The Crowlands

by T M Creedy

  I run my hand over the dog’s ears and she pants doggie breath up at me.

  ‘Does she not bother the cats?’ I ask, worried that my two charges might get chased by Bonnie on a regular basis.

  ‘Nah. Bonnie doesn’t go up to the house. She doesn’t like it, won’t go near it, and the cats know where the boundaries are. They don’t stray much further than the rose garden.’ Drew strides over to where I had flung the cushion and picks it up, brushing off the dust. ‘These used to be in my old caravan. Did you need it for something?’

  ‘Mac left me the truck thing to use, the ute.’ The word feels alien on my tongue. ‘I’m not tall enough to reach the pedals so I thought this might help.’

  ‘Let’s have a look.’ Drew carries the cushion back over to the ute and opens the driver’s door. He bends down and fiddles with the mechanism under the seat and, with a bit of force, the seat reluctantly slides forward a couple of inches. He folds the cushion in half and places it on top of the worn vinyl. ‘Should be right. It’ll stop you burning your legs on the seat too. It gets red hot when the sun’s been on it.’

  I ease into the driver’s seat, trying not to make contact with the actual material of the cushion. I don’t really want to touch it until I’ve had a chance to clean it but under Drew’s gaze I settle on the cushion, cringing at what might still be living in it.

  ‘There ya go, no worries.’ Drew steps back, pleased with his improvised booster seat. He’s right. The extra height the cushion gives me, along with the seat being closer to the wheel, means I can reach the clutch easily, and see over the top of the steering wheel.

  ‘Thanks. This is much better.’ I don’t want to start the ute while Drew is watching. ‘I might head into the town later. Thanks for your help.’ I climb out of the cab again. ‘Do you want a cup of tea? I’m just about to put the kettle on.’ I start walking back towards the house, past the gumtree, and the crows start up their raucous cawing again.

  ‘Nah, you’re alright. Should be getting on anyway.’ Drew tips his hat back onto his head and whistles for Bonnie, who has been sniffing the tyres of the ute with great interest. ‘We’ll head off, going up the back paddocks today so we’ll camp up there tonight.’

  ‘Do you camp out often?’ I’m not sure just how big the farm is, but if it requires camping out overnight it must be pretty damn huge.

  ‘My caravan’s down yonder.’ Drew points in the other direction. ‘It’s just easier to sleep out, saves us having to go back up there in the morning.’

  ‘Well. Thanks again.’ I say. ‘Let me know if I can get you anything from town later.’ I didn’t expect him to be so helpful. From what Mac told me I got the impression the stockman was a bit taciturn to say the least. ‘He’s getting on a bit, so he’s not always the cheeriest of fellas’ Mac had said. Drew didn’t look that old, in his thirties I would have said, although he had that roughened, sun damaged skin which did make him look a bit more weathered, and he seemed cheerful enough to me. Shrugging to myself I put Drew out of my mind and go back inside the house to take stock of the pantry and make a shopping list.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Now that I’m alone I can sort out the money I have secreted in my luggage, and put it all together so I know exactly what I’ve got. I unpack the purple backpack at last and hang the clothes up, although some I throw into the laundry bin to wash. Sara packed mostly summer clothes, more suitable for a beach holiday than living on a farm and I brought nothing of my own so I’m going to have to find somewhere that does casualwear; and definitely buy new knickers - I draw the line at wearing a dead girl’s underwear. When I am sure I’ve collected all of the hidden wads of cash I straighten out the notes into piles on my bed. I have more than five thousand Australian dollars, two thousand in Canadian dollars and more than thirty thousand pounds. I stare at the notes, unable to believe how much cash is there. It’s more than two years’ salary from my old job and I don’t have to use any of it on rent or bills. I think of what my new-found riches can buy me – exotic holidays, fancy nights out, I can even buy a better car if I wanted to; there’s no need to have to use the ute. I’ll keep the Australian money and use that while I’m here but the rest of it would be safer in a bank account. I feel the familiar throb of excitement at the thought of having so much money in the bank, and how I can start playing on some of the Australian casino websites as soon as I have a new debit card. The promise of being able to gamble without conscience is enough to spur me into learning how to drive the ute again and I sprint downstairs to the kitchen island, where I threw the keys before.

  That’s funny, they’re not there.

  I know I put them here because I remember how they ricocheted off the fruit bowl making a loud clang. I definitely left them here. I look around, hunting under old newspapers and on various side tables and shelves but I can’t find the keys anywhere. I retrace my steps from when I came back into the house earlier, walking back up to my bedroom and searching there, checking and re-checking the kitchen island time and time again as if the keys will miraculously appear out of nowhere. I hunt high and low but the keys remain obstinately misplaced.

  I sigh, I won’t be going into town today. I decide to put a load of washing on instead, bringing the laundry basket down from my bathroom into the kitchen. I put my hand out to push open the door to the laundry room but its stuck fast, just like Margie said it does. I put my shoulder to it and push hard and the door gives a little way, only to slam back into the frame like someone’s leaning on it on the other side. I try again, kicking the door hard this time as well as pushing with all my weight. The door flies open with a crash and I fall into the room, using the laundry basket to prop open the door so it can’t close on me and jam shut again. The room is as dismal as I remember it when Margie showed me yesterday, gloomy and dull, and I’m quick to shove the washing into the machine so I can be out of here as soon as possible. It’s when I shut the machine door with a click that something catches my eye. On the shelf above, where Margie stores washing powder and cleaning materials, are the keys. The keys to the ute. They sit serenely between a bottle of bleach and a pile of folded yellow dusters. How the hell could they have got there? I know I haven’t been in this room today, and I had the keys before so how did they travel from the kitchen to the laundry room through a closed door? A door that was jammed shut. I look from the keys to the kitchen beyond the door in bafflement. It’s just not possible. I couldn’t have put the keys in here, so who did? The only other person I’ve seen today was Drew. Is it possible he came into the house while I was upstairs earlier and hid the keys to play a trick on me? There’s no other explanation. I didn’t move them – so it must have been him. Whatever, it wasn’t funny. I feel more than a little bit creeped out thinking of a man, a strange man I had only just met, sneaking about the house. Snatching the keys from the shelf and putting them firmly in my pocket I hurry out of the drab room, leaving the washing machine to do its thing. There’s no sign of Drew or Bonnie when I stand out on the verandah, shading my eyes from the sun and looking in all directions to the horizon, but I can see one of the cats stalking something in the long grass to my right. Oh shit! I’ve forgotten to feed the bloody cats! They’re the whole reason I’m here and I’ve already failed in my cat-sitting duties on day one. I find the clean bowls in the dishwasher and look in the pantry for their tinned cat food, noticing that I need to find a tin opener before I can get the food out. The cats have a plastic mat on the floor by the fridge and I overcompensate for being so late with their food by serving them up extra big portions. I find a tin opener in one of the utensil drawers and use it to clang noisily on the side of the cat food tin, hoping the sound will entice the cats in for their breakfast. One of them, Bendigo I think, pads into the kitchen from one of the verandah doors and mews at me, tail sticking straight up in the air, and winds himself around my legs as I place the bowls in the place on the mat. There’s no sign of the other cat and I make a feeble attempt at calling it.

&nbs
p; ‘Bali! Bali?’ I sing out, still banging the cat food tin, but there’s no answering miaow. Bendi is happily tucking into his chunks of meat. ‘Bali!’ I try again. ‘Bendi’s getting all the food. Come on puss puss!’ I scan the garden, searching for the other cat. I haven’t seen her yet but from the photos on Sara’s laptop I remember that she’s ginger. I can’t find her, I can only assume that she’ll make herself available when she’s hungry, but it does worry me. I promised Margie I’d look after them as best I could. I walk down the steps at the front of the house, which prompts the crows to increase their squabbling and shouting, still banging a spoon of the side of the cat food tin. I will walk the perimeter of the gardens, I decide, Drew said the cats don’t wander far so she must be within hearing distance. Skirting around the lawn and heading towards the back of the house I take in the neat borders of shrubs and flowering trees. I recognise some of them, the whole garden is laid out in a traditional English style, probably a legacy from the original architect of the house. The rose garden is at the back of the house, the beds perfectly symmetrical. It’s spring here so the rose bushes, cut back for the winter, are just starting to sprout dark reddish-green shoots. From this point in the garden I can see the back of the house, which is far more utilitarian looking than the grandeur of the front. Here, the windows are higgledy-piggledy and I can see where the old kitchen and workrooms have been tacked on to the end of the main structure of brick. I try to place my room from the rows of dark windows on the first floor but they all look the same and I can’t differentiate between the rooms at all. Something stands out on the top floor though – one of the small windows at the very top of the house stands propped open. This is the floor that Mac has sealed up until their return from the Middle East so there shouldn’t be any windows open up there. Fleetingly I wonder if this open window had anything to do with the noises I heard last night, it’s possible an animal has got in and could be trapped in a room upstairs. Something brushes against my legs, making me jump, the memory of that huge spider resurfacing. Looking down, the ginger cat has made an appearance and is rubbing herself along my shins and purring.

  ‘Hallo puss. Where have you been hiding?’ I reach down and give her a stroke and she flops onto her side on the lawn beside the rose garden and stretches out. She seems friendly enough, Margie said she could be shy at first but she’s certainly comfortable with me at the moment. I spend a little bit of time smoothing down her reddish fur and listening to her purr loudly. ‘Don’t you want your breakfast?’ I ask her, letting her smell the empty food tin in my hand. ‘Come on then, let’s go into the kitchen.’ I get up, expecting her to follow me but she moves to the shade of a nearby bush and hunkers down, still as a sphinx, eyes fixed on the back of the house. Nothing I do will persuade her to follow me in so I go back into the kitchen and bring her bowl out to her, not wanting her to miss out. ‘Just this once, OK?’ I tell her. ‘Tonight you come in for your food.’ She sniffs at the jellied mess and delicately begins to eat. ‘You’re such a lady, aren’t you?’ I fuss, giving her one last pat.

  Back in the house, the washing machine beeps to let me know it’s finished its cycle. I left the door propped open so it didn’t get stuck again and I empty the machine of its damp clothing into the plastic basket on the floor. There is a rotary washing line outside and I’m looking forward to fresh, sweet-smelling clothes which have been dried outdoors in the abundant sunshine, rather than the harsh tumble dryers I used at my local laundromat in London. My clothes were always stiff and smelt of damp no matter how long I dried them for. Pegging out the washing I felt at peace. The glorious weather, the drone of bees in the garden behind me and the fresh air caressing my face gently all soothed my fractured soul and I sent up a quick prayer of thanks, and apology, to Sara. By rights it should be her living this life. I would still be in Peckham, the anxiety of forever being skint hanging over me like a dense fog, if I hadn’t phoned the number in her ad. I wouldn’t have ever met Sara, and the sequence of events which led me here, to Australia, would never have happened.

  I’m getting hungry. I haven’t had anything to eat since breakfast and it’s late afternoon now so I go indoors again to see what I can cobble together. There is some bread in the pantry, and some leftover roast lamb from last night’s dinner, so a roast meat sandwich it is. The bread tastes unbelievably good here. I make a cup of tea, stronger this time than the one’s Margie makes. I have to use two teabags to get it to taste of anything and I wonder why tea is so much weaker on this side of the world. Going over my shopping list I add ‘Library’ to the end. I’m going to need more to do if I have all this time to myself and I envisage packing up a picnic and sitting on a blanket in the sun with a good book. My list is quite long and it will take me most of the day tomorrow to get everything done so there’s nothing for it. It’s me versus the ute, game on. I’m relieved to find the keys still in my pocket, they haven’t gone wandering again, and after I finish my late lunch I head out to do battle with the old death-trap. Taking a final look around, making absolutely sure there are no witnesses, I perch on the folded cushion, push the clutch in and turn the keys in the ignition. The truck roars to life and idles noisily, waiting for my instructions. Helpfully, there is a small sticker on the dashboard showing me the positions of the gears on the gearstick and I practise moving from first, into second and then through to third. There is a fourth, and reverse is up and back hard with the stick, and when I am confident I can find all the gears I ease my foot onto the accelerator, easing off the clutch slowly. The truck lurches forward and bunny hops a few times before cutting out and rolling to a stop. I’m so not used to driving anything with gears! A few more practices and I have the hang of driving the ute up and down the driveway, making a sweeping U-turn at the end of the track just before it meets the main road and going back up to the house. I’m not brave enough to try reversing yet; I can just about get it to go forwards and steer it where I want to go. I can go from first to second gear quite easily by now and I think I’m ready to try driving on the road itself. Easing the truck out onto the dusty unsealed road I turn in the direction of the settlement of Crowlands itself and we rumble towards to the town. I’m gaining confidence all the time and I have the ute in fourth gear now, speeding along at just below eighty kilometres an hour. I’m used to the slow pace of city traffic so this seems quite daringly fast. I come to a T intersection where the cross road finally turns into a sealed surface and I turn right, finding the indicators on the other side of the steering wheel. The roads here are very wide and straight and I can see for miles and miles in front of me. I whizz past the motley collection of tumbledown houses that make up the Crowlands and carry on toward Ararat. I have not even seen another vehicle on these roads yet and I’ve been driving for nearly twenty minutes. Satisfied that I can indeed master driving in a foreign country, in an unfamiliar vehicle, I find a secluded driveway and turn the ute around, heading back towards the farm and almost missing the turn-off onto the dirt track. The sun is beginning to sink low in the sky, turning the land pink and orange when I park the ute back in its proper place and walk back into the house. I am triumphant at what I have achieved today. I have fed the cats, kept house and managed to drive a truck, none of which I would normally do in my old, ordinary life.

  The night arrives quickly here – one minute there’s daylight and the next it’s pitch black outside. I move around the house closing doors and windows and making sure everything’s locked up tight, checking several doors twice over. It’s a big place for one person and I can’t shake the feeling that I’m being watched. I can feel eyes on me as I move from the lounge through the main hall and up to my bedroom. My room feels warm and cosy, like a sanctuary, and when I close the door I feel like I’m closing it on many unseen spectators. I don’t feel it in here, that unsettling hairs-up-on-the-back-of-the-neck sensitivity. Throwing on an old hoody I remember the washing still outside on the line. I must bring it in so I close the door to my room, keeping in the welcoming warmth, a
nd clatter downstairs to the door at the back of the house. Instantly, that ‘not alone’ feeling hits me again and I look over my shoulder several times expecting to see a shadowy figure but there is nothing there, just the light from the living room pooling at the bottom of the stairs. There is an outside light just beyond the back door and it’s enough for me to see to gather the dry washing in. I am acutely aware of the endless expanse of darkness behind me and my imagination has all sorts of creatures creeping silently up, so it’s a relief when I’m back inside the house and I can turn the locks in the door.

  I turn on the big television in the main lounge for the company of other human voices. Margie, bless her, has filled the freezer with homemade meals-for-one for me and I settle down in my chair with a steaming plate of shepherd’s pie on my knee, not bothering to prepare any accompanying vegetables. Flicking through the many channels I’m pleased to see that Australian television has lots going on, many of the shows are familiar ones from home but there’s an interesting looking police drama just starting, and I lose myself in the gripping storyline, barely even flinching when Bendi jumps up on my knee and tries to lick my plate clean. It’s been a good first day and I don’t think I’ll have any problems with feeling bored or lonely. Looking after this grand house has brought out the previously dormant domesticated side of me and I plan on doing a lot more cooking and baking, even though there’s only me to eat it. I wonder if Drew would appreciate some homemade cake.

  I still can’t shake off the feeling of being watched and every now and then I get an uncomfortable tingle between my shoulder blades and I have to whip my head around to look behind me. It’s just the vastness of this house I tell myself. All the doors are locked, all the windows are closed and if there was someone else here, Bendi would be freaking out instead of casually licking his outstretched leg. Mentally running through my security checklist I remember the open window on the top floor I saw from the back garden today. Groaning, I heave myself up from the comfy chair, dislodging Bendi with an outraged squawk. I’ll have to go up and check but I’m terrified of going up onto the sealed floor in the dark, on my own. There’s a torch in the laundry room but I’m too scared of that room as well, to try and find it in the dark. Needing to feel the warmth of another living thing I scoop up Bendi into my arms and walk with him to the staircase. He purrs contentedly at first when we reach the first floor but when I take the sharp turn upwards towards the top floor he gives a low growl and launches himself out of my grasp, bounding towards my bedroom door where he sits impatiently. There’s some comfort in having the company of a cat on my bed tonight so I open the door and let him in, and with a final indignant swish of his tail he is gone. I’m on my own again. I grab my phone from where it sits charging next to my bed and use the LED torch app, which gives off a surprising amount of light, stepping lightly up the second set of stairs. The plastic sheeting glows eerily in the torchlight and I can see the hallway beyond it, distorted by the refraction of the beam through the plastic. Peeking through the gap between the tape I flash my torch around, searching for an open door in the rooms that line the corridor. All the doors are closed, just as they were when Margie showed me up here yesterday and her warning comes unbidden into my mind.