THE PUBLICAN
How she felt now, waiting for the long sweep of headlights up the drive to Heartwood, quite frankly, was petrified. And fear wasn’t a becoming look for Sonnet. She blotted ineffectually at her face in the bathroom mirror, rechecked for sweat stains.
‘It’s the pits being a nervous sweater,’ Sonnet told her reflection, then grimaced. ‘I know; that one was terrible.’
She took one last look: at the powder sliding further off her skin with every passing second, knowing full well it had no business being dabbed on a face like hers; at the chiffon cocktail dress cinched in two whole notches this evening; at her mother’s pearls nestled above the sweetheart neckline; and, with the most misgiving, at the hair she’d allowed Fable to pin in a soft Grecian pile before she’d left the cottage.
She wished she’d worn pants. Couldn’t even remember right now why she’d started wearing these stupid dresses in the first place.
The rush of Plum’s feet up the hallway truncated her spiralling angst.
‘He’s here! He’s here!’
Sonnet gulped a breath, grabbed the drawstring purse she’d sewn up just for the occasion, and thrust the bathroom door open with what she hoped was a confident smile.
*
‘So, what do you feel like for dinner?’ Brenton asked as the car roared through the rainforest towards town. The smell of cologne, shaving cream and polished car interior was a warm, masculine fog. ‘The world is your oyster tonight!’
‘Actually . . .’ Sonnet began, pressing her skirt over her knees, hotly conscious of his side glances, and her body’s response.
‘Just kidding!’ he said. ‘There are no oysters tonight. You’ve only got two choices in Noah: Gino’s restaurant or the Greek café! Don’t know what we’d even eat in this town if it wasn’t for all the wogs invading us.’
‘I’m happy either way,’ Sonnet replied, with a terse edge.
‘Happy with either way . . . well then, I think we’re in for good night, Sonnet.’
Her belly echidna ruffled. Sonnet turned to check her reflection in the car window. In the final seconds before greeting Brenton, holding his bouquet of carnations, Sonnet had whipped her hair up into a bun – it was much messier than she preferred.
Sonnet returned her attention, not without effort, to her date.
He was re-screwing the cap on a discreet silver flask. Seeing her looking, he offered. ‘Rum?’
She began to refuse, and found the flask pressed into her hand, anyway. She ought to say she didn’t like rum – not the smell of it, not the effect of it, and especially not taste of it – but nerves were nerves.
She had a tiny sip.
‘Bottoms up!’ he said.
Sonnet gave a subdued cough, handing back the flask.
‘Tell you what, though,’ Brenton said. ‘We could skip the restaurant altogether and I’ll show you round my pub, instead. We’ll sneak upstairs, I’ll scrounge us up some food, and we can find a quiet corner to get to know each other.’
‘You want to walk a woman through your pub on a Saturday night? That’s bound to set off the bush telegraph!’
Brenton lifted the flask to his lips again. ‘She’ll be right. But I gotta say, Sonnet, I wouldn’t mind ending up in a rumour with you, anyway . . .’
Sonnet managed a non-committal shrug. ‘How about we try Gino’s new restaurant, and that famous spaghetti bolognese they’re all talking about?’
Brenton laughed. ‘I get it. Have to win a girl’s heart with a nice dinner first.’
‘You won’t win it with a horrid dinner.’
Their shared laughter soothed. Sonnet sank back against her seat with a slow outbreath.
*
Look at me, Sonnet wanted to cry, to an offstage audience. I’m on a date. I’m dating!
She hoped no one else could tell it was the first time Sonnet Hamilton had attempted such a basic life skill. At the old-maid age of twenty-four, no less. She knew just enough to fake it. How to allow Brenton to lead her through the busy restaurant, to pull out her chair, order for her, and pour her a glass of wine. There was no doubt he knew all the moves.
Sonnet was under no illusions here. Their table, hidden inadequately behind a rhapis palm, was the central topic of conversation across the restaurant. From the familiar faces at neighbouring tables smirking at one another, to the clanging, hissing din of camaraderie between Mr and Mrs Rossi in the kitchen, Sonnet and Brenton’s date was the hottest news story of the evening. Every time Mrs Rossi swished, grinning, through the kitchen door, Sonnet was reminded again this was not so much a date as a declaration.
Sonnet felt not unlike the goldfish swimming in the bowl at the restaurant counter; with nowhere to hide, only maddeningly polite circles to make.
The outrageous flirtation, which normally bamboozled her defences, was nowhere to be seen. Brenton was the perfect date – smooth as silk and so perfectly proper it was a downright yawn. The languidly grinning man who’d picked her up earlier with an unapologetic ogle at her chest, had been supplanted by this chivalrous gentleman feted by all the townsfolk around, eagerly tipping their hats to him.
*
They meandered out of the restaurant at meal’s laboured end into a warm October breeze, carrying with it the scent of countless rainforest trees coming into bloom.
Sonnet took Brenton’s arm as it was offered and let him lead her, inevitably, towards his pub. He’d done his legwork getting the elusive Sonnet Hamilton out, had executed the textbook dinner date, now he schemed to be seen with her in his own realm. And fair enough. Sonnet didn’t know if it was the copious glasses of wine thrust upon her or simply relief at having escaped the awkward small talk, but she was feeling uncharacteristically charitable.
‘Back to mine?’ Brenton asked with a bowing flourish, motioning towards the open door, blazing with light and music beyond it. ‘For a tour of my fine establishment,’ he said, noting her dubious pursing.
‘A tour?’
‘Quick one,’ he promised. ‘I’ll show you mine, then you show me yours.’
Sonnet laughed, but stayed rooted to the spot. Brenton’s face faltered briefly in its confident expectation. Behind him: the clank and scatter of the billiard table, a tumble of glasses.
‘Do you have a staff entrance?’
‘Slinking in the back – I like your style!’
They skirted the leering comments already ricocheting through the open windows for a rear staircase.
‘After you, m’lady.’
Sonnet ascended the staircase with steps as nonchalant as she could manage under the circumstances; those being the appreciative whistles of the man behind her.
‘You’ve got some legs! Must be all that riding you do.’
‘Not a very professional tour guide, are you, Mr Furse?’
‘Hey, what kind of tour guide would I be if I didn’t point out the local attractions when they’re looking their best?’
‘I don’t just ride. I run.’
‘Long as you’re not running away from me, I don’t mind what you do to get pins like that.’
‘I wasn’t asking your permission.’
‘So, these are my rooms, then,’ Brenton said with a sweeping gesture up a long hallway of numbered rooms. Painted images of Noah Vale hung askew in ornate metal frames, and silk flowers dangled from dusty sconces. The smell of alcohol and cigarette smoke was all-pervasive here, competing with well-used linen and tropical mildew. A hollow ache, triggered by the cocktail of smells, had opened up in her throat.
Ignoring the guest room door he’d swung open for her inspection, Sonnet paused to examine one of the oil paintings. It was a familiar sweep of banana plantation near the school, stately old Queenslander sitting atop a rise, the whole scene scythed by long, golden sunrays.
‘Crepuscular,’ she breathed.
‘What?’
‘Nothing. Just saying how pretty this is.’
‘Not too bad for pub art, you reckon?’
‘Who painted all these?’
‘An artist,’ he said, nodding encouragingly towards the open room.
She turned back to the painting, ignoring both his persistence and her baulking belly. ‘I’d love to know. I want to feature something local in my shop.’
‘Sorry, can’t tell you. They were already here. I’ll ask round, though.’
‘Maybe there’s a name on the back?’ she mused, unable to tear her eyes from the picture.
‘Let me show you my big one in here,’ Brenton said.
Sonnet held back a ribald retort, following.
It wasn’t innuendo. The large painting above the bed was magnificent: a shining waterfall in full flow, tiny rainbows dancing before the curtain.
‘Now that has to be Moria Falls,’ she said, drawing close.
‘Like it?’
‘It’s beautiful. Why on earth do you keep this hidden away in a . . . guest room?’ She’d almost said dingy, and censured herself for her automatic fault-finding.
Sonnet glanced at the bed over which she leaned. ‘I see; a hoax to lure unsuspecting young women in. How do you plan on wrangling me into this next?’
Her frank manner seemed to throw him. He considered Sonnet for a sluggish moment. ‘Another drink?’
Sonnet burst into laughter, stopping short when answering humour failed to materialise on his face.
‘A drink would be fine, Brenton.’
‘I’ll nip down to my bar. Stay right here.’
He disappeared, not unlike a small boy running to locate and show off his favourite toy. She squinted critically at her muted reflection in the picture glass. Her bun was a mess. She tried, in vain, to tame the unruly red.
‘What a tangle!’ She didn’t mean the hairdo. She held her hands to her cheeks and blew a long, steadying breath.
It’s my choice, I’m a grown woman, I brought my own protection, and I’m attracted to him. So, if I want to have sex tonight, I can.
She sat on the bed, to wait.
*
Sonnet held the empty spirit glass in her hand, stifling the urge to yawn, while her date mauled her neck. That last, heavily spiked drink had dampened any desire she’d harboured this evening. On Brenton, however, their nightcap had worked a wonder. He was panting with inebriated enthusiasm now, all trace of languor vanished. She suspected, from the fumes coming off the mouth toiling near her ear, he’d shored himself up with multiple shots, and several cigarettes with the blokes downstairs.
She sighed to cover an escaping yawn, and Brenton drew back with a grin. ‘Yeah, you like that? Oh, baby, I can do more of that . . .’
He pushed her back, and she acquiesced with an awkward crumpling that did nothing to improve the emerging feeling of pointlessness.
His hands began an insistent groping of her layers, and she amended her objective for the evening: As long as I stay in my garments, this is just necking. He hasn’t even bothered to kiss my mouth . . .
In experiment, she nudged her lips towards his and was rewarded with a kiss, which, though failing still to ignite any fire, sent a minor crackle of excitement skittering down her spine. She wriggled, trying to unpin herself, and Brenton used the moment to press himself heavily between her legs. His jeans generated a mild abrasion against her bare legs as his hips rocked rhythmically against her pelvis. Brenton was already at a gallop, puffing hotly at her throat, while she hadn’t yet quickened her pace. She turned her head away, and immediately two hands rose to paw at her breasts.
‘You Hamilton chicks have got enormous knockers,’ he said, pulling roughly at her dress, sending one delicate button flying across the bed.
It might have been that sentence alone.
Perhaps it was the frantic, churning plight of her little belly echidna. Or maybe it was merely the waste of the delicate button. In any case, Sonnet became very, very still.
Her eyes flew open – long enough to take in the antediluvian gaze of a giant blue bird, fixed upon her.
Sonnet wriggled beneath him for a better glimpse. It was a luridly hued dinosaur in close-up portraiture: large, grey helmet, two holes bored in a scythe-like beak, and blood-red wattles hanging from a cobalt-blue face. Amber eyes fixed upon her with an unblinking stare so recriminatory, Sonnet gasped.
Brenton fumbled roughly at their compressed groins, shoving layers aside.
‘What’s that?’ she cried.
‘Yeah, that’s me, baby.’
She strained around him, exasperated. ‘No, that picture, the . . . bird thing. Look!’
‘It’s a bloody cassowary painting.’
Cassowary.
Instantly, the word invoked Gav’s gristly after-dinner tales of feisty, flightless rainforest birds – taller than humans, with talons like cutlasses, which could garrotte a jugular in a single kick. Elusive as they were dangerous.
Who got so close to a cassowary they could paint such a marvellous image?
The shock of cool denim against her innermost folds was galvanising. Sonnet came back to herself.
‘Brenton – no, wait!’
He grunted, struggling free of his fly.
‘Hang on!’
He pushed back against her with a growl, releasing himself fully.
For a split second, Sonnet heard her own voice commenting from a patronising height: Like ripping off a bandage. Real quick, then it’ll be over.
But she wasn’t a bandage, and nothing was getting ripped tonight. She fought the crushing weight.
‘Geez, you like it a bit rough,’ he said, lining himself up.
‘Brenton, stop!’ It was a sob.
He was deaf to her entreaty. His engorged flesh pressed, solidly, into her dry lips. Sonnet had a brief image of a broom handle; a sword.
‘No!’
He pushed harder still for admittance. She felt the first stinging ring of his ingress.
‘Get off of me, you sonofabitch!’
She pummelled at him now, but he was a tree fallen upon her, impervious.
‘Stop!’
He fell from her with a yowl, halted only by the searing rake of nails on his neck.
‘What the hell?’
His shocked disgust curdled her terror instantly into shame. ‘I’m sorry!’ she cried, scrambling away – scrabbling together her dress, her underpants; herself.
They panted at each other from opposite corners of the room now.
He clutched at a scarlet clawing on his throat. ‘What’s wrong with you?’
‘I told you to stop!’
‘You want it one second, and next thing you’re tearing at me like an alley cat.’
‘I wanted to stop!’
‘You’re just being a prick-teaser! Come here . . .’
‘I don’t want you, Brenton.’
His lips curled. ‘You don’t know what you want. Leading me on! What are you doing up here, if you’re such a frigid prude?’
‘You brought me up here for a tour! Can’t you be alone with a woman without assaulting her?’
‘You knew what we were coming here for.’
Sonnet trembled to her feet, chin thrusting. ‘I am taking myself home.’
‘You’re a lesbian with that heifer of a Hardy chick, anyway. Everybody knows it.’
Sonnet picked up her empty glass and held it high in the air, fingers trembling, until he began to smirk.
She let go.
Brenton winced as the glass exploded on his wood floor.
‘Useless cow,’ he spat. ‘You don’t even deserve to be screwed out of pity.’
Sonnet put one heeled toe on the last, thinning cube at her feet, and crushed it. ‘Don’t ever come near me again, Brenton Furse.’
The door slammed behind her as Sonnet dashed for the rear stairwell.
The back entrance was now shut and deadlocked. Acid rage rose in Sonnet’s throat to comprehend a man who would wheedle her into bed, but lock her escape route, just to be sure.
The erupting roar as she descended the grand pub staircase in pursuit of freedom was only confirmation that every cad in town knew Brenton Furse was upstairs bedding Sonnet Hamilton.
She faltered on the final step, wondering if he’d sold bloody tickets. The pressing crowd and vulgar catcalls were, altogether, a fray she could not conceive of breaching.
Just put your head down and run for it, idiot!
Then, she perceived another, gentler voice . . .
Hold your head high, my Sonny girl.
Her mother’s voice, her mother’s saying – the first she’d heard of it in years. And just in time.
Sonnet lifted her chin, fastened her eyes on the doorway, and pushed forward. She was a bull bar, ramming through lowing cattle, towards home.