‘Prim?’
I’m not sure who says my name, but whoever it is, I don’t want to talk to them.
‘Prim!’ A hand on my shoulder.
‘No!’
‘You’re dreaming. Wake up.’
I’m back in my bedroom, sitting on my bed and cuddling up to Mum. It’s even earlier than it was in the last two memories. It’s the night before the library books are due to be returned. Phoebe is out on the verandah playing her flute. Patience is sitting at her desk, chewing the end of a pencil as she races through a textbook.
‘Prim?’ The hand is on my shoulder again.
I have so few memories. Please let me go back to sleep.
I strain to read the sentence of the book on Mum’s lap. She wraps an arm around me. Try again, sweetheart.
‘Sammy the seal slipped soundlessly through the seaweed.’ I hear my voice from far, far away. Sammy didn’t know what would happen next. He had no idea he’d be wedged between two rocks and the tide would come in and cover his nostrils. In the same way I had no idea that my mother, books around her head like a halo, would lie on the footpath and—
‘Prim!’
My eyes spring open. I’m sucking in breaths. My face is wet with tears.
Sinclair, a crease between his brows, is crouching next to me. He’s wearing jeans and a T-shirt. His feet are bare. When he holds out a hand, I flinch.
‘No!’
After standing, he takes a step backwards.
My plait has unravelled so my hair is loose. I shove it back. I sniff and wipe my cheeks. My teeth chatter.
‘S …’ I rub at my eyes. I squeeze them shut and open them ‘S … sorry.’
He takes yet another step back before crouching again. ‘You’re cold, Prim. I’ll sleep outside and watch the calf. Go to your bunk and sleep there.’
Dad always told us to go to back to sleep.
A strangled gasp. I swallow.
‘No.’
With a sigh, Sinclair, moving slowly as if afraid he might spook me again, sits next to me. He stretches out his legs and leans against the wall. Then, breath catching, he grabs his arm. ‘Fuck.’
‘What?’
‘My shoulder.’ He tips back his head and closes his eyes. ‘Torn rotator cuff.’
‘Oh.’ I yawn. ‘S … sorry.’
When he doesn’t respond, I reach between us and find my phone. Almost four. The darkness is fading, as are the stars. The cow and calf are still lying in the pen.
‘Can you tell Billy about the calf tomorrow morning?’ Smooth speech. No bumps. Well done.
Sinclair glances at me before looking away. ‘Tom said you do rounds at night. Is that how you found him?’
‘I … woke you, didn’t I?’ I bring my knees to my chest. ‘I’m … s …’ I tip back my head. ‘Sorry.’
He holds his shoulder and sits straighter. ‘I’ll watch him, Prim. Go to the bunkhouse.’
‘No.’
When he shifts a little closer, I feel the warmth of him. My teeth stop chattering. I rub my hands together, hide them under the doona.
He points into the distance. ‘A Scotch mist.’
Condensation, a translucent band of white, drapes over the ground like a veil. Drop your shoulders. Take a breath. Release your jaw. Unlock your tongue.
‘Because it’s … misty in … S …’ Two more tries and I give up. I wrap my arms around my knees. Just for a moment, our eyes meet.
‘My grandfather had a farm in the Highlands of Scotland,’ Sinclair says. ‘Even in summer, there was mist.’
‘What did he farm?’
‘Highland sheep, a herd of cattle.’
‘Long-haired cows.’ One word, one sentence, at a time. ‘Those sheep have twins, don’t they?’
‘Often.’
‘Did you live on the farm?’
‘In term breaks from an English boarding school, yes.’ His eyes are guarded.
‘Did your parents go to your grandfather’s farm too?’
‘They lived and worked in Edinburgh. Then London.’ He’s speaking more slowly than he usually does. It helps me slow down too.
‘What did they do?’
‘They were doctors, surgeons. They still are.’
‘Did you like living on the farm more than you liked living in Edinburgh or London?’
A pause. Then, ‘Yes.’
‘Is that … why you … wanted to be a vet?’
‘My grandfather didn’t believe in vets. They never came to the farm.’
‘What? At all?’
‘Road access was limited. The cattle and sheep relied on pasture, they roamed freely.’
‘Your grandfather didn’t bring them in … when they lambed or calved?’
‘There was no feed and very little shelter close to the house, so we’d go to them. We stayed in shepherds’ huts. If the stock were in trouble, we did what we could for them.’
‘My family lived in the suburbs in Dubbo. We … weren’t allowed pets, but I found my own animals, injured birds, lizards, things like that.’ I smooth the doona over my legs. Sinclair’s arms are bare, as are his feet. ‘Aren’t you cold?’
He stands. ‘I’ll get a sweater. Do you want anything? A blanket?’
It’ll be light soon. I should get up, pack the car, drive to Narromine and start work early. But for an inexplicable reason, I want company. His.
‘No, thank you.’
Footsteps, the door opens and closes, silence. Then he’s back sitting next to me again. His sweater is charcoal grey. His boots are elastic-sided, smooth-soled and expensive. City boots. He looks city.
‘Did you have pets at your parent’s homes in Edinburgh and London?’
‘No.’ He looks straight ahead. ‘My grandfather had dogs.’
‘Working dogs?’
‘He preferred them to people.’
When I smile, Sinclair’s gaze slips to my mouth.
‘They were fiercely loyal, but sometimes he’d assign them to me.’
‘To help with the … stock?’
‘The animals lambed and calved in spring. Grandfather and I would go in different directions to find them. It could take days.’
‘You … went out all by yourself? How old … were you?’
‘I’d spent years watching my grandfather, learning from him. From when I was eleven, twelve, Grandfather trusted me to go on my own.’
‘Breech births, twins. You must have lost animals. At that age, any age, it … would have been confronting.’
‘We didn’t lose many.’
‘Maybe you became a vet so you could do better. Medications, equipment, techniques.’
‘I didn’t know there was better.’
‘But what about when you … were… studying. Couldn’t you talk your grandfather into changing his ways?’
‘What my grandfather could do with his hands, with a rope and basic implements …’ He carefully considers his words. ‘I’ve never seen any vet better.’
I link my hands on my knees. ‘Your grandfather must be proud you’re a vet.’
‘I was twenty-two when he died. He never knew.’
‘I’m sorry.’ No slip, stutter, stumble.
‘Thank you.’
‘But …’
An almost smile. A half-smile. ‘What?’
‘Your grandfather would have known you … were studying to be a vet. Did he take some credit? Was he pleased for you?’
Another hesitation. ‘In my first four years of university, I studied medicine.’
‘Like your parents.’ The mist isn’t as thick on the ground as it was, but the sky is heavy with clouds. ‘Why did you change to veterinary … science?’
His expression is closed.
Shut up, Prim.
‘Personal reasons,’ he finally says.
Most of the calves are standing now. Some of them, tails twitching, are drinking from their mothers. As if suddenly aware of what his peers are up to, my little calf gets to his feet. His mother turns her head and nudges his side.
‘What happened to the farm after your grandfather died?’
A stiff smile. ‘I’ve told you enough about my family.’
‘You didn’t have to … say anything.’
‘It’s your turn.’
I push the doona off my lap. ‘I’d better go and—’
‘Tell me what you dreamt,’ he says quietly.
‘No.’
‘Do you ever trip up on that word?’
I must smile, because his gaze slips to my mouth, then my cheek. My deepest dimple, the one appearing first, is midway between my ear and the corner of my lip. When I was a child and wanted to hide a smile, I’d bite the inside of my cheek. Hiding smiles. I did that a lot.
My eyes sting, I blink. I untangle my legs and scramble to my feet. Sinclair stands too, one fluid movement. My coat is twisted and my socks are down around my ankles. I sniff as I bend and pull them up.
Why do I take note of everything about him? His legs are long, his sweater is tight across his chest. Unlike my hair, his is too short to get messy. He lifts a hand, but it goes nowhere. I sense his uncertainty.
‘Go inside,’ he says. ‘Put the heater on, warm up.’
I study his mouth like he studied mine. Lips ever so slightly apart. Breathing deep, breaths evenly spaced. I look up. Our eyes meet.
‘I dreamt about my mother,’ I say in a rush.
He searches my face. ‘What did you dream?’
The ground doesn’t tilt. Or does it? I hold out my hands to get my balance and—
My hands rest on his chest. His hands cover mine, hiding them like the early morning shadows hide us. He separates my fingers, threads them through his. His heart thumps. His teeth are white. A pulse beats in his jaw. Could I touch his handsome face? The darkness of his bristles, his generous mouth, the lines at the sides of his eyes. I make myself taller, come up on the balls of my feet.
A frown, but not an angry one. ‘Prim.’ Gruff. Soft.
When I lean against his body, our hands are trapped between us. His hold tightens, releases, tightens again. I breathe in. Fresh and clean. Masculine. I free my hands, open my fingers, feel the contours of his chest. I look into his eyes and—
He grasps my arms and takes a step back. ‘I’m seeing someone.’
I open my mouth, shut it. Speechless.
‘Prim. Don’t—’
I break free of his hold. I don’t want you in that way. Even if I could shout the words, they’d be a lie. The way he looks. The way he moves. The way he speaks. I’m physically attracted to him.
I was physically attracted to him.
He curses under his breath. ‘I can’t—’
‘Please don’t.’ I shake my head. ‘Candice. Billy told me.’
‘Not her.’
Does every new year bring a new Candice? Or two or three? Why am I here? Why is he here? I shiver. My teeth rattle. What did they say on the Enterprise starship? Beam me up, Scotty.
I turn without looking, trip on the bedding. When he reaches out, I shove his hand away. ‘Don’t!’
‘I didn’t.’ He speaks through his teeth.
I consider the plaster on my knuckles, pale against my skin. Is the eucalyptus ointment doing its job on the burn? My mother. Sammy the Slippery Seal in the gutter. My father.
I walk determinedly to the bunkhouse and close the door. Not upset or angry. Nothing.
I want to feel nothing.
I shove my pyjamas into a side pocket of my bag and dress quickly, tying my hair into a ponytail before twisting it into a bun and securing the ends. Drive to Narromine. Work hard. Forget.
Sinclair is in the yard with the calf and cow when I walk out of the bunkhouse. He looks up. ‘I’ll tell Billy about the calf.’
‘He and the cow can go back in the paddock.’
The last of the mist gathers round the legs of the cows as Sinclair opens the gate. The cow ambles through, the calf rushing closely behind. When the cow stops, the calf bustles under her, lifts his nose and finds a teat. His tail flips wildly as he drinks.
‘Well done, little—’
‘Prim.’
I didn’t know Sinclair was so close. My smile slips away.
‘Have breakfast before you go,’ he says.
‘I don’t have time.’ I load my bedding into the back of my four-wheel drive, check the boot is secure, reach into the car and put the keys in the ignition before facing him again.
His eyebrows are dark, as are his lashes. ‘You’re working in Narromine?’
‘Until Thursday.’
‘You live in Ballimore, don’t you? I’ve rented a house there.’
‘Why?’
‘The Coach House was available, and only thirty minutes from the zoo. It’s owned by Beatrice and Elizabeth Oldfield. Do you know it?’
‘I’ve never been there.’
‘Can I call you?’
‘About Farquhar?’
He glances at my hands and then at my mouth. ‘About this morning.’
‘There’s nothing to … say.’
The hint of a frown. ‘When do we meet with Farquhar? You said you’d check your diary.’
My boot lace is undone and the frayed end trails in the dirt. I put my foot on the running board, tie a double bow. ‘I’ll call the veterinary board. I’ll give them the dates … when I’m available.’
‘I was asked to test samples from Farquhar’s cattle.’ He massages his shoulder. ‘I submitted my findings. Nothing else.’
Scotch mists. Highland cows. A grandfather who liked dogs more than people. Earlier this morning, sitting next to him on the groundsheet, I looked innocently into the dark. Now I see things clearly.
‘Why … were you asked?’
‘The board was aware of my appointment to the zoo. I was independent.’
‘Notwithstanding your association with Farquhar?’
‘You could have made submissions. You could have given your side of the story. Why didn’t you?’
Dust, a yellow-orange sheen, blankets the frame of the door. I press a finger against it, form a squiggly line. ‘I didn’t … want to be cross-examined.’
‘Why didn’t you have a lawyer?’
‘Farquhar had a team of them. I had no evidence.’
‘You could have—’
‘The veterinary board never questioned your report. Now that … we’ve met, I understand why. You and Farquhar … work the … same way. You expect others to fall into line.’
He mutters something under his breath. ‘Is that why you wouldn’t change your schedule?’
‘Do you think I did it out of … s …’ My fists are bunched so tightly, my nails dig into my palms. ‘Out of … spite?’
‘You could have worked here, then in Narromine, and then back here.’
My second lace is secure, but I retie it anyway. ‘Did you complain to Tom last night?’
‘He was aware of what had happened. He said you wouldn’t have refused to accommodate me without a good reason. Why won’t you tell me what it is?’
I make another mark in the dust. A line to make a cross. A star like the stars we saw this morning. Wiping a hand down my jeans, I look over his shoulder. The sky is streaked with bands of steely grey.
‘Billy and Tom have done a lot for the … welfare of stock. They’ve lost friends over it, farmers … who want to save money, others … who prefer the old … ways.’
‘I appreciate that.’
‘Tom is … working twelve-hour days. Billy is unwell.’ A drop of rain falls. Another one. ‘Leave them alone. Don’t hassle them.’
Sinclair unclenches his jaw. ‘What kind of bastard do you think I am?’
Less than an hour ago, he’d threaded our fingers together. What if he’d put his arms around me? I wouldn’t have stopped him. I wanted to be held. I wanted to be held by him.
He hasn’t moved, but I lift my hands. I keep him back. At bay. Away.
‘You’re Farquhar’s buddy,’ I say. ‘You’re every kind of bastard.’