The pounding of rain on the roof hasn’t let up in five days, and the drip, drip, drip that resonates down the hallway hasn’t let up either. I don’t want to get out of bed at five in the morning, but it’s time to check the leaks again.
It takes half an hour to empty buckets and mop up puddles, and another hour to shore up the gaps in the fences. It’s not likely the animals would venture far in the rain, but I have to ensure the goats and horses stay confined to the small top paddock and shed while I’m at work.
I don’t tramp all the way to the river, but even at a distance I see whitecaps on the water as it gallops downstream. The level has risen, flattening the grass and churning around the bases of the gums. By the end of the day the bottom paddock, and possibly the middle one, will be inundated.
I stuff an extra biscuit of hay in Eeyore’s net, hoping to keep him in his makeshift shelter for longer. Juniper and Merrylegs look up as I negotiate the ever-deepening puddles in the driveway but Bonny, corralled in a corner of the shed to ensure his troublesome hooves stay dry, is standing with his rump to me.
‘Sorry to send you out in this, Prim.’ Andrew Martin looks dubiously through the rain-splattered window of the zoo’s administration building. ‘But start with the takhi—I’ve had a report of a mare off her feed—and then check on Gathii. He’s still favouring his offside hoof, but Jet can’t get out here today. Finally, we’ve got a pelican in one of the treatment rooms in the surgical wing. No need to get him out of his cage, just have a look and tell me what you think.’
I button my jacket and pull up my hood. ‘Why is the pelican here?’
‘He was found in a dam out Gulgong way. There’s a problem with his eye.’
Despite the use of a buggy, by the time I return from the takhi and giraffe enclosures, my hair and jacket are as wet as they were when I left home this morning. After changing into another pair of zoo-issue pants and a shirt, I fasten my hair into a bun before heading to the treatment rooms.
Sinclair and another male vet, grey haired and around twice Sinclair’s age, are dressed identically in blue surgical shirts, pants and sturdy boots, as they consider X-rays on a screen set up in an anteroom adjoining the operating theatres. Only the smaller animals, generally carried or wheeled in after they’ve been anaesthetised, are treated here. Large animal treatment, including anaesthesia, generally takes place in the animals’ regular enclosures.
When I last saw Sinclair at the pub, he was courteous.
I was the opposite.
A slight narrowing of his eyes. And then, ‘Primrose Cartwright, Adrian Lewis.’
Adrian smiles. ‘You’re here to look at the pelican, aren’t you? Professor O’Hara is our bird man, but he won’t be in until later.’
‘Andrew told him I’d send him a report.’ I consider the screen, the long narrow shape with the equally long spine. ‘What’s the matter with the … snake?’
‘An obstruction in his throat.’ Adrian gestures for me to come closer before lifting the lid on a large plastic container. A snake as thick as my arm is rolled up in coils at the bottom.
‘You took the obstruction out?’
‘And stitched him up again.’ Adrian secures the lid before checking his watch. ‘You’ll keep an eye on him, Blake, until he comes to?’
‘I’ll be here for an hour or two.’
Besides the snake and a sleeping bilby joey snuggled in a sheepskin pouch, the pelican is the only occupant of the room. The bird, an adolescent but only just, is sitting on the bottom of a cage. I read through the treatment he’s received and, whenever he turns the right way, look closely at his tightly shut eye. I take photographs to magnify later.
‘What happened to you, little one? Six eye flushes and still no improvement.’
‘Prim?’
When Sinclair stands to the side of me, my heart rate goes up.
‘What do you think?’ he asks.
‘The nictitating membrane is torn. That’s … what he’s been treated for. But … see the bulge in the corner?’ The bird shuffles warily away. ‘It could be an infection.’
He dips his head to consider the pelican more closely. Then he steps back. ‘Your mother and aunt have left?’
‘I’m … sorry. I behaved badly.’
He searches for words like I do. Then, ‘Like it or not, we work together. Stop calling me Dr Sinclair.’
‘Yes. No.’ I nod. ‘How is your shoulder?’
He looks from me to the door. ‘Can we go to my office?’
If I had words, would I refuse? I silently argue the point as I follow him along a corridor to the senior vets’ offices. Andrew’s name is on one door, and Adrian Lewis’s, Sarah Michaels’ and Finn Blackwood’s names are on three more. After opening the Blake Sinclair door, he stands back. A computer screen and laptop sit on the desk with a notebook and pen. A printer topped with an unopened sheaf of paper squats in the corner. The bench under the window is scattered with a bunch of keys, a slender black wallet and a copy of a veterinary journal. Cars are parked on the other side of the window, but a bottlebrush tree, the forest green foliage drooping low in the rain, filters the view.
When Sinclair leans against the bench, I do the same. ‘I shouldn’t have interrupted your family at the pub.’
‘Debra called you over. You had no choice.’ Deep breath. ‘You … were polite. I … wasn’t.’
‘Why insist on using my surname?’
I lift my chin. ‘I don’t avoid … words.’
His eyes narrow. ‘Calling me Sinclair keeps me at a distance.’
‘Maybe.’
‘Tell me why you find a need to do that.’
How long have I got? Rain tumbles down the glass. It trembles on the leaves.
‘Prim!’
‘What?’
‘Talk to me!’
A campsite in the mountains, kayaks and tents and a campfire. Whispered words, taunting, vindictive. Talk to me. I dash through the darkness, bury my face in the folds of the sleeping bag, bite my lip and smother sobs.
When a branch of the bottlebrush scrapes on the glass, I jump. I’m dizzy and nauseous. My legs are unsteady.
‘Prim?’ Sinclair touches my arm. ‘What did I—’
‘No!’
He steps back, holds up his hands. ‘What?’
You didn’t mean it. You don’t deserve this. I said I was sorry and I am. Where are the words? Where are the words that I need?
I swallow and swallow but that’s not enough. I turn my back, feel the hard cold surface of the bench beneath my hands. I’m here in his office. Not out there.
‘You’re pale, Prim.’ Calm. Considerate. Confused. ‘Would you like to sit down?’
A draught finds a way through the window, sending flighty wisps of hair onto my cheek. With shaky hands, I undo my hair band. I pull my hair back, twist it into a ponytail.
‘You didn’t … mean anything by it.’
‘“Talk to me”? Was that it?’
When Mum was well, I went to birthday parties. I invited friends to our house. And even after Mum left, I made friends with other girls and boys who didn’t quite fit in. Patience, small but fierce, watched out for me in primary school, as did Luke, but I didn’t have their support in high school. When the roll was called at the start of the day, I struggled with ‘present’, but I’d top all my science tests. My speech came and went and came again. I was accused of being a fake, of putting on a show so teachers would go easy on me.
Jon and Mitch and Bronte and their friends were admired and popular. We were fourteen. A difficult age. They took it in turns to whisper and taunt, week after week and month after month. Talk to me. I’d hear the words in the classroom, on the school bus, out in the street. I stopped socialising. I turned the other cheek. Kept my mouth shut. If I’d told my teachers, they would have asked questions. They would have discussed it in the staff room. Remember what happened to Barbara Cartwright? Five days a week, twice every day, Primrose walks past the spot where her mother fell. If teachers and social workers had known I wasn’t getting on with my peers, they would have reported it to my father and our secret would be out. Her father can’t look after her. It’s affecting her socially and psychologically. She should be in care.
I could avoid parties, but not the school camping trip. Jon, Mitch and Bronte sat either side of me. They hiked behind me. They faced me across the campfire. After dinner, they followed me to my tent. I might have had no words but I sobbed until I threw up.
Within a couple of years my tormentors matured, grew a conscience, moved onto other things.
I swallow again. I turn back to the window. Still raining. The tree will blossom in spring, brilliant red pendulums. Nectar and flowers. Honeyeaters and parrots.
‘You … said I should talk … Sometimes it’s hard.’
A lorikeet with a blue head, orange beak, bright green wings and yellow and orange chest peeks through the foliage as if playing hide and seek.
‘What species of parrot is that?’ Blake speaks gently.
‘Trichoglossus moluccanus. Rainbow lorikeet.’
‘He’s beautiful.’
‘I can call you Blake.’
‘I’d like that.’
I face him. ‘I’ll still have a problem … with saying … Serena.’
‘That doesn’t concern me.’
‘As long as you can … say it.’
Another hesitation. ‘Why is that important?’
‘Because …’ Deep breath. ‘Aren’t you …’
‘We’re friends.’ He frowns. ‘Nothing else.’
‘It’s none of my—’
‘That day at your property, even that day at the café, would I have behaved as I did if I were seeing someone?’
I shuffle my feet. ‘No?’
‘No.’ He takes a deep breath. ‘Do you hate me?’
‘Now my father is dead, I don’t hate anybody.’
He growls a breath. ‘I’m to take comfort from that?’
‘It’s not in me, hating.’
When he holds out his hand, asking for mine, I give it to him. His fingers are cool and firm. A strong hand. Capable.
‘Your mother, Prim. What happened?’
‘Jock would have told you.’
‘I want to hear it from you.’
‘She had a … stroke.’
‘How old were you?’
‘S … s …’ I free my hand and hold up seven fingers.
He collects my hand again. ‘It was your mother who named you Primrose.’
The surgical shirt has a V-neck. His skin is tanned and smooth. ‘You told my aunt about … Scottish primroses.’
‘They only grow on the coast, in heath and in grasslands.’
‘Your grandfather’s farm was inland … wasn’t it?’
‘Yes, but his sister lived near John O’Groats, a town on the northern tip of the mainland. He’d visit her in the autumn, gather primrose seeds and take them back to his farm.’
‘To plant them?’ It seems the most natural thing in the world to put my hands on his chest. To lean against him. ‘Did he have a garden?’
‘No garden.’ Wrapping his arms around my waist, he brings me closer. Shallow breaths. Heated eyes. ‘He’d scatter the seeds on the moor.’
‘Did they grow?’
He finds the fine hairs behind my ear and strokes. ‘Not for long.’
My heart skitters and skips like a wild thing. ‘He didn’t give up, did he?’
‘He persevered.’
‘I don’t know why I like it … when you talk about your grandfather, but I do.’
One of his hands slips to my shoulders. I feel the tension in his fingers, the restraint. He touches my face. With a fingertip, he presses where my dimple would be if I smiled. He traces the line between my lips.
‘I’m sorry I upset you.’
I place my palm on the side of his face. His bristles are rough, his skin is warm. I trail a path along his neck. The toes of our boots line up.
‘It doesn’t take much.’
He lifts my hand and whispers through my fingers, ‘You’re complex.’
The tingling awareness intensifies, my breasts, my stomach—lower. ‘Possibly.’
‘You have a beautiful mouth, Prim. I think about it when I shouldn’t.’
No Candice the Canadian or the woman who came after. No Serena. No Serena yet. I’m attracted to him and he’s attracted to me. I like the weight of his hand on my hip. I want to kiss him and he wants to kiss me. It won’t go any further, not here in his office at the zoo. This is safe.
I breathe against his mouth. A catch in his throat. And then our lips touch. Soft and slow and sweet.
We’re speechless. Both of us. We’re equals.
Our lips feel their way, the textures, the contours, the tastes. His body is warm and as hard as I remembered it. His heart beats a tattoo. He lifts his head a fraction, brushes hair from my face.
‘I want to know you,’ he says. ‘Everything.’
I stand on my toes and sigh against his mouth. ‘Yes.’
He kisses me again, firm but careful. He kisses my eyes. He follows my cheekbone to my dimple then my mouth. ‘I’ve wanted to do this for months,’ he whispers.
Our smiles meet. Which is odd. Because usually he frowns and I stumble. Usually, we argue. I push the thoughts aside. Just a few kisses. Just so I know what it’s like. Just so I know what it’s like to kiss him.
The tips of our tongues touch, then circle. And soon enough, we find a mind-numbing bone-melting rhythm, searching and finding and craving. When he takes my bottom lip between his teeth, my legs turn to jelly. I grasp his shirt and twist the fabric as my thoughts spin and cartwheel. The hardness of his body. My breasts and his chest. His hold tightens on my waist and he lifts, pinning one of my legs between both of his.
‘Prim.’ His lips trail from the corner of my mouth to my ear. I thread my fingers through his hair to bring his mouth back to mine. He kisses me again, warm, persuasive.
‘Primrose.’
I touch his bottom lip, mouth his name soundlessly. Blake.
This kiss is different, a scorching, fiery, searing exploration. How does he even do that, spiral his tongue yet hold onto mine? I breathe into him, through him. My hands, flighty like trapped fledglings, go to his face again. His cheeks, throat, the back of his neck where his hair meets his collar. I want to touch all of him. I want him to touch all of me.
‘Blake.’ A plea.
He stills. Groans low in his throat. And then slowly, deliberately, he lightens the kiss. He takes my bottom lip like he did at the start, runs his tongue across it. And finally, he lifts his head. His forehead rests on mine.
Warm eyes, damp lips. Something hovers at the back of my mind, something I’m not sure of.
‘Blake?’
‘Prim?’
He keeps hold of the tops of my arms as I sway and find my footing. He picks up my ponytail, runs the damp ends through his fingers. His hands are steady. He’s calm and considered. How can that be? What does it mean? Were his kisses as raw and tangible and genuine as I thought? Or were they something different? Were they practiced, ephemeral and fake?
Rain pummels the glass, slides down the pane and puddles on the sill. I’m suddenly cold. The draught? My aching heart?
This isn’t me.
He’s not for me.
There are voices in the corridor. Were they there before?
‘Prim? Can I see you tonight?’
‘The rain …’ My voice is a croak. ‘I have to get home.’
‘To your animals? I can help.’
‘I can manage. Thank you.’
‘Tomorrow night?’
‘I can’t.’
When I take another step back, he runs a hand through his hair. ‘Friday.’
‘What the …’ He holds back the curse. Then he walks to the door. I imagine him steadying his breaths as he turns. ‘What about the weekend? Give me a time.’
Linking my hands, I straighten my spine. I talk through the burn in my throat. ‘I don’t … want to.’
‘I’m not dating Serena or anyone else. You believe that?’
‘Yes.’
‘Is it my connection to Farquhar?’
‘No.’
‘He’s undermining you. I see that. So does Jock. Let me tell him to back off.’
‘No.’ I take a breath. ‘I’m not … s … s …’ I close my eyes, search for words. ‘I’ll handle it.’
‘Handle what?’
Another breath. ‘I know you’re not like him.’
‘Then why are you doing this?’
‘Please don’t.’
Tight jaw. Stormy gaze. He opens the door and voices rumble in. ‘Why kiss me?’ he asks.
Why. What. Who. When. Where. Which. Interrogatories require more than a yes or no answer.
I shake my head. And, after one last rattled and frustrated and exasperated look, he turns on his heel and walks out. He acknowledges the others in the corridor. The voices disappear. A door clicks shut.
Silence.