The Drifter
Page 31
The day was getting late and slowing down. The light was falling from the sky again, stretching across the paddocks. Home, she heard Ida say. Home again, where we belong. Cate wound down the window, and the scent of the paddocks was just how she knew it would be. Dirt. The smell of dirt and wind – and life. She looked out to the west and saw the sun leave. It would be back tomorrow, and the white stars would soon crackle through the soft glow and into the darkness. Ida was right. Being alive wasn’t just the breathing part. It was being here.
Cate found Henry at the back of the shed, showering using the piece of hose he had attached to the tap there, pulling it up across his torso. He turned as she came around the corner, and Finley leapt up to her knees in greeting. He held the hose loosely, and the water began to run down the slope, winding through the grass.
‘You’re back,’ he observed.
‘Yep.’
His hands moved restlessly at his hips, reading her for a moment, and the water splashed a little.
‘You okay?’
She nodded. Henry. It was Henry. He was hers.
She walked through the puddle of water at his feet and took his face in her hands, kissing him deeply, moving against his bare wet chest, and letting his heat flow through her.
‘You do know we have a perfectly good shower in the house?’ she murmured.
‘I was just rinsing off.’
She rubbed her face against his, grinning. ‘You know, I think I prefer the beard.’
She turned the hose in his hand and sprayed him in the face. He spluttered and grabbed her, and they struggled for a few seconds for control of the water. His hands were sliding down her arms to reach the nozzle, but she kept twisting damply in his arms, distracting him where her body was squashed against him. She won. He let her.
‘We’re about to re-consummate the shit out of this,’ he said quietly, his voice strangely husky at her ear. ‘Now, do you want me to go easy on you? Or go hard?’
‘Would I have to salute?’ she asked.
‘You won’t have to,’ he said with a dirty grin, ‘but you’ll want to.’
Then he was on her, and he took everything she had. He tore her shirt, broke her bra open at the hooks, and covered her with his body, pushing her down onto the bonnet of the ute and kissing her like he could never have enough of her, like he’d never be close enough, even inside her, taking her as she urged him on, groaning and greedy with the pleasure he gave her.
He had found her again; he would always find her. There was nowhere she could go without him in her heart, and there was nowhere else she wanted to be anyway. She finally stilled beneath him, her mouth resting breathlessly across his lips, staring into his eyes, no longer restless and drifting. Looking at him with the same desperate gratitude of someone lost no more.
He collected himself and found her clothes.
‘Come on,’ he said. ‘I want to hear all about your trip. And I want to hear about Brigit.’ They were at the dam in minutes, where he sat back on his lounge and patted the straw.
‘Hey, Princess,’ he said. ‘Come and sit by the big hairy swagman.’
‘Ha! You’re not a swagman!’ she said.
‘And you’re not a princess.’
She smiled at him, and they sat for a short time watching the ducks glide about on the still water, leaving ripples like echoes of a stone that had fallen long before.
‘Hey, Cate,’ he murmured, because a duck had appeared at the top of the dam and was making her way down to the water, followed by six impossibly small ducklings.
‘Yeah?’
‘I love you.’
One of the baby ducks streaked out across the water, and the ripples he pulled behind him glistened in the last rays of sun, and they felt like victory.
Cate leaned over, gently turned his face to hers and kissed him, moving her lips across his, taking in his dear face once more. She had come home to Henry, and she loved him back. She looked into his eyes, which were shining in the late light.
‘Henry – have you forgotten the first rule of the dam?’ she whispered, and took his large, warm hand in hers, lay her head against his huge heart, and finally breathed out.
‘Shut up.’
Dear Cate,
I am leaving this letter in the care of Audrey Higgins-Devine, to be given to you sometime after my passing.
I do hope it finds you still living in my little house on the farm where I have spent such a happy life. I have gone now to be with God, and of course to be with Jack, whom I have missed so much since he went before me.
I wanted to thank you for coming back into my life when I needed help – you have been very kind to me in my last few months. I know bringing me home may have cost you some goodwill with your family, but do not doubt that it was the right decision for me.
I had decided during my time in Perth that my farm should be left to you, and now I feel this even more strongly. I have already made arrangements with my lawyer, and see no reason this bequest shouldn’t proceed promptly. The local women seem very impressed with you, so I hope that you settle in to our little community.
On other matters, please accept my best wishes for your future. I believe it is very bright. I hope that you have by now realised how much Henry loves you. I think him a very fine man, like my Jack, and hope that you will both be together until the end of your days. (Although I must say, I am beginning to suspect he isn’t a swagman, after all.)
I have no further advice for you, dear – you know how to live your own life, as I have lived mine.
Thank you – you have made me very proud.
Much love to you, dear Cate,
Your Aunty Ida
The sun was shining brightly on the crop when they loaded Finley onto the back of the ute, his gangly legs bouncing about in anticipation and his long tail flopping back and forth like a happy spring. The sun was warmer now. It was coming back to the south and it was bringing with it sheep work, and eventually harvest. There was a thermos of tea and a newly minted fruitcake to try. The wind was soft and the crop was sweetly scented.
Dear Brigit, we’re going up to the timber patch with Ida and Mac. You should come, too.
EPILOGUE
‘Want the books?’ he asked.
She nodded.
‘Clothes?’ He looked doubtful.
She shook her head.
He loaded the last box on the pile and she watched him, fascinated, and kind of freaked, as he poured petrol on her stuff. He sat in the silence next to her. The petrol stank. There was only one way this was going to go. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a lighter and handed it to her.
‘Do it,’ he murmured. When she looked at him, he was staring at the pile of crap like he wanted to watch it die. She hesitated for a moment and wondered what she was scared of. Nothing. She crouched, cupped her hand around the lighter and set the first box ablaze.
It crackled as the fire bit her geography notes and the paper curled away. She walked to the other side of the pile and lit it as well, looking up to see Henry sitting on the bonnet of the ute enjoying the view. She watched the flames consume her past, and wondered, panicked, if she could have saved some notes from Brigit. What did she say? She couldn’t remember, something about a boy named Simon she had loved desperately. And maybe something about her parents, who didn’t really understand her and who never would. Maybe there were tickets to concerts they had gone to together, or a T-shirt she had borrowed and never returned. It was just stuff. It wasn’t her memories, or her life. It wasn’t Brigit.
The fire started to smoke, like a signal being sent out across the prairie to somewhere far away. Cate Christie doesn’t live here anymore.
Acknowledgements
I must thank the wonderful Ali Watts for taking a chance on The Drifter and me, for her amazing enthusiasm, guidance and support, without which this book wouldn’t exist. I would also like to acknowledge the lovely people at Penguin Australia who have worked on the novel, namely Clementine Edwards, an
d also Alex Nahlous and Penelope Goodes. The Drifter has benefitted greatly from such valuable expertise.
I was lucky to be advised by Sergeant David Glossop, who kindly managed to find a way to fit the workings of the law around my story without missing a beat; by Tim and Libby Heffernan who helped me with the farming details; and by Dr Jane Spencer regarding Ida’s treatment. Any mistakes in law, paddock or medicine are entirely my own. Robert Stone from Dawson’s also provided much appreciated advice on the end of Ida’s life.
Thanks must go to my husband, Marty, for being my sounding board, for his support and for his willingness to read the manuscript when I was too frightened to let anyone else, and to my two beautiful kids, who made me coffee and make me laugh!
And thank you to the girls from Yealering, who provided me with the inspiration to write a story set amongst their friendly companionship and love.
About the Author
Anthea Hodgson is a country girl from the Western Australian wheatbelt. She has worked as a radio producer in three states and now resides in Perth with her husband and two children.
MICHAEL JOSEPH
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First published by Penguin Random House Australia Pty Ltd, 2016
Text copyright © Anthea Hodgson 2016.
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
Cover design by Alex Ross © Penguin Random House Australia Pty Ltd
Text design by Samantha Jayaweera © Penguin Random House Australia Pty Ltd
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ISBN: 978-1-76014-263-6
THE BEGINNING
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