking after my aunt.’

  ‘If it’s going so well, why is she going to hospital again?’

  ‘She’s had some more chest pain and we’re worried she might be at risk of another heart attack. She’s very frail, Cate. She seems to be okay at the moment, but I don’t think you’re taking it seriously enough if you think she’s coming back to the farm.’

  ‘You should have told me,’ Cate responded stubbornly.

  ‘Now listen here, Cate. We’re all on the same side. You are not in charge of Ida’s health, and frankly, with your background, why you imagine we would allow you to be in charge of a goldfish is beyond me. I think it’s pretty rich of you to speak to me with a sanctimonious attitude when your own recklessness has seen to the death of another young woman. Surely that has given you pause for thought!’

  Cate looked at the ceiling. She didn’t want to respond because he was right, and all she would be arguing for was his love and forgiveness. It was too hard, and she kind of agreed about the goldfish. She didn’t want to talk anymore, anyway, and his outburst was just the invisible words that hung between them given voice. She’d told herself much worse a thousand times before.

  The phone receiver was heavy, unbearably heavy, and she really couldn’t be bothered holding onto it anymore.

  ‘Cate – wait!’

  But Cate was finished with this now. She hung up, softly, and looked out of the window at the front road, thinking about Ida, willing Henry to come back and help her. Only he was gone.

  She sat down in the lounge for an hour, because if she moved and got on with her life, it would be as if she didn’t expect him to walk in the door any second, and the spell would be broken and he wouldn’t.

  Eventually she got up and poured out her beer. It had grown warm. What was she going to do about Ida? Cate kept telling herself Ida was going to come good, but lying to herself was harder than it had once been. She made a pot of coffee. She drank it and thought about Henry again. Who had he left behind before? Was this how it happened with swagmen and vagabonds – they just up and left? Hell, it stung that it was the day after they’d had sex.

  Cate didn’t eat that night. She didn’t sleep either and she couldn’t blame the pot of coffee. She missed him, even more than she had thought she would; more than great clothes and parties, and shoes and any of her friends who danced so well with a glass in their hand. He was safe and he was coming back.

  Dear Brigit, you didn’t tell me you were going to leave me. You let me plan out our lives like you’d always be there, no matter what. And now you’re gone, and I woke to a nightmare in the middle of the night, and I don’t have anyone I can trust anymore.

  The next day, she parked the tractor in the empty hay shed. She drove it straight in because reversing the Massey was too freaky, and even Aunty Ida was bound to notice if she ripped out the back of her shed. There was no word from Henry, and there continued to be no word for the following week.

  The winds were colder and the days were shorter by the time she heard from Alex again, and she prepared for her pub date with renewed vigour and determination. She’d always know where to find him. He lived five kilometres up the Malyalling Road. She took time to make her hair celebrate a night out, and patted a soft-pink stain on her lips. She had to wear jeans because she would freeze to death if she didn’t and because it was the pub, so anything dressier than a work shirt was a serious fashion risk. Her T-shirt was fairly low-cut, so she balanced things out with a nice dark-navy cardigan. She decided she was going for classy young Church Committee lady on the prowl. No beer. Just classy, wildly overpriced wine.

  Alex picked her up, which was good because she suspected she might have an extra wine just to be sure it took.

  ‘You look great.’ He smiled and
kissed her cheek.

  ‘Well, thank you – you do, too,’ she replied. He was in well-fitting dark jeans, a long-sleeved blue shirt and dark boots. It was slightly landed gentry and it suited him to a T. He escorted her to the car and opened the door. He smelled lovely, like an expensive garden in France. They chatted easily and she felt herself relaxing. She could do this. She wasn’t some brittle, bitter creature marked by every man who passed by. She could decide who touched her, not the other way around. Henry was gone, and he had abandoned her without so much as a note or a wave of his hand. She was bigger than this. She was going to enjoy spending time with Alex and a bottle of wine.

  When they entered the pub, every eye turned to look at them, which was only eleven in total because it was just the owner, Matt, four local farmers and Greg Norman.

  ‘Alex! How’s it going, mate?’ Matt greeted him, then took a deliberate glance at Cate. ‘And who’s ya lady friend?’

  ‘Matt Dray, meet Cate Christie, Ida’s niece.’

  Matt’s face lit up. ‘Ida’s niece? I heard you were in town! How are ya? You were at the pub a while ago, I believe, with a big hairy guy?’

  ‘Yeah, I came in for a quick drink with Dave and Marty and the boys – they were shearing at Ida’s place. The other guy was Henry. He was working for us for a while.’

  Matt nodded. ‘Gone now, eh?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Figures. Good workmen are hard to find. Now, how’s Her Majesty?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Queen Ida.’

  Cate glanced at Alex, who wasn’t at all surprised that the owner of the pub and Ida were great mates.

  ‘Oh, she’s not really well at the moment, but I hope to get her home soon.’

  Matt leaned across the bar and suddenly spoke very seriously. ‘You make sure you do, Cate Christie. She is the heart and soul of this town. All those old girls are – they bloody run the joint – and Ida’s given everything she’s got to this place.’

  ‘I’m very proud of her,’ Cate assured him.

  ‘And you won’t let her down, will ya?’ He really meant it.