The picture on the front page wasn’t too bad, she thought, and the headline carried the predictable pun: New Coach the Cats’ Whiskers. She had managed Tiny Spencer quite well, she thought, drawing on the lies she’d already crafted for Jenny, but she flipped to the main story on page three quickly, fearing Tiny may have done some research of his own. She needn’t have worried. Tiny was your typical sixty-year-old journo running a country newspaper while he waited till he could get his super. She had steered him away from her personal life and given him plenty of material on her coaching philosophy and the inner workings of the Cattery.
Her coffee arrived and she took a sip. It was a long sight better than the plunger at home but still a bull’s roar from Sydney standards. Torrens was late. He wasn’t due at work until the afternoon shift and they’d agreed to meet at nine am.
She’d never been to this little strip of shops out near the old mine, but she had to avoid the town centre for now, with Rosemary and Andrew around. The Wombat Cafe was a cheery place, with its yellow-painted walls covered in black-and-white photos of Katinga over the last hundred years and a bookshelf with a sign saying Please take one. When the mine was open, the cafe would have been busy with workers, she thought, early in the morning and again after knock-off. Now, sitting at an aluminium table in the corner, she was the only one there. An old fellow with a cane had bought an apple teacake about twenty minutes ago, but there had been no one since. He’d recognised her on his way out and shuffled over to her table to reminisce about the grand final win in ’62, his teacake in a string bag hanging from his elbow. He’d been twenty-five years old at the time, working in the mines. It was the best day of his life. Now he wanted to see it happen once more before he died. ‘We’re countin’ on you, love,’ he said, patting her shoulder as he left.
Torrens finally arrived, placed his order at the counter and sat himself opposite Clementine. Immediately the table felt too small.
They’d discussed the wheelchair last night and what it might mean, Rosemary having been able-bodied when Clem had last seen her. Torrens said he thought perhaps she might have had her leg in a cast, but he couldn’t be sure. They both agreed it had to be an injury or some sort of surgery or both.
‘You reckon her boyfriend brought her here to stay for a bit while she recovers?’ he asked.
‘Maybe. I can’t imagine them doing a driving holiday with Rosemary in a wheelchair. Andrew’ll probably head back to work while Rosemary takes in the country air.’
‘There were two huge suitcases, though, he might be here for the long haul too,’ said Torrens as the waiter brought out his order—a latte and two doughnuts, steaming hot and covered in a fine dusting of sugar. He offered Clementine one, she declined.
‘Yeah, but I wouldn’t be surprised if the luggage was all Rosemary’s. She always fancied herself as a bit of a fashion plate. Either way, I don’t think I’m going to be able to hang around,’ she said.
‘Eh?’ said Torrens, his eyes screwed up in disbelief. She shouldn’t have said it. Why did she have to let on to Torrens? She could just slip away one night, never to be seen again.
‘Hang on a moment! You can’t leave us now! There’s no fucking way on God’s fucking earth you can fucking leave us now,’ he said, his voice filling the cafe.
The waiter came out from behind the counter, began wiping a table nearby, watching Torrens warily.
‘Don’t get your knickers in a twist, big fella, it was a joke. Where’s your sense of humour?’ she said, giving the waiter a smile to let him know all was well.
‘Not funny. Not bloody funny at all,’ said Torrens.
She swallowed the last of her coffee and pushed her cup to the side of the table. Everywhere she went these days, every conversation she had reminded her of the suffocating pressure—Mrs Lemmon and her Tom, the old man with the teacake, the young man sitting in front of her. All of them depending on her.
As he wolfed down his second doughnut, Torrens came up with a plan. He said it was the best way, and if they waited for a cloudy night, no moon, no one would ever find out. She didn’t like it at all—it made her feel sick, in fact—but Torrens was determined to go through with it, whether she liked it or not. She felt trapped, drained, tired, and it was comforting to have someone else be the strategist for a change. She simply could not think of an alternative other than leaving Katinga, and that just didn’t seem right. But she couldn’t let him risk it alone.