Larry comes in and she steps back flushing. What is up with her? He puts a leather overnight bag on the table.
‘Mara’s not well at all,’ he says. ‘About due for another “episode” and I find I’ve run low on her medication. I’m going to have to drive to Kip’s, get him to fly me to Perth. Leave Fred in charge. So you see –’
‘But Graham’s out there!’
‘Is he? It’s all right. She’s well sedated. I’ll go and get him now. I’m afraid this means we’ll have to postpone your trip.’
‘Oh no but you promised!’
He shrugs his shoulders, spreads out his palms in a helpless gesture. ‘I’m sorry. What can I do?’
She sits down too hard, painfully on the edge of the chair. Rubs her bum. She could cry.
‘Graham’ll go mental. Hey, couldn’t we come with you? I’d love to go to Perth.’
Larry shakes his head.
‘Fred can take care of Mara.’
‘Fred will be gone before I get back. As I say, I am sorry. When I return – next time Fred’s here – we’ll rearrange it. A trip to Perth then, if that’s what you really want. A whole week, nice hotel, the lot.’ She looks up at him, sore swollen nose, fleck of dried blood snagged on his moustache. ‘Now I really must go. Fred will care for Mara while I’m gone.’ He nods towards some pill bottles on the side. ‘He knows the ropes. I’ll go and,’ he pauses, ‘extract Graham for you, shall I?’
‘How long will you be?’ she asks miserably.
‘Two or three days.’
‘But what about Mara if Fred’s going?’
‘There’s enough medication to last. Fred’ll tell you what to do.’ He puts on his panama, picks up his bag. ‘Sorry, Cassie.’
And he goes out. Just like that.
She flops down, puts her head on her hands and lets tears come out of her eyes. She can hear Larry speaking, then Graham’s voice. She winces, expecting a shout as Graham decks him. She sits up and scrubs the tears away. Graham comes in. He’s red in the face from the heat but looks quite cheerful. ‘What’s up?’ he says.
‘Aren’t you mad?’
He holds his finger up. They hear Larry’s voice, the car door slam, the station wagon drive away. ‘Only be a few more days,’ Graham says, ‘then Perth. It’s better, we can get to the airport, and vroom, vroom, next flight home.’
‘I suppose that is better,’ she says. But she feels a great sag of disappointment inside her, like a deflating balloon. Now they’re definitely going she just wants to get on with it and go. She looks over to the machine. ‘You can help me peg that out in a mo.’
‘Don’t look so fed up.’ He kneads her shoulders. ‘God, you’re tense.’ He kisses the top of her head.
‘So how was Mara?’ she asks.
‘I’m dry,’ he says. ‘Any lemonade?’
‘Sweeter this time,’ she says. ‘I was worried about you in there.’ Graham pauses at the fridge door.
‘Why?’ he says, his back to her. His hair, she notices, has grown down past his shoulder blades.
‘Larry said she was about to have an episode. I wonder how he knows?’
Graham takes the jug of lemonade from the fridge. ‘She seemed –’ He pours some out. ‘She was OK, a bit drowsy I guess. Want some?’
She nods.
‘Here. I’m going to go and paint for a bit, what I was doing yesterday, it –’
She sips the lemonade. Maybe too sweet this time. ‘What about the washing?’ she says, but he is halfway to the door. ‘Oh, never mind. I’ve nothing else to do.’
‘Sure?’
She shakes her head at him. He grins, does a silly salute and goes out. The screen crashes shut. The floor is awash with red, the machine leaking into the dust that blew in last night. He’s right. Just a few days more. And then Perth. Airport. Home. Patsy, Mum, friends, the garden, little Katie, Cat. Christmas decorations will be up by now. Weird thought. She remembers them rattling in the wind last year, the red, yellow, green lights, tall tree in the city centre swaying. And there might be snow! The thought of it is almost ridiculous. Something so pure and cold. Hasn’t been so much as a spot of rain since they’ve been here.
The machine stops churning and with the wooden tongs she hefts the clean wet clothes into the spin-dryer; turns it on; bloody thing leaps about the floor like something demented, as usual. Fred comes in behind her, doesn’t hear him, till he taps her shoulder and she jumps. ‘Hey!’
‘Want me to hold it?’ He leans on it till it finishes.
‘Damn near shook me teeth out,’ he says into the sudden silence.
‘Lemonade? Then I’ll hang it out. Put the next lot in.’
He picks up a carrier from the table. ‘Brought you a present,’ he says. He looks almost bashful.
She takes the bag. Inside, a wooden fruit bowl. An irregular lip of polished jarrah, like a glossy wave curved up, the knots in the dense wood gleaming. ‘It’s beautiful,’ she says and he blushes. Fred blushing!
‘Where’d you get it?’
‘I made it.’
‘You made it?’ She has to breathe hard to stop tears coming back into her eyes. He made it for her because she’d said there should be a fruit bowl. And now there is. She puts it in the centre of the table and fills it with oranges and lemons.
‘There,’ she says. ‘I’ll take it with me when we leave.’ And you don’t know how soon that’ll be. She imagines it on the table at home. The one souvenir of – this. Never got past cutting up stuff for the quilt; did no more than maintain the garden. Gave up on her bush-gardening module idea. They’ll be going back empty-handed, tails between their legs, after only a couple of months.
Except maybe it will be OK with Graham. And that was the main point. She’ll miss Fred. Everyone else so weird – even she’s going a bit weird – but Fred, though maybe full of bluff and terrible sexist stuff, is straightforward.
‘You must be hacked off,’ he says, ‘about your trip.’
‘Yeah, well, in a few days.’
She dumps the coloured things in the machine. All her knickers; the pink sheet; a painty T-shirt. She sprinkles powder on top. It gets up her nose and makes her sneeze. ‘I quite like washing,’ she says. ‘Getting rid of all the grot.’
She waits till it’s going, then turns. ‘Fred,’ she says.
‘What?’ He’s getting bread and cheese out of the fridge. A wheel of cool white cheese, a quarter eaten already. Her mouth waters at its nippy smell.
‘Want some?’ he says.
‘Yeah, why not. Fred,’ she says. ‘This will probably sound really stupid.’
He looks round. His eyebrows comic tufts above his eyes. She looks down at his lovely toes.
‘I was wondering about Mara, whether she might have – you know, not being in her right mind and all, what she might have done for Larry to need to bring her all the way out here. I mean, might she have, you know,’ she makes a stupid bleating sound, ‘done something violent. Even killed someone.’
He pushes the tip of the knife into the cheese. His eyes flick to the picture of his wife and daughters.
‘God, sorry,’ she says.
‘What?’ He frowns and follows her eyes. ‘Oh. Nah. No worries.’ He gazes at the picture for a long moment, shakes his head, turns back to her. He holds a piece of white cheese on his broad red palm, looks down at it. ‘Mara do someone in? Never. She’s harmless.’
‘Why does he sedate her then? Why are they here? I was thinking, it’s almost like they’re in hiding or something. This would be a good place to hide.’
He shakes his head, puts the cheese in his mouth, chews and swallows. His eyes rest on Cassie’s face till she starts to fidget. ‘Laz is an oddball,’ he says at last, ‘or, to put it another way, he’s out of his flaming tree –’ He grins, specks of spitty cheese visible on his tongue. ‘But you know what he says, if not for him she’d be in some loony bin somewhere –’
‘Ye-es,’ Cassie says, ‘but if she’s harmless, then wh
y?’
Fred looks up the ceiling. She looks up too. Nothing, just the useless fan; the fire-sensor thing; a flies’ graveyard in the white china light-fitting.
‘What?’ she says.
‘You take my advice,’ he says quietly. ‘Go along with him. You’ll be OK if you don’t cross him.’
‘But Graham’s already crossed him!’
‘Yeah, well.’
‘But, Fred, why?’
He shakes his head.
‘You’re scaring me! What’s going on?’
His eyes seem to skin over, but he smiles. ‘Nothing to be scared of,’ he says. ‘Time I saw to Mara.’ He turns away towards the pill bottles, rattles out a couple of capsules and some pills, shoves them in his pocket. She could scream with frustration. Too many questions at once. Must slow down. The washing machine churns wearily on, she prods at the wet pink sheet.
The chilled soup, made from courgettes and stuff, has a bitter taste. Cold soup seems to go against nature, far as Graham’s concerned. And the bread’s rock-hard round the edges, takes a bit of getting through. In the breeze, the lamp above the table swings, gutters, releases a smell of kerosene.
‘Hey mate,’ Fred says, through a mouthful, ‘what do you reckon to a trip then? There’s some Abo cave-paintings couple of hours north. We could go and take a look if you like.’
Graham looks at Cassie, viciously grinding pepper into her soup. It would be amazing to get away. See something, somewhere, different. Ought to see some native stuff while he’s here. Maybe stop off in a pub and have a beer. He almost aches for a pint. Paradise.
‘Nah, can’t,’ he says.
Cassie looks up, face shadowy.
‘I suppose he wouldn’t know the difference, would he?’ She speaks not to him but to Fred.
‘Spot on there, love. Set off first thing, back in time for cocoa. No harm done, eh?’
‘Maybe,’ Graham says, keeping his expression neutral, taking another spoonful of the ghastly soup. The washing, which no one’s bothered to get in, sways in the darkness like a dance of ghosts.
Fred lifts himself up from his seat and farts. ‘’Scuse me, love. Back in two shakes.’ He goes down from the veranda, farting with every step. Cassie splutters a mouthful of soup.
‘Sign of appreciation somewhere or other,’ Graham says.
‘Somewhere else.’
‘Cassie?’
‘Not very tasty, is it?’ she says. ‘Don’t know what’s up with me.’
‘It’s OK,’ he says. He puts his spoon down, twists a crust of bread between his fingers. ‘What do you think then?’
‘Won’t try it with courgettes again.’
‘No, what do you think about me going off with Fred?’
There is a long pause and a far-off kookaburra cackles.
‘Hear that?’ Her smile is wistful. He wants to kiss her. ‘I think it’d do you good,’ she says. ‘You lucky sod.’
His heart lollops against his ribs. ‘Maybe you could come too?’
‘No. I don’t know.’ She bites her thumb. ‘I wonder? If we gave Mara enough to keep her asleep all day?’ She wrinkles her nose. ‘Nah, shouldn’t leave her alone. What if someone comes?’
‘What, like the Jehovah’s Witnesses?’
‘Yeah.’ She trails her fingers through a spilt splash of soup, making a wavy line. ‘Funny. I’d love to see some Jehovah’s Witnesses now. Or a double-glazing salesman. Anybody.’
The kookaburra is nearer, the crazy crazy sound, the sky in hysterics.
‘Imagine an ice-cream van,’ she says.
‘What?’
‘Oh nothing.’
She stands up. ‘I’ll get some cheese, shall I? This is inedible.’ She stands behind him, brushes her lips against the top of his head. ‘I think you should go though.’
A door swings open in his mind. He doesn’t trust his voice.
‘But you don’t think it might interrupt your painting?’ she says. ‘Now you’re getting into it?’
‘No,’ he says quickly. ‘Only if you’re sure, Cass. He reaches up and catches her hand. ‘I wouldn’t go if Larry was here.’
She pulls her hand away and starts to stack the dishes. ‘What do you mean?’
He pours himself another glass of wine.
‘Why? Don’t you trust me with Larry or something?’
‘Course.’
‘What did you mean then?’
‘Well, he obviously fancies the arse off you.’
‘Honestly! Anyway, it takes two, you know.’
He gets up, turns and holds her, buries his face in her hair. She smells of cooking. He looks past her at the dreary sway of washing. ‘Shouldn’t really go.’
‘I think you should. I’ll be fine. It’s only for a few hours, isn’t it? Fred can tell me what to give Mara and when and stuff. Will you phone Patsy for me? Just make sure everything’s OK. Tell her we’re coming home. Will you?’ She pulls herself free of him.
‘Course I will,’ he says.
She smiles. ‘Well, tell you the truth, I wouldn’t mind a day to myself. And – I can give you a list. Case you go to a shop. You lucky, lucky bastard.’
Twenty-three
Cassie rolls over, stretches out her hand to the space where Graham should be. Was, till first light when Fred banged on the door. Before he’d got up, Graham had held her tight, erection pressing against her hip. She’d smiled in her half-sleep, stroked her hands down to cup his buttocks but he’d murmured, ‘Seeya tonight.’ She’d felt the mattress tilt, heard him zip his jeans, the door open and click shut and she’d slid back, sunk straight back into a dream, not even heard the ute drive away. What was the dream? She screws her mind back to remember – something about water, swimming, lovely, somewhere like that deep blue gorge, cliffs red against the sky. The freshness of it. Today she’ll wash her hair.
She rolls on to her back and spreads her limbs, one towards each corner of the bed, stretches till her shoulders click. She smiles. It will be OK with Graham, she can feel it in her clicky bones. He’s being so nice. And if not, well – don’t think. This time next year, maybe, there’ll be a baby. She presses her hand where she thinks her womb must be and her heart does a little skip.
It feels different. Kind of free. Like a holiday. No men about. No one to cook for – even Mara won’t need anything except drugs and Complan. Last night Fred showed her how to crush the pills and mix them with the drink, since her throat muscles might be too loose to swallow properly and she could choke.
On the kitchen table, two half-mugs of cold coffee. The butts of two roll-ups squashed in a saucer. How can they bear to smoke first thing?
She washes the mugs and clumsy, still half-suspended in her dream, drops one on to the row of pill bottles. They roll off the counter all over the floor. Kneeling down to retrieve them, she sees close up how dusty and dog-hairy it is, although she sweeps it nearly every day. Dust that got wet from the washing machine has dried in swirls, maps and footprints. Quite arty. But sticky red dust everywhere, the windows, floor, her hair. Her spirits threaten to sink. But no. Keep light. A whole day to herself, privacy to get the tub out and have a proper bath, shampoo her hair. No one to have to speak to, do a thing for.
Suddenly seems a lonely idea, a yawn of space.
‘Pathetic,’ she says aloud. ‘What a wimp, Cassandra.’ Yella cocks his head at her and makes a doggy moan. She scratches him between his ears. Saying her name out loud like that, saying ‘Cassandra’ into the empty kitchen made her shiver. Why did she say Cassandra instead of Cassie? No one calls her Cassandra any more. Even Larry’s dropped it. That’s just how they used to say it at school. Cassandra, as if it were a curse. It used to make her feel so alone. They were Cassandra and Patricia, separate classes, separate dorms. As if being a twin was a bad habit that must be broken. She feels herself sliding into a trough of old resentments and pulls herself back. Mustn’t waste this day. This, kind of, holiday.
She puts the kettle on, rattles some biscu
its into Yella’s dish on the veranda, goes down to feed the hens. They cluck and scutter like a stupid mob, the necks, the rumps of two of them pecked raw and bleeding. A cockerel struts, military style, his feathery trousers gleaming. She makes sure some of the lesser hens get grain, which isn’t easy – wherever she throws it the cockerel and the dominant ones barge them aside and stab them with their beaks. She finds only two eggs in the boxes, warm and shit-smeared. Too hot for much of a lay.
She notices transparent things wriggling in their drinking water – creatures made of water, only a membrane between them and the stuff they swim in. She empties and refills it. Can’t be good for the hens to swallow the writhing things. Or maybe it is. Maybe it’s protein? Who knows?
She prepares Mara’s Complan, strawberry flavour, sorts out the pills. Two blue, one white, one yellow. Was that it? The jars are muddled up now. Fred left them together, the morning five, the different six for evenings. She tips some out – more turquoise than blue. But don’t split hairs, Cassie. She nips open the capsules, grinds the pills, mixes the powder in with the sickly pink mess.
‘Seems immoral, drugging someone like this,’ she’d said and Fred hadn’t disagreed; had merely shrugged and sighed, said, ‘That’s the way it is, love.’
‘Mara,’ she calls, opening the door and poking her head nervously into the gloomy shed. Sweet, rank, intimate stink. She hasn’t been in for ages. Her nostrils flutter in protest. Mara’s lying on the cushions, fast asleep, her breathing throaty, almost a snore. How can anyone breathe in this? ‘Mara?’ Mara grunts and Cassie kneels down with the mug of Complan, glass of water, wet flannel for Mara’s face and hands.
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