Lunch with a Soldier

by Derek Hansen

  ‘You can make it? Fantastic. Come early while it’s still light. Say, about five. Rodney’s started on the garden. It’s really coming on.’

  ‘Five it is. Can I bring anything?’

  ‘No. Just yourself.’

  ‘See you at five then.’ Billy hung up and stared at the phone, still recovering from the effect of her call. Her voice was so bright, so bubbly and so full of promises and expectations, none of which he dared put a name to. It picked him up and blew him away, like roly-poly before a westerly. He had the wit to realise that he’d had no decision to make, that once he’d heard her voice and what she had to say, all choice was taken from him. The funny thing was, he didn’t mind.

  The sandwiches he’d cut and left sitting on the kitchen bench reminded him that he had new plans to make to get some use out of the day. First he had to clear up a few loose ends. He rang his neighbours and told them about the pig shooters, the sheep they’d slaughtered and the tyre tread marks so they could keep a lookout for them. Finally he called the police to alert them in the event that the shooters stopped somewhere to refill their eskies with ice, or had a thirst and called into one of the pubs in the Grawin or Walgett to slake it. Depending on how much meat they still had in their eskies, they’d be charged or warned off. Either way the police would get fifty dollars off them as compensation for the sheep. But first the police had to find them and there were no guarantees they’d do that.

  There was a spring to Billy’s step as he gathered up his sandwiches, put away his Ruger and pulled his shotgun off the rack. He was looking forward to seeing Linda again but ambivalent about what she might have done to the house. The bit about painting worried him, although she had asked permission. He’d taken his mother all the way down to Dubbo so she had a decent choice of wallpapers and spent another couple of days hanging them. More wasted effort. He slipped a couple of shotgun cartridges into his pocket. He could’ve kept on spraying the Hudson pear and the barley grass that was creeping in where the sheep had been grazing, but being covered from head to toe for three days on the trot was about all he could stand. The mare still needed a bit of a gallop and he knew it wouldn’t do any harm to check up on his lambs and shoot a few eagles or ravens while he was at it. It was a funny thing, people thought birds were stupid and even used expressions like ‘bird-brained’. But the ravens knew the difference between his shotgun and his Ruger and spotted it the instant he stepped off the veranda. They knew when to make themselves scarce.

  When she saw Billy making his way up the track towards her, Linda’s face broke into the broadest smile. Even from the front veranda she couldn’t help noticing the almost military crease in his moleskins and the freshly ironed shirt. He looked scrubbed and shaved to within an inch of his life and even the kelpie was fluffed up from a bath. He clutched a bunch of roses in his hand the same way he’d hold a hammer, some a dark crimson and others a creamy yellow, colours which didn’t quite complement each other.

  ‘Right on time,’ she called.

  He just nodded in his matter-of-fact way, having no reason to contradict her or anything to add. His hat was as battered and dusty as always, but, as he drew closer, she could see that he’d also polished his boots. The effort he’d made and the naivety of his innocent country formality touched her, and she would have likened him to a nervous schoolboy on a date but for the fact that he didn’t show the slightest bit of apprehension. He paused at the foot of the veranda steps and looked up at her.

  ‘I brought you these roses because it didn’t seem right to come empty-handed.’ He turned and took a measured look around the front garden at the work Rodney had put in. ‘Pretty soon you’ll be growing your own.’

  ‘Don’t let that stop you bringing more. The woman hasn’t been born who doesn’t like being given roses.’

  Linda stepped down from the veranda to greet him and was intercepted by the kelpie. The kelpie’s feelings were obvious but the same couldn’t be said of her owner. There was no indication of whatever it was that had made him press his clothes and even shine his boots. She glimpsed again the remoteness of a man held in check that she’d noticed when she’d run to him after her first encounter with Rodney. She kissed him on the cheek and took the roses from him, already mentally separating the red ones from the yellows and deciding they didn’t even belong together in the same room. ‘What kind are they?’

  ‘I’m not much into roses. My mother planted them. The red ones might be Crimson Glory and I think the yellow ones are Golden Delight. Could be wrong.’

  ‘They’re beautiful whatever they are. Now, come and see what I’ve done to the house before we sit down and have a drink.’ She took his hand and led him up onto the veranda, wondering whether her handiwork would elicit some kind of reaction from him.

  ‘You don’t like wallpaper,’ he said.

  ‘No, do you mind?’

  ‘Each to his own.’ He took his time looking, mentally comparing what he saw with what had been. ‘You’ve done a good job, Linda. I never thought the place would scrub up so well.’

  ‘You like it?’ She couldn’t hide her delight.

  ‘Of course.’

  She sensed him hesitate, that he had something more to add.

  ‘What’s the problem?’

  ‘I don’t know whether this is some modern thing, but I don’t see much point in the paintings.’ Bare canvases hung on every wall where there was space.

  Linda laughed. ‘That’s because I haven’t painted them yet. That would be carrying minimalism too far. I hung them because that’s the best place to store them, and they’re also there to remind me to pick up my brushes.’

  ‘You’re a painter?’

  ‘Not exactly.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘Make yourself comfortable on the veranda and I’ll tell you over a drink. I haven’t any beer so I’ve made a jug of Bloody Mary. Okay?’

  ‘Sounds good to me.’

  She watched Billy wander out onto the veranda, pull up a chair, swing his feet up onto the rail and begin to roll a smoke, pleased that he already felt comfortable and at ease with her. She poured the drinks and joined him.

  ‘There you go.’

  Linda handed him a Bloody Mary in a tall glass rattling with ice and pulled up a chair alongside him. She’d decided to wear her olive-coloured Country Road blouse and shorts, both of which boasted an array of button-down pockets, and matching sandals. She thought she’d hit the perfect balance between informality and elegance and felt mildly disappointed that her appearance hadn’t provoked an appropriate comment, or indeed any comment.

  ‘Cheers,’ she said. ‘Welcome to my home.’

  ‘Cheers,’ Billy responded. ‘Thanks for inviting me.’

  Linda squinted over the bush landscape, trying to see in it what Billy saw and allow a little breathing space. Pauses and companionable silences went against her grain because she was accustomed to deadlines, delegating and putting out fires when things went pear-shaped. She made a determined effort to adjust. The bush stretched out below them, grey-green, flat and lifeless, as though exhausted by the heat of the day. There were a few high clouds, which looked like they might catch the sunset and throw a bit of colour. Far off a raven cawed as though mourning the recent depletion in its numbers. Finches had begun to arrive at the tap around the side for an evening drink. They made a nice sound even though they were probably arguing over whose turn it was to drink.

  ‘Why is it that crows always sound as though they’ve trodden on something unmentionable?’ Linda was unable to let the silence continue.

  A smile slowly spread across Billy’s face.

  ‘Those crows are ravens.’

  ‘I sit out here every night at sunset,’ she said. ‘This is my evening treat. I love the timelessness of it. I sometimes get the feeling nothing has changed here for hundreds of thousands of years. It’s like stepping back into the distant past. One of these days I’m going to try to capture it on canvas.’

&n
bsp; ‘How long have you been a painter?’

  ‘Ha! I’m not a painter, not yet anyway. Oh, I’ve done a few paintings but that was some time ago. I used to teach art at high school.’

  ‘You’re a teacher?’

  ‘Was.’ This time Linda was happy to let the silence hang while she decided how much of her story to tell him. It was too early to begin sharing confidences, and maybe it always would be. She heard Billy strike a match and for the first time noticed how thin he rolled his cigarettes. It was about half the diameter of a tailor-made. He caught her watching him.

  ‘Old army habit,’ said Billy. He drew smoke deep into his lungs, exhaled and turned back to face the expanse. ‘So, you’re running away from school?’

  His question caught Linda completely off guard. There was a slight smile on his lips as though he was teasing her, but she could see that he was looking for an answer that went beyond her professed need for solitude. She laughed, but her laugh sounded insincere even to her own ears.

  ‘What makes you think I’m running away from anything?’

  ‘Aren’t you?’

  He unnerved her by turning to face her, his eyes locking onto hers, looking not so much at them as through them, as though searching her soul. She stared back, but realised she was no match for eyes accustomed to spotting distant sheep through thick scrub. She blinked and turned away defensively.

  ‘I’ll have you know I came here of my own free will.’ There was a touch of indignation in her voice, which she regretted and tried to laugh off. ‘I’m not trying to escape anything, other than the pressure of work and living in a big city. What about you?’ She threw the question back at him with the practised touch of someone who knew how to manage people.

  Billy rocked back on his chair and looked for somewhere to ash his rollie, found nothing and simply flicked the ash onto the deck. The ash was cold and would blow away without trace. If he was disappointed in her answer he gave no indication.

  ‘I was born here,’ he said with finality. He rattled the ice in the bottom of his glass. ‘Getting to be a dry argument.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Linda, though she was anything but. She poured him another drink from her jug. It was time to move on and they both knew it. ‘Excuse me for a moment and I’ll go and get our first course. We can eat it out here.’

  ‘I prefer to sit out,’ said Billy. He finished his rollie, stubbed it out on his heel and tossed the butt over the balcony.

  The bruschetta had crisped up a little more than Linda liked, but not so much that it would shatter. His question had caught her by surprise, but she should’ve realised he’d guess she was in hiding and be curious to know why. His slowness belied a thoughtfulness and intelligence. The question was, how much to tell him and when, and whether to tell him anything at all. Did she really need to air the dirty linen? She decided to wait and see how things developed between them. Maybe some time in the future she could let him into her secret. Maybe. Maybe she’d have no choice if someone turned up in town asking questions about her. But how would anyone find out where she was? She carried the tray back out to the veranda.

  ‘Cheese on toast?’ said Billy. ‘Great.’

  ‘Italian cheese on toast, if you don’t mind.’ She couldn’t help smiling. ‘It’s a kind of bruschetta. Normally I make them with tomato, onion and basil, but fresh ingredients are a little hard to come by. I made these ones with anchovy and baked capsicum and these with Italian salami and dried tomato. The cheese on both is mozzarella. I’m learning to use what’s frozen, canned, cured or keeps.’

  Billy bit into one with anchovy and was taken aback both by the strength of flavours and the crunchiness of the bread.

  ‘You don’t like anchovies?’

  ‘Only ever had them on pizza before. Had something similar. Fish sauce. Long time ago, though.’ His eyes seemed to lose focus and drift off into the distance. Linda waited to hear what he had to say when they came back, what thought had made a connection. Instead he carried on as if nothing had happened.

  ‘Mind if I try one of the others?’

  ‘You’d better,’ she said. ‘I’m not expecting anyone else.’

  They were halfway through the bruschetta when the kelpie shot to its feet and stood, ears cocked, gazing out over the scrub below. Billy stopped chewing immediately and stared where the dog was looking.

  ‘What’s up?’ said Linda.

  Billy motioned her to be quiet. She held her breath, staring hard at the kelpie, eyes widening in apprehension as she realised the possible implications. The dog had clearly heard something, something not too far off and where it had no right to be. She glanced at Billy. He sat statue still, waiting for the breeze to pick up and carry the sound to them again. Christ! The finches were hard at it around the tap and she wished they’d shut up. Overhead, the clouds had at last begun to colour up. Dry bush rustled and somewhere a small dead piece of tree branch crashed through foliage to the ground. Linda held her breath once more as the breeze came in and lightly ruffled the kelpie’s coat. It cocked its head one way and then the other, ears up and straining, but didn’t lock onto anything.

  ‘What is it?’ whispered Linda.

  ‘Probably nothing,’ said Billy. The kelpie lost interest, settled back on its haunches and lay down. ‘Dog heard something. Thought I heard something too. Could’ve been a motor.’

  ‘A motor?’

  ‘Or Rodney letting go of his windlass and dropping a bucket of claystone. It was too faint and indistinct to tell, although the sound didn’t appear to come from Rodney’s. There again, the bush can play tricks on you.’

  Linda sighed and allowed herself to relax back into her chair. Her heart rate slowed as she silently berated herself. It was a false alarm. Of course it was a false alarm! How could it have been anything else? She wondered if any of her anxiety had shown and decided it hadn’t. She decided to continue on as though nothing had happened.

  ‘What’s claystone?’

  ‘The dirt dug out of opal mines. It dries out and sets like concrete. Then it’s called shin-cracker, for obvious reasons.’

  ‘I guess it would make a bit of a noise falling. That’s one of the things I love about this place,’ she said. ‘I never hear anything except the birds and the bees and the sounds I make myself. Occasionally I hear your sheep or cattle.’

  But Billy wasn’t listening. He’d reverted to gazing with unblinking eyes onto the plains below. Ordinarily she would have been offended by the rudeness but she quickly realised that rudeness played no part in his actions. He had no artifice and no hidden agenda. Something had disturbed him and it was in his nature to try to understand what it was. She smiled to herself. Billy was complicated but in a nice way, and it felt nice to have a man around, to have him there with his feet planted solidly on her rail. She was beginning to appreciate how warmly satisfying companionable silence could be.

  She’d planned to eat indoors by the subdued light of cleverly placed lamps, but Billy persuaded her to eat out on the veranda. His arguments were reasonable. The late spring nights had lost the chill of winter and not yet realised the full heat of summer. The temperature was at that pleasant in-between stage where it was a little cool for just a shirt but not cool enough for a cardigan or jumper. Even the sandflies were absent, in transition to adulthood. Billy claimed this was the best time of the year and helped her carry the table out onto the veranda. She placed three candles on the table and lit them, aware but not alarmed by the romantic implications. She was certain Billy would see them as utilitarian, the only option in the absence of any alternative. Besides, she recalled his opening remarks when he gave her the roses, saying it didn’t feel right to arrive empty-handed. Those weren’t the sentiments of a Romeo intent on having it off with his Juliet.

  ‘I hope you like prawns,’ she said, taking a seat opposite him.

  ‘I love them. Every so often I get a craving for seafood and drive up to the Bowling Club at Lightning Ridge. Usually on my birthday.’ He smile
d slightly, as though surprised or embarrassed. ‘Sort of caught up on me this year. Ought to be up there now.’

  ‘What? What are you saying? Don’t tell me today’s your birthday.’

  ‘It is if it’s still November twelve.’

  ‘Why didn’t you say?’

  ‘Didn’t think it was relevant.’

  ‘Not relevant? My God! Happy birthday, Billy Dwyer.’ She leaned across the table and kissed him. ‘So you’re having your birthday dinner anyway. I hope it’s up to Bowling Club standard.’

  ‘They do it well, Linda. The seafood’s flown in and it’s as fresh as anything you’ll get in Sydney. One day I’ll take you there.’

  ‘You’re on. When?’

  Billy shifted uncomfortably. His mood changed.

  ‘Yeah, well, we’ve got to think about that.’

  Linda sensed there was more and kept her silence.

  ‘There’s a story doing the rounds that I’ve got you set up here in a love nest.’

  Linda nearly choked on her drink. She started laughing and instantly regretted it when she saw the look on Billy’s face. Briefly, for not much more than the flicker of an eye, she thought she glimpsed a breach in his self-control, a flash of hurt or vulnerability. It suddenly dawned on her how her reaction could have been interpreted.

  ‘This is serious, Linda.’

  ‘I’m sorry. It’s just that “love nest” is such a quaint, old-fashioned expression.’ She smiled and touched his hand reassuringly. ‘I thought only naughty politicians had love nests, and even then only in tabloid newspapers. Please go on.’

  She listened intently as Billy told her about his conversation with Jimmy in the stock and station and the sequel in the bar of the RSL.

  ‘You’re going to have to sit tight for a while,’ he concluded. ‘Dinner at the club is on hold.’