Love: Classified

by Jones, Sally-Ann

  I realised I had no choice. I owed it to myself to have an adventure, whatever the consequences. But then I imagined lying on the floor of Matilda on one of the two mattresses, Magnus on the other. What if I reached out for him in my sleep, betraying what I felt about him? He’d be repelled and I’d risk dying of embarrassment unless I could come up with some excuse. Sorry Magnus, I thought I was at home and Barney had jumped onto my bed for a cuddle. Would he buy that? He’d have to.

  Eventually I turned over and fell into a deep refreshing sleep. I woke at dawn, showered, dressed, fussed over Barney and the chooks and watered the garden, all before I heard the sound of Matilda rumbling to a halt in the driveway. I threw open the front door to let Magnus in.

  “I’ve brought honey, banana and walnut muffins,” he said. “Shall we eat here, or find somewhere to stop later on?”

  “Let’s hit the road,” I heard myself saying. I was eager for the idyll – or the disaster – to begin. “I’ve made two thermoses of tea and coffee and Jake’s packed a mountain of food for us, perishable and otherwise. Just give me a minute while I load it into Matilda.”

  Magnus helped and soon, having cuddled Barney once more, we were off, stopping briefly to wish Jake well and ask him to send Josie my love. We’d agreed to leave our mobile phones behind and forget about the 21st century for a while and climbing into the Kombi without it certainly gave me an unexpected sense of freedom.

  The radio was on and before we knew it we were out of the city, heading for the Darling Scarp, the ridge of foothills that edge Perth’s eastern suburbs. My throat was almost sore from joining Magnus in loud accompaniments to most of the Bee Gees, Simon and Garfunkel and the Carpenters. Beyond the hills lay the bush. It was mild for January and Magnus asked if we should take advantage of the perfect weather by having a picnic breakfast in the forest. I agreed and he slowed the van so we could look for a good place to stop.

  Soon I spotted one not far off the highway. We got out of Matilda and walked to a wooden table and benches set in a clearing amidst towering gum trees. A newspaper, weighted down with a stone, fluttered on the table-top. Its print was fading and its pages yellowing and I took little notice of it, but Magnus whisked it up quickly and rammed it into a rubbish bin, his face suddenly white.

  “Are you okay?” I asked, remembering Josie’s words. “You look exhausted. Shall I take over the driving for a while?”

  “I’m fine,” he said gruffly, sitting heavily and gulping coffee. “I need something in my stomach, that’s all.”

  I noticed, however, that he only picked at the muffin, leaving most of it for the crows and magpies that crowded around us. His pallor made me want to take him into my arms and cuddle him but I knew that would make him feel worse than he already was.

  He was very quiet for most of the way to York until I pointed out a picturesque ruined building about a kilometre from the town. He seemed as inquisitive about it as me and stopped Matilda for us to get out again. Half-hidden by overgrown vines, straggling almond trees and climbing roses, the place had probably been a small wayside inn for the mail coach a century ago. The remains of the hand-made bricks showed through the leaf-litter on the ground and a few big chimney stones still stood in place amongst them. Several flat stones, once the fireplace, made a good place for us to sit in what was a fragrant bower as the rose bush had produced a few perfumed yellow blooms around which bees hummed and ladybirds explored. After the bone-shaking, noisy ride in the Kombi I was glad of somewhere serene to sit and was entranced by the unexpected beauty of our hideaway.

  “I think this place is a good omen,” Magnus commented, sipping another mug of coffee thoughtfully.

  “What do you mean?” I was thrilled that he seemed to like it. In this shady place he seemed to have regained his composure.

  “I mean the fact that you found this beautiful place when we’ve only been on the road for a few hours has good implications for our holiday.”

  “I’ll drink to that,” I laughed, clinking my mug against his.

  He stared into the coffee before saying dreamily, “There was a place a bit like this on our farm when I was a kid. It was an original stone farmstead built by a pioneer and not much of it remained. There was a fruit tree, but no vines or anything, and I spent hours there, imagining what it would’ve been like to be that pioneer, or even a trooper or a bushranger. I’d forgotten all about it until just now, when you knocked your mug against mine.”

  He looked up and our eyes met. “There I was, rambling on. Sorry,” he said.

  “No, go on. I was enjoying it.”

  “My wife, Vanessa, used to hate me reminiscing about my rural childhood. But this place, and you, are bringing some of it back. My best mate, Huw Davis, stole a couple of bottles of beer one afternoon. We sat in the old ruin, knocked the tops off, and he clinked his against mine before we each took a swig. But it wasn’t beer at all. It turned out to be the fabulous tomato ragout his Italian neighbours made every summer and poured into brown beer bottles.” He grinned. “Not that we thought it was fabulous when we were twelve years old. We spat it out in disgust.”

  He looked at me with those shining brown eyes and I silently rejoiced at his words, My wife used to hate me reminiscing about my rural childhood. He’d used the word wife in the past tense and if she hadn’t liked him talking about growing up in the country, then there must be something cold and snobbish about her. I said breezily, “I could really do something with a place like this,” trying my best to ignore the cloud of butterflies fluttering inside me.

  “I bet you could. I like the way you’ve brought your house to life. I must admit I’ve done some research on you. I don’t read magazines, in print or online, but even I was impressed by your work.”

  “I can’t imagine you reading about how to update a room with a selection of cushions,” I giggled.

  “Maybe not, but I liked the way your e-zine looked.”

  We sipped our coffee watching the bees and the beautiful roses against the bright blue of the sky and he said jokingly in a television reporter’s voice, his hand a pretend microphone, “What would you do, Ms Brook, if you were asked to transform this charming pile of rubble into a home?”

  I laughed and pulled his cupped hand close to my mouth. “Well,” I began, in a terrible mimic of a well-known DIY presenter, trembling inside because of his nearness, “I’d bring the outside in. After all, that rose is just too divine. I’d have glass walls, a massive pergola for the vine, and I’d make a feature of this wonderful, tortured-looking tree.”

  “You sound exactly like the woman on that show,” he chuckled, his teeth white and perfect against his tan.

  “I think we’ve both been watching too much TV,” I remarked, hoping my voice didn’t sound wobbly. “It’ll be good to get away from it.”

  He nodded, “Yeah. It’s been like a drug for me lately. Not the news, but the fluffy stuff. Everything’s been so rough in my real life, I’ve just sat down in front of the damn thing and let it all wash over me, rinse all the thoughts away, all the memories, all the pain. But the effects aren’t permanent and you need to sit there night after night and be so numbed after hours of viewing that you fall into a dreamless sleep.”

  “I know,” I said, sitting on my hands so they couldn’t be tempted to reach over for him and pull his head down between my breasts and kiss his forehead and tell him that no matter what, I’d adore him forever.

  “I’m getting morose,” he said. “This is far too nice a morning for that. Look. The tree actually has almonds. Let’s pick some.”

  “I wasn’t joking when I said I really could make something of this place,” I told him when we were both sitting down again, chewing the sun-warmed nuts. “I once did a brick-making course. It would be fun to actually build a cottage here, starting from scratch.”

  “You can make bricks? What a useful trade for a beautiful red-head! But yes, I agree. It would be great to build a house right here. The garden just needs some pruning.
And look at the view. Rolling hills, granite outcrops. I bet there are caves, way over there. What a place for a kid to grow up in! I wonder who owns it?”

  “Who knows.”

  “It could be a terrific little house, despite being close to the road. We can hardly hear the few cars and trucks on the road.”

  “We could have lead-lights around the door,” I said, picturing the finished house. “And polished floor-boards. High ceilings. A wine cellar, of course.”

  “We?” he asked, grinning.

  I blushed. In my mind I’d seen us sitting together on wicker chairs on a wide shady verandah, exactly where we were now. The vine, tended and cared for, was heavy with red grapes, the almond tree trimmed of its dead wood. A child flew through the air on a wooden swing which hung from one of its sturdy branches.

  “It was just a figure of speech,” I said defensively, angry with myself for getting carried away, and for him for calling me to question.

  “Come on then,” he said, perhaps feeling my anger, the mood broken. “Let’s get moving.”

  I climbed back into the van, reluctant to leave. I’d have liked to stay longer but was afraid he’d been laughing at me. He’d no more share a cottage with me than co-pilot a spaceship to Mars.

  Chapter Four

  We reached a park close to York, our first destination, at midday and parked by the Avon River, perhaps named by nostalgic English settlers. We walked along the bank under the shady trees whose branches dipped into the water and found our way into the small town which had been built by convicts in the middle of the nineteenth century. I knew that the convicts had walked in chains all the way from Fremantle, having spent months in a crowded, filthy boat. The town was the first inland settlement in Western Australia.

  I was disconcerted to find that the main street was over-run by menacing-looking bikies and walked close to Magnus’ big frame, relishing the feeling of safety he unconsciously gave me. Their motorcycles were ranged diagonally in the few parking-bays, making it difficult to step off the footpath and onto the road if anyone wanted to cross. As we walked towards an attractive gift-shop in one of the original old buildings, its wares invitingly displayed on the footpath as well as inside, I noticed an elderly woman trying to cross the street. She was unsteady on her feet and, as she stepped off the kerb, she rested her hand on the seat of one of the parked bikes to more safely manoeuvre her way between them.

  As she did, a massive beer-bellied man who’d been drinking at one of the nearby hotel’s outdoor tables sprang forward and, grabbing the woman, spun her around.

  “Don’t you touch my bike!” he roared at her, his arm raised, his fist clenched.

  “You coward!” thundered Magnus, leaping between the woman and the bikie.

  Afraid for Magnus, but more worried about the woman, I drew her aside as the bikie shouted at Magnus, “Who are you calling a coward.” He put his angry red face so close to Magnus’ that their noses almost touched.

  “You, you big bully,” Magnus yelled.

  “I’ll teach you to interfere,” the bikie shouted back, attempting to land a punch on Magnus’ jaw.

  But Magnus, carrying less weight and obviously very fit, from the look of his taut, muscular body, neatly side-stepped the blow and planted one of his own on the bikie’s triple chin.

  The bikie fell, sending two motorcycles tumbling. At that point, three more bikies launched themselves at Magnus. I screamed and the old woman clung to me, sobbing. Magnus took two on, grabbing the scruff of their jackets in each hand, and slammed their heads together. But the third, taking advantage of Magnus being occupied, brought a tattoed fist down on his shoulder. Having seen the hand coming, Magnus wrenched his head out of the way, but winced at the pain in his biceps. I could see it was agony because the colour drained out of his face and his arm hung limply by his side.

  I’d never been so glad to see a police car, sirens blaring as it sped to the fight. The screaming horns and flashing lights seemed to inflame the bikie who gritted his teeth and, head down, powered his fists in Magnus’ upper body until two or three male onlookers and even a couple more bikies attempted to drag him away.

  Still clutching the dazed elderly woman to prevent her falling into a faint on the ground, I met Magnus’ eyes and knew I’d never been so proud of anyone in my life. I smiled at him and at that moment he turned once more to the bikie and used his good arm to land a final almighty punch. It felled him and he collapsed against his mates while the small crowd who’d gathered, horrified, to watch, cheered.

  Magnus staggered towards the woman in my arms and managed to ask her if she was all right. She nodded and mumbled a thank you.

  “But what about you?” I asked, yearning to touch him but unwilling to let the woman go. “You were amazing.” At that point I didn’t care if he did see from my upright nipples that I was almost fainting from my overwhelming desire for him.

  “I’ve never been better,” he whispered, but I could see that he too was having trouble staying upright.

  “You’re a bit of a hero, sir,” came the voice of the young constable who’d emerged from the police vehicle and put a steadying arm around Magnus’ torso. “Well done.”

  “He’s going to need a doctor,” I said. “And this lady too. She’s had a nasty shock.”

  “I’ll take you all to the doc’s surgery in my car,” the constable said. “Come on.”

  The constable helped the elderly woman into the back seat and then he and I eased Magnus into the front. I got in beside the lady.

  “This guy saved Mrs Smart from being attacked by a bikie and single-handedly beat four of the thugs,” the constable told the doctor’s receptionist. “But he’s taken some heavy punches and should be examined, and Mrs Smart may need a check-up too.”

  “I’ll get the nurse to look at you, Mrs Smart,” the receptionist said, peering over her desk at us with interest. “Meanwhile, Dr Jenkins is just giving a baby a vaccination so you won’t have to wait long. Mrs, er, could you please fill out a form for your husband?”

  God, I wish he was my husband, I thought. But all I know about this fantastic hero is his name. I decided to put my own Medicare number on the form – I didn’t mind paying for the consultation – and I asked Magnus his address and date of birth.

  “Tell the receptionist I’m an itinerant and that I was born on 30 March 1968,” he said groggily.

  I noticed with a silly thrill that he’d been born on my Mum’s birthday. I’d have no trouble remembering it if we were still on the road in March.

  Meanwhile, the constable explained to the doctor, who’d finished with the baby, what had happened.

  “Your name rings a bell,” Dr Jenkins said to Magnus, who didn’t reply.

  I also felt I’d heard or read his name before and again wondered where. I wished I took more interest in politics or big business. Maybe if I did I’d know why his name seemed familiar.

  “You’ll go down in the history of this town,” Dr Jenkins remarked, helping Magnus to his feet. “Let’s have a look at you in my room. You come too, Mrs Winchester, and Constable Smith. I might need your help.”

  We walked in a slow procession down the corridor while Dr Jenkins continued: “Mrs Smart is everyone’s favourite lady. She’s a real do-gooder although she’d deny it if you said to her face. But nothing’s too much trouble to her. If that bikie had really hurt her, it could have been of the end of her as she has a weak heart. If that had happened, the whole of York would’ve been devastated. You did a great thing today.”

  When we got inside the consulting room with its neatly arranged medical equipment, the doctor asked the constable and I to help him get Magnus up on the bed.

  “Doc, I’ll have to go now,” the policeman said when we’d helped the patient up. “God knows what those bikies are getting up to.”

  “Good luck, mate,” Dr Jenkins said. “You might need to call in reinforcements.” Then, turning to me, he added, “You can take your husband’s clothes off while
I wash my hands. I’m afraid my nurse is on holiday and in a place as small as this, it’s impossible to find someone to stand in.”

  It hardly seemed appropriate to refuse, or even to tell the doctor that we weren’t married. My living arrangements were a lot less of an emergency than Magnus’ health. So I gently began rolling Magnus’ shirt up over his chest and head, hoping I didn’t hurt him even more.

  “And his jeans,” the doctor said, taking his stethoscope and other instruments and placing them on the table beside the bed.

  Magnus, noticing me blush even through his swollen eyes, grinned broadly and I was almost glad he was too punch-drunk to be able to think of anything witty to say.

  I’d never touched a man below the belt and my hands trembled as I unbuckled the belt, unfastened the top button, pulled down the zipper and eased the denim over his narrow hips and thighs. He was wearing brief grey undies and as I touched the zip, I couldn’t help but notice that his penis – an obvious big ridge lying across the front of his crotch – bucked under my fingertips. I hoped the doctor thought my nervousness was due to my having witnessed Magnus in a dangerous fight. But in fact I was excruciatingly aware of Magnus’ almost naked and beautiful body and of the enticing scent of honest male sweat and something else, something musky and dangerous.

  “I think you’d better sit down, dear,” Dr Jenkins said kindly, probably aware that I was struggling to retain my composure. “He’s safe with me, don’t you worry.”

  Dry-mouthed and shaky, I held my burning face in my hands as the doctor made a thorough examination. It seemed like an age before I felt a warm touch on my shoulder and the doctor peering down at me, smiling.

  “He’s fine, you’ll be glad to know,” he said. “He managed to escape any real damage, although he’s bruised pretty well all over. And I mean all over.” Dr Jenkins hesitated then added, “There’ll be no – you know – for a few days, unfortunately.”

  Despite my relief at knowing Magnus was all right, I blushed again and at that very moment happened to glance across at the patient. Magnus frowned jokingly at the doctor’s reference to sex and put on a glum face and made the thumbs-down sign.