All She Wants

by Marchant A. J.

  8

  TILDA WOKE TANGLED in a smothering sheet, sunk into the middle of a sagging mattress. The pillow cover stuck to the corner of her mouth, a little salty dried circle of drool proving Bernie right. Kicking free, she tumbled over to the side of the mattress and looked out the window, listening for the slightest sound coming from the room next door. All was quiet. Neither the house nor the yard were visible—her window looked out from the back of the cottage—but judging by the sun and the shimmering waves of heat coming off the ground, she’d slept away most of the morning.

  Her shirt clung to her back, damp with sweat. Pulling the last clean shirt off the shelf and putting it on, she went out to the kitchen. The empty wine bottle sat on the counter and Clare had washed up the mugs. They were little things that Tilda noticed, signs that there was another person living in the cottage. A water glass set aside on the counter, half empty. A coffee plunger by the kettle. The chairs returned, pushed in under the tiny table. The curtains were open, tied back by thready loops of fabric, letting in light that spilled in across the floor, showing the wear and tear and decades worth of tracks worn into the wood from previous occupants.

  Tilda picked out her own glass, the one with the faded clown on it, gulping down water that hit her empty stomach and made her feel nauseous. She fetched her laundry bag from the car, adding it to the old sheets and clothes she’d left in a pile on the floor, heading for the laundry.

  Comet was in the lamb yard, his little joey legs stretched out as he slept in the shade. Merry lay on the other side of the fence, sulking because the kids were at school. The dog opened an eye, tracing Tilda as she walked past, not moving until she saw her come back out of the laundry and head for the main house. The dog stuck to Tilda’s heel as she scouted out a bowl of cereal and drowned it in milk so cold it made her teeth hurt, by her side as she walked over to the window. The house was quiet, only the tick of the clock over the stove, the tap of Merry’s nails on the tiles, and the murmur of Izzy in her office, talking on the phone. Outside, the place looked deserted, not a soul around. Just the horses trotting restlessly in their yard.

  Tilda’s new four-legged shadow followed her outside and over the hill to the cluster of sheds. From a pile of junk and half-finished projects, Tilda unearthed two old fans. The mesh covers were missing and the blades loose, the motor no longer attached on one of them and the other missing the base. As a kid Tilda had a habit of pulling things apart and then slowly putting them back together, sometimes all the way but mostly never finishing the job because she got bored or found something more interesting to pull apart. It used to drive her parents mad, until her dad had taken her out to the junkyard one day and told her to take her pick. Anything she found there she could pull apart, everything in the house was now off limits.

  Taking the fans over to the workstation used for repairing machinery, Tilda set them out and searched through the toolboxes. Jack must have reorganised them. Nothing was where she remembered. It took some fiddling and a little more back and forth, searching out missing parts, but she flicked the switches and both fans whirred to life, spinning from side to side, spitting out dust and pushing around hot air.

  Tilda was proud of herself, walking back to the cottage carrying a fan in each hand. Merry bounced along by her side, taking off with a bark at the sight of the ute driving down from behind the feed sheds. Two black and tan kelpies jumped down from the tray, Snowy and Lachlan, and the three of them wrestled until Jack whistled out the ute window, the two working dogs sprinting away to the dog run.

  The ute pulled up in front of the cottage just as Tilda reached the steps. She put the fans up on the veranda, resting her hip against the railing.

  ‘Heya.’ Jack leaned out of the window, grinning up at her, while Clare climbed out of the passenger side and walked around the front of the ute. Tilda noticed they were both covered in red dust, and that Clare was limping a little, dried blood seeping out from the hem of her denim shorts.

  ‘Had to tackle a sheep with barbed wire wrapped around its neck. Must’ve stuck its head through a fence.’ Jack tapped the steering wheel, glancing at the clock on the dash. ‘I better go find that hole. Thanks for the help, Clare. Woulda been out there for hours doing it by myself.’

  ‘No worries.’ Clare stepped into the shade next to Tilda, waving as Jack pulled away.

  ‘You didn’t have to do that. He could’ve woken me up.’ Tilda helped Clare over to the step, pointing for her to sit down.

  ‘I don’t mind. I feel bad not paying to stay here.’

  ‘Don’t. It’s no big deal.’ Tilda lifted Clare’s leg up and rested it across her knee to look at the reopened cut. ‘You popped a stitch.’ There was blood, but the skin had held, the stitches either side doing the job well enough; no need to put the stitch back in. ‘How’s it feel?’

  ‘Itchy. Annoying.’

  Tilda leaned in, pressing at the skin around the cut. ‘Keep it clean. Keep an eye on it.’ She placed Clare’s foot back down on the step and stood. ‘And no more sheep wrangling.’

  Even with the fans set up to circulate and blow the hot air back outside, it was too stuffy inside. Tilda carried the chairs back out onto the veranda while Clare went to let Comet out, the joey going over to Merry before following her back to the cottage.

  Izzy must have seen the ute because she came over with a basket lunch. The three of them sat in the shade of the veranda to eat, watching Comet who just stood there looking around as if searching for something, scratching at his chest, unfazed by the flies flitting around his ears.

  Izzy turned to Clare, sitting sideways on the top step. ‘What happens now? Do you keep him, or…?’

  Clare shook her head as she finished the last of her sandwich, brushing crumbs from her hands. ‘Wouldn’t be fair for him. Animal welfare comes before human emotion.’

  Izzy dipped an eyebrow, but Tilda understood what Clare meant; it was kind of the same with the welfare of her patients. ‘So do you take him back where you found him?’

  ‘Likely he’ll just get hit by a car, like his mum. There are places that take rescued and orphaned wildlife. They know how to do things properly. I just need to find the closest one.’

  As if he knew they were talking about him, Comet turned and hopped over to the step. Clare picked him up and helped him climb into his pouch beside her chair, only his tail sticking out. Tilda leaned back in her chair, hands clasped across her stomach and her head resting back on the wall, legs stretched and ankles crossed.

  Something rattled in the distance and the buzz of the fans drifted through the windows, hypnotic and calming. Even the warm breeze didn’t seem so bad. She let her eyes close. Heard Clare shuffle in her seat, and the squeak of the bottom step. She half-opened her eyes, squinting through the blur of her eyelashes. Clare had also leaned back in her chair, a mirror image, and Izzy had snuck away, shrinking as she walked back to the house. The need to yawn took over and Tilda closed her eyes again, letting her mind and body sink into a heavy doze.

  9

  WHEN TILDA MADE moves to head into town to pick the kids up from school, Clare came along for the ride. Knowing where they were going and why, Merry jumped in too. They took Izzy’s car, which had last been driven by Jack; the radio spouting livestock prices and the weather forecast for the next month. Clare fiddled with the dial but all she could find were different pitches in static and fuzzy screeches, not likely to improve until they got closer to the outskirts of town. Turning it off, they compared corny bands they’d been obsessed with in high school. Clare did her best impressions of a young Britney Spears and the Backstreet Boys and a few other terrible pop artists of the nineties; she did it so good that it was bad, making Tilda laugh until she was crying, begging for her to stop so they wouldn’t crash, unable to see through the tears. Even after they entered the town, the radio stayed off.

  The road to the school went past the hospital and Tilda could feel it pull, wondering if they had time for a minor detour. But Cl
are had read her mind. A fingertip on Tilda’s jaw turned her head, her attention back to the road. ‘Keep driving.’

  Tilda parked under the shade of a tree and they stayed in the car while they waited for school to let out, seats leant back a little and windows down. Merry, who’d been curled up in the footwell behind Clare’s seat, now stood with her back paws on the back seat and her front paws on the middle console, head poking through, staring out the windshield. At the ring of the bell she barked once, her paws dancing and her mouth quivering, her little white front teeth chattering with excitement. Laughing at the dog’s barely contained excitement, Tilda raised a hand to pat and calm Merry at the same time as Clare. The sides of their hands touched, buried deep in fur, and a zap passed between them. It startled them both, their hands lifting away but still hovering close, eyes locked.

  There was a moment, Tilda could have sworn there was a moment, where something… but another bark broke through and sound rushed back in and there were kids running everywhere, all looking the same in their uniforms and wide brim hats. Merry jumped over the console and into Tilda’s lap, crushing the air out of her lungs. The dog’s tail wagged in Clare’s face, her furry head sticking out Tilda’s window. She launched out at the sight of two familiar bodies running through the playground.

  Merry ran circles around Bea and Will, herding them over to the car.

  Clare laughed. ‘Failed farm dog, huh?’

  ‘She has her moments.’ Tilda grunted, brushing dog hair from her shirt as she got out of the car and opened the back door.

  ‘Good day?’

  ‘Alright, I guess.’ Bea grinned up at her as she tossed her backpack in the car then perched in the door to take her shoes off, chucking them in behind her with a comical sigh of relief.

  Will dawdled behind, a bunch of his friends running over and crowding around him and Merry, the dog lapping up the pats and attention. Will’s friends formed a circle, stepping back a little further at a wave from Will, and then he and Merry were in the middle showing off their dance moves; Will doing the robot while Merry moonwalked on all four paws.

  The sharp toot of a whistle pierced the air, and the group turned to the intruding teacher, waving at them to get a move on. The group split up, Will’s friends hurrying over to waiting cars and buses, Will and Merry racing over to the car.

  Everyone in and buckled, Merry panting in the middle seat, Tilda drove at a snail’s pace behind a procession of school buses, eventually pulling in and parking behind the outdoor mall. After a quick trip to the supermarket and storing the food in the coolers in the back of the car—which meant the cottage cupboards and fridge were now stocked—next came a stop at Norman’s Corner Store at the bottom of the mall, the town’s original milk bar and lolly shop.

  Cones in hand, they walked back out into the heat. The ice-cream started to melt and drip down the backs of their hands; Bea with birthday cake flavour, Will with chocolate; Clare had been so excited that there’d been butterscotch caramel, making it sound so good that she talked Tilda into getting the same, even though she hadn’t felt like an ice-cream at the start.

  They stood in a huddle, out of the sun. Ice-cream dripped and splattered on the ground, Merry lapping it up. They crunched on the cones as they started walking, a few napkins handed out but not doing much to wipe away the stickiness. Bea pointed out the Christmas window displays in the stores. ‘Can we go and look?’

  Will rolled his eyes, the faint line of a chocolate moustache over his lip. ‘We saw them last weekend. They’re still the same.’

  ‘Don’t care.’ Bea poked out her tongue, speckled with rainbow freckles, and started for the closest window. Will hesitated, then ran after her, Merry close behind him. Clare and Tilda followed.

  The craft shop had a balsa wood dollhouse decorated as The Night Before Christmas, a little boy and his dog sneaking down to poke around under the tree while everyone else was asleep. They’d even decorated the outside of the dollhouse with displays and lights and little tumbleweeds pressed up against the sides instead of snow.

  The nursery had their usual Santa sculpture out the front, made of recycled wood and scrap metal. Every year they dressed Santa in a different theme; this year it was the bright yellow of a Rural Fire Service uniform, decked out with white fluffy piping and a red Santa hat, the bag over his back doubling as a collection tin for donations. Tilda emptied the change out of her pocket, hearing it land on a healthy clang of coins.

  Clare’s head turned and her eye caught on something. Everything was calm one moment, and then she grabbed Tilda’s hand and pulled her over to a window, her nose almost pressed to the glass. ‘Wow.’

  It was the grog shop’s display. They’d modelled Six White Boomers, each kangaroo made from a different kind of beer can, Santa’s sleigh cut from a cardboard carton and painted, all of it suspended above a pint-sized, made-to-scale map of the town, with pipe-cleaners and squares of felt and cotton balls and paddle pop sticks to show the important landmarks.

  ‘Too much time on their hands. They win every year.’ Tilda was no longer looking at the display, but down at their hands. Clare hadn’t let go, not even noticing. Which made it hard for Tilda to know what it meant.

  ‘What possible reason could you have to hate Christmas?’ Clare turned, a shoulder leaning against the window, cornering Tilda, soldering her to the spot. She’d spoken softly, her stare searching, as if trying to read Tilda’s mind.

  ‘No reason. I just don’t like it.’ Tilda shrugged, the movement lifting their clasped hands. Still, Clare didn’t let go, hands nor gaze.

  ‘I bet I can change your mind.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘I don’t know. But I will.’

  ‘Good luck.’ Tilda laughed, a little nervous and fighting against the need to break eye contact.

  ‘Seriously though. Why don’t you like it?’

  It was like asking why Tilda didn’t like grapes, or why she didn’t like Milo in milk but would pile it up on ice-cream and wait for it to melt enough to mix it all into a slurry. ‘I don’t know. Always been like that, since I was a kid. Ever since I can remember.’

  Tilda wasn’t sure who let go first, but as she stepped away from the window, their hands fell apart. She turned, her eyes searching out and landing on Bea and Will who were walking in a line along the top of a low brick wall, part of the sculpture in the centre of the outdoor mall. Merry’s tail poked up from the other side, wagging and moving along beside the kids like a parent worried they’d fall, ready to catch them. She’d never thought about it before, had never been interested enough to worry about it, but she couldn’t imagine what it would take to make Bea or Will become as indifferent to Christmas as she’d been at their age. Ever since they were old enough, this had been their favourite time of year. So why wasn’t it hers? What was wrong with her?

  She pushed it from her mind, calling out, ‘Time to go.’

  The kids turned, drawn out of their make-believe adventure. The thud of them jumping down from the wall echoed between the storefronts, a head or two turning at the sound. They raced each other, Bea windmilling her arms and Will running sideways, twisting and turning.

  ‘We’re in charge of Christmas cookies for the fete. Wanna help?’ Bea and Will stood shoulder to shoulder, beaming up at them. Will’s uneven smile, a gap where a top front tooth had fallen out, the white tip of a new tooth half poking out, made Tilda laugh, forgetting what she’d been so worried about a moment before.

  Catching their excitement, Clare cheered. ‘Yes. I’m in. How about you, Til?’

  Surprised at hearing Clare say her name for the first time, Tilda answered without answering, ‘I don’t know, maybe,’ hoping that by the time they got home she’d have a better excuse other than simply not wanting to. Even though she kinda wanted to. Which was weird.

  10

  AS IT TURNED out, Tilda needed no excuse to get out of cookie making. Jack was waiting for them when they got home. He chucked Tilda a set of keys be
fore she’d even closed the car door. ‘Pony up. You’re on the ride-on today.’

  Tilda groaned. Yard work. A chore she thought she’d outgrown once she had her medical degree. Obviously not. Feet dragging, she followed Jack over to the sheds while Clare and the kids headed inside.

  It was hot work. The afternoon dragged on, sun prickling the back of her neck as Tilda did lap after lap around the yard, finishing up and joining Jack in wrangling the gardens and hedges into shape. Job done, Tilda pointed the ancient ride-on lawn mower along the dirt road back to the shed. She wrestled with the dodgy steering, the engine trundling along, the loud roar of the blades dimmed but still echoing in her ears. She shaded her eyes against the low sun as the mower peaked over the hill, squinting until she reached the shadow of the sheds, pulling in and parking it in the same spot it’d lived since before she’d been old enough to drive it. Jack pulled in beside her on the ATV, the trailer behind it overstuffed with pieces of trimmed hedge and hessian bags.

  They were both a sight; boots tinged a mouldy green, flecks of grass clippings up their legs, dirt and scratches and leaf sap up their arms. As kids, after a day of yard work, they used to race each other to the nearest dam, splashing and jumping around, coming out muddier than they’d gone in. At least now the job only took a few hours and not a whole day, but any energy they would have once had as kids was now drained; no running, no splashing, just a tired shuffle as they set about tidying up, emptying the trailer and piling the garden waste in the corner to sort out later.

  Tilda perched on the ATV hood and pointed out a rusty ute in the corner, half covered in a drop sheet. ‘You get her fixed up yet?’

  Jack glanced over as he tossed the last hessian bag. ‘Yeah. But we’ll see how long she lasts. Might be the next basher once Paddy carks it.’