All She Wants

by Marchant A. J.

  3

  AS MUCH AS she’d meant to, Tilda hadn’t left the hospital that day. Or the one after. Not until twenty minutes ago when Bernie’s shift had ended, and she’d grabbed Tilda by the collar, dragging her to the pub for a late lunch. Very late, judging by the golden afternoon glow coming through the windows.

  It was amusing, the horror on Bernie’s face, watching as Tilda wolfed down a chicken schnitzel in record time. She hadn’t eaten a proper meal since lunch with Cliff. Tilda laid her knife and fork down on the empty plate with a satisfied sigh, and Bernie sucked the last of her drink up through a chewed straw.

  ‘Another round?’ Not waiting for an answer, Bernie went over to the bar where she flirted shamelessly with the bartender who was half her age. If it was anyone other than Marcus, the attention would have been flattering, Bernie could definitely hold her own. But Tilda had known Marcus since school, knew the help me out here look on his face. They were friends back then, kind of still were now, but not close enough that she felt bad about giving it a few more rounds before she took over buying the drinks, relieving him from any more unwanted attention.

  A roar went up over by the pool table. The pub was noisier than usual, and if it wasn’t for the footy club having their Christmas party, there’d be no sign of what time of the year it was; no decorations, no tree, no tinsel, no Christmas songs playing. Which was why Tilda had let Bernie take her there.

  The footy players were in their uniforms, decked out with tinsel boas and face paint. As tradition dictated, the team captain had sparkly red heels on over his knee-high footy socks, and was getting around surprisingly well in them. Tilda had never gotten the hang of heels. Maybe being drunk was the trick.

  Constant chatter came from the knitting group in the corner, their wool getting tangled and their projects getting sloppier the longer they sat there, each taking turns to buy rounds, eventually losing count of both stitches and drinks and then giving up altogether, having a great time.

  Fans whirred overhead, all the windows open to let the soul-suckingly dry air move through. Sweat prickled at the back of Tilda’s neck. Outside, a cattle truck slowed for the roundabout, trailers clacking and slamming, loaded up and on its way out of town. All too used to it, no one else noticed the pungent smell that wafted in and all too slowly faded.

  ‘Fire Engine, minus the fire.’ Bernie placed a glass of red lemonade in front of Tilda. She’d already sucked down half of her own drink. It may have looked the same but it smelt like a whole distillery had been poured into it. ‘I tell you what, Marcus can put a double shot in my engine any day.’ She bounced her eyebrows, trying for a laugh, and then pouted when she didn’t get one. ‘You’re no fun today. Or lately, really.’

  Tilda took a sip, the sugar hitting her bloodstream with a tingle in her chest. ‘You know, despite what everyone thinks, I do have a life outside the hospital.’

  Bernie rolled her eyes.

  ‘I do. Last weekend I went to the movies.’

  ‘With your niece and nephew to see some cartoon thing. Doesn’t count.’

  ‘Went bowling.’ Tilda poked out her middle finger, pointing at a bruised cut where she’d gotten it caught in the little hole in the kids ball she’d had to use.

  ‘With?’

  ‘Bea and Will.’ Her niece and nephew. Tilda slumped in her seat, wracking her brain for the last time she’d hung out with people taller than limbo height. She figured the occasional dinner with her brother and his wife and the kids wouldn’t count either. Maybe she did need a life.

  Feedback sliced out from the speakers either side of the stage. The footy players were starting up the karaoke machine, yelling out suggestions as they flipped through a list of Christmas carols before settling on a dirty version of ‘Chestnuts Roasting.’

  Bernie tapped Tilda to get her attention back. ‘When was the last time you were happy and in love?’

  ‘About five minutes before Jemma told me she was leaving town.’ Tilda thought about it again. ‘No wait. Scrap that. Five minutes after Jem left town. Minus the love part.’

  ‘Do you even know how long ago that was?’

  ‘Not really.’ Tilda shrugged, threading her straw through a hole in the middle of a cube of melting ice and picking it up, catching it in her mouth before it slid off and crunching on it so she couldn’t talk.

  Bernie tutted her disapproval. ‘Time to get back in the saddle, Doc.’

  Applause and wolf-whistles interrupted, settling back down as two bawdy men, in the shortest footy shorts Tilda had ever seen, started a duet of ‘Baby It’s Cold Outside’ with their arms around each other’s shoulders. Tilda wanted to pull the wires out of the speakers. She caught a sparkle in Bernie’s eye, her attention no longer on Tilda but something behind her. This should be good.

  ‘What about your vet? From the other day? Why don’t you ask her out?’

  ‘She’s not my vet. And you don’t even know—’

  ‘I dare you.’ Bernie nodded towards whatever she’d been staring at, and Tilda turned to see what had her sitting up so straight.

  Clare was standing at the end of the bar, talking to Phyl, the owner of the pub and the landlady of the apartments behind. Clare glanced over at the table, behind her the tiniest signal passing between Phyl and Bernie. Too late to turn around and pretend she hadn’t been looking, Tilda waved back. She couldn’t believe the cheek; Bernie and Phyl, partners in crime since they were six, had set her up, made more obvious when Bernie feigned interest in something across the room, leaving the table with a wink and a chuckle.

  Seeing Tilda was alone, Clare wove her way over with the brightest smile on her face. She was carrying something, a bag that looked like it was made out of thick rolls of material. A makeshift pouch. The joey stuck his head out as Clare settled it on the ground beside the table and sat in Bernie’s empty seat. ‘I was starting to think you only existed in the hospital.’ The guys on stage screeched a high note, and Comet’s ears twitched. ‘They’ve been going since last night. It’s a miracle they’re still standing.’

  ‘And that the kegs haven’t run dry.’ Tilda nudged her glass a little to the left and then back. ‘How’s the leg?’

  ‘Sore. But fine.’

  Tilda didn’t know what to say next, out of practice. Thankfully, Phyl appeared by the table, clearing the lunch plates and the empty glasses Bernie had left behind. She reached down to scratch under Comet’s ear when he leaned out of his pouch and sniffed at her leg. ‘Little guy’s getting big quick.’

  Clare tucked him back inside. ‘Thanks again for letting me keep him here for a bit. Soon as I find a place we’ll be out of your hair.’

  Hands full, Phyl shook her head, already stepping away from the table. ‘Not a problem at all, darl. Take as long as you need.’

  But Bernie had overheard, and came hurrying back, leaning over Tilda’s shoulder. ‘I know a place you could stay.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  It took a second, but Tilda realised where Bernie was going. Too late though, Bernie was already telling Clare about Tilda’s brother’s farm. ‘Plenty of space, grass, everything a young joey needs. And there’s a spare room in the shearer’s quarters—’

  Tilda cut in. ‘Jack doesn’t lease it out anymore, though. It’s pretty basic.’

  ‘Can’t be that bad.’ Bernie clapped her hands on Tilda’s shoulders. ‘Not if Doc lives there, or at least sleeps there on the occasion.’

  Bernie squeezed until Tilda gave in, shrinking out of her grip. ‘I can ask Jack.’

  ‘Ask me what?’

  All three turned. Jack was a few tables over, sitting with a guy Tilda recognised; a truckie, the one who carted their cattle. A last word with the bloke and then Jack came over, pecked Bernie on the cheek and poked Tilda’s arm. ‘Long time no see.’

  ‘Clare, this is my little brother. Jack, Clare. She rescued a joey and needs somewhere more suitable to stay.’ On purpose, Tilda had led with the part she knew her brother would object to; kangar
oos had become an overpopulated nuisance in the area. As predicted, she saw the crinkle in his nose.

  ‘I suggested the spare room in the cottage.’ Bernie hung onto Jack, her chin resting on his shoulder.

  ‘If it’s a hassle…’ Clare waved a hand, leaning back in her chair.

  Jack took Bernie’s hand, stopping it from creeping down his chest, well practiced in wrangling stray advances. ‘No hassle. I mean… sure. Yes.’

  Tilda’s head snapped to the side, wide eyes staring at her brother.

  Jack smiled back at her. ‘Why not? The room’s empty. And there’s plenty of space for a… joey.’

  A crash came from over by the stage. Two tangled bodies were on the ground among splinters of a table, the others rushing to help them up after a stunt gone wrong. It was the guys who’d been singing their duet. One sat up with a bloody nose, the other with a dazed look and a crooked finger.

  ‘Idiots.’ Bernie was already moving, Tilda pushing up out of her seat.

  Jack and Clare followed them over and a crowd formed as the two of them assessed the drunk footballers still struggling to get off the ground. Bernie took the one with the bloody nose. ‘Definitely broken, needs correcting.’

  ‘Same with this guy’s finger.’

  ‘We’ll have to take them back with us, get them fixed up.’

  Jack steadied the footy captain, getting a hug for his efforts, the big man swaying in his high heels. ‘I gotta get back to my meeting but Clare, how about you pack up your stuff? You can meet Tilly at the hospital and she’ll show you the way out?’

  ‘That’d be great. Thank you.’ Clare had fetched the pouch and was holding it under her arm. Comet stuck his curious head out again, a paw curled under his chin.

  Jack scratched a fingernail along the flat fur between the joey’s eyes. ‘Til? That okay?’

  ‘Perfect.’ Tilda nodded, half-carrying her broken football player toward the door.

  ‘Maybe she’ll leave work on time for once if she knows a pretty woman is waiting for her.’ Bernie grinned from behind her guy with the broken nose, reaching out to guide him after a few stumbled run-ins with tables and chairs, the bar towel stuck to his face making it hard to see where he was going.

  4

  WHILE TILDA REDID the paperwork—the footy players’ handwriting was barely legible at best, scribbles at worst—Bernie monitored them over the counter. They were still being idiots, despite a broken nose and a broken finger, as predicted. One of them was also sporting a bruised cheek that had developed during the walk over. But it was nothing they weren’t used to, nothing worse than what they got on the field every Saturday afternoon, in-season or not.

  Bernie rocked in her chair, feet up on the desk. ‘Let’s get them a little closer to sober before we send them out into the wild again.’

  Mumbling agreement, Tilda scribbled her signature at the bottom of a page, slammed the folder shut and leaned back. She knitted her hands behind her head and stretched, her neck and shoulders protesting at the movement, even though they’d been aching since she sat down. Beneath the footy players’ raucous laughter and the slap of their tinsel boa fight, Tilda heard the clop-tack of familiar footsteps. She launched out of her seat, Bernie waving her under the desk, but she didn’t move quick enough. Doris stepped into the walkway, cornering Tilda and crooking her finger. ‘Come with me.’

  Tilda followed behind Doris, hop-stepping to keep up with the old broad. They walked along the corridors, leaving behind the bustle and activity for still offices and dead silence. Hospital Administration had been trying to catch up with her for weeks, but Tilda had perfected the art of dodging authority. Until now.

  Doris closed her office door, pointed Tilda into a chair and sat herself behind the desk, hands laced in front of her. Tilda sat back and waited. She knew the deal. No pleasantries, no building up to it. Doris was always forward, straight to the point. ‘As of right now, you’re taking your accrued leave. I don’t want to see you here until the new year.’

  Tilda shot forward in her seat, hands clasping the edge of the desk. ‘But—’

  ‘You’re becoming a liability.’

  ‘Liability?’ Tilda snorted. ‘A little dramatic.’

  Apparently not. Doris’ eyes never dropped, pinning Tilda to the chair as she spouted off facts and statistics about sleep deprivation and overtime and stress management…. Tilda drowned her out, groaning silently. There was no getting out of it this time. Despite the dread of almost a month of nothing to do, she gave in just to make Doris stop.

  A waved dismissal and Tilda wandered the corridors again, miraculously finding her way back to the break room. Her canvas laundry bag was still on top of the fridge where she’d chucked it. She shook the dust off it and started shoving in the bundled up clothes that had accumulated in her locker over the past few weeks, adding the book she was halfway through reading, digging out her keys and wallet from the piled up junk on the shelf at the top. There was a photo tacked to the inside of the locker, an old one of herself and Jem, one she hadn’t even looked at or noticed for who knew how long. She pulled it free, and chucked it in with the junk on the shelf just as Bernie walked in.

  Bernie laid out on the couch, flinging her arm over her eyes. ‘I let Bozo and his buddy go. They were about to use IV poles as swords.’ She peeked out from under her arm, zeroing in on the canvas bag at Tilda’s feet. ‘Little late for spring cleaning.’

  Tilda slammed her locker. ‘Doris is making me take time off.’

  A chuckle shook Bernie’s entire body. ‘Wow. Might actually have a little Christmas cheer in the department this year.’

  Tilda collapsed in the chair opposite. ‘What am I supposed to do for a month? I won’t survive out there.’

  ‘Yes. You will.’ Bernie rolled off the couch and grabbed up the canvas bag. Pulled Tilda to standing. Shoved the bag into her arms. Guided her by the shoulders out of the break room, down the corridor, bypassing the emergency room and pushing her to the front doors of the hospital. As the doors slid open, Bernie prodded her out. ‘Go get your vet.’

  Tilda turned, hugging the bag to her chest. ‘She’s not—’ But the doors were already closing. Bernie waved from the other side, half hidden behind Tilda’s reflection. ‘Traitor.’

  Bernie vanished through a set of doors to the left. Tilda slung the bag over her shoulder, trying to remember which side street she’d parked her shitty excuse for a car. She found it halfway down Oak Lane and pulled out a pile of parking ticket slips from under the wipers. None of them were proper fines, just the parking officer leaving her notes, jokes, little snippets of his day and random facts. Tilda stuffed them into her bag to read through later when she needed a laugh and dumped the bag in the back.

  The pub was only a quick drive around the corner. Tilda found Clare playing Tetris with the boxes and bags in the back of her car. Comet had spread out on the front seat, enjoying the sunshine streaming through the windshield.

  ‘Want a hand?’

  ‘It’s okay.’ Clare peered around at her. ‘This is the last of it.’

  Tilda leaned against the side of the car, arms crossed, squinting up at the endless blue sky and the low afternoon sun.

  Clare shut the boot, the car lifting a little as she tested the lock. She came around to the driver side door, opening and leaning on it. ‘What’s wrong?’

  Tilda scraped her boot along the ground, shoulders slumped and mouth screwed up into her saddest smile. ‘I’m on holidays.’

  Clare laughed and then winced, her fingers lifting to the cut on her chin. Tilda stepped around the door, pointing and waiting for permission before she lifted and turned Clare’s head to get a better look.

  ‘Remind me when we get to the cottage, I’ll put some strips of surgical tape to keep it from—’ Tilda stopped. There was a quirk in Clare’s smile. She released Clare’s chin and pulled her hand back. ‘Sorry. Can’t help it. I’ll have to get myself out of doctor mode. Somehow.’

  ‘Shouldn�
��t be too hard, right?’ Clare laughed as she rolled down the window and then slid into the driver’s seat. ‘Lead on.’

  5

  TILDA SLOWED WHEN she reached the dirt road. Behind her, Clare’s car was a faint outline in the cloud of dust. The road stretched on with paddocks either side, spotted with livestock. The land swayed and dipped, an expanse of bare earth with the occasional stand of tall trees. Tilda’s mind wandered, so busy daydreaming that she almost missed the driveway marker, forgetting how fast it could pass by if she wasn’t paying attention. She turned in through the open gate and rattled over the cattle grid.

  They were on the Bronson family property now. It all looked the same as always, alternating crops and barren paddocks, then the driveway curved around and they came up on the grand, sprawling farmhouse, surrounded by a big yard with garden beds and vibrant green lawn; the red dirt making a tidy border, kept at bay by a barrier of recycled railway sleepers.

  Her niece and nephew, Bea and Will, were busy in the middle of a game, chasing each other around the yard with a blur of black, brown and white hot on their heels. The border collie split off when it heard the cars, barking and greeting them and sending the working dogs mad, stuck over in the run, their noses poked through the fence to sniff. Almost at walking pace now, Tilda kept going. She drove past the main house, nosing around Jack’s ute and the family car, leading Clare further along.

  Jack and his wife Izzy stepped out onto the veranda as they pulled up in front of the tiny weatherboard cottage that was once the shearer’s quarters. Jack lugged an industrial-grade vacuum cleaner, necessary to keep the red dirt from building up. Car doors slammed with a plume of dust, dirt crunching underfoot as Clare turned to take in the place. Tilda did the same, just as she did every time she came home, the time between so long she’d almost forgotten the place. Bea and Will ran over, crashing into Tilda. Merry, the border collie, came barking and bounding along behind them.