Rain Dance

by Karen Wood

  ‘I think she was talking about the pig.’ Kaydon made his way to the dining room and left them to it.

  Mum had set the table in the huge formal dining room with the gold-rimmed Wedgewood plates and the gold-plated cutlery. She had the damask linen tablecloth happening and every crystal glass in the house seemed to be on the table. A wrought-iron candleholder in the centre of the table held five tea-lights and there were flowers from the garden on each end of the table.

  ‘Because my boys are home.’ Bron always counted Aaron as one of her boys. And Uncle Maurie and Dad. She just liked feeding people.

  ‘Thanks, Mum,’ said Kaydon. ‘It looks great.’

  Uncle Maurie and Aunty Bev were already seated, as were the couple sitting closest to Dad.

  ‘Hugh, meet my son Kaydon,’ said Pat, rising from the head of the table.

  Hugh Parker was younger than Kaydon had expected – a clean-cut man in his early forties with a gingery complexion and wearing a white business shirt and trousers. He stood and extended a hand. ‘Nice to meet you, Kaydon.’

  ‘Hi,’ said Kaydon, taking the smooth, cool hand and trying not to wince as the man squeezed a little too tightly.

  ‘This is my wife, Allie.’

  Kaydon smiled and shook her hand too.

  Aaron and Stacey entered the room, and Stacey looked surprised when Aaron pulled her chair out for her. Kaydon wasn’t. Aaron knew Mum’s rules. The dining room was her turf and she made the rules formal.

  Chrissy looked at Kaydon expectantly.

  ‘Kaydon,’ his mother scolded.

  He pulled her chair out. When did he agree to all this again?

  ‘That’s better,’ said Bron, unfolding her napkin onto her lap.

  ‘How’s school going, Kaydon?’ asked Mr Parker, pouring a glass of wine.

  ‘Yeah, doing okay,’ he said, without mentioning the principal’s award he’d got at the end-of-term assembly. His father hated hearing about anything academic. Pat was more a hands-on sort of bloke.

  ‘Your mother tells me you got an award for environmental science,’ said Mr Parker. ‘Well done.’ His tone was lukewarm.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Kaydon, wishing he hadn’t brought it up. These conversations never went well for him.

  ‘What was your topic?’ Mr Parker reached out for a bowl of steaming rice.

  ‘Carbon cycles,’ said Kaydon.

  Hugh Parker’s eyebrows lifted. ‘Bit of a greenie, hey?’

  The dislike Kaydon felt for the guy went up a notch. ‘I’m interested in sustainable farming,’ he answered. Why should that make him an oddball?

  Mr Parker looked amused.

  ‘Sustainable delusion,’ his dad muttered.

  ‘Some major fast-food retailers are sourcing sustainable beef these days,’ said Kaydon, ignoring him. ‘There’s a growing market for it.’

  ‘Ah, but will they pay more for this sustainable beef?’ Pat said. ‘Or will they just tell farmers how to run their properties and dictate what prices they’ll get?’

  ‘If you reduce your emissions, you reduce your costs, by using less fuel and such,’ Kaydon argued. ‘You also have benefits like better soil and healthier river systems. I think it’s a real shame the government didn’t adopt a carbon-price scheme.’

  There was an uncomfortable silence at the table and Kaydon realised he’d gone too far. ‘Carbon’ and ‘tax’ were dirty words in this house. Mr Parker kept a poker face, put the spoon back in the rice and passed it to Chrissy.

  ‘No carbs for me,’ said Chrissy, passing the rice bowl along.

  ‘You wanna get some grass-fed beef into you,’ said Pat.

  Kaydon sighed inwardly. That’s what his dad did when he was seriously annoyed: abruptly changed the subject.

  Pat pointed to one of the curries and gave Chrissy a wink. ‘No carbs in that. It’s what all the Gunnedah supermodels are raised on. Just ask Miranda Kerr.’

  ‘Isn’t she a vegetarian?’ asked Chrissy.

  ‘No bloody way!’ said Pat.

  ‘So what are your thoughts on carbon sequestration, Kaydon?’ Mr Parker wasn’t so easily led from the topic.

  Part of Kaydon’s assignment had been about planting carbon sinks on farms: rows and rows of trees that absorbed carbon from the air and pumped it back out as fresh oxygen. It was always a controversial topic and Kaydon wondered what Mr Parker’s thoughts were. This could be a loaded question.

  ‘It would be good if the government paid farmers to plant trees,’ he finally answered. How could anyone argue with that?

  ‘And what about low-methane cows,’ said Mr Parker. He put his fork to his mouth.

  His wife rolled her eyes.

  ‘Yeah, why not?’ Kaydon muttered, wanting the conversation to end. Now the guy was just teasing.

  Kaydon heard Stacey whisper to Aaron. ‘What are low-methane cows?’

  Aaron started hissing with laughter. ‘Cows that don’t fart.’ He hissed some more and pulled his napkin over his mouth to try and control himself. ‘Sorry, Bron.’ He pulled the napkin from his mouth and roared with laughter.

  His humour split the tension that was building in the room. Mr Parker laughed too, and soon the whole table was exhaling in a relieved wave of chuckles. Kaydon smiled tightly. So his ideas were a joke. Great.

  ‘And how is the new place going?’ Auntie Bev asked, deftly changing the subject.

  ‘Settlement will be any day,’ Mr Parker smiled. ‘Just letting the solicitors do their thing.’

  ‘It’s as good as settled,’ said Pat. ‘The builder arrived today – wasn’t expecting him for a couple of weeks.’

  ‘Did the agent let him on okay?’ asked Mr Parker.

  ‘No problems, just a couple of phone calls,’ Pat answered.

  ‘He didn’t tell us he had four kids,’ said Bron, passing the curry dish along. ‘No way will they all fit in that old hut.’

  ‘I’ll tow the caravan down there tomorrow and help Ken and Melinda get the place sorted out.’ Pat frowned. ‘Don’t know how they’ll survive on the small salary I offered him, though.’

  ‘Where are they from?’ Mr Parker asked.

  ‘They were on the coast. Blue Gum Flats, I think.’

  A frown crossed Mr Parker’s face.

  ‘People get a lot of government handouts for having four kids these days,’ said Mrs Parker, helping herself to the beef curry. She had the same brunette hair and long hands as her daughter. ‘I wouldn’t worry too much. They probably get more money than you draw from the farm.’

  Kaydon tried to imagine how the Harvey family was living. He couldn’t remember ever seeing a house on that place, just a bunch of run-down outhouses and sheds.

  ‘He seemed like a very nice man,’ said Bron. ‘I gave him two free tickets to the ball so he can bring his wife.’

  ‘I’m going to take the boys out to show them around tomorrow. We’ll meet you out there,’ Pat said to Hugh.

  ‘No need,’ said Hugh. ‘I’ll leave that side of things up to you.’

  Kaydon looked Hugh Parker over, took in his crisp white shirt and smooth, clean hands, and thought it weird that a man wouldn’t want to even see the land he owned. Or part-owned.

  ‘We’ll all catch up again at the Easter Ball,’ said Bron, changing the subject. ‘I hope you’ll come. It’s legendary in this town.’

  ‘Of course we will,’ said Mrs Parker. ‘Chrissy has her heart set on it.’

  Bron shot Kaydon a look that clearly said, You can thank me later.

  Kaydon gave her a wry smile. Maybe this time she had got it right. Chrissy seemed nice. And beautiful. If she plastered posters all over town of him dancing with her, he’d be a legend in no time.

  9

  Holly woke the next morning in her camping bunk. The sun was pouring through the window and already her pyjamas were glued to her body with sweat. She could hear the synchronised snoring of Jake and Brandon on the foldout sofa.

  She tugged at a small sash window and jerked it h
alf open, whereupon it jammed. No breeze came. Inside was as hot as outside, and to make it worse, sixty billion cicadas screamed through the windows in a symphony so loud she could barely hear herself think. Even if they had a fan, there was no power to run it anyway. They would all spend the day sitting in pools of their own sweat, fanning themselves with old magazines.

  She forced the front door open and took a seat on the front steps of the hut, where a faint breeze cooled her cheeks. She ran a hand around Marley’s ears while she gazed around bleary-eyed, trying to comprehend her new life.

  Suddenly, Marley shot off down the driveway, barking loudly. A large white four-wheel-drive rumbled up the driveway with a long horse trailer on the back. It stopped by the shed and a man in jeans and a green work shirt got out. Two younger men got out the other side and pulled hats onto their heads.

  There was an unmistakable similarity between the three men that went beyond the similar hats and faded jeans, although two were young and the older man had a pot belly.

  The smallest of the three was familiar. She could tell without seeing his face, it was that Kaydon guy again. He looked freshly showered and neat as a pin in jeans, boots and a shirt that was tucked in. And he was staring at her.

  Holly called Marley back.

  ‘Your father awake yet?’ asked the older man, ignoring the old dog.

  ‘Um.’ Holly had no idea. She hadn’t got that far yet.

  ‘Gidday, Pat.’ Her dad appeared from the shed. ‘Did you bring the plans out?’

  So that was Pat Armstrong, Dad’s new boss.

  Kaydon stood alongside him with his hands in his pockets, looking the spitting image of him, only younger. He shot her a smug grin.

  A penny dropped in Holly’s head with a loud clunk. Oh heck. He’s the boss’s son?

  ‘Can you wake your brothers up please, Holly?’ asked her dad.

  She leapt off the step and scurried back into the hut. Suddenly she was awake and her head was spinning. Agh! She had been so rude to him yesterday. But he deserved it. How sly of him not to tell her who he was! He’d really made a fool of her. Why would anyone be so mean?

  Jake and Brandon still snored on the sofabed.

  ‘Time to wake up, guys,’ she said, as she squeezed past them and peeked out through the small square window between a slit in the curtains.

  The other young man, who looked like a thicker-set version of Kaydon, dropped the tailgate of the horse float and led three horses out. They already wore saddles. She watched Kaydon take the grey horse and mount. He organised his reins over the front of the saddle and then looked about him while he waited for his dad.

  She ducked back behind the curtains when his eyes flickered over towards the shack.

  The putter of the generator engine rattled suddenly through the tiny hut window. Dad had it started. In the lounge room, the snoring halted abruptly. ‘Whassat?’ mumbled Jake.

  ‘Sounds like a generator,’ said Brandon. ‘Hallelujah, hot breakfast!’

  With a bit of luck she might get a shower too. Holly peeked out the window again. Pat Armstrong walked away from the generator and took his horse by the reins. ‘I’ll have someone bring the caravan over this morning and help get the tank set up,’ she heard him say. ‘Let me know if you need anything else.’ He swung a leg over the horse. ‘We’re going to ride over the property and check the water situation.’

  Jake pulled himself up into a sitting position and stretched. His dreadlocked hair had escaped its hair band and he looked like some sort of sea monster. He shouldered his way into the window and peered out next to Holly. ‘Wow, real cowboys,’ he said with mocking awe.

  ‘You sound so gay,’ said Brandon from the sofabed.

  ‘And you stink,’ said Holly.

  ‘I want one of those hats,’ Jake said, ignoring them both and gazing out the window at the stockmen.

  An obnoxious rumbling sound erupted from under Brandon’s blanket.

  ‘That is disgusting!’ Holly complained. ‘Could you not go outside and do that?’ Living with boys, ugh. When was that caravan coming?

  She watched Kaydon, his dad and the other guy ride away from the shed and across a gently sloping hill. The sun had fully lit the day and dew glistened off the gum leaves like tiny glass beads. Golden grassy seedheads bowed with the weight of water drops. It had rained. Damn, that Kaydon guy had to be right.

  She looked at the yard and across to the sheds. It could only have been a light sprinkle. The ground was nearly dry again already.

  Jake flopped back onto the sofabed. ‘Anyone wanna go fishing? There’s supposed to be a river near here.’

  Her dad appeared in the doorway. ‘I want Holly to do the washing first. Pat said we could use the machine over at the stables, just until we get one set up here. Brandon, can you drive her? Jake, you can help me sort this place out.’

  ‘When do we start building?’ asked Brandon.

  Ken looked annoyed. ‘There’ve been a few delays with the contracts. It’s going to take at least a week before they officially own the place and we can get started.’

  Brandon let out a frustrated groan. ‘Great. What are we supposed to do while we wait? Is he going to pay us?’

  ‘Yeah, we’ll get paid,’ said Dad. ‘He wants us to fix this place up while we wait.’ He cast his eyes around the room. ‘God knows it needs it.’

  ‘It needs a bulldozer,’ said Brandon.

  Holly looked around at the cramped hut. She was already fed up with the place. An extra week, on top of the original twelve, would be unbearable. ‘When will we get internet connection?’ she asked.

  ‘It’s a low priority at the moment,’ answered her father.

  Holly travelled with Brandon back to Rockleigh to do the washing. As he reached out for the first washing basket, she noticed something new on his arm. ‘Did you get a tattoo?’

  Brandon dropped the basket and pulled his sleeve up. ‘Waddya reckon?’ The tatt showed a curling wave with the sun shining through it. The surrounding area was still red and puffy as if it had been done quite recently.

  ‘I like it.’

  ‘You can’t hear the ocean out here. There are no waves. Everything’s so still and creepy.’

  All Holly could hear was cicadas. They were deafening. ‘We’ll be home soon,’ she said.

  ‘I miss my surfing mates,’ he said. ‘I’ll help Dad with this job, then I’m out of here.’

  She waved him goodbye, then stood in the doorway of the tackroom, staring at all the horse gear. There must have been at least thirty saddles in there, all shining clean and neatly hung on racks. She wondered if she would ever be lucky enough to own a horse again.

  Among all the tack was a washing machine, a short bench and a double concrete sink.

  She made herself busy, sorting the dirty jeans from the light-coloured T-shirts, emptying the pockets as she went. She pulled out old rubber bands, dirty tissues, lolly wrappers and shopping receipts. From her father’s shirt pocket she pulled out two soggy golden pieces of paper – tickets.

  Saturday 25th March Rockleigh Station Gunnedah

  Annual Easter Ball

  On the polocrosse field at 7.30 pm

  Dress: Black Tie

  All proceeds to the Pay for Hay drought relief fund

  Holly wondered how these tickets came to be in her father’s pocket. Had he bought them to surprise Mum?

  She tried to imagine her father all dressed up in black tie. The image didn’t come easily. The picture of her mother in a cocktail dress did, however. Her mother was beautiful, tall and long-legged with blonde hair roped into a plait down her back. When she let it out at night and brushed it, it was thick and lustrous with hues of gold and soft brown.

  Holly carefully set the tickets on the sunny window ledge of the tackroom, knowing how special they would be for her mother.

  While the first load of washing tumbled and sloshed in the machine, she walked out of the building and looked at the field where she had argued with Ka
ydon. Three men were manicuring the lawn, and a truckload of potted rosebushes had arrived, in preparation for the big dance, she guessed.

  ‘Will you be going to the ball, Cinderella? The boss usually gives all the staff a free ticket.’

  Holly spun around and saw a small man with a whiskery chin and wrinkly eyes. He carried two buckets in each hand. His voice was husky, like a smoker’s, and she could smell stale tobacco on him.

  ‘We are not staff. My father is a contractor.’ Somehow that word staff kept coming up. It annoyed her that the Armstrongs put everyone beneath them like that. ‘And I’m no Cinderella either.’

  The man looked at her bare feet and raised his eyebrows. ‘I’m Jerry, resident strapper. I am staff.’ He smiled a toothless smile.

  Ah yes. The strapper. Now he shows up.

  ‘The missus can put on a top-class event. You don’t want to miss it.’

  Would it be like the debauched B and S balls she had heard about? Holly couldn’t imagine her parents going to something like that. They didn’t even drink alcohol. Her imagination filled with images of beautifully dressed women and smartly attired men sipping from champagne glasses and nibbling at canapés while the sun set over the western ranges. She couldn’t imagine her parents going to something like that either.

  ‘My dad has two tickets. But I won’t be going,’ she said, thawing a little. Jerry seemed okay.

  ‘You’re the new family, over at the other place?’

  ‘My name’s Holly. My father’s building the house. We’ll be here for twelve weeks.’

  ‘Well, I hope you enjoy yourself while you’re here. Where are you going to school?’

  ‘We won’t be staying in the area, so I’ll do home-schooling, just while we’re here.’ Holly heard the washing machine beep. ‘I’d better get back to my washing.’

  ‘They’re good people, the Armstrongs,’ said Jerry. ‘They’ve worked hard for what they’ve got.’

  Holly sighed. ‘Yeah, my family worked hard too. Fat lot of good it did us.’