The House On Burra Burra Lane

by Jones, Jennie

‘Those posts for young Walker’s place?’

  Ethan paused, then walked towards Grandy’s bench. ‘Yes.’ The bench was under the sign. Grandy sat there most days, watching the town.

  ‘How’s she doing?’

  Ethan sat, needing to balance his mind a moment. ‘She’s doing well. Your bet’s in danger.’

  ‘I’m hoping she’ll stay,’ Grandy said. ‘How’s the house?’

  Ethan rested the packages on his thigh. ‘Worse than I remembered. Better now she’s in it.’

  ‘Giving you the heebie-jeebies, is she?’

  Ethan smiled, used to Grandy’s old-fashioned terminology and unsure whether to take the bait offered. It would be polite and respectful to let the old man talk about Miss Walker and Burra Burra Lane, but in his heart, he wanted to speak of Sammy too. He braced, even as he thought it.

  ‘How long are you going to hang around, wasting time, getting older? She’s there for the taking, boy, and don’t tell me you haven’t thought about it.’

  ‘I’m just helping her out.’

  Grandy humphed a throaty laugh. ‘Feel strange, does it?’

  Ethan nodded, torn between a need to speak and a wish to stay silent. It did feel weird, every time he went to Sammy’s place, like some loop from the past going round and round, playing the same scene over and over.

  ‘You’ll get used to it, Ethan. Times change, you know that yourself.’

  ‘I didn’t expect the house to be the same.’

  ‘It wasn’t. Not for years. Does she like you?’

  ‘We get on fine.’

  ‘Your mother would have liked her.’

  Ethan’s stomach churned. ‘I imagine she would have.’

  ‘She’s a fine young woman. You’d suit each other.’

  Ethan gripped his parcels.

  ‘You didn’t do anything wrong, son. You can’t live people’s lives for them. Time to get over it.’

  Way too close for comfort. These things hadn’t been articulated for years. Even more frightening than the sick feeling was the need to sit here and talk about the past. Everything he’d blocked with concrete resolve—suddenly a pneumatic drill thumped, trying to bore a place to sit.

  ‘Young Walker’s brought it back to life,’ Grandy said.

  Did he mean the house? Or the past? An immediate anger burned in Ethan’s chest. If he wasn’t careful, the whole damned town would be chinwagging with heavier stuff than the constant complaints about the kids who left. ‘What’s the talk?’ he asked.

  ‘What you’d expect. They haven’t remembered too far back yet.’

  ‘I’m getting too close,’ he said quietly. ‘I’m doing too much for her.’

  ‘She’ll let you know if she thinks so.’

  ‘She doesn’t know anything.’

  ‘Best you tell her then.’

  Ethan stood. ‘There’ll be no need.’ He caught Grandy’s stare: a bullet between the eyes. He swallowed, nodded a goodbye, and turned. He took the steps from the wooden pedestrian walkway down to the road. The talk would be smoke without fire these days. Although a person could choke on the inhalations.

  He swung into the cab and fired the engine, his heartbeat ripping at his chest. Anger. He closed his eyes, fought the swell of turbulence in his mind. It wasn’t Sammy’s fault, flying into his surgery, his world. Shattering his peace. But the reason for his anger was burning a hole in his gut.

  Five

  Ethan didn’t have to pass Sammy’s place to get to the Smyth farm but he’d driven from his surgery, pulled up at the fork on All Seasons Road and taken a right into Burra Burra Lane instead of the more direct route straight ahead. He had no intention of stopping off, but the ute had a mind of its own.

  He sighed. Settled the frustration.

  His emotions should be well below the surface, tidily controlled, only waiting to take a hold of him if he let them. He hadn’t imagined a time when he would allow them to break out, but his worries had surfaced yesterday, talking with Grandy. The old man knew everything. He’d been the one to kick Ethan out of town, for God’s sake.

  There’d been one hell of a blue. A fight the townspeople had still remarked on when he returned to Swallow’s Fall six years ago and opened the practice. Not that he could blame them.

  He still felt his hands on that idiot Wesley Hawkins, who’d been asking for it all year anyway. Whining and whinging to the school teacher about how Ethan had made him late three times in a row by hiding his bicycle. It hadn’t been Ethan, it had been some other loser, but Ethan had been happy to take the flak because he enjoyed the rumble that came with it.

  He winced at the memory. He’d not been shy of a fight but he’d been sixteen, Wes only fourteen. Ethan had grown into his muscles in his early teens, and Wes was probably still some wet twig of a man, wherever he lived now. But still …

  It had been Wes who had warned Grandy because Ethan had stupidly bragged about what he was going to do and then promptly stole Wes’s bike from his hands. First time he’d done it, although he’d boasted about doing it often enough … and he’d got caught.

  Grandy had walked into a much younger Mrs J’s house as though he were striding into a bullpen ready to saddle one up and ride bronco. He hauled Ethan out of the hall cupboard so hard Ethan thought his collarbone had popped.

  Grandy marched him into the dining room, pointed at the jumble of chintzy cushions, broken crockery and scattered knickknacks—it hadn’t been easy getting twenty two chickens into the house quietly—and demanded an explanation for the mess and why there was so much scratching and clucking coming from Mrs Johnson’s bathroom.

  Joke, Ethan had said.

  Oh, man. Had he copped it.

  It wasn’t as if he’d hurt the animals, they were happy enough to peck on the grain he’d thrown onto the pink mats in Mrs J’s cavernous bathroom, and it wasn’t because he’d missed school again, or pinched the bike, or even because he’d hidden in the cupboard waiting for the screaming and flapping when Mrs J went to spend a penny. Grandy had been furious because Ethan had broken into Mrs J’s house like a thief. An idiot.

  Would have been mildly amusing if things hadn’t ended so badly. Two fights in town later, with grown men who had come in for a beer, not expecting to lose their wallets to a kid—and Grandy had given Ethan money for the bus fare. Told him to hightail it and not come back to Swallow’s Fall until he’d found his way the hard way, grown some sense and turned himself into the decent man he was capable of becoming.

  If anyone retold these stories in front of Sammy, he’d have a lot of explaining to do. And he didn’t want to think about how he’d left his mother alone. If they brought that up, it would all come out. Did Sammy even know yet that this was his town? His house?

  He should leave her be for a while, take a step back before all this got out of hand. It was her house now. Nothing to do with him. No need for her to know about his past.

  She was an uncomplicated person, no matter what others had told her. Grace, humour and a willing optimism were ingrained in her. So different to himself. It would take a great deal to dampen her spirit. Maybe that’s why she’d come here, bought the old property. She could be using the adventure to get over that guy and whatever he and her mother had done. It must have been something hard though, to make a happy girl run. And what would she do when she was sick of the country? Run again?

  He stirred himself from that reflection. He had no intention of swaying her decision.

  Then he saw her, sitting on her gate at the end of her driveway, eating an apple and swinging her legs, and he knew he was right about her; she was happiness itself. Why would anyone want to hurt her?

  He swung the ute to the verge and wound his window down.

  ‘Hello,’ she called. ‘Where are you off to?’

  The daylight shimmered over her. Her long russet hair, tied in a ponytail, caught the breeze. She smiled at him and in the space between moments, his edginess flew on the wind.

  He smiled back. �
�The Smyth farm. Want to come?’

  ‘Anything interesting to look at?’

  ‘A new foal.’

  She jumped off the gate, threw the apple core into the ditch and headed for his ute, wiping her hands on her track pants.

  ‘Baby animals. Why didn’t you say sooner?’ She grinned, her lips still wet from the apple. She hooked her hip onto the passenger seat and arranged herself, slamming the door and grabbing the seatbelt.

  ‘Go forth.’ She swung her arm up, pointing her finger. ‘It’s getting older as we sit here.’

  Ethan shifted the stick into gear. Her responses. Her optimism. So unlike the young woman he’d married. So very different, even, from the women he’d been with between the then and the now.

  Ethan parked close to the stables. Sammy leapt out of her seat before he’d put the handbrake on.

  Ray Smyth walked towards them with his easy gait.

  ‘Ethan.’ He took hold of Ethan’s hand as Sammy placed hers behind her back, bouncing on the balls of her feet as though itching to move to the colt.

  ‘How’s he doing, Ray?’

  ‘Not bad, but he doesn’t want to get up much. I’ve been with him all night.’

  ‘I’ll take a look then.’ Ethan shifted his bag from one hand to the other. ‘This is Samantha Walker, she’s come along to see the colt.’

  ‘How are you, Miss Walker?’

  ‘I’m good, and thanks for letting me visit your baby, Mr Smyth. I appreciate it.’

  ‘No problem, young lady, when you have some of your own, I’ll come along and take a look at yours.’

  She laughed, and followed Ethan towards the stables.

  ‘The colt was born last night, Sammy, around midnight.’

  ‘Wow. A real baby. Did you help?’

  He unlatched the half-door to the stable. ‘Well, let me think.’ He swung it open. ‘The foal’s front hooves weren’t showing as they should, and the mare was straining.’ He let Sammy go through before him. ‘I had my arm stuck inside the birth canal for a minute or two, so I suppose, yes, I helped.’

  She turned to him. ‘Hope you’ve had a shower.’ She threw her head back and laughed.

  Beautiful, dazzling Sammy. Her smile warmed everything inside him. His heart was erupting, unused to being filled with pleasure. And his throat felt full, as though there were a barrelful of words to be said.

  He swallowed them and led her towards the end stall. The mare stood quietly, but lifted her head when he unlatched the gate and walked through.

  Sammy stayed by the metal gate, her attention wandering between the mare and the black colt, its long silky limbs jumbled in the straw.

  Ethan put his bag down and took out a stethoscope. ‘You can come in and say hello.’ The colt raised his head. ‘You can help by stroking his neck. A new foal has to lie down a lot to rest, but this little fella might need looking after a bit longer than we expected.’

  She slid into a cross-legged sitting position. She hadn’t bothered to check if the straw was dirty, she simply gave herself to the moment. His heart filled again. She put her hand on the colt’s neck. He moved his gaze to her face.

  ‘Oh Ethan, he’s beautiful. What an amazing job you have. What’s Mr Smyth going to call him? I’d call him Black Onyx if he was mine. He’s not going to the racetrack is he?’

  If she caught his gaze now, she’d find something it was best she didn’t see.

  She looked up at the same instant he looked away. ‘He’s not going anywhere.’ Ethan placed the stethoscope headset around his neck. ‘He’s staying right here.’ Perhaps it was something she did only to him. Perhaps other men wouldn’t feel the same way about her. He checked himself. That wasn’t his concern. She deserved someone who would be with her without reservation, and if she found joy, he’d have to sit by and watch. Didn’t mean he had to feel happy about it. ‘We have to keep an eye on his respiratory ability, he had trouble breathing at birth. The dam had a normal pregnancy though, and he’s suckling well.’

  ‘Ethan? Can you make him better?’

  He’d never been closer to her. It wasn’t that their bodies were near, it was the emotion brimming inside him that closed the gap. You’re the beautiful one. You’re extraordinary. You make my heart sing …

  ‘Sammy.’ He tensed his muscles so he wouldn’t move. She sat looking up at him with expectation. She wanted to believe he could make it better and he wanted to do that for her, knowing he couldn’t if it wasn’t meant to be.

  It wasn’t a decision. It didn’t demand any explanation or reason. He didn’t care where her hopes lay, what she expected or how any other man would feel about it. He bent to her, placed his mouth on hers and kissed her.

  Her warm face. The fruity-soap aroma of her skin, her hair. Her gentle mouth. The way she responded to the soft pressure from his—enough to shatter him. Her lips parted. He touched her tongue with his. Her mouth wet, soft. He didn’t want to release it. He had to.

  She softened—tilting her chin, her body giving the tiniest melt against his.

  He broke from her. ‘I’m sorry.’ He spoke quickly. ‘I shouldn’t have done that.’ But he wanted to do it again. And again, and again. The touch of her mouth was stamped on his. His longing for her suddenly uncontrolled. He could wrap himself around her in a second. Take hold of her body and crush it against him, hard. Hold onto her.

  He’d grown into a man of balance, of reasonable equilibrium but her damned mouth was so inviting. He could take her here, now, on the straw. In a stable full of animals.

  ‘We’re not supposed to kiss,’ she told him quietly, her fine russet eyebrows arched. ‘We’re friends.’

  ‘Sorry.’ He had to fix this, before he confused her. ‘We are friends.’ He could hardly get his breath. ‘I aimed for your cheek and missed.’

  She paused a moment. ‘I understand.’ She reached out and put her hand on top of his. She smiled. ‘I feel the same way.’

  How could she possibly feel the same way? He’d nearly pulled the clothes from her body and fallen on her.

  ‘It’s that nature thing again,’ she said, shuffling closer to the colt. ‘It happens a lot around here, doesn’t it?’

  Somebody give him strength. ‘It does tend to throw a person off stride. I’m very sorry, Sammy.’

  ‘Forget about it.’ She swept her ponytail over her shoulder. ‘Just make the colt better.’

  Sammy stared at the fine art paper on her dining room table and flicked the waxy lead pencil between her fingers. The green and gold colours of the evening dress she was drawing looked too bold; out of place with her hushed thoughts.

  Ethan.

  She dropped her hand to the table. It happened to friends occasionally, she knew that. They got emotionally tangled with each other as recognition of similarity or even disparity became apparent in the new bond. Especially when it was a friendship between a man and a woman. The boundaries were messed about, the lines of communication were different because of gender.

  When he’d kissed her she’d accepted it as a token of friendship. But she could still taste him on her lips.

  She picked up her artwork and focussed on it. No flow. No inner movement, regardless of the buttery texture of her favourite pencils. She scrunched the drawing into a ball and pushed it across the table.

  She closed the pencil case and slid the art folder away. She couldn’t grasp the mental grounding her drawing normally gave her. It wasn’t usually a chore, but tonight she had no patience for it.

  She pushed the chair back and stood. Had Ethan seen the similarity in how they both used their hands for their skilled work?

  She walked to the middle of the room and rested a hip against the sideboard. It had been a struggle to shift the heavy and unfashionable Victorian piece of furniture, but she’d managed to inch and slide it away from the wall so she could get to the skirting boards; wash them down, ready for a fresh lick of paint. She wouldn’t get rid of the wallpaper on the sideboard wall though. It was thick and elegan
t, good for another ten years. It had a loving feel to it, with its trelliswork background and the yellow rosebuds climbing between. Someone had loved this wallpaper.

  She picked up the letter she’d found, stuck at the back of a wooden shelf in the sideboard.

  Two pages, fragile and burnt with age at the creases.

  She walked into the hallway and made her way up the stairs. Dark jarrah shone with an aged patina either side of the yellowish-brown threadbare carpet—an old-fashioned runner carpet with metal slides holding it in place.

  She went to the end of the long landing and plumped a cushion before throwing herself into her favourite wicker chair. She sat here when she wanted a little peace, and to gaze out of the dormer window at her land and wonder at how she was shaping up in the newness of her life.

  She slipped the letter’s pages apart carefully.

  … The boy’s got a mind of his own, Linnie, you can’t change it. And while I’m on the subject, he’s not a boy anymore, he’s a man. Time you put aside your concerns about Thomas passing on bad things to your boys (note I say ‘your’ boys—Thomas didn’t want them). Each has his own path to tread. They both took to the woods and it wasn’t your fault. It’s the one who came back you need to be worrying about…

  The ink was faded over half of the next page.

  … I’m talking about the emotional punches. Those will sit hard with him, Linnie. Mark my words now and let him be. Robert has gone. You give all that love to the son you have. He’s going to need a lot of love, and it won’t be the girl who changes him, and it won’t be you. I just hope there’s someone in his future who’ll see beyond …

  … sooner she’s gone, the better. He should never have done it…

  … God bless, Linnie, I’m thinking about you. I’ll be down soon, and you won’t be alone when the time comes, if he’s not around …

  Your sister …

  It sounded tough, as though there were no chances left for the persons involved in the story. But it wasn’t a story. Some woman had written this letter a long time ago and sent it to the woman Linnie, who must have lived in Sammy’s house. Perhaps their ghosts still wandered around, invisible, looking at the wallpaper and glad the new owner had decided to keep it.