Ringer

by C. J. Duggan

  It’s not like I hadn’t seen my family. They had holidayed overseas frequently to see me, the times when Max was around to take care of things. Max had even come over for a stint. I’d probably had better quality time with my family being an ocean away than I would have had at Moira, locked in my bedroom, hating the world.

  The same claustrophobic feelings of my childhood bedroom clawed at my soul: even after all these years I couldn’t think of a worse place to escape to.

  Escape to? Ha. More like escape from.

  “I won’t go,” I said, pushing back my chair and heading for the kitchen door.

  “Mm hmm,” managed my aunty, as if she didn’t believe a word I had said.

  I paused at the doorway, piercing her with a poignant stare. “I. Am. Not. Going.”

  Famous last words.

  Chapter Three

  RINGER

  I careened my ’77 canary yellow Ford down the dirt track, admiring the trail of dust that rose from my rear-view mirror.

  My suntanned arm rested on the wound-down window as I tapped my free hand cheerfully on the steering wheel to Air Supply’s ‘Lost in Love’, a song I disturbingly knew all the words to. I paused from my singing, a smile creasing the corner of my mouth; if only the boys back home could see me now. I shrugged. It wasn’t exactly my choice of driving music; still, my tape player was stuffed, so I had to put up with any outback radio station I could get reception for. The music crackled momentarily with white noise.

  “Not now. This is the best part.” I growled in frustration as I banged my fist on the dashboard.

  Aside from the rather dubious romantic tunes of Air Supply, I was relishing the solitude. A true stroke of genius on my part that had me escaping the loved-up fools of Onslow. My offer to help out Max’s dad by volunteering to work on the family farm in his place had been met with mixed emotions from Max. First uncertainty, and then fear. A fear to hope I was serious.

  But I had been deadly serious, obviously, as I fishtailed along the desolate farm road towards…I squinted.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me?” I groaned.

  Slowing down to a full stop I tipped my sunnies down and shook my head. In front of me was another farm gate. The fifth one I had been faced with having to open. I didn’t grab the details of how big the Henry’s property was; I wasn’t interested in the logistics. All I wanted to know was if there was a comfy bed and a cold beer waiting for me at the end of the day. Being assured of both, I was satisfied. But what I really should have asked was how many fucking gates the property had.

  I opened my door and slid out of the leather driver’s seat. I pushed my arms to the sky, groaning with the satisfaction of stretching my muscles as I slid my hand up my T-shirt sleeve to retrieve my packet of Peter Jacksons. I opened the packet, delving in and grabbing a smoke that I flipped into my mouth with expert ease. I reached for the zippo lighter from my back pocket, flicking it to life; I blocked the hot summer wind from the flame as I lit up and inhaled my addiction. I stood next to the opened car door, turning slightly, taking in the great nothing of my surroundings with each slow draw. Flat, desolate scrubland, with no pinnacle to focus on, no homestead in sight, no cattle or sheep to be seen. Only yet another divide of fencing and a weather-beaten farm gate.

  I shielded my eyes from the penetrating rays of the February sun, before taking another drag and ducking into the console of my Ford to retrieve Max’s mud map to ‘Moira Station’.

  Scribbled crudely on the back of a Carlton Draught beer coaster (my one and only token from Onslow), I studied the squiggly lines that proved to be a pretty easy route, now that I had turned onto Sheehan Road. All I had to do was just go straight, straight until the fork in the road. Left was Moira, right was the Sheehan’s property.

  Simple enough, I thought. When it came to Ballan, I had predicted that everyone and everything would be pretty simple, laid back to the point of slipping into a coma. Nope, complication was not on the agenda here. I may have been standing in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by salt, bush and dust. But the silence, the red earth and rusty gate I walked towards and started to unchain, all of these elements were beautiful to me, oh so beauti—

  I paused. Cocking my head slightly to hear the distant thrums.

  Was that a car?

  I stilled my hands on the gate, turning to see. Sure enough, a distant billow of dust burst into the sky as a little speck gunned along the track. I could have heard it from a mile away; the car was a shit box and in desperate need of a service. The sound sliced through the stillness of what was once a silent and heavenly existence. I shielded my eyes as I watched the white hatchback Mazda speed closer. Maybe this was my would-be boss? Max’s dad, or maybe a Sheehan from the neighbouring property? It would be more than a surprise as most farmers drove flash four-wheel drives, not the screeching bomb like the one nearing.

  Regardless, I threw down my cigarette and swivelled it out in the dirt, waving my arm in the air as a way of a friendly greeting while I slowly worked on opening the gate. I smiled, ready to meet my new acquaintance—the new acquaintance that wasn’t slowing down. I worked on the chain faster—the new acquaintance, who was now beeping their horn like a raving lunatic. I clawed and tugged at the chain, glancing up from my hands only long enough to afford myself the view of the fast-approaching white rocket that barrelled down the track.

  The horn sounded in a long, insistent beep-beep-beeeeeeeep.

  Oh shit! OH SHIT!

  The psycho wasn’t slowing. I had visions of the buzz box driving over my car like a monster truck, pinning me to the gate while it smashed its way through.

  Beep-beep-beeeeeeeeeeeeep.

  I unlatched the last of the gate with enough time to latch onto it and catapult myself, attached to said gate, away in a wide swing. The beaten-up hatchback swerved violently around my car and sped through the barely opened gap.

  The force of the gate slamming into the wire fence knocked me from my hold; I fell backwards into the dusty shrubs with an oomph. I heard the car come to a skidding halt. I rolled onto my side, catching the breath that had been knocked out from me. I may have been in a momentary world of pain, and my life may have just flashed before my eyes, but it did little to stem the tide of anger that rose to claw its way out of me.

  Clasping my ribs, I slowly got to my feet and glared at the rattling-arse end of the car before me.

  “Hey! Hey, what the fuck?” I screamed, hobbling over to the car and slamming my palm on the back window before doubling over in pain. It was then I saw the driver’s window was being wound down slowly, not because the driver was doing it deliberately slow, but because it looked like it was being shunted downwards by force; the window was clearly stuck and was taking considerable effort to open. I stood to the side, clear from the car, my brows narrowed, waiting for an apology, for a question of concern maybe? Instead what I got was a glimpse of a delicate feminine hand as it appeared from the gap in the tinted window, a turquoise beaded bracelet, and immaculately pearl polished, manicured nails. I was momentarily stunned by the unexpectedness of it, more so when the dainty little hand extended me the middle finger.

  What the fuck?

  My lips pressed into an incredulous smile as I quickly stepped towards the car wanting to get a look at who was behind the wheel, but as I skidded to the driver’s door, grabbing onto the handle, the car spun its back wheels and gunned it down the track, leaving me in a shower of dirt and a Mazda door handle in my grasp.

  What the fuck?

  I coughed at the dust that was lodging in my throat, a cough that turned into hysterical cackling as I fixed my eyes onto the door handle. I wiped the tears from my eyes as I watched the Mazda thunder down the track until it was a speck in the distance, a speck that had me raising my brows with interest as it veered right. Taking the fork in the road that I couldn’t quite make out, the car blazed its way towards the Sheehan property.

  Interesting.

  Chapter Four

  Mir
anda

  I wasn’t ready to go home.

  Not just yet; in fact, despite my erratic, maniacal driving (I had never been a good driver), I had wanted to avoid getting back to Moira Station at all costs. So my decision was clear; as soon as I had veered left off the main highway and saw the Sheehan Road sign, my first point of call would be to pay my dear old friends a visit. Right after I inadvertently almost kill a stranger. I grimaced, casting my eyes into the rear-view mirror, seeing nothing more than a hazy speck in the distance. I had felt bad, kind of. But how was I supposed to know he was so bloody slow at opening up a farm gate? It wasn’t bloody rocket science, he would have had to have opened at least four before then, the idiot. Must be from the city? Although his car and attire hadn’t screamed so. I bit my lip; what if he was visiting the Sheehans? Or worse – Moira? Either way, I was screwed; my hands became clammy on the wheel and I wasn’t sure if it was down to the fear of running into the clearly crazy, swearing man, or the fact that my car had no air conditioning? At least with the window wound down I afforded myself some fresh air: fresh air for life now that it was firmly wedged open. You always took your life into your own hands each time you chose to operate anything in my car; still, it was mine and had been since I had driven away in it four years ago.

  I neared the final gate that led towards the Sheehan’s homestead; mercifully there was no canary-yellow Ford blocking the way, and no stunned stranger with fear in his eyes. A smile pressed the corner of my mouth, thinking back to the look on his face when I had flipped him off. Absolutely priceless. It had been so worth almost running him over for that look.

  I stopped the car with less violent force this time as I readied myself to get out to open the gate. The screeching unoiled hinge of my car door was music to my ears; sure I copped a lot of flak about it, but she was my car and I loved her just as much as the day I got her.

  I went to unhook the gate, but was stilled by distant screams and the sound of footsteps.

  “Oh, my God. Oh, my God. Oh, my God. MIRANDA.” Melanie Sheehan knocked the wind out of me, hugging me so severely she restricted my breathing, her arms circled around my neck like an anaconda crushing the very life out of me, pinning me, and my chest, into the gate between us.

  “Dad said you were coming home, but I didn’t believe it.” She stood back, grasping my shoulders and studying my face as if what she was seeing before her was a mirage. “Why didn’t you tell me?” she asked.

  Dear, sweet Mel, my lifelong childhood friend and astonishingly dedicated pen pal. She was a few years younger than me, but she had been my only playmate as a child. How I had missed her clear blue-sky-like eyes, and the light dusting of freckles across her nose. She wore her hair in a constant ponytail; the lighter wisps of her brown hair bleached by the sun swept around her face. She looked just like her dad.

  I smiled, an actual real smile that I hadn’t done since I couldn’t remember when. “I’m sorry, it’s been insane since I got back, I haven’t had much time to find my feet really. It’s not like Mum and Dad gave me much choice,” I said, trying to sound light about it.

  The brightness in Mel’s eyes dimmed and her mouth gaped in a question that was stilled when we heard a distant wolf whistle. Over Mel’s shoulder stood a man I would never be able to forget, a man whose essence no photograph over the years had ever been able to capture. Mel’s dad was tall, built, and had an electric presence of power and masculinity. Even though he was my dad’s best mate and more of an adopted uncle, any female could appreciate his draw. Aside from that, to me he was just Bluey. Luke Sheehan, nicknamed ‘Bluey’, a namesake that drew much popular debate. Some say it’s because he only owned Blue Heeler dogs, others put it down to his affection for blue dungaree pants and blue checked flannel shirts, but the one I believed true was because of the piercing blue of his eyes. Had to be.

  He leant casually against a verandah post of his homestead, watching on at our reunion.

  A crooked curve lifted his mouth as he shook his head. “There goes the neighbourhood,” he said, straightening from his casual stance and making his way down the steps towards the gate.

  I tilted my head. “Oh hardy-ha! I could probably teach you a thing or two, old man.”

  “Old man? Ouch,” he said as he approached, towering next to Mel. He rested his elbows on the top of the gate. “Your old man will be glad to see you,” he said, ruffling my hair up.

  I pulled away, feigning annoyance as I brushed my hair back into place. “I bet he will, his own personal slave he can push around the farm.”

  “Slave? More like princess,” Bluey scoffed.

  “Ha! What kind of princess is asked to man the fort while her parents leave her to go to cattle auctions? I think not,” I said, brushing a layer of dust off my jeans.

  Bluey’s eyes dimmed in the same manner Mel’s had before; it was a look of genuine bewilderment, more so when Bluey shifted uneasily and caught the eye of his daughter.

  “Man the fort?” he asked.

  “Yeah, can you believe it? I haven’t even been home for a week and he wants me to babysit Moira Station, as if I have a clue what to do; it’s preposterous.”

  “You wouldn’t.”

  “Exactly. Thank you.”

  “That’s why he’s hired someone.”

  “What?”

  Bluey shrugged. “He’s hired someone Max recommended.”

  “But … but he said he needed me home.”

  “Needed or wanted you home?” Bluey emphasised the latter.

  I blinked; thinking back to the conversations that had gone on, the only link in my mind, now having thought about it, was Max wasn’t going to be there, so naturally I would be the one expected to … oh God! They had merely wanted me to come home, lured by my own stupidity.

  Mel laughed. “You running Moira, now that I would like to see.”

  My eyes narrowed.

  “You said so yourself it would be pretty preposterous.” Bluey smirked.

  Right!

  I stormed back to the car, madder than hell: mad at my dad being shady on the details; mad at Max having a life; mad at the Sheehans for making me feel foolish.

  “I’ll see you later,” I called, rage bubbling under the surface, because most of all, I was mad at myself.

  I reached to grab the handle of my door.

  “What the … ?”

  My hand hovered over the bare alcove of my missing door handle, and a new dread swept over me.

  He hired someone.

  Someone Max recommended.

  Oh shit!

  Chapter Five

  Ringer

  “You’re more than welcome to stay in the house.”

  Steve Henry walked in front of me down the long hallway that led into a pristine, cream-coloured kitchen with stainless steel modern appliances. He was tall and wiry like Max, except for one obvious difference: Max didn’t have a beer gut … yet. Steve’s sandy-blond hair and weathered face from working outdoors no doubt made him look older than he actually was. Still, he had a firm handshake which immediately put him in good stead—it’s all any bloke could ask for in order to make a good impression; well, that and an offer of a cold beer that I gladly welcomed. After the long drive and near-death experience, I must have looked a sight. I arrived at Moira station covered in dust, my jeans torn on the side and a skinned elbow. Max’s dad, Steve, had looked me over with guarded humour.

  “Rough trip?” he asked.

  Nothing like a bit of smart-arse humour to lighten the mood. I think I would like Steve Henry just fine.

  “Like I said, there’s plenty of spare rooms in the house if you want to claim one for yourself.”

  “Thanks, Mr Henry, but I’ve stayed in shearers’ huts before, I’m happy to crash there.”

  “Ha. Maybe you better inspect them before committing, and if you call me Mr Henry one more time I’ll force you to sleep in the shearing shed with the sheep.”

  I smirked, picking at the VB label of my stubby. “Y
ou’re a subtle man, Steve.”

  “Ha. Just ask my wife: subtle as a sledgehammer, she says.” He finished the last of his stubby before slamming it onto the kitchen sink, smacking his lips together as if he had satisfied an insatiable thirst, before belching like a champion. “Come on,” Steve tilted his head towards the screen door that led out to the verandah, “you can check out the shearing huts, see what you think.”

  I followed his long strides out of the kitchen. The cream-coloured dial telephone mounted on the kitchen wall by the door sounded, causing us both to jump with the unexpectedness of it.

  Steve paused in the open door frame, briefly closing his eyes and groaning as he looked up to the sky as if silently asking God to give him strength.

  “Speak of the devil,” he said before turning to me. “The Mrs.”

  I nodded my head with silent understanding as he let the wire screen door slam shut and reached for the phone.

  “Hello … oh, hello, luv,” he said cheerfully before giving me a smug wink. “Yeah, no I was just giving Max’s young mate a tour of the place … yep, no seems like a good bloke … ah-ha, ah-ha, ah-ha …” Steve rolled his eyes at me, as he barely got a word in on the one-sided conversation. He placed his hand over the receiver.

  “Ah, this might take a while, why don’t you grab another beer and go relax in the lounge room, it’s pretty cool in there,” he whispered, before returning to his conversation. “Yeah, I am listening,” he snapped.

  I backed away from the display of wedded bliss, cringing at the thought of having to answer to anyone like that; to be accountable to anyone other than myself seemed … exhausting. I placed my empty stubby on the sink next to Steve’s, going against the idea of grabbing another until he did. Instead, I made my way to the lounge room, delving my hands deep into my pockets as I casually took in the tidy room. The plush carpet had me wishing I had wiped my feet a little more vigorously before entering the home. I had wiped them pretty hard anyway, having seen the impressive, mansion-like homestead—the large, pristine weatherboard home with its sweeping verandahs that surrounded the whole building, acting as a shelter over the freshly oiled merbau decking. French doors led out onto the deck, no doubt designed to allow access to what cool airflow there was when the sun went down. The main entrance was grand with its ornate leadlight windows surrounding a heavy front door, detailed with Victorian scroll moulding. It screamed decadence. It opened into a long hallway; the gloss of the Murray pine floorboards shone as light filtered through the open door. My eyes had then been drawn forward to admire the decoratively corniced arch that divided the hall. A chandelier held grandly from the fifteen-foot pressed metal ceilings. It was the second thing that really struck me about the place: that and everything was cream. Cream curtains, cream couches, cream carpet. And if it wasn’t cream it was white: white architraves, white mantel, white doilies lining the side tables with photo frames. It would have been a farmer’s worst nightmare knocking off for the day and having to tentatively creep through the house, not daring to touch anything for fear of smudging an immaculately kept surface.