Bella's Run

by Margareta Osborn

  She felt the music transport her to another time, another place.

  She was in Gundolin.

  Back with Will.

  Dancing with Will.

  Man, she’d missed him. Never before had she been so struck on a bloke. Will had somehow broken through the rules she and Patty had lived by: all fun; no pain or gain, especially when it came to men.

  At unexpected moments over the last couple of weeks when she was riding the motorbike, or just mowing the lawn, she’d found herself yearning to see him, to hear his deep voice and laughter, to smell and feel his warmth.

  The few mobile phone calls and text messages they’d shared had only accentuated the hundreds of miles of distance between them and made her yearn for him all the more.

  She wanted to taste him. Make love to him.

  Six weeks was up.

  She’d won the bet. All wagers were now off. The booty was hers; Patty owed her a slab of rum and fifty bucks.

  Her eyes slid across the ute to Will’s sister. Bella had been worried about Patty too, since the boys left. Patty had been quiet – almost reflective – and that wasn’t like her at all. Strangest of all was that Patty hadn’t been forthcoming with information after the night in Gundolin. When Bella asked how things had gone, Patty just smiled. With dreamy eyes she’d responded, ‘Good, really good.’

  That was it. Not a skerrick more.

  Although, Bella hadn’t exactly bared her soul to Patty about Will either, other than to complain about a certain bet.

  More roaming windmill grass caught Bella’s eye in the paddock out to the right, tumbling wildly like her thoughts and her unexpected feelings for Will. Her whole body suddenly seemed as light as air at the thought of what was waiting in those mountains. Bella pulled the ute to a halt by the side of the three-chain wide road. Unsnapped her seatbelt.

  ‘What are you doing?’ asked Patty, the sudden stop making her pull the hat from over her eyes. ‘Where are you going?’ she said again, jolting upright.

  Bella jumped from the driver’s seat, grabbed her hat and slammed the door.

  Through the open window she called, ‘Out to dance through tumbleweeds!’

  ‘They’re not tumbleweeds, they’re just bloody grass heads! You’re an idiot.’

  ‘So are you. Come on!’ Twirling, Bella threw her hat into the air. ‘We’ve lived one of our dreams, Patty. Our outback road trip is done. Now we’re free and ready for our next adventure. I love my life!’

  And she ran.

  ‘I can’t fucking believe I’m doing this,’ said Patty as she unsnapped her belt and got out of the ute.

  ‘Come on, grumble-guts. Have you ever seen anything like it?’ called Bella as she threw her hands in the direction of the hundreds of tumbling weeds scooting down the road. ‘They look so wild. So free. Just like us.’

  ‘If you say so, girl,’ said Patty, parking her bum on the bonnet. ‘So free in fact, in the US, North Dakota I think, they considered erecting a fence all the way around the whole state to stop the tumbleweed taking over. See, I’m not just a dumb-arse nurse.’

  ‘I never said you were.’

  ‘No, but you’ve thought it plenty of times.’ Patty lifted herself off the ute and slung an arm around her friend. ‘I agree. We’re as free-spirited as tumbleweed – but we’re not half as prickly!’

  ‘Speak for yourself.’

  Patty went for a full arm-lock around Bella’s neck. Bella jammed a pair of hands into Patty’s sensitive ribs and tickled for all she was worth.

  Patty roared and let her go, laughing.

  Gasping for breath, Patty took a few moments to compose herself. ‘We need a photo. So we have proof for our grandkids that we actually did this.’

  ‘Grandkids? Whoa back. I can’t even contemplate the idea of kids.’

  ‘Okay. How about so we’ve got proof we’re legends in our own lunchboxes?’

  Bella raised an eyebrow, then grinned and nodded.‘You’re just so full of yourself.’

  ‘You reckon?’

  ‘Yep.’

  Patty looked contemplative. ‘You’re probably right.’

  Then she ducked into the ute to grab her camera, and set the self-timer.

  ‘So are you coming?’ asked Bella.

  ‘Where to?’

  ‘To dance, my friend . . . To dance with Sara. Let’s pretend all this blow-away grass is tumbleweed and dance like lunatics. We’ve got the Nunkeri Muster and two boys waiting in those mountains of ours on the other side of the border. What’s not to be happy about?’

  The driver in the four-wheel drive coming in the opposite direction was mystified. Two young girls – one a long-ringleted blonde, the other a shorter, claret auburn – looked like they were dancing by the side of the road on a Friday afternoon. From the camera perched precariously atop a felt Akubra hat on the roof of the ute, they also appeared to be trying to pose for a photo.

  Figuring they were half-cut from an early finish shearing a mob or maybe they were starting early for a B&S weekend, he kept them in his rear-vision mirror long after he’d passed by. They were easy on the eye, that was for sure. And at his age the talent had all but dried up. Maybe he should have offered to take the photo for them.

  A bit late now. They were on the move again, twirling, laughing. They reminded him of the yearlings he had at home, playful young horses full of the thrill of life. Arms swinging, heads bopping, elastic-sided boots flying through the air, their features slowly became blurred until they were just a pair of shadows dancing in the breeze.

  Chapter 10

  Will O’Hara shouldn’t have been at the Stockmen’s Muster on the Nunkeri Plains. He should have stayed at home, baling his paddock of lucerne before the cool change hit. Downing a gulp of rum-and-coke, he slumped his shoulders forward over the can in his hand and tried not to think about the green crop languishing in neat rows on his river flats, waiting to be baled into squares.

  His thoughts shifted to his broken-down ute, sitting in the workshop back home on Tindarra Station. He’d inherited the ute along with the hundreds of acres which made up the station from his late Uncle Bill. He could have had the new water pump fitted to the old girl by now and she would’ve been running real sweet. He needed her going so he could start repairing the boundary fence between his place and his father Rory’s property next door.

  He let out an audible sigh that floated into the night air above his tousled russet hair, heard by no-one who really counted. He had to get the place through this drought. So far he was doing okay; he’d de-stocked as much as he could afford to and was now only running a few steers he’d picked up cheaply. He had his new cropping regime sorted, and Bill had been able to see the first crop of lucerne cut before he died a couple of years ago. A stab to his guts reminded him how much he missed the old man. No, he shouldn’t be sitting in front of a huge bonfire on this grassy plain in the middle of nowhere drinking rum.

  Two hours before, Macca’s LandCruiser had poked its nose into the wide doorway of Will’s tumbledown workshop. Built by Will’s Uncle Bill, the workshop was a lean-to add-on to a machinery shed that had seen better days. Head down, butt up, Will was trying to extricate a buggered water pump from his ute’s engine bay. The vehicle was so old it really should have been replaced, the odometer already well into its second round. But there was no money for that kind of luxury up here in the mountains at the moment, with the drought clinching farms and lives within its deadly grip. The ute had finally died yesterday, a few kilometres from home, and had to be towed back with the tractor.

  ‘Comin’ to the Muster, O’Hara?’ Macca’s big voice had boomed out from inside the LandCruiser. Through the ute’s open windows Lee Kernaghan’s music was pouring out to thump around the old workshop walls and compete with Macca’s voice.

  ‘Nope.’ Will had pulled his head out from under the bonnet of his buggered vehicle. ‘I’ve got to get this water pump in and the old girl going by the end of the weekend. Got stuff to do, places to go,
namely shopping in Burrindal before I run out of tucker.’

  Inside his ute, Macca reached across and turned down the CD player so he could be heard more easily. ‘Bugger the bloody old girl. And I’ll ferry you out some food. Come on, mate. Climb aboard. We’ve got some rum to drink. Girls to woo. Not to mention a bloody good horse race to watch, although if you want my view, the butts and boobs strutting around that plain are far better entertainment.’

  Will shook his head and bent back down under the bonnet.

  Sensing he’d need to be more persuasive, Macca opened his door and got out, all six-foot-three of him uncurling into a mountain of a man. With a head of thick, curly black hair, Bob Hawke-style eyebrows topping dark, brooding eyes and florid cheeks where blue-red veins ran amok just under the surface, Macca didn’t need much effort to look intimidating.

  ‘Don’t make me pick you up and stuff you into the passenger seat, Will. For crying out loud, you need a break. What better way to get away from this flaming drought than to hit the Nunkeri Muster for the weekend? I promise I’ll have you back here safe and sound tomorrow. You can spend the night with the water pump and the ute then. If you’re up to it, that is.’

  ‘That’s what I’m worried about, mate, the bloody up-to-it bit.’ Will poked his head out again, grinned and then grappled one-handed for another tool off the workbench beside him. ‘We’re too long in the tooth for getting hard on the piss, and I’ve got lucerne down waiting to be baled.’

  ‘Fuck the lucerne, O’Hara. And are you calling twenty-eight old? This drought’s got you by the balls and quite frankly it’s about time something – or someone – took its place.’ Macca paused for a cheeky wink and waggled his eyebrows up and down. ‘That’s unless you want to saddle up a horse for a ride instead?’

  Will dived back under the bonnet.

  Macca fished into his pocket for the ever-present toothpick to jam into the side of his mouth. Chewing, he leaned up against the hoist, which was standing at right angles to the grainy cement floor. ‘Maybe you should have another go at riding in the Stockmen’s Challenge. Your ego should just about be over the bashing it got ten years ago.’

  ‘One ride in The Challenge was enough for me. I’m good, but not that good,’ came from under the bonnet. There was a crash and a rattle as something dropped to the ground under the ute. ‘Bugger it.’ Will stood up and stepped away from the ute to stretch his back. Moving across to the workbench, he dropped the spanner he’d been using among the piles of tools lying jumbled together on the slab of red gum stained black with sump oil.

  ‘Mate, that was a hellish ride,’ he recalled. ‘I was only eighteen and I was bloody lucky to stay on the horse.’

  ‘Yeah, I remember.’ Macca rumbled with laughter, the toothpick bobbing up and down in time with his shaking body. ‘When you galloped across the finish line, you were clinging to that saddle like a drowning man hugging a lifesaver.’ Macca wiped tears from his eyes.

  ‘Yeah, well, you should try it, you big wuss.’ Will got down on his belly and crawled under the ute to grab the fallen nut off the floor. ‘At least I know when I’m outclassed.’ He wiggled back out and stood up, the tiny offending nut glistening in his hands. ‘The Challenge’s a feat of bloody good horsemanship. Once was enough for this bloke.’

  Since then Will had left all the riding of four-legged animals at the Muster to the experts, and instead concentrated on attracting the interests of the two-legged fillies who pranced around the plains. The lure of a ride on one of those had kept him – and Macca – going back year after year.

  He walked to the bench, grabbed the spanner and dived into the engine bay to replace the recalcitrant nut, thinking as he went. Macca spread his charms far and wide, making himself a legend of the ‘dawn dash’, that sunrise bolt from a girl’s swag clasping boots and trousers in hand after a hot and heavy night.

  Will was different. Not caring for a one-night stand, waking up the next morning staring at a sheila who looked nothing like you remembered from the night before.

  And as Will tightened the nut on the ute, in his tumbledown workshop on that searing Saturday afternoon, there was only one girl who came to mind as he weighed up whether to go or not. He wondered if she would be there. He should have asked his mum exactly when they were due home.

  Communication with the girls had been intermittent and unsatisfactory. No-one was really certain where they were. But there was one thing he did know for sure: a dawn dash would be the furthest thing from his mind if he finally managed to snare Bella Vermaelon.

  ‘Come on, mate . . .’ Macca wheedled as he spat the mangled toothpick from his mouth. ‘We can grab some cans from the Burrindal pub and we’ll be there in less than two hours. What do you say, big fella? Am I gunna have to stuff you into me ute or what?’ Will straightened and threw the spanner back on the old bench. Wiping his greasy hands on a rag, he stood considering his mate, the bloke with whom he’d played merry hell since they were small boys.

  Should he go? His neighbour, Wes, was probably already there spruiking poetry, and Will loved listening to the old man when he was on a roll. The other inhabitant of the valley, his Aunty Maggie, would be there in the morning, or so she’d said earlier in the week when he’d called in for a quick cup of tea. His mum and dad were away in Melbourne for a few days.

  If he didn’t go, it would just be him in this big, lonesome valley feeling sorry for himself. He’d miss out on all the fun. He could just go easy on the grog then he’d be right to fix the old ute tomorrow night, and maybe he could bale the lucerne on Monday. It would probably just be another dry storm tonight. Again those white-gold tumbling curls flashed past his eyes. Maybe . . . just maybe? Would they be there? He wouldn’t put it past those two, an outside chance for sure. But all the same . . .

  ‘Oh bugger it, why the hell not?’ he finally said. ‘Let me grab a quick shower and I’ll be with you.’ Slamming down the bonnet on the ute, he set off across the yard, throwing words over his shoulder. ‘Grab my swag out from beside that old lathe, will you, and there’s an esky on the verandah. There might be a can left in the beer fridge, if you’re thirsty.’ One final yell came across the yard before the screen door slammed. ‘I’ll be back.’

  ‘No problemo,’ called Macca grinning, as he watched Will practically run across to the house. ‘Plenty of time, old mate. We’ll be there before dark.’

  Chapter 11

  Bella tried to focus on the tiny glasses swimming in front of her eyes. A bunch of Akubra hats worn by the cattlemen clustered around the bar kept distracting her. Was Will here? What would he think of her down on her knees, swilling like a pig?

  Damn Patty and her bloody bets. Her mind flicked back to half an hour before when she was considering the best spot in the river for a swim. The water was packed with people, swimming or sitting waist-deep on deckchairs drinking and yarning. There were dogs splashing about, barking, plus a few horses trying to stay cool – it was standing-room only. Patty ran up and tackled Bella from behind.

  ‘Hey, Hells Bells! C’mon, Jonesy and me have organised a drinking competition. And have I got a bet for you this time, girlfriend! Seeing as I haven’t paid out the other wager we had yet, how about double or nothing? Two slabs of rum-and-coke and a hundred bucks, I beat you. What do you reckon?’

  ‘No.’ Bella shook her head. ‘You know I can’t hold my grog as well as you can. You owe me, girl. I’m going for a swim.’ She tried to extricate herself from Patty’s hot and sweaty arms. ‘Plus, you can’t organise a competition and be a competitor.’

  ‘Where’s your sense of adventure? In Queensland still?’ Patty let go, stood back and planted her hands on her hips. ‘And pig’s arse I can’t compete. That’s why I’ve organised the bloody thing. Jonesy here’s going to adjudicate.’

  For the first time, Bella noticed a middle-aged bloke slouching against a nearby four-wheel drive, a green can of VB in hand. Jonesy lifted his arm in salute. It looked like he was drunk. And dribbling. Oh boy
, thought Bella.

  ‘Excuse me, but you’re leaning against my vehicle.’

  The hoity-toity voice belonged to Prudence Vincent-Prowse, the girl who since childhood had loved to make life hell for Bella and Patty. Bella couldn’t believe she’d managed to forget Prudence Vincent-Prowse for a whole year.

  ‘Yeah. So?’ Jonesy sprawled himself out some more and scratched his balls.

  ‘You’re scratching it, you idiot!’ Prudence’s face – which normally looked like it had been lifted from a Covergirl advertisement – was screwed up and turning slightly crimson.

  ‘You gunna do somethin’ about it?’ Jonesy looked delighted.

  ‘It’s my fucking four-wheel drive. Now get off it!’

  ‘Okay, okay – no need to get tetchy.’ A disappointed Jonesy lifted himself off the vehicle, leaving dusty scuffmarks on the shiny duco. ‘You need to kick back a bit, love. How ’bout a drinkin’ competition to loosen those bra straps and G-string?’

  ‘How did you know I was wearing a G—’ Prowsy stopped and then scowled at a laughing Jonesy, who was prancing around, bum tucked in, wrists limp, doing a good impersonation of a stuck-up poodle.

  ‘C’mon, Prowsy, how about a few drinks?’ Patty dropped herself neatly into the conversation, turning the focus away from Jonesy’s drunken antics. ‘I need some contestants for a drinking comp I’ve set up and we haven’t seen you for so long. Nothing like a welcome-back drink with some mates.’

  Prowsy swung round and took in her female observers. ‘Well, well, well . . . what do we have here?’ she said, while looking like she had dog shit on her boots. ‘The two stooges are back from Queensland. I was hoping we’d gotten rid of you both for good. Obviously Gippsland’s luck didn’t hold.’