by Averil Kenny
She hesitated. If she put her head down and kept going, she would be back at her shop in a minute, maybe less.
Stay out of it.
But of course she wasn’t going to. She crossed the street, hand diving into her string bag to locate the banana bread she had been anticipating all day, and the rare treat of a bottled soda.
The kids were kicking at the seats, sweat streaming down their backs. Tired eyes slid away from Sonnet.
‘Still here, huh?’
Jim shrugged.
‘That sucks. Bet it won’t be long now. You guys hungry? I’ve got some banana bread, want to polish it off for me?’
The boy darted to take the bread and soda, dripping with condensation.
Sonnet straightened from the window to find Brenton lounging against an adjacent pole. Not a broom in sight.
‘You know anything about these kids left in the car? Their names are Jackie and Jim.’
‘Yeah, they’d be Joe Taylor’s kids, I reckon.’
‘He’s a patron of yours?’ she asked, more impertinently than intended.
Brenton’s grin returned, easily as that. The ruder she was, the faster he smiled. Sonnet couldn’t understand it.
‘Too right,’ he said, ‘Joe’s one of my best. After a hard day, a man needs refreshment.’
‘Does he often leave his children unattended out here?’
Brenton laughed. ‘He’s certainly not bringing them into my pub. No kids allowed.’
‘No, I suppose not, considering you publicans won’t even allow women at your bars.’
‘I’ll sneak a door open for a fine woman like you any day.’
Sonnet flushed. ‘You’d better remind Joe Taylor he’s got small children sweltering in a hot car out here. Next time he orders himself another nice cold beer in there . . .’ She moved briskly around him.
‘I’ll do better than that for you, Sonnet!’ he called after her. ‘I’ll send them kids out a cold schooner, too!’
Sonnet didn’t acknowledge his words, other than to raise a trembling hand to her burning cheek.
*
It perturbed Sonnet that she couldn’t bring herself to even mention Brenton to Kate. Instead, she broached the infuriating subject of Jackie and Jim Taylor, found languishing in the Ford most afternoons. She had taken to carrying a basket filled with books and scones on her daily errand run for the children.
‘Those kids are parked out there, day after day. It’s wilful neglect!’
‘Believe me,’ Kate said, ‘an afternoon in a quiet car is probably the better option for Joseph Taylor’s kids. Joe’s a tobacco farmer outside Noah, and it’s a hard life for his little blighters. Sorry old bastard, that one. I’d say Joe brings them in so they can all have a breather.’
‘So, you already knew about his kids out there?’ Sonnet couldn’t keep the disappointment from her voice.
Kate shrugged. ‘Most people would have noticed. But they’re not the first kids sitting in a car at the local watering hole, and sure as heck won’t be the last.’
Sonnet blew a sigh through her nostrils. ‘Why doesn’t anyone tip off the constable? Surely you don’t all turn a blind eye to a damned drunk getting behind the wheel of a car, with kids in the back?’
‘Actually, I don’t think he—’ Kate stopped, choosing a different route. ‘Why does it bother you so much?’
Sonnet watched a jolting image reel: tiny Hillman Minx crushed around a power pole, with unimaginable carnage within; two rain-washed police officers hunched together in the apartment doorway, blocking out the cold night beyond; the bereft, foetal curl of a tiny girl, clinging to her mother’s pillow.
Nope. She wasn’t going to touch that conversation, even with Kate. Especially with Kate.
‘It just does! And the nerve of Brenton Furse serving that man beer after beer, knowing he’s got kids sweltering out there alone and he’s going to drive off, sozzled, at the end of it.’
Her face had flared hotly into colour as his name left her lips. The effect did not escape Kate’s notice.
‘Brenton Furse, you say?’
‘Think that’s his name. The publican. Dark-haired man?’
A tongue had appeared, rather prominently, in the side of Kate’s cheek. ‘Hmm. I’m actually not sure if that’s Brenton Furse. What colour would you say his eyes are?’
‘Not sure. Greyish, probably.’
‘So it’s like that, is it?’
Sonnet’s eyes slunk by Kate’s scrutiny.
‘Sonnet and Brenton Furse!’
‘Sonnet and nobody!’
Kate stroked an imaginary beard, eyes narrow. ‘Brenton’s always been a catch, even more so since he came into the pub inheritance this year. He’s an old St Ronan’s boy, graduated the same year as Raffy and I did. He’s good-looking, I’ll give you that. Brenton’s always been wildly popular with the girls. Hung like a donkey, he reckons. Can’t say I would have called the match myself . . . but you’ll be the talk of town if you pull it off, Son.’
‘Kate, if you’ve learned anything about me by now, you’ll know the last thing I’m keen on is becoming the talk of this hellhole!’
*
In any case, Sonnet’s name was soon linked with Brenton’s across town: at Hadley’s store, volleyed over the nets at the Ladies Tennis Club, hollered from the pub windows as she passed, ladled out in the CWA tea rooms and, eventually, even mentioned over the Heartwood Sunday dinner table.
‘So, Sonnet, I hear you’ve taken up hard drinking lately,’ Olive said. ‘Word in Noah is that they can’t keep you away from Cutters these days.’
Gav added the salt: ‘Listen, pet, you’ll have to beat off all the other girls in town if you’ve got designs on making the publican’s wife.’
‘I’ve got no such thing! What a load of hogwash.’
Olive and Gav exchanged a long glance, and Sonnet exited stage right with a screech of chair on deck. There couldn’t be two people in the world she wanted to discuss Brenton Furse with less than Olive and Gav – with their indulgent smiles, and cautioning eyes.
*
Brenton appeared in her shop on Friday afternoon. The barbed creature in her belly, awakened from slumber, rolled irascibly.
His eyes travelled the length of her body. Her hands flew to her hips.
‘Thought I’d better pop in and see about some belongings you carried off from one of my patrons.’ His voice was officious, but his smirk sensual.
Sonnet recoiled. How dare he? It was an excruciating few seconds before she realised he meant the two kids quietly colouring with Plum in ‘Esther’s Corner’ beneath the stairs.
‘I think you’ll find those belongings followed me home – not unlike strays, actually.’ She glanced at Jim and Jackie to ensure they weren’t following the conversation. Only Plum’s eyes were fixed on the pair.
‘Dunno about that,’ Brenton said, ‘I saw the kidnapping with my own eyes.’
Sonnet frowned. He’d been nowhere in sight when she had made her usual Ford drop-by. ‘Well, if you were spying on me,’ she said, voice dropping low, ‘then you would have seen them climbing out of the window of their own volition, and trailing me back here.’
‘And are you returning them anytime soon?’
‘There’s no need for those kids to go back in that stinking hot car anytime soon. I’ll bet said owner hasn’t even realised they’re gone. I’ll shoo them out of my door at closing time, they’ll scoot back into their cage, and no one will be the wiser.’
‘What is your closing time?’ he asked, stepping closer.
‘Five o’clock, like the sign says.’
‘That’s good to know. ’Cause I’m going to swing by here at closing, and take you out.’
‘Take me out?!’ Her face must have registered indignation, for his smirk deepened.
‘Yep, I’m takin’ you out to dinner. Once you return those children, that is. Big-kids date only.’
‘I’m sorry, I’m not free tonight. I ha
ve my sister Plum with me.’
‘Leave her with the Emersons.’
Sonnet straightened her shoulders. ‘No, I can’t do that.’
‘Ah, come on now, don’t play hard to get.’
‘No, I can’t spring it on my aunt and uncle. They already have Plum tomorrow.’
‘All right, so Saturday night it is, then.’
Sonnet laughed, startling herself. ‘All right.’
‘All right?’
‘Yes. You can take me out to dinner tomorrow night.’
‘Atta girl!’ he said, as though she were an obstreperous child. ‘Pick you up at Heartwood at seven.’
He didn’t wait for her assent, barrelling out in a jaunty rush.
Plum appeared at her side, slipping a chubby, freckled hand into hers. ‘Who was that?’
‘Just my friend,’ Sonnet lied. There were many things Brenton Furse might be, but friend wasn’t yet one of them.
‘I don’t like him,’ Plum said.
Sonnet snorted. ‘Oh, Plummy, you don’t even know him.’
‘I don’t like him,’ Plum insisted.
‘You don’t have to like him.’ She tousled magenta curls. I’m not sure how I feel about him, either.
CHAPTER 23
THE PUBLICAN
H
ow she felt now, waiting for the long sweep of headlights up the drive to Heartwood, quite frankly, was petrified. And fear wasn’t a becoming look for Sonnet. She blotted ineffectually at her face in the bathroom mirror, rechecked for sweat stains.
‘It’s the pits being a nervous sweater,’ Sonnet told her reflection, then grimaced. ‘I know; that one was terrible.’
She took one last look: at the powder sliding further off her skin with every passing second, knowing full well it had no business being dabbed on a face like hers; at the chiffon cocktail dress cinched in two whole notches this evening; at her mother’s pearls nestled above the sweetheart neckline; and, with the most misgiving, at the hair she’d allowed Fable to pin in a soft Grecian pile before she’d left the cottage.
She wished she’d worn pants. Couldn’t even remember right now why she’d started wearing these stupid dresses in the first place.
The rush of Plum’s feet up the hallway truncated her spiralling angst.
‘He’s here! He’s here!’
Sonnet gulped a breath, grabbed the drawstring purse she’d sewn up just for the occasion, and thrust the bathroom door open with what she hoped was a confident smile.
*
‘So, what do you feel like for dinner?’ Brenton asked as the car roared through the rainforest towards town. The smell of cologne, shaving cream and polished car interior was a warm, masculine fog. ‘The world is your oyster tonight!’
‘Actually . . .’ Sonnet began, pressing her skirt over her knees, hotly conscious of his side glances, and her body’s response.
‘Just kidding!’ he said. ‘There are no oysters tonight. You’ve only got two choices in Noah: Gino’s restaurant or the Greek café! Don’t know what we’d even eat in this town if it wasn’t for all the wogs invading us.’
‘I’m happy either way,’ Sonnet replied, with a terse edge.
‘Happy with either way . . . well then, I think we’re in for good night, Sonnet.’
Her belly echidna ruffled. Sonnet turned to check her reflection in the car window. In the final seconds before greeting Brenton, holding his bouquet of carnations, Sonnet had whipped her hair up into a bun – it was much messier than she preferred.
Sonnet returned her attention, not without effort, to her date.
He was re-screwing the cap on a discreet silver flask. Seeing her looking, he offered. ‘Rum?’
She began to refuse, and found the flask pressed into her hand, anyway. She ought to say she didn’t like rum – not the smell of it, not the effect of it, and especially not taste of it – but nerves were nerves.
She had a tiny sip.
‘Bottoms up!’ he said.
Sonnet gave a subdued cough, handing back the flask.
‘Tell you what, though,’ Brenton said. ‘We could skip the restaurant altogether and I’ll show you round my pub, instead. We’ll sneak upstairs, I’ll scrounge us up some food, and we can find a quiet corner to get to know each other.’
‘You want to walk a woman through your pub on a Saturday night? That’s bound to set off the bush telegraph!’
Brenton lifted the flask to his lips again. ‘She’ll be right. But I gotta say, Sonnet, I wouldn’t mind ending up in a rumour with you, anyway . . .’
Sonnet managed a non-committal shrug. ‘How about we try Gino’s new restaurant, and that famous spaghetti bolognese they’re all talking about?’
Brenton laughed. ‘I get it. Have to win a girl’s heart with a nice dinner first.’
‘You won’t win it with a horrid dinner.’
Their shared laughter soothed. Sonnet sank back against her seat with a slow outbreath.
*
Look at me, Sonnet wanted to cry, to an offstage audience. I’m on a date. I’m dating!
She hoped no one else could tell it was the first time Sonnet Hamilton had attempted such a basic life skill. At the old-maid age of twenty-four, no less. She knew just enough to fake it. How to allow Brenton to lead her through the busy restaurant, to pull out her chair, order for her, and pour her a glass of wine. There was no doubt he knew all the moves.
Sonnet was under no illusions here. Their table, hidden inadequately behind a rhapis palm, was the central topic of conversation across the restaurant. From the familiar faces at neighbouring tables smirking at one another, to the clanging, hissing din of camaraderie between Mr and Mrs Rossi in the kitchen, Sonnet and Brenton’s date was the hottest news story of the evening. Every time Mrs Rossi swished, grinning, through the kitchen door, Sonnet was reminded again this was not so much a date as a declaration.
Sonnet felt not unlike the goldfish swimming in the bowl at the restaurant counter; with nowhere to hide, only maddeningly polite circles to make.
The outrageous flirtation, which normally bamboozled her defences, was nowhere to be seen. Brenton was the perfect date – smooth as silk and so perfectly proper it was a downright yawn. The languidly grinning man who’d picked her up earlier with an unapologetic ogle at her chest, had been supplanted by this chivalrous gentleman feted by all the townsfolk around, eagerly tipping their hats to him.
*
They meandered out of the restaurant at meal’s laboured end into a warm October breeze, carrying with it the scent of countless rainforest trees coming into bloom.
Sonnet took Brenton’s arm as it was offered and let him lead her, inevitably, towards his pub. He’d done his legwork getting the elusive Sonnet Hamilton out, had executed the textbook dinner date, now he schemed to be seen with her in his own realm. And fair enough. Sonnet didn’t know if it was the copious glasses of wine thrust upon her or simply relief at having escaped the awkward small talk, but she was feeling uncharacteristically charitable.
‘Back to mine?’ Brenton asked with a bowing flourish, motioning towards the open door, blazing with light and music beyond it. ‘For a tour of my fine establishment,’ he said, noting her dubious pursing.
‘A tour?’
‘Quick one,’ he promised. ‘I’ll show you mine, then you show me yours.’
Sonnet laughed, but stayed rooted to the spot. Brenton’s face faltered briefly in its confident expectation. Behind him: the clank and scatter of the billiard table, a tumble of glasses.
‘Do you have a staff entrance?’
‘Slinking in the back – I like your style!’
They skirted the leering comments already ricocheting through the open windows for a rear staircase.
‘After you, m’lady.’
Sonnet ascended the staircase with steps as nonchalant as she could manage under the circumstances; those being the appreciative whistles of the man behind her.
‘You’ve got some legs! Must be
all that riding you do.’
‘Not a very professional tour guide, are you, Mr Furse?’
‘Hey, what kind of tour guide would I be if I didn’t point out the local attractions when they’re looking their best?’
‘I don’t just ride. I run.’
‘Long as you’re not running away from me, I don’t mind what you do to get pins like that.’
‘I wasn’t asking your permission.’
‘So, these are my rooms, then,’ Brenton said with a sweeping gesture up a long hallway of numbered rooms. Painted images of Noah Vale hung askew in ornate metal frames, and silk flowers dangled from dusty sconces. The smell of alcohol and cigarette smoke was all-pervasive here, competing with well-used linen and tropical mildew. A hollow ache, triggered by the cocktail of smells, had opened up in her throat.
Ignoring the guest room door he’d swung open for her inspection, Sonnet paused to examine one of the oil paintings. It was a familiar sweep of banana plantation near the school, stately old Queenslander sitting atop a rise, the whole scene scythed by long, golden sunrays.
‘Crepuscular,’ she breathed.
‘What?’
‘Nothing. Just saying how pretty this is.’
‘Not too bad for pub art, you reckon?’
‘Who painted all these?’
‘An artist,’ he said, nodding encouragingly towards the open room.
She turned back to the painting, ignoring both his persistence and her baulking belly. ‘I’d love to know. I want to feature something local in my shop.’
‘Sorry, can’t tell you. They were already here. I’ll ask round, though.’
‘Maybe there’s a name on the back?’ she mused, unable to tear her eyes from the picture.
‘Let me show you my big one in here,’ Brenton said.
Sonnet held back a ribald retort, following.
It wasn’t innuendo. The large painting above the bed was magnificent: a shining waterfall in full flow, tiny rainbows dancing before the curtain.
‘Now that has to be Moria Falls,’ she said, drawing close.
‘Like it?’