Just Relations

by Rodney Hall

  Two

  In the quiet that followed when the engine cut, flies whizzed this way and that between dollops of dung, birds too shy to show themselves twittered in the four great lonely tired trees around Vivien’s house. Far off a dog barked once, a hound, perhaps Uncle’s Bertha, an unwelcome nudge to Billy’s conscience. The cows were nosing grass, their calves inquisitively gathering along the fence, batting their ears, cretinous with goodwill and paying no heed to warning moos from the old dams. He propped the bike up and turned towards his task: only to find a block of space between himself and her house. A month had passed during which he had seen Vivien nine times. On several of these occasions they had even acknowledged one another. Senator Halloran made his appearance two successive weekends, he and Vivien walking easily together, laughing, his grey suit as creaseless as metal, and his broad pink face, his boyish sheaf of fair hair which slumped over his forehead and had to be continually pushed back out of his eyes, the eyes themselves dodging and darting looks, his big soft hands kept dangling at his sides with the fingers spread wide, while his spongey-soled shoes padded along, toes turned out at a laughable angle; and most of all, his habit of chuckling softly, a short signal of a chuckle indicating that he would be enjoying himself if he chose to.

  Now nothing could be simple any longer for Billy, with Uncle raving on about her, praising her in the pub so that everybody smiled behind their hands, hanging round her like a peasant, giving her his prize cauliflower, introducing her to his dog, ogling her and being found sitting at the roadside afterwards declaring that his time had come and he’d be the last to complain if Death chose that precise moment.

  The block of space compacted. The bike ticked as it cooled. Little flurries of wind set the grass tossing. A raging misery was in him. When he thought how much he had already been through it seemed impossible for her to exercise the least influence over him.

  Vivien pushed wide the kitchen window and stuck her curly head out.

  – Hullo, she called cheerfully. Come on in why don’t you?

  He grinned with disgust at his reaction. His fingers jostled the latch, the landscape swimming away to the lip of the waterfall. He fought the gate open and went kicking his ankles up the path, his mouth a zoo letting little creatures of sound escape. She watched him approach with his swift powerful steps, his open face casual with goodwill, and found she was resenting his intrusion.

  – I’m in the kitchen, she called tartly.

  Billy hated seeing women in shorts, however in her case she had firm downy legs that he viewed with interest. She knew he was watching her even behind her back. So cocksure, was he?

  – At last you’ve come to visit. Everybody else is nice to me but you.

  – Yeah? Billy contributed, unable to adjust to conversation that switched about like winds down in the valley.

  She had nothing but contempt for such a bucolic idiot, so she banged the tea-caddy on the sideboard before slapping some tealeaves into the pot.

  – I was wishin, he went on, his voice uncannily like Uncle’s. Wishin I’d’ve seen what you saw. You know, under that wreck.

  – What on earth for? she shrieked in her English accent. This was odious. And the way he sprawled, tilting the chair back, with his knees against the table edge you’d swear it was his kitchen. There was a pause. He intended to laugh, even to offer some obscene words, but his voice came out as natural as you like.

  – The way things are, I can’t believe it, can’t believe Mrs Ping’s dead, except the smell … she was the teacher here. For us younger ones, she was the only teacher ever. Just seeing her hand … it’s hard to believe in.

  How direct he was. Her fingers fluttered round him, giant butterflies afraid to alight but fatally attracted by the honey hidden in him.

  – Ah, she replied gently, I can understand that. I suppose it’s our fate that we always have to know.

  He looked at her, at the calm well, the intelligence. At the tightening of her breasts inside her blouse, at her slender hands, her oval fingernails. The kitchen was a white box floating on a gentle sea.

  – I’m so glad you’ve come, Vivien added, amazed at herself for having found anything to criticize in him.

  – I didn’t think you wanted me to, he sang.

  – Oh yes, I wanted you to.

  – I thought you might be too caught up with Uncle. (That’s right, she deserved a bit of telling off.)

  – What can you be meaning? she flared.

  The sun slid behind a cloud and the white kitchen walls were painted yellow.

  – There’s a dance, he said, on Saturday down at Yalgoona so I came to ask if you’d like to go. With me.

  What a relief that he had come prepared with an excuse. She smiled and he recognized her as a different person in her pink kitchen.

  – On the pillion of that deathtrap out there?

  – Yes. And he remembered her pressing softly and warmly against him. But she kept putting him in a position where he had to make assessments. There’s nothing about her I already know, as he did finally explain to himself four days later.

  – I’d love to. Thank you Bill.

  – Bill? he asked, toying with this unexpected evidence that he did have some objective existence. She blushed with confusion.

  – Well you aren’t going to insist on being called Mr Swan, I suppose! she replied with spirit. His heart clamoured for attention.

  – I might do that, but.

  – You might get a box on the ear too.

  – I might give one, he crowed with excitement.

  She withheld her smart retort. Check. And they sat panting from the exertion of communicating.

  – I’d better pour that stuff out before it stews, she offered with false jollity. He was already wondering what the hell he’d do at the Yalgoona dance and how he’d go pushing a hefty lump of female like her around the floor when he was no good even with the expert Suzanne Jessop whom his father wanted him to marry for some unexplained reason. Especially as this one would shame him by being a couple of inches taller.

  – I’m an accomplished dancer, she said. He flashed her a glance of hatred and fear. But she wasn’t looking, her attention on the pouring of tea. And he saw instead the perfect arch of her neck, so smooth, so tenderly tucked in under the jaw.

  – Bill, she spoke this time much more at ease with his name. I do know what you mean about Mrs Ping.

  Now she watched him, he was fighting for breath as a wave of blood rose up carrying him with it, held him, and broke, washing through him. The room had blacked out. Red birds flickered past him, hunting for fish.

  – Bill?

  – I don’t know what to say, he said eventually, his lips soured by the tea.

  – Are you sure, she challenged him pointblank. Sure you want me to go to this dance with you? You mustn’t be polite with me or I shan’t forgive you. Her voice sounded so very English that she became aware of it herself and the dangers of primness, so when she continued she made certain to seem brutal if possible – I suppose you’re about twenty-three or twenty-two aren’t you? Well I’d better warn you that I’m thirty-four.

  Her hair crackling with golden sparks.

  This time she succeeded in shocking him. He twirled the cup on its saucer in a way that would have irritated her with anybody else. She had imposed yet another restriction: now he mustn’t tell her he was nineteen last birthday. Not because it would be too discourteous but because deeper in himself his body had its own purposes and he was afraid this would destroy them; his arousal might survive such a blow, but he wasn’t sure hers could. Whatever else, things had changed for the worse. He even accused the way he felt: there had to be something the matter with him to be attracted to a grandmother.

  – I wished I’d seen Mrs Ping under that truck.

  To know her age freed him, on second thoughts; any sexual connection impossible. The wind through the frail house braced him, so he grew light-hearted. Vivien watched the room caress him in gentle
blue shadows and saw brilliant flecks in his eyes. She watched his strong throat as he threw back his head and barked with laughter, his clean pink mouth and young teeth excited her. She was breathing quickly. His own abrupt reactions surprised him. The moment the laugh was out it triggered a chill of shame; he had a responsibility toward her which could not be denied. She was a wrinkly, so she mustn’t expect too much. He controlled the volatile mood seeing her colour so high, yes and she was undoubtedly attractive. She was beautiful. Was it wrong? He reached out to touch her hand. He had never found skin so fine, nor anything so elegant as that hand, the glossy nails, the long smooth joints.

  – Thanks for tea, he said. And gulped it down dutifully. He stood knotting his fingers, interlocking the gristly knuckles. Don’t forget next Saturday will you?

  – I won’t, she promised though she knew and he knew it was all over and this had been his apology, his chivalry.

  He stumbled out of the green kitchen, his shoulders colliding with the doorjambs one then the other. The fool, the fool. Seeing imprinted at the back of his eyes a picture of her breasts swelling gently against her white cotton clothing. Sunshine emerging from cloud poured into the room with the prismatic dazzle of a fountain. Vivien sat in it, aware of crystal scabs flaking from the old cabinet, a diamond where his lips had touched the cup.

  You imbecile, Vivien wailed to herself. He didn’t understand a thing. Was it for this she’d waited and hoped without admitting she hoped? She heard the gate click shut. She heard the motorcycle cough eight times and then roar into vulgar life, skidding through the gravel and blaring away into town announcing where he had been, leaving it to anybody to deduce what he had been doing there.

  That evening Bill Swan failed to join his usual school at the pub. He was far up the mountain track, lying on his side watching yellow squares of light pop on here and there across the countryside spread out below him, and in some cases the tiny blue glow of a television bringing the challenge of faith to a darkened farmhouse. One splinter lodged in his mind: she was thirty-four years old, like a lost sister in disguise, making turmoil of his emotions. If things had turned out otherwise he might have been glad of the notoriety of being seen with her. But as it was, he’d never forgive her for being so old.

  Billy lay there and the hillsides faded, the country starred with domestic activity, all those crocks so busy in their tumbledown houses, he challenged the simplicity of these thoughts. She was beautiful, yes, tender and strong. He had noticed how shy she was as well as being self-assured. And you saw straight away, for certain, she was the kind you could rely on to face any responsibility.

  He sat astride the bike, rubbing his fingers across the tank which was already cold and damp. He must go back and cancel the invitation to the dance. The motor jumped to life at the first kick for once, as if it had been waiting, the machine humming and pulsating against his thighs. He snapped the headlight on and allowed the bike to tick away down the slope, drifting not driving, easing her round the bends, stars scratching vivid quivers across his rearvision mirrors, the night breeze insisting on making his body feel good. He stretched his legs and rode with his boot-heels scuffing in the dust like one of those panama-hatted swells last century out for a spin on the pier, walking his cycle along. If it can be imagined it can somehow be done. The motorcycle rolled quietly down to the clearing, past the dump, to the first houses, the dead butcher’s, past the Mountain where bald light-globes sparkled and a wedge of cheerful sound had been driven into the heavy silence of the street: he passed through it like one solid body through another, miraculously simple. Down among the abandoned homes and shops he coasted, then past those still occupied, swinging off to the right by Brinsmeads’, engaging the motor and plupper-plup-plupping up towards the southerly spur at a comical jogtrot, to where four cypress pines spread open their embarrassment of hands for whatever the night had to offer. The motor cut. He was perfectly businesslike as he swung from the saddle and stood on his own two feet. He walked normally up the front steps on to the verandah. No need to knock: she had opened the door inviting him in.

  – I came back to say…, he said.

  – Am I disturbing you …, he said.

  – Perhaps it’s nothing that…, he said.

  – I was up at the mountain, no not the pub, when …, he said.

  – This idea …, he said.

  – And it seemed such a … so … it struck me that… well, why…, he said.

  Vivien offered nothing. She supported herself with one wall of the house and waited.

  – I was remembering, you see …, he said.

  – About this and that and Saturday and when I said …, he said touching her hair and lips, placing his hand on the nape of her neck and letting it slide down.

  – I was up there, he explained gently against her, feeling her yield and rally. Lying on my side in dirt, feeling, I don’t know…, he spoke through a curtain of curls what he had to say. His hands praised her. She held herself, determined to be in control.

  – Are you shy! he whispered, breathing each other’s breath.

  Three

  Again she confounded him. He couldn’t believe she was at all surprised. She appeared neither excited nor ruffled that he intended making love to her. It was an act of resistance. Billy parried by avoiding her invitation to make plans that included her. Instead he risked the immediate truth.

  – Yair. I’m going to buy some gelignite.

  One o’clock in the morning; Vivien and Billy still sitting at the top of the steps, wrapped in the one blanket, the tartan holding them in its huge net, their voices sounding easy and mellow.

  – Have you heard of the Golden Fleece? he asked, braving a final leap into reality.

  – The argonauts? Ulysses and Jason?

  – No, the big seam of gold supposed to have been staked by Seb and Felicia Brinso a couple of hundred years back. But they never let on where. And then they disappeared, so the story goes. You can imagine the talk. It still goes on.

  – People never forget, she agreed.

  – Some say they went to Sydney. The whole town knew. Famous in these parts. Another thing, their old dad was a drunk; and one night, knocking back the pots up the road at the Mountain with people there to witness, in walked his son Seb and said here’s what I owe you, and he put down a lump of gold on the bar, the whole town saw it, a slab of a nugget, pure gold and weighing maybe two pounds. The old drunk left it where it was, he was famous for his dignity when he was sober, and even more when he wasn’t. And for his big ideas. He went out back and hung himself with the belt of his greatcoat. Up in the john he did it. Next drunk needing a leak found him still warm and stinking. Mr Schramm had to cut him down, our Jasper’s father it was then, though a good age himself, nobody else would touch the job. He wouldn’t either if he hadn’t needed the lavatory for his customers. The nugget went to the wife along with the corpse, never to be seen again, she disappeared the day they put him underground. No there wasn’t any doubt about the Golden Fleece, that piece of gold was pure, the bar full of experts, Uncle among them, he was already a man in his thirties so he wouldn’t have been imagining things, I’ve heard about it a dozen times.

  Vivien’s surprise gave way to an unaccountable disillusionment.

  – And you want to find the Golden Fleece? she asked for the first time doubting him.

  – Why else would I need gelignite, he jibed bitterly. No, I learnt a secret, that’s all. And it won’t let me alone.

  She took his hand and resigned herself to waiting; soon enough she’d get it straight. His agitation over the gold wasn’t a threat, being unconnected with her. They sat, shoulders and hips touching. She refrained from asking why he didn’t approach the Brinsmeads if gold was needed so urgently. His talk was not allowed to interfere with the touching. Peace flowed to her powerfully from the land and the night. Who cared about any Golden Fleece? But she liked the steady baritone of his voice.

  He was musing; remembering the same subjec
t coming up in an argument with his father not long ago. At the time the very unexpectedness made him jump. I know what you think! His father raged as he rocked on the balls of his feet in that typical small man’s habit when angry, trying for extra height to invest his words with authority, some element of threat. You think you’ve got more right to this farm than me. Bill admitted silently and precisely what he thought. Not just that he did half the work, the fencing and repairs, the dairy, that he and no one else drove the tractor. No, it was more that his father never seemed free of resentment against the place. It suits me better than it suits you, was what he thought. And his grandmother, Miss Bertha McAloon, once overheard complaining the property still belongs in title to me you know though I’m sick as Jesus of George and the way he runs it. Added to which Bill’s grandfather, Uncle, had accused him of doing the mug’s work: you can’t call yourself a man till you front up to your father and demand your due. If you’re so hungry for money, Mr Swan had snapped misconstruing the motive, get out and crawl to old lady Brinsmead, you might get her to leave you the bloody Golden Fleece, she can’t last much longer, filthy state she lets herself get into, then you’ll be able to talk son, then we’ll all do some listening. He had jeered sarcastically in the way of fathers who suspect the truth. You’ll be so rich they’ll have you on television.