All She Wants

by Marchant A. J.

  ‘Go on. Say it.’

  Clare whispered back. ‘Told you we’d have fun.’

  17

  TILDA WAS GRATEFUL it was a nice day for a walk to the dam. Something in the air had changed. It wasn’t as hot as it had been, and the occasional cloud threw shadows that moved across the ground. A slight breeze whipped up dust devils along the track. She felt relaxed, like she had nowhere else to be, for the first time in a long time. Even the cattle were loping along the fence beside them, heads nodding and legs strutting.

  The heavy cooler packed with bait and food and drinks bumped between Tilda and Jack. Tilda adjusted her grip on the handle, her arm stretching, being pulled along as Jack reached over the fence. He held his hand out, a cow’s wet nose nuzzling at it. Tilda smiled as she caught a snippet of him whispering to the cow about the bait they were carrying in the cooler. ‘No one you knew, I promise.’

  Comet was in his pouch, strapped to Clare who was helping Izzy carry buckets, old battered toolboxes full of gear and a beach-bag of towels in case the kids wanted to swim. Will ran on ahead, dribbling a soccer ball. He passed it to Bea, who kicked it too hard, so that Merry had to run after it. The dog trundled it forward for a bit between her paws before Will caught up and took it back, the pattern repeating.

  Will and Jack had scouted out the dams beforehand, and chosen the one in the east paddock, with a stand of trees around one end and the water brimming at the top, always the fullest. Settling in, they split the toolboxes. Jack and Tilda got one, the others sharing the other. Clare set Comet up under the shade of the trees and Merry came over and joined him, sitting on the cool dirt and huffing with her tongue sticking out the side of her mouth.

  When Clare came back over, Will offered to show her what to do. ‘You get a length of line, and a chunk of steak, and you…’ He fell silent as he concentrated. Clare leaned in as he tied the line this way and then that way around the bait. An old hand at yabbying, Tilda knew what to do, but she glanced over now and then. There was no hurt in getting a refresher. Jack was right, it’d been so long, but as Will went through it again, it all came back.

  Done tying, Will held up his baited line, the chunk of steak swinging in the air, wrapped with line like a bow around a present. ‘You gotta make sure it’s secure, or else the yabby will take your bait and run.’ Then, easy as, he swung the line once more. With perfect timing, he loosened his grip, easing the line through his palm as the bait glided over the water and landed with a plop, sinking. The line stretched out, held securely but softly. ‘And then you wait. You’ll know when you get one.’

  Clare straightened up and gazed at the spot the bait had landed, hands on hips. ‘How?’

  Tilda and Jack answered at the same time. ‘You’ll feel it.’

  Tilda looked over. Jack already had a line in, and he baited her with a grin. ‘What? Scared you’ve lost your touch?’

  It never took long before competition sparked between them, but this had to be a record. Usually it was at least one or two yabbies in before things got heated. Tilda grabbed a reel of line and baited it, walking a little further along the edge of the water in the soft mud before tossing the line smoothly and then squatting, holding the line, waiting.

  Her mind wandered and so did her gaze, waving at Will who’d set up on the other side of the dam, sitting on his bucket. Clare and Izzy each had a line in the water but had forgotten them, too caught up in conversation to notice that the stick they had tied their ends to was now being dragged along in the mud.

  After a while Bea got bored, passing her line over to Will and joining in the fun of Jack and Tilda’s competition. She played both sides for a bit, egging them on and guarding the two buckets set up, keeping count on who was in the lead. Jack didn’t see her nudging Will to add his catch to Tilda’s bucket each time he came back around to the cooler for another piece of bait. But the others saw, nodding conspiratorially when Bea held a finger to her lips. One time Jack almost turned just as Will dropped an angry yabby into the bucket, but Tilda pulled his attention the other way. ‘Jack, what’s your all-time record?’

  ‘Fifteen.’

  ‘So, half of mine.’

  Jack hacked a laugh. ‘Bull. Twice yours. Dad always put his in your bucket.’

  Tilda leaned back to look past him. ‘Bea? What’s the count?’

  Bea peered into the bucket, and a curious Merry stuck her nose in only to be met with a nipping claw, running back to Comet and the shade to sulk.

  ‘Aunt Til’s in the lead by six.’

  ‘Bollocks.’ Jack growled, not noticing the giggle that passed over the dam between Bea and Will. Never a gracious loser, Jack was suddenly busy tying bait and setting up numerous lines. Tilda whistled Merry over, pointing as she whispered in the dog’s ear. ‘Steal.’

  Slinking away, the dog snuck over to where Jack had set up, touching her nose to various items until she came to the reel of bright red line and Tilda clicked her fingers. The dog picked the reel up, sprinting away with it dangling from her mouth just as Jack turned. It took a moment for him to realise what had happened, clueing in when he looked over at the others trying to hold in their laughter and then saw Merry delivering the reel of line to Tilda with a bark, gobbling up a chunk of steak as her reward.

  Scooping up the reel, Tilda was a step ahead as Jack came running after her, grinning over her shoulder. Too busy poking her tongue out at him, she didn’t see the big patch of mud and she ran right into it. Everything was fine for a moment and then her feet were slip-sliding out from under her, the ground rushing up. She landed on her backside with a squelch, uncontrollable laughter bubbling out as she tried to gain some traction and then giving up when her boots were more mud than leather.

  Having seen the mud patch in time, Jack pulled up. He stood at the edge of the patch, arms crossed, looking very pleased. ‘Want some help?’

  Tilda sighed, scrunching up her nose. ‘Yes please.’

  He held out his hand, but didn’t come any closer. ‘Gimme the reel first.’

  Tilda glanced around, spying the reel where it had landed behind her, lost during her struggle, now just as covered in mud as she was. There was a sucking noise as she pulled it free, mud flying off as she tossed it over to Jack, who stepped back and let it land at his feet. For a moment Tilda thought he was going to leave her there, but then he kicked off his boots. With bare feet, he stepped into the mud, toes gripping and pushing through the mud until he reached her. He grabbed her with a vice grip. Just as he shifted his weight, Tilda yanked as hard as she could, pulling him down into the mud beside her and using his body to press herself up to standing.

  Skating across the mud, she was almost at the edge of the dam when a ball of mud hurled over her shoulder and landed in the water with a splash. Reflex made her duck, sending her sliding and landing again on her backside in the mud. Another mud ball clipped her elbow, and she rolled over onto her stomach, laying flat as another went flying over her head. Tilda hadn’t seen where it’d landed, but judging by the full-body cringe and the look on Jack’s face, it had landed nowhere good. Struggling to sit up, Tilda saw Izzy standing where Jack had stood a moment before, a splatter of mud in the middle of her chest and the sternest glare in her eye. Everything was silent for a moment. Izzy crouched, as if to wash the mud off in the water, but she looked up with a grin and catapulted a handful of mud back at Jack. And that was it, war was declared.

  They all rushed in. It was every person for themselves. Mud flew everywhere, bodies slipped and slid, laughter and screams and yells that must have carried across the paddocks, cattle probably thinking they’d gone mad. Clare threw a mud ball that hit Tilda in the leg, knocking her back down to the ground. Izzy pressed her palm to Clare’s cheek, leaving a handprint. Will got his father good, mud splattering all up his side, and Jack returned the favour, knocking the boy’s ankle and tackling him, rolling Will around in the mud. Bea joined in, handfuls of mud oozing down Jack’s back and making him squirm, releasing Will who
came back at him with a vengeance, bombarding them all with throw after throw, everyone ducking and dodging and trying to use each other as shields until they collapsed into an exhausted heap, covered in mud from head to toe.

  Jack, Tilda and the kids rolled around until they reached the water, sliding in and swimming out into the middle where it was deepest, while Clare and Izzy helped each other out of the mud. They stood on the bank and watched the others dive and splash about, looking a pair, brown with mud that was already starting to dry and harden. Jack waved them in, but Izzy shook her head, sending little bubbles of mud flying. ‘We just pulled two buckets of yabbies, I’m not going in there.’

  ‘Clare?’

  ‘No way.’ Clare wiped around her eyes with the towel Izzy offered her.

  ‘Suit yourselves.’ Jack put his hands on Tilda’s shoulders, dunking her under, the kids doing the same to him just as he wasn’t expecting it. A cloud of muddy water bloomed around them, and they came out of the dam, if not clean, then at least free of the layer of mud that clung to Izzy and Clare.

  It took some time to pack up, trying not to get mud on everything. Merry sniffed around them as they walked, and Comet hopped along behind Clare, Bea and Will pretending to be swamp monsters. It was only a short walk and by the time they got back, the watery mud that covered Jack, Tilda and the kids had dried, their clothes wrecked, and Clare and Izzy were stiff with mud, little pieces cracking off and leaving a trail.

  Deciding to shower and clean up before they met at the ute to go tree hunting, Tilda and Clare split off to the cottage and the others walked muddy prints across the yard to the main house.

  18

  MUD-FREE AND ready to go, Tilda and Clare walked over to the main house. No one was around and the ute door was open, so Tilda reached in and beeped the horn.

  ‘Oi.’ They both jumped when Jack’s head poked around the corner of the house, arms fiddling with something and then walking out with the garden hose. He started filling buckets with clean water to knock some of the muddy taste out of the yabbies. ‘You two were quick. What’d you do? Shower together?’ One bucket filled, he transferred the hose, not seeing the awkward glances or the blush on Tilda’s cheeks. Another bucket filled, he pinched the hose and walked back around the corner, the tap squealing as he turned the water off. He yelled in through the open back door. ‘Let’s go.’

  There were running footsteps inside the house. A moment later Bea and Will burst out the door and raced each other to the ute. Tilda and Clare climbed into the tray after them, Jack sitting behind the wheel, engine idling. Finally Izzy came out, walking slower and slower and grinning wider the more the kids and Jack hurried her. Jack steered the ute away from the house, giving everyone in the tray a bumpy ride as he drove over the runnels left after the rain instead of going down the smooth, packed-dirt tracks. Merry chased after them for a bit, stopping and barking and then going over to Comet in his yard when she realised she was being left at home.

  Jack urged the ute on, picking up speed to make it up the hill. Tilda and Clare ducked behind the cab for shelter from the wind, the kids squeezing in with them. Dust blew out behind, catching up every time they stopped. Bea and Will took turns to jump down, holding the gate open for the ute to go through, closing it after and then racing to catch up, Clare and Tilda each taking a hand and pulling them back into the tray.

  Tilda noticed that Jack took the long way and figured he was multitasking, doing a livestock check along the way. Paddock after paddock, cattle roamed, sheep running toward the ute to see if they were dropping feed, following them for a bit before wandering away. They were nearing the back of the property when Will pointed out a cow scratching against a wooden post, making the stretch of wire fencing either side wobble and bow. The sight sent the kids into fits of laughter, the funniest thing they’d ever seen as the cow’s big flat tongue poked out every time its neck stretched forward, eyes rolling at its itch being satisfied. Not seeing it quite the same way, Tilda tapped on the roof of the cab and looked through the rear window to make sure Jack had seen it too. He gave her a thumbs up, yelling out the open window. ‘It’s on the list. The storm, all that rain. The ground’s gotten soft along the fences…’

  She didn’t catch the rest, could only hear him mumbling beneath the wind and the engine and the tyres crunching across the dirt. At the furthest reaches of the property, Bea jumped down to open and close the gate. The ute curved along the track and turned right, the land changing in the blink of an eye. They were driving along the edge of a cliff and the land dropped away into hollows and ravines, trees clinging to the craggy sides of mountains below, a blue haze on the horizon where the trees grew thickest.

  ‘Wow.’ Clare stared, her mouth gaping. ‘It’s so different.’

  ‘Like another world.’ Tilda turned sideways, leaning a shoulder against the back of the cab. ‘Jack and I used to go camping down there as kids. We’d pretend we were far away, another planet or universe or something.’

  Jack had slowed to let them take in the view, but he sped up again. The difference grew as they drove on. A drop away to forest and rolling mountains on one side, and on the other, an expanse of flat red dirt that looked like a desert in comparison. They came to the last hill, Tilda recognising it by the little dip before the rise, and knew they were almost there. A good thing, because her bum was getting sore from bouncing on the hard metal tray. At the last gate, Will complained and dragged his feet even though it was his turn. Jack drove through, and as always at the last gate, didn’t stop for the boy to get back in.

  A hundred metres ahead rose a forest of trees. Tilda watched Clare’s face light up when the ute stopped and she kneeled to look over the cab, realising what kind.

  ‘Christmas trees.’ It was a whisper, full of awe and wonder, as wide as her eyes.

  Tilda kneeled up too. Pine trees of all sizes, a natural forest, not all neat and tidy like the commercial tree farms. The tract of land was owned by the town. For as long as Tilda or Jack could remember, and their father before, and his father before that, for generations, the trees had been left to do their own thing, the forest having cultivated an ecosystem and community of its own over decades and centuries. The oldest trees were well established. No one would ever cut those down. The locals knew to take only the smaller ones, the ones that would die or fall after a few years of competition, leaving the stronger trees to grow up to full height and maturity, to keep the forest healthy and thriving.

  They all piled out of the ute and Will ran up to join them. Jack stood out front, everyone else in a line before him. Tilda explained the rules of the Bronson family tree hunting tradition to Clare as tensions rose. Jack took his sweet time to decide who would pick the tree this year. Bouncing on his toes like he needed to pee, Will couldn’t take it any longer and butted in. ‘Tilly should get to. It’s gotta be her turn by now.’

  Jack raised a questioning eyebrow, Bea cheered and wiggled in agreement, but Tilda had a different idea. ‘How about I give my turn to Clare? If she wants it?’

  Clare lit up. ‘I definitely want it.’

  It was cooler in amongst the trees. The light was green, even the shadows had a verdant tinge. Bea and Will took off, chasing each other, weaving around trunks and brushing past branches. Their joy was contagious. Jack pretended to be Bigfoot and chased Izzy off into the forest, leaving Tilda and Clare to their tree hunting mission. They walked for a bit and then Clare stopped, pointed at a tree. ‘What about this one?’

  Tilda shrugged. ‘It’s a bit scraggly. But I’m not allowed to help choose. It’s the rules.’

  ‘Okay.’ Clare kept walking.

  Tilda followed along behind, stopping when Clare stopped, waiting as she looked over a few trees, lingering longer at one or two, biting her lip and humming as she considered each one.

  Finally, Clare came to a stop, certainty in her stance. ‘This one.’

  Tilda handed her the saw, smiling as she told Clare about the other rules she’d forgotten
to mention. ‘Not only do you get to choose. But you also get to cut it down and carry it out.’

  Clare laughed at first, her face turning serious when she saw Tilda wasn’t joking. ‘You want me to handle a saw? Clumsy Clare?… I’ll cut my leg off before I even make a dent in the trunk.’

  ‘Fine.’ Tilda took the saw, and with a few practiced movements she’d cut a guiding line into the trunk. She handed the saw back. ‘Now you.’

  It took a few choice swear words, a breather or two, and the tree almost falling on top of Clare as the last strip of bark twisted and gave way; the Bronson family Christmas tree had been felled. Tilda cupped her hands around her mouth and leaned back, her head tilted to the sky as she let out a call. ‘Ayyyeee-oh.’ It was returned by a choir of four similar calls, and Tilda turned to Clare. ‘Let’s get it to the ute.’

  ‘You take that end?’ Clare glanced across, her shoulders slumping at the sight of a grinning Tilda shaking her head. ‘Right. The rules. Choose, cut, carry.’ She picked up the freshly cut end of the trunk, tested the weight with a little pull, and then dropped it. ‘But I’m not even part of—’

  But Tilda was shaking her head. ‘Rules are rules. Once you get it going, you’ll be fine.’

  Which was true enough, and Clare soon had it figured out. Manoeuvring it between the haphazardly growing trees was the hardest part, Tilda giving in and helping with a push or two to clear the last branches.

  After one particular tough spot Tilda caught up, walking along beside Clare. ‘Having fun?’

  Struggling to catch her breath, and with sweaty dirt smudges on her cheeks from pushing her hair away from her face, Clare stopped, resting the tree trunk against her hip. ‘You set me up.’