Wings of the Storm

by JH Fletcher

  I have always wanted it, she thought. To live life to the limit, dangerously. The valleys can be beautiful, they are certainly a great deal safer, but always it has been the peaks that beckoned. I had forgotten that feeling. The mid-north has no mountains, but now I know that nothing less will satisfy me. If I lost my legs and could no longer walk among the mountains, I would still wish to sit with my face turned to those realms of ice and glory.

  Cal said, ‘I didn’t hear you arrive. Have you been there long?’

  ‘A few minutes. I didn’t want to disturb you.’

  ‘You do. All the time.’

  ‘I’m glad.’ Smiling.

  It was all there: in the looks, the words, the tone of voice. Below them the seas ran smoking up the beach, the cliffs were gold and brown and green between the contrasting blues of sky and sea. Seabirds like scraps of torn paper flew white and brilliant in the sunshine.

  All this, she thought. All this we have this fine morning when we came so close to having nothing at all. The glory was precarious, so all the more precious.

  Her heart filled her breast, her knees felt uncertain; she stood and walked across to him.

  ‘Thank you for coming back to me.’

  His smile filled his eyes. ‘Any time.’

  His arms pressed her close. He felt her breasts against him; she felt the strong, slow beating of his heart; they were so close; now only one step remained. They looked at each other. She felt him pressing hard against her. So much she wanted him, the man.

  She shook her head. ‘No.’

  His hands cupped her breasts, exquisitely. ‘Why not?’

  Her body was trembling. She was moist and open to him. There was no reason. Yet still she would not.

  ‘Go into the Outback,’ she told him. ‘Do what you have to do. Then come back to me.’

  ‘And then?’

  She concealed doubt with laughter, thankful that he had not been offended, as she had feared he might.

  ‘Then we’ll see.’

  Later, she could not understand herself. Knew only that she had not been ready, was committed yet not committed, was waiting still. For what, she could not have said.

  She came back to the realisation that Cal was speaking to her.

  ‘Margaret Videon …’

  It was a shock, after all that had passed. She didn’t like being so little trusted that explanation was needed.

  She turned away, but Cal ignored the signal.

  ‘Please, I want to tell you —’

  ‘What about her?’ Ice.

  ‘You heard what she said. I wouldn’t want you to think —’

  It was amazing how much his doubts hurt.

  ‘Why should I care?’ Hating herself, even as she said it. Stop it, she thought. All this means nothing. Stop it!

  ‘No reason at all.’

  Humility was an unexpected stranger in his voice; this, too, she hated.

  ‘That’s all right, then, isn’t it?’ Then could bear it no longer, came and put her arms about him. ‘Oh God, I’m sorry …’

  ‘It’s all right. All right.’

  ‘I can’t bear it when you don’t trust me. To trust you, I mean. I don’t care about her. Or anyone. It’s you I care about. You and me.’

  And everything was right between them again. Again he touched her, touched her, yet she, nearly swooning, still said no.

  I must be out of my mind.

  Only knew that, for the moment, it was the right thing.

  Later that morning they parted. Kathryn drove north; yet again Cal watched her go, then went back into his studio.

  Why should I care?

  Why, indeed.

  She had still not mentioned Charles Chivers, the nice boy. With prospects. Let us never forget his prospects, he thought savagely. Which are so important. He looked around at the studio, the sunlight spilling through the open doorway. The boy’s presence was everywhere, overwhelming the bright and sparkling day. Something had to be done; he had told himself so already, any number of times. But what? When she had never even mentioned him? What could he do?

  The idea of being helpless annoyed him. You should have it out with her, he told himself. Ask the question, find out what’s going on. Yet he knew he would not. To ask would be to leave himself vulnerable, and he was not ready to risk that. No, he thought, rather let things ride for a while, and see what happens.

  FIVE

  Two weeks after getting home from Adelaide, Kathryn went out onto the verandah of her parents’ old farmhouse. The paddocks were a blaze of sunlight. In one corner of the garden, beyond the tree-shaded tennis court that, with summer, was already grey and threadbare, a clump of shaggy-headed lavender drew a bumble-buzz of bees.

  Until her trip to the opera, her life had been mapped out clearly. Conventional, certainly, but with security, which she had been taught was the highest reward that life could afford. You had only to look at those who lacked it: improvident families, single-parent families, husbands with a weakness for booze and fists, the bodies of other women.

  In the mid-north, the conventions were iron-hard.

  Deviate, even by an inch, and look what happens to you.

  Cal the possessor of fists and, rumour said, of many women. She had mentioned it, most casually, to Dave Holt, pretending both to him and to herself that Cal and his behaviour were utterly unimportant to her, but asking the question, nonetheless. Dave had told her that all that was history, but everyone knew that history had a habit of repeating itself. She did not want to be the latest in a queue. No danger of that with Charles Chivers, decent son of decent parents. With status, too: everyone respected a doctor. A husband, if that was what he was to become, on whom she would be able to rely, always. A sensible future.

  Why should I be thinking about Cal at all? she wondered. Seeing I have not heard.

  She wandered restlessly the length of the verandah, eyes averted from the paddocks’ brassy glare. She could hear in the distance the treble wailing of lambs, the deep-voiced responses of the ewes. This was her life, laid out before she was born, before her parents were born. It was easy to believe in predestination in a landscape where nothing ever changed.

  Charles Chivers. Her father would have preferred a farmer, but Mrs Fanning was a great believer in grabbing what you could get. Kathryn’s view: Charles was as good as any, better than most. No basis for romance, of course, but the mid-north was suspicious of romance. Without it some might have conceded there wasn’t much of a basis for marriage, but for life … That, surely, was what mattered.

  Everyone agreed; Kathryn, of all people, would be lucky to land a fish better than Charles Chivers. Because the mid-north did not look kindly on eccentricity and Kathryn knew she was regarded as odd. Not barking mad, nothing like that, but different. This enthusiasm for music, for a kick off … And something more alarming still. As a kid, before she had learned to keep things to herself, she had laid claims to having what could only be called second sight. At first people had thought she was showing off, but one or two things had happened to make them wonder. Announcing the arrival of a friend before anyone could have known she was coming: things like that. Everyone had known that such things happened, of course, but having them on the doorstep, so to speak, had made them uncomfortable. For years, now, she had taken care to say nothing about it — although it still happened, from time to time — but she knew people hadn’t forgotten. No, there were plenty who’d say she would be lucky to end up with anyone half as worthy as Charles Chivers.

  She rested her hands on the verandah rail and stared out across the valley. Worthy was the word for him, and the problem. There was an echo in the name, tedious, repetitive, just as Charles himself, at twenty-nine, could be tedious and repetitive. Formal, too; thus Charles, never Charlie. She could imagine him wearing a collar and tie in bed. Could imagine that more easily than his doing anything else in bed, perhaps. A man whose stability could not be denied. A reliable man.

  It was foolish to undervalue
the importance of that.

  Across the valley a shadow sped like a dark wind. From the gum trees beside the house came a raucous explosion of galahs, but the wedgetail eagle was not interested in galahs, whose shrieking would have availed nothing had it stooped.

  From the bread-smelling kitchen, Marge Fanning watched, seeing more than her daughter suspected. She approved of Charles, did not intend to let him escape.

  Charles was not rich but would always be comfortable, which was to be preferred. His fingers were white, pinkish about the knuckles beneath a dusting of gingery hair. Pinkish, too, along the jawline where no stubble, gingery or otherwise, would be permitted. She had seen a photograph of the artist in the paper. Cal Jessop’s dark jowl threatened a virile aggression, undeniably sexual in nature, although Marge would acknowledge no such considerations.

  She sighed as she dished up tea. She was burdened by her knowledge of what was right. Her face was withered by it; body, too, perhaps, although none could have suspected her of owning anything as coarse as a body.

  It was not that she wanted much, only what was best for her daughter. Which, most certainly, included no artists.

  She blamed that teacher, years ago, for stirring up ideas. Music. Opera. If it hadn’t been for him, Kathryn would never have gone to this shindig in Adelaide, would never have laid eyes on Cal Jessop. As for her brother, who had introduced the pair of them, deliberately … Shooting was too good.

  Now look at her. Mooning. Marge could read the signs, while denying her own memories of that age. Memories had no place. This was serious.

  She would see what she could do to push Charles. A definite offer might work wonders. She could hear Claude washing up in the lavvy. He was Kathryn’s father, after all. She’d have a word with him, later.

  ‘Tea, Kathryn!’ She added her own screech to the galah chorus. ‘Tea!’

  Cal’s reputation was enough to give anyone second thoughts.

  Kathryn had denied caring what Margaret Videon had said. A lie; of course she had cared, had wanted to deny the woman’s existence, absolutely. Which was why she had been so sharp when Cal had tried to talk about her.

  Margaret had been jealous; it did not mean that what she said was untrue. Men played games, everyone knew it. Especially men like Cal Jessop. Others, in the past, had believed in men, perhaps in Cal Jessop, and been proved wrong.

  How could one be sure? Of anything?

  Her mother was calling.

  ‘Tea, Kathryn! Tea!’

  ‘Coming …’

  Uncle Dave had hinted at something in Cal’s past that had changed him. It did not matter. What mattered was what he had become. And that was something that she still did not understand.

  Cal had to shout into the receiver. ‘That trip we talked about? Into the Outback?’

  ‘What about it?’ Hennie’s voice was faint, burps and bleeps on the line mangling the words.

  ‘You still game?’

  ‘You’re not thinking of going now?’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Hot as hades, this time of year. You can bet your life you’ll get rain, too. Like standing under the Vic Falls. Hundred per cent humidity and ground like glue. Much better wait until autumn.’

  Cal was not interested in waiting until autumn. The idea of the new sequence had bitten deep and he wanted to get on with it now, no mucking about.

  ‘You saying you won’t take me?’

  ‘Don’t talk crap. You want to go, my mate, I’m your man. Only don’t say I didn’t warn you.’

  ‘When can you get away?’

  ‘Gimme another week, sort out a few things. I’ll fly down and meet you in Marree; save you driving all the way up here.’

  Two days later; a Sunday, Kathryn and Charles together.

  Charles was an honourable man, had explained his position to Kathryn on a number of occasions.

  They would make a good team, he had told her, and was right. A doctor should have a wife; it reassured the lady patients, added weight to his image; was, undeniably, good for business.

  Which was not to say he did not care for her. On the contrary, he cared greatly. He had told her this, too; a man who believed in putting his cards on the table.

  Now he told her again.

  Kathryn thought he was saying he would wait, but not forever. She didn’t blame him. Plenty of girls would jump at the chance of being Mrs Charles Chivers.

  She tried; it was over two weeks now and still she had heard nothing. As in the old days, she let Charles touch her. Those clean pink hands had touched many women in their time. In the way of business, no doubt, but still …

  ‘Doesn’t it excite you, sometimes, doing the things you have to do?’

  Excitement was not high among Charles’s priorities. Nevertheless he smiled, willing to humour her.

  ‘Not at all.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘It’s different.’ And hoped that was the end of it.

  ‘In what way?’

  It seemed she could not let the subject alone. It was distasteful, but he endured, patiently.

  ‘There’s no feeling. It’s simply flesh.’

  He smiled bravely, but the questing fingers quested no longer and presently she refastened buttons, a little sadly.

  Back home, Kathryn stripped naked, stared at her body’s reflection in the mirror.

  ‘And I? Aren’t I flesh?’

  So much she wanted to be flesh. To be loved, certainly, but also desired. I want to be bruised, she thought, to be worshipped in the temple of the flesh. There were so many things she wanted from a lover. Love, adoration, consideration, but other things, too. To participate in the violent sundering of the flesh … The idea excited, undeniably.

  Admiration was important, too. So many doctors had forgotten they were in a service industry; they patronised their patients, seeming to believe that only inferiors became sick. Charles was not like that, was willing to visit, where necessary. Willing to serve. That was certainly most admirable.

  He was also brave. The time of the bush fires …

  Flames a hundred feet high. Heat to crinkle eyeballs in a day that had been over forty degrees when it started. A wall of fire with a north wind behind it, careering like a runaway herd. Four thousand sheep, two hundred kilometres of fencing, ostriches, emus, sheds and equipment. Four houses. Eight people. All destroyed.

  There had been the injured, too, for whom something could be done. A CFS van had been caught by a wind change. Before it could get out, the flames had savaged. Two dead, three badly burned. Charles, somehow, had been there. Amid toppling, exploding gums, the howling terror of flame, he had carried on doggedly, giving aid, comfort.

  There had been talk of a citation.

  ‘What nonsense!’ he had said.

  ‘You deserve it,’ Kathryn had told him.

  Charles wouldn’t have a bar of it. ‘It’s my job. I did it. Nothing remarkable in that, I hope.’

  Charles had the deadly knack of making even the offering of his life mundane. Kathryn felt admiration and exasperation in equal measure. But admiration was not love and exasperation fuelled a sense of guilt, which was not love either. Charles was admirable, indeed, but lacked fire; and fire, she had come to realise, was as vital to her as breath.

  There were alternatives, of course. Most couples seemed to manage very well, the spiritual elements of fire uncommon in the mid-north. There was sport, line-dancing. For an elderly handful, the church still held a place. The seasons of wheat and canola, of peas and beans and barley, came and, ponderously, went. The footy club, of which Charles would one day be president, flourished. Fire there, certainly, for those who followed it. Kathryn would have wished to be one of them, but was not.

  ‘Dunno where you get your highfalutin ideas from,’ her father had told her once, hurtfully.

  Claude Fanning hoarded his feelings like gold; from him such criticism had shown how perplexed and disappointed he was. With no son and a farm that had been in the family for
a hundred years, even Charles was small consolation.

  In place of footy, Kathryn had found delight in music, to which she had been introduced by a teacher who should have known better. For a time her mother had been supportive, no doubt permitting herself to dream of a career, of bouquets bestowed before an adoring audience, but Kathryn, who from birth had seemed determined to disappoint, had lacked the talent. Now she worked three days a week as assistant in the music department of an Adelaide University, helped her dad, listened to her music. Wagner was her favourite.

  When she heard that the Ring was coming to Adelaide, she would have liked to go to all four operas but, with the prices they were charging, that was out of the question. Instead she saved up, splurged on a single ticket, for Rheingold. Where she found Cal, and more than she had bargained for.

  Marge Fanning, at her wits’ end with such a daughter, had made only a token protest. Charles had no interest in music but would, she hoped, understand or at least accept. Then Kathryn had come home with talk of an artist, and that had been a different matter.

  She had found out what she could, which was altogether too much. Booze and women and once, eight months before, an appearance in court after a punch-up outside a pub.

  ‘You must speak to her,’ she instructed her husband.

  Who was chivvied, with great reluctance, into a gesture.

  ‘Your mother’s worried …’

  ‘I need something. Fulfilment?’ Laughing as she said it, to make the word seem less terrible.

  ‘Fulfilment?’ He groped dubiously, a man walking on eggs. ‘I’d stick to happiness, I was you.’

  If pressed, he would have been at a loss to define the word. For her part, Kathryn knew that the conventional choices her parents would accept were like the rivers of Australia, all too often petering out in sand.

  Claude reported back to his wife, confirming that he had spoken. But Marge, doubting not his word but his efficacy, decided to speak to Kathryn herself.

  ‘We want what is best for you. We hope you realise that.’