by Lily Malone
Lily Malone
The message loitered in her inbox, black and bold. The subject line read: Introducing CC & Muddy Pot.
How does he know Mikey’s nickname was Muddy? As far as she knew, Tate had never met her brother. Her fingers dived to the mouse. Double-clicked.
The file took its own sweet time to download. The screen buzzed from grey-blue to black and white and a hand-drawn picture appeared, magnified so high she couldn’t recognize any piece of it. She zoomed out to a view that better fit her screen.
Her mouth opened with the phluck of lips gone dry.
There was a character with a Lara Croft plait halfway down her back. A hat. Killer heels.
The other wore footy shorts, a singlet and Wellington boots.
Each character was drawn with an upside-down terracotta pot body— a clay pot—
with skinny arms and legs poking through holes top and bottom, knees and elbows like golf balls.
She was looking at a scene in a bottle shop, shelves filled to overflowing with wine.
Muddy Pot’s arms were clamped across his pot stomach and he was laughing with CC Pot.
Laughing fit to bust. A bottle of wine had smashed on the floor, its contents spilled like ink.
The crashed bottle pointed a shaky finger at Muddy Pot. Its speech balloon said: He told me to jump.
The speech balloon above Muddy Pot’s read: He said he wanted to know what happened to all the other green bottles.
Christina’s view drifted to the words at the bottom of the page.
CRACKED POTS by CLAY
She turned the chair and slumped sideways to the padded seat, heard it gush air.
Chair wheels tracked over carpet as she pushed back, swivelled toward the window and pulled the curtain aside. A dog barked at the morning. Little dog. Yappy bark.
A lone male jogger, earphones in, passed her mailbox, wind creasing his white shirt.
A camellia flower flopped to the bed of red petals on the lawn. It was impossible to tell where red-brick path ended and the red flower carpet began. Then a second email pinged into her inbox.
Chapter 6
Suburbia hunkered on the right side of Main North Road, all orange-roofed and brick-walled behind a row of roadside eucalypts choked by weeds, branches petrified into the shape of the prevailing winds. The left side of the highway housed plumbing supply shops, used-caravan lots and discount car yards, most boasting signs about end-of‐financial-year sales.
Christina drove past a McDonalds doing brisk breakfast trade and an adults-only store, windows blacked out.
It was a while since she’d been out here, not much had changed.
Kings Road intersected Main North ahead. One other car exited there and she followed it left. A second left took her into Parafield Airport. Hangar 56 was easy to find, its door gaped like a missing tooth and she recognised the tank hulking out front. She slotted the Golf beside it, let her foot rev the engine a few seconds longer than necessary, then buzzed the window up, cut the motor and stepped into an arctic wind laced with the smell of tarmac, fuel and fast food. The wind tried to blow the driver’s door off its hinge.
“Less than an hour, I’m impressed,” Tate called, wiping his hands on a rag. He stuffed something that might once have been silver—a wrench or a spanner—in the pocket of a long-sleeved red-checked shirt and emerged from the hangar. Black jeans hugged his thighs.
The shirt blew open over a black Springsteen T-shirt that clung to his chest like a peach to its stone.
A plane barely big enough to earn the title squatted behind him, and she could make out the word Jabiru written in a double red stripe on the tail.
God help me, he’s serious. We’re flying. In that.
“Did you shoot that cat? Or did it volunteer its spots?” He eyed her canvas flats, a crooked smile jagging the corner of his mouth.
Reaching back into the Golf she grabbed her cardigan and pulled it over her shoulders, retrieved handbag, hat and her takeaway latte, and stalked past him into a hangar that smelled of grilled beef, fried onion and motor oil. Suicidal mosquitoes had baked on to the overhead fluorescent light.
Inside, the wind contented itself with clanging the metal chains of the roller door instead of trying to throttle her with her scarf. She searched for a surface free of tools on which to sit, gave up and leaned against a bench, took a sip of coffee and wrapped her hands around the Styrofoam cup.
“So you’ve decided to add blackmail to your many talents?”
“I think blackmail’s a little strong,” he responded.
“You wrote the email.”
“Any new client relationship needs boundaries. I was just reminding you of ours.” He whipped the silver thing out of his pocket and started doing pilot stuff to the engine.
“I thought you said today is about research?”
“I did.”
It was like pulling teeth. “So what exactly are we researching?”
“It’s a surprise.”
“Your email said—”
“Stop fishing, Christina, it’s a surprise. I’d pee before we take off though if I were you. The Ladies’ is to your left and round the corner.” He tossed the silver thing at his toolbox. It hit the upright lid with a clatter.
Lily Malone
“Surely you can tell me how far we’re—”
“Christina.” He advanced a half step and her hands jerked, sloshing coffee in her cup.
“If you want me to design Cracked Pots it’s on my terms or not at all. Your choice.” His words were soft but she felt their weight.
She drained the coffee, hunted for a bin to dump the cup and found a milk crate half-filled with red and yellow fan-shaped fries’ packets and drink cups with the straws still poking through the top.
“Scout’s honour, I’ll have you home before sundown.” He gave her a three-fingered salute.
“Like you were ever a boy-bloody‐scout.” She turned on her heel.
Pea-sized gravel the grey of smoke-stained snow sank beneath her shoes as she trudged to the windblown toilet block and shoved open the gate. She tried to think where anyone would fly in a plane like that for a day ex-Adelaide. There really weren’t many options. Kangaroo Island? Port Lincoln? He wouldn’t take her diving with Great White Sharks. Would he? How wild did he think she wanted this brand to be? His email was etched in her memory and she ran through it again as she hovered an inch above the cold plastic toilet seat, hoping she finished peeing before her thighs caved in.
Christina
You want an Australian brand that walks on the wild side? You need to broaden your horizons. There’s a lot more to Australia than your little patch of vineyard at McLaren Vale.
Meet me at Parafield Airport by 8.30am and we’ll do some research.
That’s if you like the concept. If not, no harm done.
Remember I own the copyright. I’d hate to see Cracked Pots crop up at Clay Wines under any other designer’s name.
T.
“If I like the concept,” she muttered to the wall. “Why else would I be standing here?”
The graffiti held lewd suggestions for her but no answers. She checked her eyes in the mirror. They were puffier than a panda’s and she slapped the sunglasses back on her nose.
Freezing water flowed from the tap making her wish she’d packed her gloves.
Perhaps Tate would consider gloves aeronautically appropriate attire because he sure as heck didn’t rate her shoes. She glared at them, orange and black spotted beacons at the end of a pair of nude footless tights.
The faux-leopard flats had been bought on a whim about the time Bram began hinting she should wear more conventional clothes. “It wouldn’t kill you to tone it down, CC,” he’d said, in the I’m-a‐serious-political‐candidate-now voice she’d fast grown to hate. “I need female voters to listen to my policies, not ask me where you bought your shoes.
Alexander’s wife swears by pant suits from Betty Lee. He said navy is TV-friendly.”
Navy! The nose in the mirror wrinkled. Pant suits!
She dried her hands on a paper towel, screwed it up and aimed for the bin.
Damn.
Hitting the shot would have improved her mood.
****
The Jabiru rocked in the crosswind as Tate pushed the plane from the hangar.
He saw Christina emerge around the corner of the building, one hand clamping a cream-coloured beanie to her head, the other batting at her grey-striped dress to stop the skirt flying up. The scowl on her face deepened with every step. Twin tails of tortoiseshell scarf whipped behind her like Medusa’s snakes and every fourth pace she brushed her cheek against the shoulder-strap of her handbag to keep her hair from tangling in her sunnies.
Tate hauled on the chains to close the hangar door and tried to hide his smile. The metal runners squealed.
“So you’re still game?” He indicated the Jabiru.
“I’m so not diving with Great White Sharks. If your idea of broadening my horizons involves swimming with Jaws, save yourself the fuel.”
“I’m not taking you swimming with sharks.” He opened the cockpit passenger door.
She took several deep breaths and when she pulled herself up, the knuckles gripping the support bar were bone white. He didn’t like the colour of her face.
“There’s air-sick pills in the console.”
She dropped the cream beanie near her feet. “Lay off the loop the loops and I promise I won’t puke.”
He walked around to the pilot’s side and leapt up. Once in, he checked her harness, leaned over to help her fit the unfamiliar headset; smelled her shampoo and that rainforest scent that was pure Christina.
Could be a long flight. He strapped himself in, re-ran his pre-flight checks. “Ready?”
Her fingers hooked into the seat. A silver ring, shaped a bit like an eye, glared at him from the middle knuckle of her right hand.
“Not a fan of flying?”
“I like a big Boeing just fine. I can pretend it’s a bus.”
Twin propellers concussed the air. He taxied the Jabiru to the take-off point, waited for Parafield Tower’s okay, then opened the throttle. The engine roared. Then he had the Jabiru’s nose up, streaking into the teeth of the wind, feeling better about the world with every foot he climbed. He’d been caged up in the city too long.
The buffeting eased. He adjusted course north, north-west and looked at Christina out the corner of his eye. She was staring out the window as if fascinated by the brick and tile boxes diminishing below, her eyes half-closed, silky lashes so long, they almost brushed her cheek.
The Gulf of St Vincent, then the upper reaches of Spencer Gulf—tide out—vanished beneath the plane. They flew over a windfarm, white turbine arms cartwheeling like a three-pronged showground ride.
Once she asked: “Who told you my brother’s nickname was Muddy?”
“Google. I found it in an online meet-the‐winemaker forum, way back when you first contacted me about taking on your account.”
She lapsed into silence.
Mile by mile, paddocks of winter wheat yielded to patches of purple-brown saltbush and blocks of white that might have been big flocks of sheep, or small salt pans. Then even those tapered away. Wider and wider expanses of unbroken orange earth spread north, east, west and soon, south behind the plane, like a rust-coloured blanket.
Lily Malone
“You can’t seriously be taking me to Alice Springs for lunch, Tate. So where the heck are we going? There’s nothing else out here.” It was the first words she’d spoken in more than an hour.
“Some people would say there’s nothing. I’m not one of them. The Australian outback is filled with more life than most places you’ll ever see.”
“Great. I’ve been kidnapped by Bear Grylls.” She crossed her arms over her chest. It was the first time he could remember them not being clawed into her seat. “I know why you’re still single. Kidnapping. Abduction…”
She fell silent again and after a while, he thought she’d fallen asleep.
Far ahead, he saw the first lazy smoke plumes rising from the desert floor. Coober Pedy’s opal mines. He checked his speed. The change in the engine’s vibration roused Christina.
“Where are we?”
“We’re stopping for fuel at Coober Pedy.”
“A fuel stop?”
“That’s right.”
“To go where?” The silver eye of her ring glinted.
He hesitated. He didn’t put it past her to jump ship at Coober Pedy airport if he told her the truth. “If I’m going to consult for you, I need to know you’re up for this wild brand you want. So I thought we’d go camping.”
“Camping.” She said it like he’d told her they were flying to the moon. “I thought you said you’d have me home tonight.”
“I didn’t mean your home. I meant mine. We’re visiting my family’s cattle station.”
The airport lay ahead, planes outside the terminal like a line of white crosses from the air.
Christina leaned forward in her seat, peering out over the Jabiru’s nose. “Is that thing a terminal or a toilet block?”
“Don’t let the locals hear you say that. They’re very proud of their new terminal,” he said.
“New terminal, my arse.” She re-glued her hands to the seat. “That thing’s got crapper written all over it.”
Chapter 7
She woke with a jolt beside him. “Sorry?”
“I said it’s twenty-two degrees on the ground at Binara today.”
Christina sat straighter. Cauliflower clouds that had blanketed the sky most of the day had burned-off after Coober Pedy and now the sun raked through the passenger window. Tate had watched it shine off her hair while she slept.
“Did I wake you?”
“Just resting my eyes. I didn’t sleep very well last night.” She stretched her neck to the side and stifled a yawn with the back of her hand.
It didn’t surprise him her neck was stiff. She’d been nanna-napping for an hour.
“Where are we?”
He pointed out to the right. “That’s Binara. That’s where I grew up. We’re five minutes from landing.”
“I can’t believe we’ve flown five bloody hours to see your childhood roots.”
“You can slap me when we land.”
“Of all the—”
He held his finger to his lips, like his father used to do when the kids wanted to watch cartoons and Gilbert Newell wanted to watch the news.
Darker green dots morphed into trees marking the river, for once swollen with water and gleaming brown as it snaked south-west.
“That’s the homestead?”
“Yeah, and that’s the driveway. They do a two hundred kilometre round trip to collect the mail once a week.”
Christina’s gaze slipped to the gravel track sliding west. There were other roads too stretching away like sandy veins. She lifted her sunglasses and rechecked the view, then replaced them on the bridge of her nose. “It’s all so green.”
“They’ve had record rains from Cyclone Yasi, remember? Lake Eyre’s flooded. That’s why you couldn’t move for tourists back at Coober Pedy airport. It’s a hub for charter flights over the lake.”
The runway was an orange slash running parallel to the straightest stretch of river and it rushed up to meet them. Touch-down was no gentle kiss of wheels; the strip was as soft as he’d seen it and slippery. Christina dug her nails into the seat beside him and held on.
He taxied toward an open-fronted iron shed housing a twin to the Jabiru, plus his father’s old Pajero. Shasta’s mustering helicopter sat on a concrete pad purpose-built off to the side beneath the wind-sock Jolie once dyed daffodil-yellow, now fluttering tired and lemony on its pole. None of the family had ever thought to replace it.
Tate shoved his door open, stepped down and stretched. The twin blades rotated in slower circles and the cooling engine clicked. A bird piped a call as if asking its mate
s what the heck just flew out of the sky.
Stretching felt good. His neck cracked.
Christina mimicked him, fingers smoothing chestnut tangles from her hair. She leaned back into the cockpit to retrieve her beanie and pulled it over her head.
Tate let himself breathe. Really breathe.
This air was everything he loved. No scent of the popcorn that always blew from the cinemas on The Parade, no smell of bubblegum squashed on city streets or melted cheese Lily Malone
on microwave meals or car exhaust fumes. He filled his lungs with air filtered through eucalyptus leaves, washed by damp earth and river sand.
“Well, this isn’t so bad,” Christina said, breathing the same air beside him and looking like she relished it.
He was sure that wouldn’t last.
Gilbert Newell’s old Pajero started first go and five minutes later Tate veered right where the airstrip track turned into the homestead’s main entrance. He rattled over the cattle grid, past the stockyards where he halter-broke his first horse and the stables where Jolie fell off the rafters and broke her arm. Twice. Trying to show she could keep up with her brothers.
Binara Homestead opened before them, stately as ever, greener than he remembered. He shook his head, oddly irritated by all the colour and unsure why. In his memory, Binara was always cracked orange-brown. Green felt too civilised.
Three kelpies leapt off the verandah. Tate braked late and too hard and if there had been dust it would have swamped the car. The screen door smashed back into the rendered stone wall and his sister-in‐law ran out of the house, Shasta behind her, agile despite his bulk.
Tate climbed out of the Pajero, swung Bree off her feet, set her down with a kiss on the cheek and pumped Shasta’s hand. Christina’s door shut and she threaded a path around the bonnet.
“Bree. Shasta. This is Christina Clay.”
“Paddy. Get down,” Bree growled, catching the youngest dog trying to stuff its nose under Christina’s dress. It was barely older than a pup and it slunk away with its tail between its legs.
“The dogs don’t see strangers much,” Bree apologised with a warm kiss for Christina’s cheek. She had to stoop to plant it. “It’s so good to meet you. I get so tired of talking about cattle all the time and Lord do they bang on about football out here. I love your shoes. Belfast, get t’hell out of it. All you dogs sit down.”