by S E Holmes
At five the next morning, Nic mastered the fatigue and lingering haze of sickness to greet the day’s burdens. CJ had left numerous messages, graduating from sympathy to apprehension and climaxing in a dramatic voicemail that pronounced them “shafted by the ultimate mind-screw.” Unwilling to confront the details by phone, they arranged via text to meet at the boatshed at five-forty-five.
Anxiety unsettled his gut, somewhat lessening the enjoyment of a full country breakfast waiting in a bain-marie on the servery, pots stacked in the drier on the sink. Jonathon had been up for some time, it seemed, cooking his respite. Nic refused to revisit last night’s unpleasantness, choosing instead to adhere to the plan he’d made to avoid the Arkady’s no matter what. There simply had to be another way to earn board for university.
After a final bite of foccacia, grilled tomato and buttered mushrooms -- over-stuffing himself in defiance of Hanna’s instructions -- he stacked the dishwasher and went in search of the keys to his motor-bike.
Fifteen wasted minutes later, Nic stormed to the unused corral by the barn, where Hank and Jonathon squatted to complete the fitting of a new gate. Sun peeked through the trees in a glorious miasma of pink fading to gold, crimson dipped clouds scudding the heights. Parrots chattered and zipped overhead, the rustic beauty unappreciated in a peak of hassle.
“Dad! Do you know where Sam put my keys? I’m due at the boatshed in fifteen.”
Jonathon unfolded his lanky form, patting dust from his jeans and looking decidedly guilty. “Kolb’s giving it a service. It’s in pieces up at the Arkady’s.”
“Oh my God!” Nic fumed through teeth. Hank’s expression morphed to alarm and Yap’s tail slid between her legs. “Is there any area off limits to those people?”
“Hey!” Jonathon raised his hands. “There’s a replacement out front. Keys in the ignition.” He frowned. “Is it really a wise idea to be up and about already, son? How are you feeling?”
“Who bloody cares? If you were really concerned you’d keep those fruit-loops away from me!”
With that, he spun to leave like a toddler indulging a tantrum. He could barely explain, even to himself, why they invoked his ire to such a degree. Sure, Sasha was a complete tool, dangerous unless chained to a concrete pylon, but at least he understood the hostility or jealousy or whatever. Sort of. Mira was spectacular, family or not.
The rest of them simply assumed. Their unwanted benevolence condescended and made him feel as though he was two and unable to cope. He’d kept that bike operational for years. It had been a long time since someone needed to tell him what to do or how to act.
“Don’t forget to take your antibiotics,” his father called.
Nic closed his eyes in a plea for restraint, eventually making the garage to reef open the roller-door. Adjusting to the gloom, he surveyed the rack of decrepit push-bikes adorning the wall. He’d look ridiculous if he rode one of the quad bikes to town. Besides, Hank and his father might need them. A couple were fit for riding: his mother’s hot-pink racing model or an old BMX stunt bike with its skinny, angled trick-seat. He reluctantly selected the latter, going for impracticality rather than outright humiliation.
Several kilometres along the road to town, his error throbbed to fruition with every pot-hole, knees crimped in protest. Nic had outgrown the bike by years and about a metre, legs pumping almost to his chin, crammed backpack hunching his spine. And it was a seat in name only, unless an enema was the order of the day. His progress was punctuated by spewed profanity, bad enough to make his footy team blush.
A battered ute packed with bales jolted passed in a spray of pebbles, grit filming his eyes and prompting a coughing fit. It hurt so bad, it was all he could do to keep going, not turn around and collect the Hayabusa abandoned in the drive. Instead of this stretched thirty minute ordeal, he’d arrive in less than five, especially if he took his ire out on the accelerator. The sun beat down and sweat sheened his brow.
Mercifully, the ute’s breaks squealed, tail-lights nearing as it reversed. Its occupant, Mildred, a sturdy dairy-farmer from several properties over, leaned to the open passenger window, thin roll-your-own smouldering from the corner of her mouth. Suppressed laughter deepened the crow’s feet about her pale eyes, ruddy complexion glowing. She wore a dirty cap advertising a brand of combine harvester and grubby coveralls, best not inspected closely. Nic thought her the picture of a redeeming angel.
“I never did comprehend the ways of today’s youth, but even to me that seems a mighty awkward manner in which to reach point B. Fancy a lift, Nic?” she drawled, smoke coiling to the sagged roof.
“You’ve no idea how much,” Nic said. “Thanks, Mildred.”
He tossed the stupid bike in back, pledging to sell it at their next yard sale, along with his bag, and vaulted into the messy cabin. The vinyl was covered in ash, mingled with cow dung, and the interior reeked of many years of Mildred’s tobacco, which resembled burned compost. But Nic was thrilled something went right for a change, as the engine groaned effortfully and they bounced off.
“Sorry to hear about Balt, Nic.”
He should have known the good vibe would not last, unprepared to fend off sympathy or the grief clamping his airway. It took skill to survive such pity and man-up in the face of their endless compassion, and he was out of practice.
“Thanks.” He swallowed the lump and rallied, voice quivering only slightly while he groped for a distraction. “Good season for milk? How’s your venture into boutique cheeses going?”
She offered a knowing look and obliged by changing the subject. An extended drone on the impact of rain on the quality of feed for her beloved heifers ensued, as well as instruction following which, he knew more than he’d ever imagined about Brie. Perhaps, he thought miserably, it could be his career, seeing as how Medicine was now unlikely.
She eyed him beadily. “So, you’ve finally acquired your own sire.”
He almost missed the meaning, having been on nodding auto-pilot. He sat up. “Pardon?”
“Saw the delivery as I drove by this morning. Fine animal if ever there was one.” Nic peered at her mutely. She steered one-handed, meaty arm jiggling on the sill, expression in contour avid for gossip. “Things must be better than I’d heard,” she prodded.
“Err...” Country folk evidently possessed the uncanny ability to know more about an individual than those who lived with them. “I’ve been unwell...”
It was a lame excuse and by her critical gaze, she agreed. “Heard the owners have moved back into the big house. Nice people. It’s important to have good neighbours.”
“You’ve met the Arkady’s?” he narrowed.
“They’re officially my best customers. My income has tripled! They sure have a lot of shindigs,” she beamed, a column of ash tumbling. “And they’ve friends all over the world, who’ve promised to buy my stock.” Mildred smirked, “Daughter sure is a looker. You haven’t got a girlfriend, have you, Nic?”
***
Chapter Twenty-Four