Cate spent the rest of the day sorting out the kitchen as best she could, scrubbing every surface and half-heartedly wiping dust off all the windows in the house. Sometimes her aunt bustled in to help her, usually by telling her important things she believed she ought to know.
‘Look at this old chair. Do you know, it was once owned by my grandmother, before she left for the country with my grandfather. She was quite a formidable woman!’
Cate nodded and smiled and made cups of tea. After a while she started sorting out some of the paperwork in the kitchen, making a pile of the bills and receipts, trying to find out which had been paid, and filing them in an empty pocket folder she found in Ida’s office. She decided to go through them with her later.
When they were sitting in the lounge she gestured to the carpet. It was a vivid-blue shag, like you could shake it and a member of the Rolling Stones would come flying out.
‘How long have you had the carpet?’ she asked.
Ida smiled. ‘Oh, this old thing? Nineteen seventy-three. I wanted a brown floral that we saw in Narrogin, and Jack wanted a burnt-orange carpet from the same place. Well. We argued and argued, and finally chose my brown – I didn’t want the dirt to show. Anyway, I felt terrible because I had really bullied poor Jack into my choice, so I called the shop and changed the order.’ She took a sip of tea. ‘Of course, you know what showed up, don’t you?’ She laughed. ‘The bluest carpet that was ever made! We laughed and said it’s so awful but let’s give it a home. What does it matter, really, the colour of your carpet?’ She was rubbing her shoes back and forth across it affectionately. ‘We’ve got better things to worry about than that! So here it is.’
Cate was grinning; she’d probably have sent the ugly thing back, but her aunt kind of had a point. And now here it was, holding on to the floor like it knew it had been lucky to get in the door. She rubbed her feet on it too. She was all about second chances now, as well.
When the phone rang, she knew it would be her mother. She had left home quickly, and her parents had been confused by her determination to get out. They didn’t understand. They would never really understand her, and they were lucky. She couldn’t sleep in her old room another night; couldn’t wake up there, where she and Brigit had planned their lives so often, still so very alive.
‘Darling. How are you?’ she asked.
‘Oh, good thanks, Mum. Aunty Ida says hi.’
‘And how is she, darling, is she going okay?’
‘Yeah, I think so.’ Ida was reading an old New Idea, but she was sitting right there, so she was obviously listening. ‘She’s been very kind to me – I’ve got my own room, and we’re hanging out. We’re having a good time.’
‘Well, a change of pace is always nice, sweetheart.’ Her mother sounded hesitant. ‘Now, I did have to talk to you about the recent issue . . .’
‘Sorry, Mum, we’ll have to chat another time. Aunty Ida and I were just getting another nice cup of tea. I’ll try to call you later.’
‘Oh, okay, darling, if you’re sure. Only that lovely Helen Dowling has been on the phone, and I think she really would like to speak to you.’
‘Okay. Thanks, Mum. I’ll call her.’
‘Promise?’ Her voice was hopeful.
‘Sure.’ Cate was great at pretending stuff. She hung up the phone to find Ida watching her.
‘How’s your mum?’
Cate shrugged. ‘The same as always, Aunty Ida. Busy trying to help everyone.’
‘And you’re to call a nice friend?’ Ida asked.
Cate paused. Not really. ‘Oh, yeah, I’ll give my friend a call later. She won’t be in now,’ she said. And she wasn’t her friend. She was her lawyer.
Cate was tired, and her back ached from manual labour by six o’clock. She threw together a salad piled high with spinach, roasted vegetables and feta, and fired up a couple of steaks on the old stove.
Ida was smiling as she came down the hallway after her nap to the smell of cooking meat. ‘You’ve been busy, dear,’ she said. ‘It looks so much lighter in here.’ Cate had scrubbed layers of dust and grease from the cupboards and benchtops, and had knocked off cobwebs and years of grimy marks from the walls and ceiling. It made a good start. ‘And look at all this food! You must be very hungry.’
She sat down and let Cate serve her, and they ate companionably, Ida answering questions about the farm where she could. Yes, there was some fencing gear somewhere that could be used for fence mending, and yes, there were oats in the silo for sheep feed.
Cate started to make plans for the next day. She wondered where the sheep feeder was, and how to start an auger to get the oats out of the silo. She had spent a few school holidays following her great-uncle Jack around the farm as a child until she’d grown tired of the slow pace and the lack of other kids to play with. She had started to find excuses not to come back, and her father seemed happy to allow her to spend her time close to home. She didn’t remember much about her visits, except her uncle’s quiet voice explaining slowly and carefully how he ran the farm, and the order in which things must be done, and her surprise when she came back the following year to find the same thing happening again, as if the farm had forgotten Uncle Jack had already finished the work before him.
She wondered if their new farmhand could help her get the auger going. What fuel did it run on? Did they have any? Maybe she should make a list. She’d never been good at lists, or at planning anything, really. Mostly her friends just told her where to turn up and she was there, slightly under the weather, with a set of heels and a smile. It had always been enough. No one had actually needed her to know anything much before. She could make coffee, type fairly well, answer the odd phone, but she never stayed long. Usually, a friend would arrive with a fabulous opportunity just as her latest three-month career was not taking off, saving her from imminent boredom, or death by photocopier.
She hadn’t realised Aunty Ida would need her so much. Maybe she wouldn’t have come if she’d known. She thought she’d come and do a little ironing and cleaning, maybe read a book or two. Just as long as she was away and helping someone. Anyone.
‘Cate, dear? Are you in there?’ Her aunt had been trying to get her attention.
She was looking at the fat she had speared on her fork, and it was looking back at her, wishing she’d commit to something, even if it was just heart disease.
‘Sorry, Aunty Ida. I was just thinking.’
‘Well, I was just thinking it would be good of you to take a plate of food out to that nice young man. He’s been very helpful today, and it might have been a while since he’s had such a healthy meal.’
Cate looked up. ‘Who? Henry? He’s fine,’ she said, and moved to the kettle. All meals in the country seemed to end with a cup of tea. Bleh.
Her aunt was unimpressed. ‘Yes, Henry. Could you do it as a favour to me, dear? Just cook up one more steak and take it out to him with the salad? We owe the poor boy some hospitality.’
‘He’s not a boy,’ Cate grumbled, heating the pan.
‘Of course he is, dear. When you get to be my age you know they’re all boys sometimes.’ She got up and reached for a cup. ‘That’s what breaks your heart.’
‘Cate! Cate! Park here. Let’s make a run for it!’ Brigit was hanging out of the car window like an excited puppy, and the stream of red tail-lights stretching out along the country road ahead of them hadn’t moved in ten minutes. Cate glanced behind them to see the headlights of other cars waiting their turn, and glanced across the vineyards of Yallingup to the Wildwood Vineyard, where the support act had already taken the stage. ‘Come on! The band’ll be on before we even get there!’ Brigit dropped her roach in her empty champagne piccolo and it hissed softly as it died. She opened the car door, glancing hopefully back at Cate.
‘Okay.’ She laughed. ‘Let’s do it!’ And she pulled off the road and onto the verge, where people were already starting to mill about, too excited to queue for a park in the vineyard carpark. They ran, giggling, through the dark corridors of grapevines, the green leaves brushing against them, the gravelly soil crunching under their shoes, the breeze soft on their skin, and the driving bass of the support band pulling them closer to the glow of floodlights from the stage. They could hear clapping and cheering and the booming microphone and shouts and whistles, and then they were there, washed in light and darkness, surrounded by the crowd.
This was life, Cate thought, swigging back the warming champagne from the bar, cadging cigarettes and joints from handsome men. Here was music and laughter and the endless possibility of falling in love, of being kissed. Here was the deep, dark sky lit from below, not just by the lights flooding the band and the crowd, but by their dancing and shouting, by their energy and fire and joy. This was life. Dancing with strangers, following the music, feeling the soft, warm air nuzzling against their skin and the welcome shards of alcohol in their throats.
When Cate looked across the crowd to find Brigit, she was passionately kissing a blond guy next to the speaker stand. She came up for breath, saw Cate watching her and laughed. She pointed at him and yelled out to Cate, ‘HE’S WITH THE BAND!’
Cate edged out of the door backwards, bumping her backside against the flyscreen, hearing the squeak of the hinges that told how far out it had gone. She carefully turned and headed for the old mud hut, making her way quickly, before the light failed for good. She stamped in loudly, reasoning that there could be snakes or a hairy misfit guy with no clothes on. God only knew what weird things guys got up to in private; what they got up to in public was often pretty interesting.
He wasn’t there. She glanced through all of the rooms of the hut, rooms being a term very open to interpretation. Where could he possibly be? She went back to the kitchen to look for somewhere to put the food where it wouldn’t get eaten by a rat. Or Mac, who was following her with great curiosity. She noticed a fridge in the corner, over thirty years old by the look of it; she suspected it was from the shearing shed. It was attached to a long extension cord.
‘Cheeky bugger,’ she muttered, and put the steak and salad inside. It wasn’t really stolen. It was still there. Mac gave up on dinner at that point and wandered outside. Cate followed him, surprised when he turned towards the paddock instead of home. She followed, and realised he was going down to the dam. They walked for a couple of minutes, then she slowly climbed the bank of the dam to look down to the water. A couple of mountain ducks were swimming on the low murky water, and willy-wagtails were flickering along the grass by the water’s edge, snapping up tiny insects.
‘Beer?’ came a low voice from a pile of hay bales engineered to be a lounge, covered in old blankets to form a barrier over the prickly stubble. Henry was looking very comfortable. In his hand was a Redback beer, and it looked cold.
‘I don’t drink beer,’ she replied.
‘Just stick to the champers, eh, Princess?’
She rolled her eyes. ‘Yes, that’s it exactly. I truly believe that my drink choice makes me a better person.’
He shrugged and went back to watching the willy-wagtails. The sun had gone now and left them alone. Silence fell. He didn’t bother looking back at her.
‘I left some dinner in your fridge,’ she said.
‘Don’t bother feeding me,’ he muttered. ‘I’m fine.’
‘Calm down, Samson – I wasn’t threatening to cut your hair.’
Both of his hands came down beside him, and he turned slowly around to face her, staring at her for a few long moments, and her heart began to race, in case she had to make a dash for it. She didn’t actually believe it would help. Good grief – did she have to make a crack about his body? As if she had even noticed? His large arms tensed and flexed, and his long torso looked suddenly very powerful. She swallowed a couple of times and rubbed her arms, on which the hairs were standing to attention in alarm. His gaze was intense, and his eyes, his sad dark eyes, were the colour of billabongs. She blinked for something to do, and he visibly relaxed and turned back to the water.
‘Bloody sit down,’ he commanded. ‘You make the place look messy.’
She gingerly covered the last couple of paces and sat next to him, accepted the beer he handed her without looking her way, and sucked down a quick gulp. She coughed, and the willy-wagtails flew away in frustration. She sat in his shadow, glancing out of the corner of her eye at his strong profile and large shoulder. It felt unspeakably good for no reason at all. She glanced doubtfully at her beer.
‘Keep trying,’ he murmured, and took another long pull of his own.
She sat quietly next to him and did just that.