by Cathryn Hein
‘Because you like him.’
‘But he’s so . . .’ She made a face. ‘He’s a nerd! He fixes computers! I want a man who wrestles crocodiles and rides bulls and drives a proper car. Bruce drives a Hyundai, for god’s sake.’
‘So you’d trade someone who loves you for some cowboy who probably shags anything that moves?’
‘He doesn’t love me.’
‘Why not give him a chance and find out for sure?’ Callie leaned forward, smiling a challenge. ‘What have you got to lose?’ She glanced at the wall clock and patted Anna’s shoulder. ‘Are you up for lunch? Only I have to get a wriggle on. My shift starts at two.’
‘I think so.’ She sniffed then grabbed Callie’s fingers, squeezing hard. ‘Thanks.’
A choke threatened Callie’s throat as she wondered if this was how things would have been with her and Hope, had her sister lived; intimate talks made cosy with friendship. Callie swallowed the roughness down. ‘You’re welcome.’ She squeezed back, emphasising the heartfelt truth of her words. ‘Always.’
Half an hour later, Rowan returned wet with sweat and with every exposed centimetre of his pale freckled skin glowing. He threw a large yellow envelope onto their pine dining table before raiding the fridge for cold water, overspill sluicing down his neck as he gulped straight from the jug.
‘Stinking out there,’ he said between gulps. ‘Going to be filthy in the bar this arvo. Letter there for you, Callie.’
‘Thanks.’ Callie continued slicing cucumber for their salad, in no hurry to check the post. ‘Lunch won’t be too far away.’
‘Good,’ said Anna, leaning over the breakfast bar, almost human again after some paracetamol and a long shower. ‘I’m starving. I hardly ate anything last night.’
Callie tossed the last of the cucumber into the salad bowl along with the red onion, rocket and tomato, before grabbing a bottle of French dressing from the fridge and splashing it over. The foil-wrapped fish were baking in the oven, the slices of lemon she’d inserted into their cavities already releasing enticing citrus smells. Her stomach rumbled in response. Breakfast was hours ago and salt air always made her hungry. She tossed the salad, pinching a juicy tomato quarter as she worked and wishing Rowan would hurry up in the shower so they could eat properly.
She placed the salad on the table and, for want of anything else to do, picked up the envelope Rowan left for her. She turned it over and glanced at the Alice Springs post mark. Frowning, she retrieved a knife from her place setting and slit open the pasted- down end. Another envelope slid out followed by a torn-off sheet of notepaper upon which her old flatmate, Andrea, had scribbled a cheerful ‘howdy-do’ followed by an apology and a ‘give me a call some time’. Mail had come for Callie then been misplaced in the usual household chaos, but Andrea was forwarding it now, better late than never.
Dropping the note, Callie picked up the other envelope. A few seconds passed before her brain registered the familiar tight scrawl of the handwritten address.
Dad.
She inhaled deeply, hand fluttering to her mouth.
Over the past eight years, contact with her parents had dwindled to Christmas and birthday phone calls. Short conversations marred by hurt and confusion and too many references to the past. Even when Hope wasn’t mentioned she cast a shadow, reminding Callie of what she could never escape.
The last call was eighteen months ago, to her flat in Alice Springs. An out-of-the-blue call from her father ‘just to see how she was’. They’d been awkward, careful with their words, and though Callie wanted to reach out she saw that her continued withdrawal had gouged a rift too wide for them to bridge.
Straight afterwards, gripped by restlessness, she’d left the Alice and headed for the coast, wandering until Airlie claimed her. This time, whether by accident or subconscious design she wasn’t sure, Callie broke her habit and failed to forward her parents a postcard advising them of her new address and phone number.
‘Who’s it from?’ asked Anna, moving close, her voice full of concern.
‘I think it’s from my dad.’
Anna said nothing. Callie had carefully fobbed off any talk of her family. All her housemates knew was that she’d had a sister who died. She hadn’t even wanted to reveal that except doing so was impossible with Hope’s name permanently encircling her wrist.
The shower stopped. Rowan would be out any minute – they’d have lunch then head off to work. Callie had to open the envelope now or she’d never make it through her shift for anxiety about what her father had to say.
Nervous but resigned, she slit it open. A letter sat inside, along with another, folded over envelope. She pulled both out, walking toward the balcony as she did. Anna didn’t follow, but Callie could feel her scrutiny as sure as she felt the scented sea breeze against her skin. She opened the letter and scanned the contents. Once, then again, as disbelief at the words jumbled their meaning. Hand over her mouth, she reached for the plastic chair and slumped down.
Nanna. Dead. Over a month ago. Alone in Glenmore’s kitchen.
Tears fought with anger. How could she have been so selfish? For the sake of a postcard she’d missed Nanna’s funeral, and more. She jammed the letters between her legs and covered her face. Nanna had died alone. And Callie never had the chance to say sorry. That she loved her. That she never meant for any of this to happen.
‘Callie?’ Anna stepped out onto the balcony, Rowan close on her heels. ‘Are you okay?’
She sniffed and tried to hide her turmoil, the returning swirl of fear and guilt, and the overwhelming need to run from her friends before she let them down too.
‘My grandmother died last month.’
‘Oh, Callie, I’m so sorry.’ Anna made to reach for her but Callie turned her shoulder and tore the other envelope open as Anna and Rowan exchanged looks.
She read this letter more slowly, absorbing each word, grief and disbelief rising like a wad of thick dry cotton in her throat. She let the letter flutter to the ground, her brow furrowed as she tried to take it all in, tried to understand. She, of all people, didn’t deserve this. Surely Nanna had understood that?
A sob threatened. Callie rolled her lips together, pressing hard against its rise. Seeking calm, she stood and faced the ocean, fingers tight around the rail, attempting to think, but her mind kept skittering, emotions darting between gratitude, fear and guilt.
She snatched up the letter and read it again, bland words explaining an unfathomable legacy. The paper in her hands shook, partly from the breeze, partly from her hold.
‘Callie?’ It was Rowan.
Conviction settled as Callie traced the outline of her sister’s name on her wrist. So Nanna’s benevolence was misguided, but that didn’t mean Callie couldn’t correct the mistake.
She stooped to pick up her scattered papers, hair curtaining her face as she willed her stoic mask into position. It was an expression Callie had spent years perfecting, a calm normalcy behind which she hid her turmoil, showing the world that she was strong. With deliberate endeavour, she folded the letters and slid them into their envelopes before facing Rowan and Anna.
‘I’m sorry, but I have to go.’
Anna’s eyes widened. ‘What do you mean, go?’
‘I mean I have to leave. Here. I have to drive south.’ Callie took a shuddery breath, forcing herself to say the words. ‘I have to go home.’
Anna threw a fretful glance at Rowan. ‘But why?’
Callie looked at them both, heart aching with loss – for Nanna; for her housemates; for what she was about to do.
‘My grandmother, in her will, she left me Glenmore.’ She swallowed hard, fingers creasing the envelopes. ‘Now I have to give it back.’
Two
Matt Hawkins leaned his arms on the high, weathered, grey redgum rail of Amberton’s round yard and rested his stubbled chin on his hands. Though still early morning, sweat soaked his shirt and the waistband of his work trousers. Intense January sun thudded against the cr
own of his broad hat, burned through his clothes and stung his already deeply tanned arms. The air held a strange hush. Most mornings bird calls added colour to the muted landscape but today they were absent, not even a magpie warble to break the heat ripple, as if the birds were too suffocated to sing. Or, as was the case with a lot of the birdlife in this far south-western corner of Victoria, screech.
The heat didn’t bother Matt a scrap – not much did these days. He was back in Australia, out of the army and taking his first steps toward the life he’d coveted since a Taliban bomb had almost shredded his existence and taught him what really mattered in the world. Sure, he had a long way to go yet to reach his dream, and Amberton might not be his ideal image of home, but at least it wasn’t Afghanistan.
From the far edge of the yard, his great uncle Wal clicked his tongue, making that special soft noise he reserved for horses, before breaking into a low rumble of one-sided conversation. The words were nonsense. They didn’t have to mean anything, only soothe, but it never ceased to amaze Matt how loquacious Wal became in the presence of horses. Around people the old man was taciturn, often rude, whereas horses exposed the humanity and compassion he kept so well closeted.
The leggy chestnut colt Wal was breaking blinked and stepped toward him. Wal stroked Topanga’s neck with his left hand. In his right he held a saddle blanket, and as he continued to talk in that low, soothing voice, he raised the blanket and rubbed it over the colt’s shoulder. The horse didn’t shuffle, merely turning his head to sniff at the blanket before nudging Wal.
They’d been doing this with blanket and saddle for days and the time had arrived for Wal to mount the horse. In previous sessions, Wal had laid across him bareback, letting Topanga get used to his weight and contact, before slowly introducing the saddle. But today would be the day Wal actually sat on the fully tacked colt’s back properly.
‘You going to check those sheep?’ Wal asked suddenly.
‘Thought I’d better keep an eye on you. Make sure you don’t fall off and hurt yourself.’
Wal laid the blanket over Topanga’s back and waited a moment. The colt did nothing except droop his eyes, bottom lip quivering slightly as though lost in a dream of lush pasture. The old man left the horse and reached for the stock saddle he’d left slung over the rail, casting Matt a look as he did.
‘If anyone needs keeping an eye on, it’s you.’
‘Maybe,’ said Matt, unfazed by his uncle’s tone, ‘but my bones aren’t as fragile as yours.’
Wal’s mouth furrowed so deeply it nearly drowned in wrinkles. Ignoring the comment, he refocused on Topanga, going through the same careful ritual with the saddle as he had with the blanket. The colt remained calm, trusting his human partner. Matt had never seen Wal use any force on a horse. He never showed anger or impatience, or harmed them in any way, understanding that, like all prey animals, fear ruled their instincts. For the horses, no matter what he did, Wal represented calm and safety. For Matt, the old man’s skill engendered admiration, respect and more than a little love.
Which was why Matt had no intention of leaving his post.
Topanga shuffled a little as Wal lifted the saddle onto his back, but soon settled with a stroke of his neck and more calming words. The old man moved around the horse with a gentle grace belying his eighty-plus years. Although shrunken with age, his skull as bald and spotted as a quail’s egg, and skin as corrugated, dry and nut brown as a freshly ploughed paddock, Wal still possessed his fine-boned jockey’s build. The old bugger remained fit and agile too, surprising his nephew with the occasional bow-legged fence leap and handling stock with a strength Matt had assumed long faded.
As Wal secured the girth, Matt climbed up the fence and sat on the top rail, observing closely. Wal moved away to the centre of the ring and clucked at Topanga, indicating for the horse to circle him. Topanga responded as he’d been trained, quietly plodding around, chestnut coat glowing like gold in the bright sun. With a double click from Wal he broke into a trot, tossing his head and snorting, but not in agitation, in celebration. The equine equivalent of happy-to-be-alive joy.
Matt grinned. The horse reminded him of himself when he’d landed back in Townsville after his second tour. The one he’d forced himself to make to prove a point. There were times amid the endless dust and cramped conditions, the exhausting hyper-alertness, when he wondered what the fuck had got into him. First time round he’d nearly been blown to bits. Surely he had enough scars and nightmares? But by the end, Matt knew he’d done the right thing. He’d braved it and, thanks to the army psychologists, was coping okay with the trauma of war and loss. Now he could move on.
After a few laps, Wal called Topanga back to the centre and caressed his nose in approval. Maintaining his chatter, Wal moved to the colt’s side and, with one hand on the saddle’s pommel, sank his other into a handful of mane. Aware of what was to come, Matt’s fingers tightened on the rail. The horse was big, over sixteen hands, and a well-developed two-year-old thoroughbred, bred by a local equestrienne and destined for a showjumping career. Beside the colt’s muscled body, Wal appeared small, old and very breakable.
With barely a bounce, Wal leaped onto Topanga’s back and settled astride. Topanga arched, his hind quarters tensing as though readying for a buck, and Matt braced himself to jump down to the rescue, but except for the move of his lips, Wal sat quietly, comfortable and relaxed in the deep saddle, unperturbed by the horse’s reaction. Taking his cue from Wal, the colt unwound a little, his spine softening from its coiled hunch. Only the twitch of Topanga’s ears as he concentrated on the human on his back belied his uncertainty and nerves. Matt let out his breath, his tension easing slightly.
Wal cast him a smug look before breaking back into seriousness. ‘Go check those sheep.’
‘Are you getting off?’
‘Sheep. Now. Or you’re fired.’
Matt grinned. ‘So you’ve officially hired me then? Remind me to give you my tax file number and super details.’
Wal muttered something that sounded like ‘muppet’ and, dismissing his nephew with a small flick of his hand, returned his attention to Topanga.
Matt eyed the horse for a moment, but the colt seemed more curious than anything else about the weight on his back. Perhaps it was safe to leave them alone. The old boy had, after all, been doing this for years without help. And the sheep did need checking. Recent unseasonal rain had brought a deluge of flystrike, and it was cruel to leave the sheep untreated.
He slid off the fence and forced himself to walk away without looking back.
As he passed her tree-shaded run, Dolly, Wal’s faithful collie, hoisted her body from her squirmy, nipple-latched pups. Shaking them off as she walked, she pressed her head against the fence, eyes pleading for attention. Matt paused to scratch her ears through the mesh, feeling sorry for the dog and wishing he could take her with him.
‘Serves you right,’ he told her. ‘You can’t go sneaking off for sex without facing the consequences.’
Although, in this case, the consequences were undeniably cute. Neither he nor Wal knew for certain who the father was, but they had their suspicions. The pups’ fluffy coats and black-and-white colouring said pure collie, which narrowed the field considerably. The only other collie within sniffing range was the Baxters’ – the McMansion-building hobby farmers from across the road. Much to Wal’s irritation, their dog, Yoda, had a habit of wandering, and worse, stressing Wal’s sheep by practising his herding instinct. Words had been exchanged, Yoda’s trespassing habit constrained, but for Dolly the damage was done.
He gave Dolly a last scratch and left her to her clamouring pups, choosing to drive out to the far paddock in his ute instead of Wal’s. The decrepit LandCruiser’s air-con hadn’t worked in years and Matt hadn’t bought a new car just to let it sit in the shed. Plus he liked the way the Volkswagen Amarok handled. It might not be a traditional farm ute but if it was good enough to act as a Dakar Rally backup vehicle, it’d handle Amberton’s un
challenging terrain, and then some.
He found the ewes clustered around a stand of gums, panting despite the shade. Behind them, the state forest spread in a dusty grey-green tangle of trees, shrubs and bracken. He grimaced at the built-up undergrowth. According to Wal, the district hadn’t seen a proper burn in years, nor were the authorities doing their job and reducing the risk. Matt had to agree. The forest was a fire waiting to happen. He just hoped like hell it didn’t.
He stepped out into the heat, observing the sheep closely. Most seemed okay, hot but normal. Two, though, showed signs of breech strike. Wal had assured him the ewes had been jetted after shearing but there were always one or two who suffered no matter what preventative treatments were used. Those sheep had to be treated and isolated fast before they attracted more blowflies or suffered too much injury.
Matt set to work with a sigh. Even as a kid he’d hated this chore – the smell, the sight of raw, maggot-infested flesh, the dumb suffering of the sheep. Fortunately, he hadn’t had to endure it often. Enrolment at boarding school meant he only travelled to Amberton from Geelong during holidays, and then only when his mother decided she didn’t want to see him – an occurrence that became increasingly common as he grew older and her career more high-powered and consuming. Flystrike monitoring and treatment was left to Wal or, when he bothered to leave the rural-town pleasures of nearby Dargate, Wal’s grandson, Tony. Still, stomach-roiling or not, this was the life Matt intended to pursue and one day, if his plans worked out, he’d have his own place and be tending his own sheep. Until that time, he’d work, observe and suck Wal dry of knowledge.
Trouble was, the old boy wasn’t in too much of a hurry to impart any.
With the sheep cleaned up and isolated, and the cut-away maggoty fleece in the back of the ute, Matt drove back to the house, checking troughs and fences as he went. Wal’s small herd of Angus cattle watched him curiously as he cruised past, mouths working as they monotonously chewed, tails flicking against the swarming, ever-present flies.