Читать книгу Talk to Me Tenderly, Tell Me Lies - John Davis Gordon - Страница 11

It was a beautiful morning. The sky was magnificently blue, the early sun cast long shadows through the trees, and the world was old and young at the same time. And on this glorious morning Helen McKenzie had to bury Oscar.

At nine o’clock she drove to the cottage to fetch Ben Sunninghill for breakfast. She found him outside, wearing shorts and singlet, his motorbike engine in pieces. He stood up when he saw her vehicle approaching. His skinny chest was covered in curly black hair, and he was only about five foot five in his bare feet.

‘G’day. Breakfast time,’ Helen said through the window. ‘Then I’ll show you our collection of spanners.’

He smiled. ‘I’ve already found the spanners – went for an early walk and found the barn unlocked, hope that’s okay.’

Again she was a little surprised by his forwardness. ‘Sure.’ She nodded at his motor cycle. ‘How’re you doing?’

‘Fine. Say, that’s a nice little airplane you got in that barn.’

‘Would be, if it worked.’

‘What’s wrong with it?’

‘Starter set-up, Clyde says. Clyde’s my husband. We’ve got to get spare parts.’

‘Has the engine been stationary for very long?’

‘No, I turn it over once a fortnight to keep it loose.’

‘Ah. Can you fly?’

‘Sure, when I have to.’

‘I’ve got a licence.’ He said it proudly. ‘Went down to Florida one winter and took a crash course. Don’t you enjoy it?’

‘Don’t like heights, and all that radio stuff about winds and weather. But you really need a plane out here. Do you – like flying?’

‘After sex and sailing, it’s what I like best.’

She didn’t like that – ‘after sex’. Far too familiar. ‘So, you’re a sailor too?’

‘An intrepid one. Want me to look at the airplane’s starter motor?’

It sounded a pushy offer, as if he were looking for an excuse to stay longer. ‘Reckon you could fix it, huh? Like you intrepidly kill snakes?’

‘I’m scared of snakes. But I can fix most anything. Does that old VW van in the barn work?’

‘Doubt it, we haven’t started it in a year and it’s as old as the hills. My father gave it to me when the kids were little so they could sleep in it when we went on holidays. Why, want to buy it? Swap it for your bike, maybe?’

Ben smiled. ‘No thanks. But I’ll have a look at it for you, if you like.’

That disarming smile of his. No, she decided, he hadn’t meant to be pushy. ‘Thanks anyway, but better let sleeping dogs lie. What’s wrong with your bike?’

‘Just a split head-gasket. That’s the thing—’

‘Sure, I know what a head-gasket is, helped Clyde put in new ones often enough in twenty-some years. Cuss, cuss, cuss.’

‘Nineteen,’ he smiled. ‘See, I remembered.’

Again, somehow she didn’t like that. Almost suggestive. ‘Okay,’ she said: ‘I’ve put everything on the table, just help yourself. Bacon and steak’s in the fridge.’

He walked towards his shirt. He was even smaller than she’d thought. His legs were wiry and his back was hairy too. ‘Aren’t you having breakfast?’ he asked.

‘No, I had mine hours ago, I’ve got to go’n fetch Billy to dig Oscar’s grave. Billy’s our stockman. If he hasn’t gone walkabout.’

‘Walkabout, huh? Look, I’ll dig Oscar’s grave.’ He pulled on his shirt.

‘Thanks, but I want that grave good and deep so the dingoes don’t dig him up, and believe me that ground’s stony – Billy’s got nothing much to do anyway.’

‘Do you want me to come with you to fetch Billy?’

She sighed inwardly. ‘If you like.’

Her tone made him look at her more closely. Her face was strained, as if she had done some crying in the night. He knew she didn’t feel up to being sociable. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘I have my own breakfast right here; you go’n see to Billy.’

‘Come on,’ she said, ‘it’s all waiting.’

He fried some eggs and bacon in her kitchen. He wasn’t hungry, but he was sure she would worry about being inhospitable if she saw he hadn’t eaten anything when she came back. She was a sensitive one, all right. He washed his plates, then went out on to the verandah.

Oscar lay under the blanket, and on the blanket was a flower.

‘Oh, dear …’

He pulled the blanket back a little. There lay Oscar’s old-young Boxer head, his worried frown stiff, his tongue clenched between his sharp young teeth.

He returned to the kitchen. He went to the washing-machine, crouched and examined it; then he pulled it away from the wall.

Some time later he heard the Land Rover return; its door slammed and Helen strode into the kitchen. She found Ben sitting on the floor, the washing-machine’s innards surrounding him.

‘Hi,’ he said.

She was surprised. ‘What are you doing?’

‘Here’s part of your problem.’ He held up the filter. It was clogged with fluff and small gravel chips. ‘You also had a loose connection. And,’ he plucked up something from the floor and held it up to her, ‘your engagement ring’s diamond.’

Her face lit up. ‘Oh, my God! Thank you!’

‘Takes a jeweller to find a jewel. Obviously fell out of your ring when you were loading the machine. I’ll stick it back in for you properly.’

‘Oh, thank you! Wow, a thousand dollars saved!’

He nodded in the direction of the verandah. ‘Can I help? With Oscar?’

Her cheerfulness at making a thousand dollars faded. ‘No, thanks anyway.’

She took a determined breath, turned and left the kitchen. He thought, Poor lady …

He checked through the rest of the washing-machine’s parts. They looked okay, so he reassembled it. He hooked it up to the tap and filled it. He went to the wall and pressed the green button, and heard the distant doem, doem, doem as the generator started up. When he switched on the washing-machine, it burst into shuddering life. He turned it off and pressed the red button on the wall to stop the generator. The sound died away, and from outside he heard the distant clank of a pickaxe.

He went out the back door, into the sunshine. He walked towards the corner of the verandah. He stopped.

A hundred yards away, beyond the patchy lawn, her back towards him, Helen was swinging a pickaxe. She wrestled it out of the stony ground, then swung it up above her head, and swiped down again. Ben looked around for the Aborigine, but there was nobody else in sight. He hurried across the lawn. ‘Hey …’

She did not hear him coming. She swung the pick up again, and swiped it down with a grunt. Her face was flushed, hair had broken loose from its bun and tendrils stuck to her neck. She was wearing a hat with corks dangling from the brim to keep the flies off her face.

‘Hey – where’s this Billy?’ Ben said.

Helen swung the pick over her head furiously. ‘Drunk!’ She grimaced and swiped into the ground, with a spurt of sparks. Ben reached down and took hold of the shaft.

‘Drunk? Let me do this.’

‘Blind, rotten, stinking drunk! And his wife. No, this is not fair on you!’

‘Perfectly fair.’ He took the pick from her firmly. She stepped aside angrily, panting, and he lined himself up at the hole. ‘Does he do this often?’

‘Whenever they get the chance to go into Burraville and buy the stuff! Today it’s metho.’ She sat down in a furious heap.

Ben lifted the pick. ‘Metho?’

‘Methylated spirits, the stinking blue stuff you put in Primus stoves. Didn’t know he had any, the crafty bastard! I confiscated the bottle.’

Ben swung the pick down with a clanging crunch. God, it was hard ground. He wrenched it out and swung again. Three swings and he was panting.

‘Well, he’ll be sober tomorrow.’

‘If they don’t go walkabout.’

‘Do they do that often?’

She snorted. ‘Abbos? Don’t get me wrong, they’re sweet people and they’re good stockmen. But walkabout …?’ Ben began taking off his shirt. ‘The flies will make you put that on again. Come on, let me take over.’

‘No.’ He slung his shirt on the ground and hefted the pick again.

He was skinny, but his shoulders, arms and gut were muscular. He doesn’t weigh more than a hundred and thirty pounds, she thought, less than me. And half my size. He swiped the pick down again and grunted: ‘How long do these people disappear for?’

‘A month? Three? For ever? They come back and they can’t understand why they haven’t got a job.’

He wrestled the pick out of the ground, threw it down and snatched up his shirt again. ‘ Goddam flies. And how many times has Billy gone walkabout?’

‘Three or four – I’ve forgotten. The whole family just disappears. Last time they came back without the kids – they were almost grown up. Let me get you a cork hat.’

‘I’m okay.’ He waved flies off his face and lifted the pick again. ‘What do you do when they go walkabout?’

‘Do it myself,’ she said grimly, ‘unless another Abbo happens along. Fortunately there’s not much to do, with most of the stock sold.’ She heaved herself up. ‘I’m going to fetch you a hat. Then I’ll take over for a while …’

The grave was dug. Ben was exhausted, though Helen had dug the greater part of it. She was worn out too, flushed and sweating. ‘Like a pig. Bloody Abbos!’ She threw down the pick.

‘Shall I fetch Oscar?’ Ben asked.

‘No, I’ll do it.’ She turned abruptly and walked grimly back towards the house.

Ben followed her. He mounted the wooden steps to the verandah behind her. She walked up to Oscar, and stared down at the blanketed mound. Then she suddenly brought her hands to her face and burst into sobs.

Ben looked at her uncomfortably. Then he put his arm around her shoulders. She was half a head taller than him. She sobbed and sobbed into her hands. ‘Oh Oscar …’

Ben squeezed her once. Then he got down on to one knee to pick up the body.

‘No,’ she sniffed. ‘Thank you, but I want to do it.’ He stood up and she turned, eyes wet. ‘Please go inside and let me do this.’

‘He’ll be heavy.’

Helen closed her eyes in exasperation. ‘Please …’

Ben went into the house, walked down the passage and turned right into the living-room.

It had a miscellany of worn furniture, none of it matching. A carpet of rosebud persuasion, a lounge suite with zebra stripes, pale pink walls. Ceramic ducks, a gleaming artist’s impression of Jesus Christ, prints of Scottish lochs. Assorted ferns and bookshelves, an old record-player, a big television set. An array of family and school photographs in frames. An elaborate two-way radio.

He ran his eye over the photographs. He picked up one frame, then another, and studied them for a minute. Then he turned and looked out of the window.

Helen was staggering across the dried-up lawn towards the grave, Oscar in her arms. The blanket trailed over the ground on either side, threatening to tangle with her feet, and Oscar’s rigid legs poked up on both sides of her head. She struggled to the edge of the grave. Then she slumped down on to her knees, and carefully lowered Oscar to the ground.

Ben watched her from the back. First she appeared to pray, the corks dangling around her bowed head. For some minutes she held her face, and he saw her shoulders jerk a little. Then she got to her feet and began to inter Oscar.

She hefted him up and struggled forward, legs astride over the grave. She bent, and lowered him to the hole. But, evidently, she ran into difficulties; she crouched, her blue-jeaned buttocks up, head and Oscar down. The dog’s rigid legs made him too wide for the grave. It was impossible to bury him lying on his side.

Helen remained still, wrestling with this problem; then she edged backwards and laid Oscar down on the ground again. She got his fore and hind paws in each hand, heaved him up, staggered over the grave again, and lowered him on to his spine.

From the living-room, it appeared to Ben to be the only solution. He could see Oscar’s paws sticking up, but they were below ground level. But Helen did not seem satisfied. She stood there, looking down at Oscar’s undignified posture; then she put both knuckles to her eyes between her dangling corks for an exasperated moment. Then she grabbed the legs again and heaved him up out of the grave.

She struggled backwards, put him down, and he collapsed stiffly on to his side. She crouched and got her hands under his chest and heaved him up on to his feet. With a hand on each side of his ribcage, she manoeuvred him back over the grave. She lowered him.

Oscar stood in his grave, his head twelve inches below ground level. Helen cautiously let him go, and put both knuckles to her eyes again. For a minute she stood motionless, evidently praying again. Then she scrambled backwards hurriedly, snatched up the spade and began to shovel the stony earth over him.

Ben turned from the window and went down the passage to the kitchen. He felt as if he had been eavesdropping. He went into the pantry and found the brandy bottle and two glasses.

Five minutes later Helen came in, sweating, her hands earthy. Ben was sitting on the kitchen table. She looked at him, her eyes brimming, then she blurted:

‘I had to bury him standing up …’ Her lower lip trembled. ‘But I prefer it like that! He was such a stand-up dog!’

She burst into tears. Ben’s heart went out to her and he slid off the table. He put both arms around her. ‘There, there …’ She dropped her forehead on to his shoulder, and sobbed and sobbed.

Ben held her gently. ‘There, there …’ She leant against him, arms hanging, crying her grief out. ‘There, there …’ he murmured again: and, oh, the wonderful female feeling of her in his arms, her sweaty warmth, the earthy smell of her. And with all his compassionate heart he ached to clutch her tight against him. Her sobs stopped suddenly. With a tearful sigh she moved to turn out of his arms, but he held on to her.

For a moment neither of them breathed. They stood against each other, pressed close. And for a wild moment he thought she was going to put her arms around him. Then she turned firmly and he dropped his arms.

She walked towards the sink. She spun the tap, cupped her hands and splashed water up on to her face vigorously.

Ben stood there, wanting to apologize – but for what? He had done nothing that couldn’t have an innocent interpretation. And it almost was innocent. He said:

‘Can I pour you a drink?’

She reached for a kitchen towel and thrust it to her dripping face. ‘No, thanks,’ she said into the towel.

He wasn’t sure if she was annoyed. ‘You deserve it, you’ve had a harrowing time.’

‘Yes.’ She tossed the towel on to the sink; she stood looking at it. Then: ‘Yes, dammit – I will have a drink.’

He poured some brandy into a glass. He held it out to her. She accepted it without looking at him.

‘Thanks.’ She took a swallow, and shuddered at the burn. ‘Oh boy,’ she said, eyes closed.

He pulled out a kitchen chair. ‘Sit down.’

She turned and slumped down on to it. He sat down in the other chair, across the table from her. She stared across the room at nothing.

He said tentatively: ‘Well, I’ve fixed the washing-machine – it works fine.’

‘Oh. Oh, thanks very much, that’s wonderful.’ She gave him a bleak, mechanical smile.

‘You must remember to clean out the filter basket every now and again.’

She nodded. ‘Okay. I usually do. But thank you.’