by Cathryn Hein
Josh lay back, his erection pulsing. He listened for her outside, but caught only birdsong and a distant whinny. It was wonderfully soporific and if it wasn’t for his desire he’d doze again, but he wanted her – badly. Last night had been good, better than good, but a little too sudden, too frantic and desperate. Almost as though it wasn’t about them but some pent-up force that needed satiating. This morning would be different. This morning would be lazy and sexy and indulgent.
If only she’d hurry up and come back.
He studied the room as dawn spread and stole into the corners. The drapes were undrawn and only a flimsy layer of gauze diffused the rising light. Her room was as elegant and classic as she was. Like the queen-sized sleigh bed, the rest of the furniture was plain dark timber – American walnut, he guessed – and lustrous with polish. A five-high stack of books occupied one corner of the left-hand bedside table. He scanned the spines, marvelling at the variety: a poultry management book, a cookbook on French provincial food, a fantasy novel that he’d read himself, a hardcover about the Book of Kells and, on top, a brick-sized historical novel.
The doona cover was cream damask, matching the walls. An unusual lightshade puffed out above him like a taffeta skirt, reminding Josh of his sister Karen’s debut dress, the bodice of which his mum had sewed hundreds of tiny pearls to, nearly sending herself blind. On the tallboy opposite the bed stood a line of silver frames. He was too far away to identify the subjects. A couple were obviously of horses, the rest, people. Family, perhaps friends, he guessed, while a jealous voice inside him hoped that was where her love had stopped.
He frowned at the door. Surely it didn’t take that long to let out a dog and a few chooks, but he could hear no sound of her return and she’d been gone at least ten minutes, perhaps more. His erection had faded, the bed cooling with his restless movement and without her to warm it.
Josh called her name and listened. Something in the house creaked but her voice didn’t come.
Muttering an oath, he slid out of bed and pulled on his jeans before padding out into the living area. The air was warmer here, fed by the smouldering combustion stove. Past the floor-to-ceiling windows, the tip of Rocking Horse Hill was lit with a fiery sunrise. The weatherman had got it right. It was going to be one of those brilliant, hope-filled days, where everything was washed in light and the dullness of winter seemed far away.
Enjoying it could wait. Right now all he wanted was to find Em and drag her back to bed.
He crossed to the glass door and slid it open, wincing as the gelid dawn draft struck his bare chest and feet. Gingerly, he stepped out onto the porch and called her name again. Only a magpie warbled a reply. He scanned the garden and beyond, towards the low slopes of the crater and its grim scar, worry churning his insides.
Ignoring the rapidly growing pain in his feet, he stepped off the porch and followed a mossy brick path towards the rear of the yard, where he guessed the chooks were housed. The henhouse door stood open, with half-a-dozen chooks and a weird-looking white duck exploring nearby, but no Em or Muffy.
‘Em, come on. It’s freezing.’
He rubbed his arms, then followed another icy path to the edge of the garden where it met a double-bayed carport. An older-model Nissan Patrol occupied one side, an aluminium float the other. He circled past, out into the open. An unoccupied besser-brick stable block and yards faced the north. Past it stretched a long, narrow paddock, which extended to the base of Rocking Horse Hill.
Josh inspected the crater, wondering if after last night she’d needed some sort of communion with the place. Bit of a weird, hippie thing to do, but she’d certainly felt strongly enough about Rocking Horse Hill in the past. It spoke to her, she’d once cautiously admitted, assessing his expression for laughter, through tiny vibrations no one else could feel. At the time he’d been too in love and struck by the shy honesty of her admission to scoff, but now he wondered.
But that was a long time ago. She was a mature, self-possessed, intelligent woman now. He could no more imagine her communing with Rocking Horse Hill than he could himself. Or could he? He’d seen her bookshelves. All those romance and fantasy novels, the books on mediaeval manuscripts and art. Her desk was covered in sketches of sword-wielding kings and mythical creatures, and a sheet of beautifully inked poetry that spoke of gods and ancient Wessex kings.
The walls featured photographs of Rocking Horse Hill in dramatic light and backdrops, hung like icons in a room that, when he thought about it, was almost a temple to the crater. Em’s love for the place ran soul-deep, had done since childhood. And he hardly knew her now. How the fuck was he supposed to know what she thought these days?
He scraped his hand through his hair and turned round, then continued past the carport to where the driveway bent back beyond the house to the road. His feet throbbed with cold, but worry stopped him from heading back inside.
His Hilux was parked to the side of the drive, inside the still-latched gate, near the front of the house. Josh stopped at the passenger door and scanned the tree line, saddened to see one of the old cypresses had taken a hit. Finding no sign of Em, he stepped to the back of the ute and checked the front garden. Again nothing. He swore softly, just to make a noise. The enduring quiet was beginning to give him the creeps.
Turning back, he noticed the road paddock gate was swung half-open. A rugged horse stood in the far corner of the adjacent paddock, ears pricked and head high, watching something further down the road. Growing alarm swept away the chill. He threaded through the fence and, keeping to the soft pine straw, jogged to the edge of the gravel, eyes narrowed as he peered into the distance. Stanislaus Road stretched gloomily as it chased the volcano base, heavily shadowed by the line of cypresses, brightened only by an occasional shaft of orange light filtering through the thick canopy.
Josh opened his mouth to yell her name again but stopped as a dog cantered around the corner. A figure emerged behind, along with two shorter animals. His breath billowed steam into the frigid air.
Relief made him aware of the cold again: the numbness of his feet, the trembling of his body. He crossed his arms, hopping from foot to foot, as he waited for Em to approach. The two donkeys she was ushering along the road slowed her progress. One was small and brown, the other larger, grey, and with a dark crucifix across its shoulders. Though her hands were gripped in their manes, and she was talking them forward, the donkeys went at their own pace. When one stopped the other halted, only moving again after a hefty push on the rump. By the time Em reached him her expression was mutinous.
‘What happened?’ He moved to grab the mane of the grey donkey.
‘I don’t know. The gate was open and Kicki and Cutie were gone. They weren’t anywhere on the farm so I checked the road. They were nearly at Peter Harlow’s. Must’ve been out all night.’ She shook her head. ‘I don’t know how it could have happened. The gate was secure when I fed them last night.’
‘Maybe they unlocked it?’
‘It’s a hook and eye. How could they have done that?’
Josh shrugged. ‘Could’ve been kids.’
‘Here?’
‘We used to play around here, remember?’
Her frown turned into a smile as she caught his meaning. ‘We did. Quite a lot.’ The smile faded. ‘But we never opened gates for the fun of it.’
‘Town kids, maybe. Wanting to play with the donkeys.’
She wrapped her arm around her donkey and squeezed. ‘I hope not. These two have been through enough without being terrorised in the night.’ She gave the donkey another cuddle. ‘They’re rescue animals. Poor things were found in a paddock near Murray Bridge. The owners bought them as glorified lawnmowers and then forgot about them. By the time the rescue people were alerted they were skin and bone. Hooves so long they curled up, lice everywhere and stomachs full of worms. So depressed they wouldn’t respond to the carers. They just stood in corners with their heads down. It must have been heartbreaking.’
Her voi
ce cracked and Josh wished he could hold her, but when she carried on, her voice had regained its strength.
‘I’ve donated a bit of money to the shelter over the years, and even helped with a few local cases, so when I heard they were looking for homes for these two, I volunteered. I’m so glad I did. They’re the sweetest things.’ The donkeys’ big ears swivelled as if they sensed the deep affection in her tone. She tousled her donkey’s forelock. ‘This one’s Cutie, short for CuteArse, and that one’s Kicki, short for KickArse.’
‘CuteArse and KickArse?’ He laughed as she pulled a face. ‘Okay, so I’m guessing that wasn’t your idea.’
‘I wanted to call them Merry and Pippin, after Meriadoc Brandybuck and Peregrin Took in Lord of the Rings, but Jas said she’d call me a pretentious snotnose for life if I did, and insisted I name them KickArse and CuteArse. She wanted to call Cutie BadArse but I had to draw the line somewhere. Kicki’s name at least suits.’ At Josh’s look she explained. ‘He used to kick when he was first rescued. Poor thing didn’t mean it. He was frightened. It took a lot of work to cure him of the habit, but we made it in the end. Cutie here has always been a sweetheart.’
She gave the donkey another hug and then muttered under her breath as the animal halted and turned to sniff something on the side of the road. Josh found himself dragged alongside as Kicki followed suit.
After much cajoling, and a great deal of swearing on Josh’s part, they escorted the donkeys through the gate, where they happily shuffled off into their paddock without further urging. Leaving Em to lock up, Josh hurried on deadened feet back to the house.
He was stretched out on the rug, his feet as close to the fire as he could stand, by the time she returned.
‘I’m sorry. I should have come back and warned you I’d be a while, but I was so worried I didn’t think.’
‘No harm done.’ He propped on his elbows, watching his feet. The ache felt bone-deep and he sensed a bruise developing on one heel. An experimental toe-curl resulted in a shocking pain through the knuckles of his toes. ‘At least I don’t think there is.’
Em sat down, cradled both his feet in her lap and began to rub. ‘This might help.’
Josh flopped back, trying not to grimace as the increased circulation made his feet throb even more.
‘I wish I knew how they got out,’ she said. ‘That’s the second time now. I can’t believe it was kids. It had to have been me. I was distracted and forgot to lock the gate.’ She slid him a sideways look. ‘After all, I did have something to get distracted about.’
‘I’m distracting, huh?’
‘Just a little.’
‘A little?’
‘Well, maybe more than a little.’
He hoisted himself up to drag her, laughing, back onto his chest before snaking his hands inside her jumper. ‘Now,’ he said, his erection growing as she wriggled over him, ‘why not let me show you just how distracting I can be?’
Tiredness infected Josh’s limbs as he pushed through the back door of his parents’ house. His feet ached from the morning’s adventure, yesterday’s football and the impact of long-studded football boots. He had bruises in places he didn’t want to think about and a pulled muscle in his shoulder that was making itself known, but his mood was high.
His mum was up and in the kitchen, stirring soup at the stove. She looked better today, with none of the greasy pallor of nausea the chemo normally left, and a smile that seemed genuine instead of forced. An open notebook and pen lay on the table, a glass of ginger ale alongside. The air smelled of bacon bones, buttery toast and love.
He kissed her cheek and peered into the pot, inhaling deeply. He’d missed the aromas of his mum’s cooking. With them both working long hours, he and Bianca had tended to buy ready meals and pre-made sauces. It diminished their home somehow, starving it of the warmth his parents’ had. He couldn’t shed the feeling that it might have starved his and Bianca’s hearts too.
‘Pea and ham soup,’ she said. ‘Would you like some?’
Josh shook his head. He’d eaten at Em’s: poached eggs, bacon, and fritters made from potato and corn. And sweet extras. Lots of sweet, sexy extras. ‘Maybe later. What about you? Have you eaten?’
‘I had a bit of toast.’ She took his left hand, cupping her palm around his stumps as thought they were normal fingers. The action reminded him of Em. His missing digits had never bothered her either. His ex-wife was okay about it too, but lacked the same complete acceptance as Em and his mum. Bianca’s mouth always twitched that tiny fraction when she sensed the stumps on her bare skin, the tic leaving him with a hollow sadness and strange sense of shame.
‘Sore after footy?’ his mum asked.
‘Actually I’m pretty good, considering. How about you? Good morning?’
‘Oh, not too bad.’ She glanced towards her notebook. ‘I’ve been writing for most of it.’
‘Don’t wear yourself out. You’re meant to be resting.’
She touched her other hand to his cheek and gazed at him lovingly. ‘You’re a good boy.’
‘Not always.’
‘No.’ Her smile turned sly. ‘You didn’t come home last night. Was she nice?’
Laughing, he slipped his hand free of hers. ‘Come on, Mum. You know a gentleman never tells. Dad in the shed, is he?’
‘Where else?’
‘You need anything?’ When she shook her head he strode towards the door. ‘Ring if you need us.’
‘Yes, yes.’ She flapped a hand at him, then, when he was almost out, added, ‘Give my love to Em when you call her.’
He halted and stared at her. ‘How —’
‘Mothers have their ways.’
He wanted to press her but the glint in his mum’s eyes, so rare lately, kept him quiet. Let her have her fun. She deserved it, and if the pleasure on her face was anything to go by, the development made her happy. For all of them right now, that’s what counted.
He found his dad at the back of the workshop, crouched at the timber Josh had laid out on an old blanket. Tom smoothed his hand over the rich red jarrah, feeling it the way Josh did, with one ear canted, as though the rings and marks of the old tree still whispered.
‘Good quality,’ his dad said, straightening.
‘It’s for a blanket box. Should look good when it’s done and polished.’
Tom nodded in agreement before regarding his son with eyes even more heavily drooped than Josh’s own. The tilt was worse these days, dragged down by his wife’s diagnosis, interrupted sleep and the creep of age. Age that seemed to have accelerated dangerously this last month and hooked its claws into every part of his body. Like Josh, Tom was a large man, fit and muscled from work. He always stood straight-backed, kept his step deliberate and his conversation laconic, but now he seemed weighted with weariness.
‘Good night?’
‘Not bad. You up to giving me a hand? I’ve got some timber in the ute.’
Tom nodded and followed Josh out to the Hilux. Josh pulled back the tonneau cover and showed his dad the thick cypress log.
‘From Rocking Horse Hill,’ he said. No point hiding what Mum had already worked out. ‘One of Em’s cypresses was struck by lightning.’
Tom traced his palm over the bark and axe-hewn end. The log was about two and a half metres in length and four hundred millimetres in diameter, cut, with sweaty effort, from one of the thick lower branches by Josh that morning. ‘What do you plan to make with it?’
‘No idea.’
His dad regarded him thoughtfully. ‘Not a commission, then?’
‘No.’
Josh didn’t elaborate. He didn’t want either of his parents reading too much into his relationship with Em. Technically, they didn’t even have one. One night and morning of sex didn’t mean the same as when they were younger, when sleeping together held so much meaning and power. Now they were simply two consenting adults enjoying themselves without the clumsiness of inexperience.
Other than a promise to craft
something from the log, he’d left Em with no set plans to meet again, just a kiss that lingered as he rested his back against the door of the Hilux, her hips against his groin, legs nested between his and her arms linked around his neck. He kept toying with the belt loop on the back of her jeans, hooking his thumbs through and withdrawing them, not wanting to leave.
It’d been easy until that point, but the moment Em had walked with him to the car something restless had settled inside Josh, an anxiety that this might be the end. He hunted for a concrete reason to return, something that didn’t look like he was using her for his own gratification, and settled on the cypress. It bothered her. He could tell from how often she looked at it.
First he offered to help clear the timber, only to discover she’d already made arrangements. So he suggested crafting something from a piece of scrap, and she’d accepted, telling him how much her grandmother would like that.
Except whatever he made wouldn’t be for her grandmother.
He and Tom carried the log inside the shed, laying it on a sheet of cardboard near the roller door and standing back to regard the barked surface.
‘You and Em together again?’ asked his dad after a while.
Josh shrugged. ‘Bit early to tell.’
‘Mum’ll be pleased.’
‘Yeah.’ He tilted his head, mind still on the log. ‘I suppose I could carve something. Never really done anything like that before, though.’
Tom pursed his mouth as he considered. ‘Table, perhaps. Marquetry top.’
‘Maybe.’ The late night, early morning and rigours of football were wearing him down. ‘I’ll need to think about it more.’ At the front of the shed he ran his hand over the kitchen trolley. The chopping-board insert was propped against the wall, the timber pale and in need of oil. Tomorrow, he would begin the labour-intensive task of polishing the frame. ‘Mum looks a bit better today.’
‘She does,’ said Tom. ‘Still writing in those books too much. Can’t stop her, though.’
‘No.’ Assessing the time as right, Josh took a breath. ‘So, have you given any more thought to my proposal?’