Kitabı oku: «Talk to Me Tenderly, Tell Me Lies»

John Gordon Davis

TALK TO ME TENDERLY,

TELL ME LIES

Copyright

HarperCollinsPublishers

1 London Bridge Street,

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 1992

Copyright © John Gordon Davis 1992

Cover photograph © Shutterstock.com

John Gordon Davis asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication.

Source ISBN: 9780007574384

Ebook Edition © OCTOBER 2014 ISBN: 9780008119317

Version: 2014-12-19

Dedication

To Harry and June Pearson

‘Talk to me tenderly, tell me lies.

I am a woman, and time flies.’

Vivian Yeiser Laramore

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Part One

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Part Two

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Part Three

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Part Four

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Part Five

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Part Six

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Keep Reading

About the Author

Also by the Author

About the Publisher

Part One

CHAPTER 1

In this land the distances are vast. If you stop your vehicle and listen there is only ringing silence. It is always hot in this part of Queensland, and the rainfall is very spare. Then, almost without warning, the rain can come crashing down for weeks, and the rivers that have been dry for years break their banks, causing devastating floods over hundreds of thousands of square kilometres, and whole villages and towns have to be evacuated. Because of the great distances there are few telephones, so people keep in touch by two-way radio. Outback children have to receive their education from broadcasts and medical attention can only be had through the Flying Doctor Service. The private aeroplane is not a luxury here but a working vehicle. The McKenzies had an aeroplane, but it had not flown for a year because, after several years of very poor rainfall, they could not afford the maintenance to keep it airworthy.

This Monday afternoon, close to sunset, Helen McKenzie was doing her laundry. Her washing-machine had broken down, so she had put a cauldron of water on to the wood-burning stove. She had taken off her jeans and shirt to wash them, and she scrubbed the kitchen floor in her underwear while she waited for the water to heat. She had dispatched Oscar, her dog, outside while she did the job, and had propped the back screen-door ajar with the mop because the damn latch was faulty and often jammed from the inside. The other door, leading into the rest of the house, Helen had bolted closed on the far side, because it too had a faulty latch which allowed Oscar to enter simply by pushing his paw against it.

She had almost finished scrubbing the floor when she heard furious barking outside. Then a big snake, nine feet long, came slithering flat-out into her kitchen, with Oscar in joyful pursuit. She screamed, the back door banged closed as Oscar bounded into the room, and with a terrifying writhing the snake flashed across the floor and disappeared into one of the kitchen cupboards. Helen screamed again as she dashed to the back door, but she slipped on the wet linoleum and sprawled. She scrambled up wild-eyed and flung herself at the door, but the catch was stuck. She shook it desperately; then, in the purest horror, she ran to the kitchen table and hurled herself up on to it.

The long cupboard into which the snake had fled lined the entire wall, from one door to the other. Helen McKenzie crouched in the middle of the table midst the cacophony of Oscar’s barking, her heart pounding, eyes wide, desperately searching for the terrible snake amongst the things at the bottom of the dim cupboards. Oscar was charging up and down after the snake as it writhed from one end to the other. Helen shrieked at him to come away but he would have none of that. She could not see the snake, but she knew it was a King Brown, one of the deadliest. Helen crouched on the table shouting at Oscar, her terrified mind fumbling; then she frantically crawled to the end and leapt off to try the back door once more, but Oscar came roaring along the cupboards, slammed into her legs and she sprawled again. She crashed headlong on the linoleum and all she knew was the panicked horror of Oscar furiously scrambling over her. She screamed ‘Come away!’ and scrambled up frantically and ran to the back door. She hurled herself against it, wrenching the handle, but still it refused to open. Helen turned and flung herself back up on to the table again, just in time to see Oscar jump out of the dark cupboard with a yelp, the terrible serpent’s fangs flashing at his muzzle – then the beast recoiled into the darkness and Oscar lurched backwards into the kitchen, shaking his head.

‘Oscar!’

He staggered backwards across the kitchen, yelping, brushing his snout with his paw, then twisting as if trying to find his tail. ‘Oscar!’ Helen screamed. The dog crashed over on to his side. ‘Oscar!’ Helen heard something fall in the cupboard, she jerked around and saw a long dark slither in the dimness. ‘Oscar!’ She scrambled on her hands and knees to the edge of the table, gasping, eyes wide, and down on the floor Oscar tried to clamber back to his feet. He got halfway, then collapsed on to his side. ‘Oscar!’ He rolled his eyes at her, and tried to get up, and he crashed again. He lay there, trembling, taking stentorian breaths. Then he spasmed once, his legs went out rigid, jerking, then he suddenly went limp, groaned, and was still.

Helen lay on the table, aghast: then her incredulous face began to crumple.

‘Oh Oscar, Oscar, Oscar …’

A slithering sound came from the cupboard and she jerked around and stared, heart pounding – but she could not see the dreadful snake. Then she dropped her face in her hands and sobbed.

That is how she was, lying weeping on the table in the dusk, when she heard the motor cycle. She raised her tear-stained face and listened incredulously. Then:

‘Help!’ she wailed.

CHAPTER 2

The motor cycle spluttered up the track from the distant farm-gate, its headlight on. It came to a halt opposite the steps leading up to the verandah of the big homestead. The rider climbed off the machine. He was dressed entirely in black leather motor-cyclist’s gear. He raised the visor of his black crash-helmet, and looked at the unlit house.

As the house was in darkness he would have gone away, but for the fact that the front door was open. He listened. Silence. Then, uncertainly, he mounted the steps and walked across the verandah to the front door, his steel-tipped boots sounding loud on the wood. He rapped on the frame of the outer screen-door and listened.

Nothing. He knocked again, louder. Still silence. He was about to turn away in discomfort at being on another person’s property in the gathering dark, when he heard what sounded like a woman’s cry. He listened intently, and the cry came again. He opened the screen-door, leaned into the dark doorway and called tentatively:

‘Hullo?’

He heard a muffled, anguished cry: ‘The kitchen door …’

The man frowned, then descended the verandah steps. He turned towards the back where he presumed the kitchen would be. ‘Hullo …?’ he called.

He heard another cry as he approached the kitchen door. ‘Hullo?’ Then he heard a woman’s voice:

‘Press the green button inside the door!’

The man walked up to the screen-door uncertainly. It opened satisfactorily. He peered into the darkness.

‘There’s a green switch just inside!’

He stepped into the dark kitchen and groped for the switch. The door clanged shut behind him as his hand found it. He pressed the switch and somewhere a diesel generator started up, and the kitchen lights came on. He stared.

He saw a dead dog on the floor and a wild woman crouched on the kitchen table in her underwear. She cried: ‘There’s a snake!’

The same instant he saw a long writhing streak across the floor. He whirled back to the door, but the handle was jammed. The snake seemed to bounce off the cupboard doors on the opposite wall, then it flashed around and streaked towards him. Helen screamed again and the man gargled in fright and scrambled across the kitchen out of its way. The huge snake hit the closed screen-door, then whirled around and disappeared back into the cupboard with a crashing of fruit jars. The man leapt up on to the table beside Helen.

Helen McKenzie stared at the stranger crouched beside her on the table. He still had on his black crash-helmet, the visor up. He wore gauntlets reaching to his elbows and high black leather boots. His studded leather lumber-jacket was zipped up to a thin, unshaven face, dominated by a beak nose and dark eyes under heavy black eyebrows.

‘Who’re you?’ Helen whispered.

The man saw a worn, frightened, pretty woman, her blonde hair awry, ringlets sticking to her sweaty neck.

‘Ben Sunninghill,’ he croaked.

Helen’s mind was fumbling. ‘How’re we going to get rid of this snake?’

Mr Sunninghill’s brown eyes were wide. He turned and looked fearfully at the dark cupboards, then shook his head. ‘I’m from New York,’ he said, as if that explained everything. He added: ‘I’ve just come to borrow a spanner.’

‘New York?’ Helen stared at him a long moment, then she dropped her head and sobbed. ‘Oh, thank God, anyway … Just thank God you’re here …’

They crouched in the centre of the big table. Helen was still weepy about Oscar, but Ben Sunninghill was more composed now. He said hoarsely: ‘Where is he now?’

Helen pointed at the open doors of the main cupboards.

‘Which end?’

She shook her head. ‘They’re all inter-connected at floor level. He could be in any of them.’

Ben pointed at the open cupboard on the opposite wall. ‘How do you know he’s not in there?’

‘I don’t. But when you came in I think I saw him go there.’ She pointed again.

Ben looked very worried. Then he said hopefully:

‘Snakes are as frightened of us as we are of them, aren’t they?’

‘Oh God … King Browns are very aggressive, particularly when they’re frightened.’ She looked down at Oscar and her chin began to twitch.

‘If we jump off the table together and run for that back door—’

‘The bloody catch sticks, there’s a real trick to opening it.’

Ben pointed at the other door. ‘That one?’

‘It’s bolted from the other side.’

Ben Sunninghill looked unhappily around the kitchen for weapons. There was a meat-cleaver next to the sink and a broom on the floor. He gingerly reached down, picked it up, and looked at it with misgiving.

‘Have you got a gun in the house?’

‘Yes, but it’s in my bedroom. And it’s not a shotgun, it’s only a .303. Not much good for a snake.’

Ben took a deep, unhappy breath. ‘I’ve got these boots and gauntlets, and the broom. If I make a dash for the back door and smash it open—’

It was then that he noticed the cauldron of water boiling on the stove. He looked at it, then turned to the cupboard. He considered, then gingerly leant out with the broom and opened it wider. He peered.

Nothing happened. He could see no snake in those shadows. He poked the broom into the clutter at the bottom. Instantly, there was a furious slithering noise and the terrible snake burst out midst a clatter of jars. Helen screeched as the creature flashed across the floor and disappeared into the smaller open cupboard opposite.

Ben stared into the beast’s new lair. ‘Can you see him?’

Helen peered. ‘Oh God, I think so …’

Ben took a deep breath.

‘Right – listen. What I’m going to do is jump across on to the sink, and get that pot of boiling water. I’ll bring it back here, and then I’ll throw it on to that snake.’

‘Oh God …’ Helen whispered.

Ben crouched carefully along the table, to the end. He gauged the distance to the sink. About five feet – easy enough, but could he make it back with a heavy cauldron of boiling water? He began to get to his feet. He straightened up shakily, his arms out to control his balance. Then he launched himself across the gap.

He landed with a crash in the sink. He crouched there for a moment, trembling. He looked back at Helen.

‘Before I come back, you must crawl to the far end of the table, to counter-balance me.’

Helen began to edge down the table. Ben looked at the heavy iron cauldron. It had a handle on each side, and it held about two and a half gallons. He got slowly to his feet. Crouching, he reached down to the handles. Even through his leather gauntlets, they were hot.

‘Use the oven-mitts!’ Helen gasped.

The oven-mitts hung on a peg beside the stove. Ben pulled them on over his gauntlets; then bent forward and began to lift the cauldron. It was astonishingly heavy – and frightening, the boiling water seething in his straining grip. He crouched on the edge of the sink, straining under the treacherous weight. He turned carefully towards the end of the table, looked at Helen and croaked: ‘Ready?’

She nodded desperately. Ben leant forward, stretched out a skinny leg, and he went for it, half jumping, half lunging across the gap. He landed on the end of the table, and he howled.

He howled because a pint of boiling water slopped out of the cauldron into his boots. He reeled with shock, Helen shrieked, and for a terrible moment he teetered on the edge of the table, about to crash off and scald himself with boiling water. Then he recovered his balance. He crouched, enduring the agony, eyes closed, still clutching his treacherous burden.

‘Are you all right?’ Helen gasped.

Ben opened his watering eyes and nodded. He took a deep breath.

‘You’ve got to keep clear of me. You’ve got to crawl down to this end as I come up to your end. Ready?’

‘Yes,’ Helen whispered desperately.

He began to make his way unsteadily down the table. They passed each other in the middle. Ben staggered to the end.

He peered into the dark cupboard. And, yes, he could just make out the dreadful beast coiled in there. For a teetering moment he crouched, trying to take aim with his thirty pounds of boiling water, his arm muscles trembling with strain; then he grunted and he hurled the water.

It cascaded into the cupboard with a steaming crash, and all hell broke loose. The snake came bursting out in a great writhing knot, coiling and contorting, a twisting killer three yards long convulsing around the kitchen floor, flashing jaws agape. Helen shrieked and snatched up the broom and swiped down at it with all her might. It skidded across the floor, and she shrieked again and swiped again, and then there was a metallic crash as Ben Sunninghill hurled the empty cauldron. It landed on the beast’s head and he leapt off the table, snatched up the meat-cleaver from the sink and ran at the writhing mass. With one furious swipe he chopped the snake in half. Now two sections of it were writhing bloodily all over the floor. Ben raised the cleaver again, aimed wildly for the head, and swiped. He chopped the head clean off, but still the sections writhed all over the floor. Ben Sunninghill frantically chopped and chopped, scuttling around scattering pieces of bloody snake everywhere.

Finally he stopped and stood up, chest heaving. Helen was leaning against the cupboard, her hair a mess, her breasts heaving. She looked at Ben, then she stared at Oscar lying dead. Then her bright eyes filled with tears, her lower lip curled, and she cried: ‘Oh Oscar …’

She stumbled across the kitchen and fell to her knees beside the dog, gathered him into her arms and hugged him and rocked him.

‘Oh Oscar, Oscar …’ she cried.

CHAPTER 3

They sat at the kitchen table, sipping brandy. The mess of snake had been cleared up, the floor mopped, and Helen had put on fresh jeans and shirt. Oscar lay on the verandah, covered in a blanket, awaiting burial in the morning. She was over the immediate grief of it now: the brandy was doing its work and she just felt numb.

‘Sorry, what’s your surname again?’ she said.

‘Sunninghill,’ Ben said. He had taken off his crash-helmet and gauntlets.

‘And how come …? I mean, what brought you here, like a guardian angel?’

Ben smiled. ‘I came to borrow a spanner,’ he said. ‘For my motorbike. I was having trouble and when I passed your gate, I thought maybe you had the spanner I needed. I did have one, but I lost it somewhere.’

‘Spanner,’ Helen said. ‘Yes, of course, all kinds of spanners in the barn.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘But can it wait till tomorrow? I mean, it’s dark now.’

‘Of course.’

‘I mean, I’ve got a bed for you. Plenty of beds here.’

‘Well, that’s very kind of you,’ Ben said uncertainly. ‘As long as it’s no trouble?’

‘No, no, plenty of beds …’ She rubbed her forehead, then went on: ‘“Sunninghill”? Never heard that name before.’

Ben smiled. He was a funny-looking fellow with a ferrety sort of face, but when he smiled his cheeks puckered and all his teeth showed in a way that was both mysterious and charming. Mischievous. He was small, only about five foot eight inches in his high-heeled bikers’ boots. ‘Actually,’ he said, ‘my real name is Sonnenberg, but my father changed it by deed-poll to Sunninghill. The English translation of Sonnenberg.’

‘Oh,’ Helen said.

‘He wanted to create the impression we weren’t Jewish.’

‘Oh.’

That smile. ‘Trouble is, he looks even more Jewish than I do.’

‘Oh.’ She was going to say ‘Really?’ but changed it in her mouth. She added hastily: ‘Sunninghill’s a nice name. A cheerful name. You look a cheerful type of person.’

‘Sure, I’m a laugh a minute. Remember, that was only my first snake, I’ll probably improve. Does this happen very often?’

She smiled wanly. ‘First time I’ve seen one in the house. Oscar chased it in.’ She dabbed the corner of her eye. ‘Seen enough in the bush, though, over the years.’

‘How many years have you lived here?’

‘Since I got married. Twenty years. Or nineteen.’

‘And where’s your husband now?’

She waved a hand to the south. ‘South Australia. Broken Hill, working on the mines.’

‘Oh.’ He was about to say ‘Why?’, then stopped himself. Helen volunteered the reason, as if reading his thoughts:

‘The kids’ boarding-school fees. With the drought we couldn’t make ends meet. So he had to go back to his old job.’

‘Oh. How long ago?’

‘Two years.’ She added: ‘He comes home at Christmas, when the kids get their summer holidays.’

‘I see. So you run the ranch all by yourself?’

For a moment she wondered what he saw. ‘No. We had to get rid of our foreman last year when we sold most of the cattle, but we’ve still got one Abbo stockman and his wife. They live about five miles away. So you really were a guardian angel, showing up like that, otherwise I’d have stayed on this table all night.’ She smiled wanly. ‘So, what brings you to Australia on a motorbike?’

‘Just seeing the world. I saw on your gate the farm’s called Whoop-Whoop. Does that mean anything special?’

‘The real name is Edenvale Station, because we’ve got a few wells that are usually quite good, but because it’s so remote we’ve nicknamed it Whoop-Whoop. That’s a mythical Australian place. It means to Hell and gone. In the middle of nowhere.’

‘Beyond the black stump?’

‘Right.’ She poured more brandy into his glass. She didn’t feel so shaky any more. Just grief for Oscar. Oh Oscar … ‘So, Mr Sunninghill, from New York. What do you do in New York?’

‘Used to do. Jeweller.’

‘Oh?’

‘Well, a gemologist. Buying and selling stones, setting them, creating jewellery pieces.’

‘“Used to”? Have you quit?’

‘Sure have.’

‘Why? Don’t you like it?’

He said: ‘I like jewels. They’re beautiful. And I like making pieces of jewellery, that’s artistic. But buying and selling? The hassle? The cut-throat competition? And spending the rest of my life in that little shop? In New York?’ He shook his head. ‘There’s more to life than that. There’s a whole beautiful world out there.’

She looked at him enviously. ‘So you’ve sold up entirely?’

‘Not mine to sell. Family business. But my father’s cut me out entirely for leaving him in the lurch.’ He smiled then clasped his breast: ‘How can you do this to your Papa, my boy, my life? And you a gemologist – three years your Mama and I starved to send you to Technical School and now all you want is a Harley-Davidson to kill yourself with already, this is gratitude?’ He smiled. ‘He forgets I’ve worked for him since I was sixteen.’

Helen held out her hand, to show him her engagement ring, then slipped it off her finger. The diamond in the centre was missing. ‘It fell out somewhere,’ she said. ‘How much would it cost to replace?’

Ben examined it. The bed for the gem was substantial.

‘About a thousand dollars,’ he said regretfully. ‘Counting cutting, and so forth.’

Helen sighed. ‘Forget it …’ She looked at the empty ring sadly, then put it back on her finger. She went on: ‘So – how long have you been in Australia, Ben?’

‘A couple of months. Landed in Perth. Covered the west coast, then crossed the Nullarbor Plain. Adelaide, Melbourne, Sydney, et cetera. Then up here into Queensland.’

‘Landed in Perth? Where from?’

‘Africa. Came across on a freighter, with my bike.’

‘Africa?’ Helen sounded envious. ‘Where were you in Africa?’

‘I sailed from South Africa, but I was all over the place. Crossed from Gibraltar into Morocco, then made my way down along the western bulge to Nigeria, Ghana, et cetera. To the Congo. Got on a steamer up the Congo River into Zaire and crossed over to Uganda and Kenya. Then down through Tanzania and Zambia and Zimbabwe, et cetera, into South Africa.’

Helen smiled. ‘“Et cetera”, huh? And, before Africa?’

‘Well,’ Ben said, ‘I went round South America, then crossed to the Far East. Japan, Hong Kong, then got a freighter to Thailand. Did a side trip by air to the Philippines and Indonesia, then rode the bike over to India.’ He smiled. ‘Decided against trying to ride across the Middle East – not the healthiest place for a Jew. So from Bombay I got a freighter through Suez to Greece.’ He shrugged. ‘Went around Europe for a while, then crossed over into north Africa.’

Helen was fascinated. ‘Wow. How wonderful! And where’re you going from here?’

‘Brisbane. Then up through northern Queensland to Darwin, see that Northern Territory.’

‘And from there?’

‘Back down to Perth. And then back to South Africa. I want to make a base there, then go off and do my thing.’

Helen echoed: ‘South Africa again? Why there?’

‘Great country.’ Ben shrugged.

‘But what about the politics?’

Ben shrugged again. ‘Great things are happening.’

Helen snorted. ‘Is there going to be democracy?’

‘That’s what the negotiations are all about.’

‘What’s there to negotiate?’ Helen demanded. ‘Why not good old-fashioned democracy? Is there going to be One Man One Vote or not?’

‘I believe so, but they’ll work it out to suit the local conditions.’

‘You mean the white man’s conditions?’

Ben shook his head. But he didn’t want to argue about it – people who hadn’t been to Africa just didn’t understand. ‘However, the reason I’m going back there is not for the politics, interesting though that is, but because of the animals.’

Helen was disarmed. ‘The wildlife?’

Ben sat back. ‘Oh, the wildlife out there is wonderful. And it’s being butchered out of existence. Not in South Africa, but in the rest of the continent.’ He shook his head. ‘There’re only three black rhino left in the whole of Kenya, d’you know that? In ten years the only wild animals left north of the Zambesi will be in isolated pockets, unless a great deal more is done. And that’s what I’m going to do. I’m going to join the guys who’re trying to do something about it.’

‘Like who?’

Ben said: ‘I’m a life-member of Greenpeace and the World Wide Fund for Nature. But there’re various outfits you can join who believe in fighting fire with fire, and they’re the guys I want to team up with. As a foot-soldier.’

Helen frowned at him. ‘Foot-soldier? And what does a foot-soldier do? Shoot people?’

Ben smiled. ‘There’re more ways of killing a cat than stuffing its throat with butter. Like destroying their infrastructure. Destroying their camps, their weapons, their snares, their vehicles. Their routes. Their products. Raiding the warehouses of their middlemen down on the coast in Mombasa and Dar es Salaam and Zanzibar and Maputo – generally knocking the living shit out of them.’ (Helen blinked – she didn’t like that familiarity.) Ben shrugged. ‘But if it comes to shooting the poachers themselves, why not? Those bastards shoot game rangers all the time in Africa.’

Helen sat back. And folded her arms. She didn’t know what to make of Mr Ben Sunninghill, jeweller, from New York. On his motorbike. Foot-soldier? ‘Have you ever had any military training?’

‘Sure, I was in the National Guard. That’s the States’ militia. Volunteer basis.’

She thought, Volunteer, huh? ‘Did you enjoy that?’

‘Sure. Most of the time. And nice to get away from the shop.’

‘And they trained you in … weapons and all that?’

‘Yeah. I was in the infantry.’ He smiled. ‘Never killed anybody though. I was too young for Vietnam.’

She said. ‘What’re you – about thirty-five?’

He took her aback by saying: ‘Right, and you? Forty-ish?’

‘You might have been gallant and said thirty-nine-ish!’

Ben gave that smile. ‘But forty is a beautiful age for a woman.’

Helen managed to return his smile, though she somehow didn’t like the comment. ‘Well, I’m forty-two, actually. That is hardly a beautiful age for this woman.’

‘But you are beautiful.’

Helen certainly didn’t like that forwardness. Oh no, she thought – not one of those, and him a guest in my house for the night! She sat up and said brightly:

‘Well, we better have something to eat, it’s getting late.’

Ben said earnestly: ‘Don’t worry about me, I had supper just before finding your gate.’

That was fine with Helen. ‘Some coffee, then?’

‘No, it’ll keep me awake.’

Well, that gave her an opening. ‘Yes, you must be tired. I’ll show you to your room. I’ll put you in the foreman’s cottage, it’s empty. It’s just half a mile over there.’ She pointed.

Ben said: ‘I don’t mind sleeping outside in my sleeping-bag, in fact I like it. Pity to use your sheets.’

‘I wouldn’t dream of it. You deserve a nice soft bed after all the way you’ve come.’ She stood up.

Oh dear, Ben thought. He looked up at her. He said:

‘I hope I haven’t offended you – I mean by saying you’re beautiful. Please don’t think I’m … that I had an ulterior motive.’

Helen was further taken aback. ‘Of course not,’ she said self-consciously. ‘Well, I’ll go in the Land Rover, you follow on your bike.’

Ben stood up. ‘No need to show me the way, just point me in the direction and I’ll find it. There can’t be many cottages round here.’

‘Of course I will. I’ll just get some sheets.’

‘I’ll use the nice soft bed but I’ll sleep in my sleeping-bag. I insist on not using up your sheets – you said your washing-machine’s broken.’

Helen hesitated. ‘But … it seems so inhospitable.’ Then she added: ‘And please don’t think I’m inhospitable in putting you in the cottage. But it wouldn’t be … proper for you to sleep in the house with my husband away.’

‘I understand perfectly,’ Ben said earnestly. He added with a grin: ‘What would all the neighbours say?’

CHAPTER 4

It was a beautiful morning. The sky was magnificently blue, the early sun cast long shadows through the trees, and the world was old and young at the same time. And on this glorious morning Helen McKenzie had to bury Oscar.

At nine o’clock she drove to the cottage to fetch Ben Sunninghill for breakfast. She found him outside, wearing shorts and singlet, his motorbike engine in pieces. He stood up when he saw her vehicle approaching. His skinny chest was covered in curly black hair, and he was only about five foot five in his bare feet.

‘G’day. Breakfast time,’ Helen said through the window. ‘Then I’ll show you our collection of spanners.’

He smiled. ‘I’ve already found the spanners – went for an early walk and found the barn unlocked, hope that’s okay.’

Again she was a little surprised by his forwardness. ‘Sure.’ She nodded at his motor cycle. ‘How’re you doing?’

‘Fine. Say, that’s a nice little airplane you got in that barn.’

‘Would be, if it worked.’

‘What’s wrong with it?’

‘Starter set-up, Clyde says. Clyde’s my husband. We’ve got to get spare parts.’

‘Has the engine been stationary for very long?’

‘No, I turn it over once a fortnight to keep it loose.’

‘Ah. Can you fly?’

‘Sure, when I have to.’

‘I’ve got a licence.’ He said it proudly. ‘Went down to Florida one winter and took a crash course. Don’t you enjoy it?’

‘Don’t like heights, and all that radio stuff about winds and weather. But you really need a plane out here. Do you – like flying?’

‘After sex and sailing, it’s what I like best.’

She didn’t like that – ‘after sex’. Far too familiar. ‘So, you’re a sailor too?’

‘An intrepid one. Want me to look at the airplane’s starter motor?’

It sounded a pushy offer, as if he were looking for an excuse to stay longer. ‘Reckon you could fix it, huh? Like you intrepidly kill snakes?’

‘I’m scared of snakes. But I can fix most anything. Does that old VW van in the barn work?’

‘Doubt it, we haven’t started it in a year and it’s as old as the hills. My father gave it to me when the kids were little so they could sleep in it when we went on holidays. Why, want to buy it? Swap it for your bike, maybe?’

Ben smiled. ‘No thanks. But I’ll have a look at it for you, if you like.’

That disarming smile of his. No, she decided, he hadn’t meant to be pushy. ‘Thanks anyway, but better let sleeping dogs lie. What’s wrong with your bike?’

‘Just a split head-gasket. That’s the thing—’

‘Sure, I know what a head-gasket is, helped Clyde put in new ones often enough in twenty-some years. Cuss, cuss, cuss.’

‘Nineteen,’ he smiled. ‘See, I remembered.’

Again, somehow she didn’t like that. Almost suggestive. ‘Okay,’ she said: ‘I’ve put everything on the table, just help yourself. Bacon and steak’s in the fridge.’

He walked towards his shirt. He was even smaller than she’d thought. His legs were wiry and his back was hairy too. ‘Aren’t you having breakfast?’ he asked.

‘No, I had mine hours ago, I’ve got to go’n fetch Billy to dig Oscar’s grave. Billy’s our stockman. If he hasn’t gone walkabout.’

‘Walkabout, huh? Look, I’ll dig Oscar’s grave.’ He pulled on his shirt.

‘Thanks, but I want that grave good and deep so the dingoes don’t dig him up, and believe me that ground’s stony – Billy’s got nothing much to do anyway.’

‘Do you want me to come with you to fetch Billy?’

She sighed inwardly. ‘If you like.’

Her tone made him look at her more closely. Her face was strained, as if she had done some crying in the night. He knew she didn’t feel up to being sociable. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘I have my own breakfast right here; you go’n see to Billy.’

‘Come on,’ she said, ‘it’s all waiting.’

He fried some eggs and bacon in her kitchen. He wasn’t hungry, but he was sure she would worry about being inhospitable if she saw he hadn’t eaten anything when she came back. She was a sensitive one, all right. He washed his plates, then went out on to the verandah.

Oscar lay under the blanket, and on the blanket was a flower.

‘Oh, dear …’

He pulled the blanket back a little. There lay Oscar’s old-young Boxer head, his worried frown stiff, his tongue clenched between his sharp young teeth.

He returned to the kitchen. He went to the washing-machine, crouched and examined it; then he pulled it away from the wall.

Some time later he heard the Land Rover return; its door slammed and Helen strode into the kitchen. She found Ben sitting on the floor, the washing-machine’s innards surrounding him.

‘Hi,’ he said.

She was surprised. ‘What are you doing?’

‘Here’s part of your problem.’ He held up the filter. It was clogged with fluff and small gravel chips. ‘You also had a loose connection. And,’ he plucked up something from the floor and held it up to her, ‘your engagement ring’s diamond.’

Her face lit up. ‘Oh, my God! Thank you!’

‘Takes a jeweller to find a jewel. Obviously fell out of your ring when you were loading the machine. I’ll stick it back in for you properly.’

‘Oh, thank you! Wow, a thousand dollars saved!’

He nodded in the direction of the verandah. ‘Can I help? With Oscar?’

Her cheerfulness at making a thousand dollars faded. ‘No, thanks anyway.’

She took a determined breath, turned and left the kitchen. He thought, Poor lady …

He checked through the rest of the washing-machine’s parts. They looked okay, so he reassembled it. He hooked it up to the tap and filled it. He went to the wall and pressed the green button, and heard the distant doem, doem, doem as the generator started up. When he switched on the washing-machine, it burst into shuddering life. He turned it off and pressed the red button on the wall to stop the generator. The sound died away, and from outside he heard the distant clank of a pickaxe.

He went out the back door, into the sunshine. He walked towards the corner of the verandah. He stopped.

A hundred yards away, beyond the patchy lawn, her back towards him, Helen was swinging a pickaxe. She wrestled it out of the stony ground, then swung it up above her head, and swiped down again. Ben looked around for the Aborigine, but there was nobody else in sight. He hurried across the lawn. ‘Hey …’

She did not hear him coming. She swung the pick up again, and swiped it down with a grunt. Her face was flushed, hair had broken loose from its bun and tendrils stuck to her neck. She was wearing a hat with corks dangling from the brim to keep the flies off her face.

‘Hey – where’s this Billy?’ Ben said.

Helen swung the pick over her head furiously. ‘Drunk!’ She grimaced and swiped into the ground, with a spurt of sparks. Ben reached down and took hold of the shaft.

‘Drunk? Let me do this.’

‘Blind, rotten, stinking drunk! And his wife. No, this is not fair on you!’

‘Perfectly fair.’ He took the pick from her firmly. She stepped aside angrily, panting, and he lined himself up at the hole. ‘Does he do this often?’

‘Whenever they get the chance to go into Burraville and buy the stuff! Today it’s metho.’ She sat down in a furious heap.

Ben lifted the pick. ‘Metho?’

‘Methylated spirits, the stinking blue stuff you put in Primus stoves. Didn’t know he had any, the crafty bastard! I confiscated the bottle.’

Ben swung the pick down with a clanging crunch. God, it was hard ground. He wrenched it out and swung again. Three swings and he was panting.

‘Well, he’ll be sober tomorrow.’

‘If they don’t go walkabout.’

‘Do they do that often?’

She snorted. ‘Abbos? Don’t get me wrong, they’re sweet people and they’re good stockmen. But walkabout …?’ Ben began taking off his shirt. ‘The flies will make you put that on again. Come on, let me take over.’

‘No.’ He slung his shirt on the ground and hefted the pick again.

He was skinny, but his shoulders, arms and gut were muscular. He doesn’t weigh more than a hundred and thirty pounds, she thought, less than me. And half my size. He swiped the pick down again and grunted: ‘How long do these people disappear for?’

‘A month? Three? For ever? They come back and they can’t understand why they haven’t got a job.’

He wrestled the pick out of the ground, threw it down and snatched up his shirt again. ‘ Goddam flies. And how many times has Billy gone walkabout?’

‘Three or four – I’ve forgotten. The whole family just disappears. Last time they came back without the kids – they were almost grown up. Let me get you a cork hat.’

‘I’m okay.’ He waved flies off his face and lifted the pick again. ‘What do you do when they go walkabout?’

‘Do it myself,’ she said grimly, ‘unless another Abbo happens along. Fortunately there’s not much to do, with most of the stock sold.’ She heaved herself up. ‘I’m going to fetch you a hat. Then I’ll take over for a while …’

The grave was dug. Ben was exhausted, though Helen had dug the greater part of it. She was worn out too, flushed and sweating. ‘Like a pig. Bloody Abbos!’ She threw down the pick.

‘Shall I fetch Oscar?’ Ben asked.

‘No, I’ll do it.’ She turned abruptly and walked grimly back towards the house.

Ben followed her. He mounted the wooden steps to the verandah behind her. She walked up to Oscar, and stared down at the blanketed mound. Then she suddenly brought her hands to her face and burst into sobs.

Ben looked at her uncomfortably. Then he put his arm around her shoulders. She was half a head taller than him. She sobbed and sobbed into her hands. ‘Oh Oscar …’

Ben squeezed her once. Then he got down on to one knee to pick up the body.

‘No,’ she sniffed. ‘Thank you, but I want to do it.’ He stood up and she turned, eyes wet. ‘Please go inside and let me do this.’

‘He’ll be heavy.’

Helen closed her eyes in exasperation. ‘Please …’

Ben went into the house, walked down the passage and turned right into the living-room.

It had a miscellany of worn furniture, none of it matching. A carpet of rosebud persuasion, a lounge suite with zebra stripes, pale pink walls. Ceramic ducks, a gleaming artist’s impression of Jesus Christ, prints of Scottish lochs. Assorted ferns and bookshelves, an old record-player, a big television set. An array of family and school photographs in frames. An elaborate two-way radio.

He ran his eye over the photographs. He picked up one frame, then another, and studied them for a minute. Then he turned and looked out of the window.

Helen was staggering across the dried-up lawn towards the grave, Oscar in her arms. The blanket trailed over the ground on either side, threatening to tangle with her feet, and Oscar’s rigid legs poked up on both sides of her head. She struggled to the edge of the grave. Then she slumped down on to her knees, and carefully lowered Oscar to the ground.

Ben watched her from the back. First she appeared to pray, the corks dangling around her bowed head. For some minutes she held her face, and he saw her shoulders jerk a little. Then she got to her feet and began to inter Oscar.

She hefted him up and struggled forward, legs astride over the grave. She bent, and lowered him to the hole. But, evidently, she ran into difficulties; she crouched, her blue-jeaned buttocks up, head and Oscar down. The dog’s rigid legs made him too wide for the grave. It was impossible to bury him lying on his side.

Helen remained still, wrestling with this problem; then she edged backwards and laid Oscar down on the ground again. She got his fore and hind paws in each hand, heaved him up, staggered over the grave again, and lowered him on to his spine.

From the living-room, it appeared to Ben to be the only solution. He could see Oscar’s paws sticking up, but they were below ground level. But Helen did not seem satisfied. She stood there, looking down at Oscar’s undignified posture; then she put both knuckles to her eyes between her dangling corks for an exasperated moment. Then she grabbed the legs again and heaved him up out of the grave.

She struggled backwards, put him down, and he collapsed stiffly on to his side. She crouched and got her hands under his chest and heaved him up on to his feet. With a hand on each side of his ribcage, she manoeuvred him back over the grave. She lowered him.

Oscar stood in his grave, his head twelve inches below ground level. Helen cautiously let him go, and put both knuckles to her eyes again. For a minute she stood motionless, evidently praying again. Then she scrambled backwards hurriedly, snatched up the spade and began to shovel the stony earth over him.

Ben turned from the window and went down the passage to the kitchen. He felt as if he had been eavesdropping. He went into the pantry and found the brandy bottle and two glasses.

Five minutes later Helen came in, sweating, her hands earthy. Ben was sitting on the kitchen table. She looked at him, her eyes brimming, then she blurted:

‘I had to bury him standing up …’ Her lower lip trembled. ‘But I prefer it like that! He was such a stand-up dog!’

She burst into tears. Ben’s heart went out to her and he slid off the table. He put both arms around her. ‘There, there …’ She dropped her forehead on to his shoulder, and sobbed and sobbed.

Ben held her gently. ‘There, there …’ She leant against him, arms hanging, crying her grief out. ‘There, there …’ he murmured again: and, oh, the wonderful female feeling of her in his arms, her sweaty warmth, the earthy smell of her. And with all his compassionate heart he ached to clutch her tight against him. Her sobs stopped suddenly. With a tearful sigh she moved to turn out of his arms, but he held on to her.

For a moment neither of them breathed. They stood against each other, pressed close. And for a wild moment he thought she was going to put her arms around him. Then she turned firmly and he dropped his arms.

She walked towards the sink. She spun the tap, cupped her hands and splashed water up on to her face vigorously.

Ben stood there, wanting to apologize – but for what? He had done nothing that couldn’t have an innocent interpretation. And it almost was innocent. He said:

‘Can I pour you a drink?’

She reached for a kitchen towel and thrust it to her dripping face. ‘No, thanks,’ she said into the towel.

He wasn’t sure if she was annoyed. ‘You deserve it, you’ve had a harrowing time.’

‘Yes.’ She tossed the towel on to the sink; she stood looking at it. Then: ‘Yes, dammit – I will have a drink.’

He poured some brandy into a glass. He held it out to her. She accepted it without looking at him.

‘Thanks.’ She took a swallow, and shuddered at the burn. ‘Oh boy,’ she said, eyes closed.

He pulled out a kitchen chair. ‘Sit down.’

She turned and slumped down on to it. He sat down in the other chair, across the table from her. She stared across the room at nothing.

He said tentatively: ‘Well, I’ve fixed the washing-machine – it works fine.’

‘Oh. Oh, thanks very much, that’s wonderful.’ She gave him a bleak, mechanical smile.

‘You must remember to clean out the filter basket every now and again.’

She nodded. ‘Okay. I usually do. But thank you.’

CHAPTER 5

She offered to make him some lunch, but he would not hear of it.

‘You’ve had a rough day, and I’ve got plenty of food in my saddle-bags – can I make you something?’

She said: ‘No, I think I’ll have a little lie-down. I hardly slept last night.’

‘Sure, you do that. I’d take you to lunch in town, if there was a town. I’ll finish slapping my bike back together. Then this afternoon I’ll be on my way.’

‘Oh. Okay.’ Then she added: ‘How long will it take to fix your bike?’

‘A couple of hours. But I won’t leave until you’ve finished your rest. Give me a shout when you’re up.’

‘Okay.’

He walked back to the cottage, feeling he’d smoothed over that momentary lapse when she was in his arms. Her annoyance that he’d held on to her – if annoyance it was – seemed to have dissipated after the brandy.

He finished repairing his motor cycle, climbed astride it and kicked the starter. It roared sweetly to life.

He looked even smaller on the big, sleek black machine, barefoot and without his lumber-jacket and crash-helmet. He revved the engine up in neutral, feeling the pleasure of the power beneath him, its eagerness to surge forward and go go go, take him anywhere he wanted. Anywhere in the world. And he was glad all over again with what he was doing. How could you put a price on this feeling? Go anywhere in the world. Whenever you like. He closed the machine down affectionately.

He opened his saddle-bags, took out his camping stove, a packet of rice, a can of bully beef, a little pot, and carried them all into the cottage kitchen. He put water and rice in the pot, cranked up the stove, put the pot on top, and sat down to wait.

Man, he was tired from the digging; he’d thought his shoulders and arms were tough after holding down that motorbike for three years, but that pickaxe in Aussie terra very firma was something else.

God, he felt sorry for her about the dog … He closed his eyes. But instead of Oscar, he saw again those long, plump, bare legs beside him on the kitchen table, her dimpled bottom barely covered by her knickers.

He ate a bellyful of rice and bully beef, then collapsed on the bed.

He lay there, thinking of the way she had felt in his arms. Had she been annoyed? No, he was almost sure not. In fact he was almost sure that for an instant she had almost responded – then she had backed off, as if she’d been surprised at herself.

He stared at the ceiling, trying to remember and interpret every moment; then he smirked mirthlessly: it was just his wishful thinking, imagining she had wanted to respond. That was Ben Sunninghill hoping his luck had changed, stumbling across a lonely woman in the middle of the Australian Outback. No, she hadn’t wanted to respond, she was just taken by surprise …

He sighed, closed his eyes and resolved to put it out of his mind. Too bad. And he wasn’t going to have a chance to find out for sure, leaving this afternoon; he’d never get another natural opportunity of taking her in his arms.

Too, too bad …

Ben awoke an hour later feeling refreshed, though his shoulders were stiff. It was half past three. The ringing silence of the Outback. He creaked off the bed, went out on to the porch and listened.

Not a sound of life. Helen had been resting for almost three hours. He hoped she was sleeping, not lying there red-eyed.

He washed his dishes, packed his saddle-bags and straightened up the bedroom. He found a broom and gave the place a quick sweep, and scoured the sink and the bathroom. Then he put on his black leather breeches and boots.

It was after four o’clock when he was ready to leave. He took his box of jeweller’s tools from his saddle-bag and started walking to the main house to see if Helen was up: he didn’t take the motorbike in case she was still asleep.

The kitchen was empty. Silence. He went quietly to the inner door and carefully opened it.

Helen gasped and jumped backwards. She had been about to open the door from the other side. She was wearing only her panties, and Ben glimpsed two large breasts before her hands shot up to cover them. He slammed the door. ‘I’m terribly sorry,’ he called. ‘I was coming to find out if there was any sign of life.’

Helen was dashing back down the passage to her bedroom. ‘I was just coming to put the kettle on!’

‘Shall I do it?’ he called.

‘Yes.’

He went to the sink and filled the kettle. God, he hoped she hadn’t misinterpreted that incident, thinking he was tiptoeing through the house to get between the sheets with her! Your actual Ben Sunninghill may have been fool enough to think earlier that his luck might have changed, but he wouldn’t be so crass as to try that – God … He turned and walked out into the yard, as if to disassociate himself from her nakedness until the kettle boiled.

Five minutes later she came into the kitchen, dressed in jeans and a shirt. She had put on some lipstick and run a comb through her hair, but wisps hung untidily.

‘I’m very sorry,’ Ben said sincerely.

‘That’s okay,’ she said briskly. ‘Nothing you haven’t seen before.’ Her face was strained.

‘A handsome brute like me,’ he agreed, then regretted the words at once, and added hastily: ‘Did you get some sleep?’

‘No,’ she sighed tensely. ‘I couldn’t stop thinking about Oscar. But I’m all right. Tea or coffee?’

‘Coffee, please. Well,’ he went on brightly, to put her mind at rest, if that’s what it needed, ‘I’m all packed and ready to leave. Just give me your ring and I’ll put the diamond in.’

‘Oh … Thank you.’ She slid the ring off her finger and took the diamond from her pocket.

Ben sat down at the table, opened his toolbox, and selected a small pair of pliers. He picked up the diamond and carefully slotted it into its bed.

‘Or would you prefer a beer?’ Helen said.

‘Coffee’s fine.’

‘Well, dammit, I’m going to have a beer!’ She went to the pantry, opened the refrigerator and came back with two cans. ‘Four-X.’ She ripped open a can and passed it to him, then sat down.

‘Thanks.’ He lifted the beer and took four long swallows. As he began to clamp the diamond into its bed, he asked: ‘Can you get another dog easily? A puppy?’

‘Oh,’ she said, ‘I don’t want another one. Not yet. Jack Goodwin – he owns the hotel in Burraville – his Boxer bitch has a litter of puppies, but I couldn’t face taking one yet. It wouldn’t seem … right.’

‘Tempus luctus?’ he murmured as he worked. ‘Well, I think—’

She demanded: ‘How do you know Roman law?’

He was equally surprised. ‘How do you know tempus luctus is a Roman law maxim?’

‘I did two years of it at Uni. Tempus luctus was a period of mourning, during which a widow was not allowed to remarry.’

Ben grinned. ‘Yes, but I think it had something to do with paternity, didn’t it – being able to establish who was the father of any child born within a certain time of the first husband’s death?’ He smiled. ‘So it doesn’t apply to your case. I think you should get another puppy as soon as possible.’ He gave the ring a final tweak, and handed it to her. ‘Here, that won’t fall out again.’

‘Oh, thank you …’ She slipped it back on her finger. She admired it. ‘Great. You’re really being a great help around the McKenzie household.’ She admired the ring again. ‘So, how does a gemologist know so much Roman law?’

Ben took a swig of beer. ‘I don’t. I just bought a book on it once. Bedside reading.’

‘Good God – Justinian’s Twelve Tables for bedside reading?’

He smiled. ‘Did you get a degree in law?’

‘No.’ She sighed. ‘I didn’t get a damn degree in anything. Got married instead, in my third year.’

‘Pregnant?’

She gave him an amused look that was not a smile. ‘You’re rather blunt, aren’t you? No, I can’t blame my stupidity on the slings and arrows of outrageous Mother Nature. I was simply in love.’

‘Was?’ Immediately he wished he hadn’t said that.

Her reply was a touch pointed: ‘I still am.’

Ben took another swig of beer. ‘Then it wasn’t stupid.’

She looked at him, then sighed. ‘Oh, of course it was. I should have finished my degree first. I could have had that achievement to … to my name. To be proud of.’

Ben said: ‘Aren’t you proud now? You’ve raised a good family.’ He waved a hand. ‘You run this station.’ He added: ‘You’re a fine woman. A good woman.’

She shot him a look. ‘Thanks. Oh, of course I’m proud of my family. And of Clyde. I simply mean I could have had both. All that, and a degree, if I’d been patient. And maybe … travelled a bit.’

‘Enriched your life first?’

She lifted the can to her mouth and swallowed. Then sighed.

‘Exactly. I intended to see the world after I got my degree. Like you’re doing. I don’t mean on a Harley-Davidson, but what kids did in those days – hitch-hike around Europe, knock around on student railpasses. Maybe buy a camper. Work in London a few months.’ She sighed again. ‘It broke my parents’ hearts.’

‘That you didn’t travel?’

‘No, they’re old-fashioned about travel – Australia has everything, why waste money on travel? No, that I didn’t finish my degree. They thought I was going to be the one to break out of the farming mould and have a sophisticated life as a schoolteacher or doctor’s wife in Sydney or’ – she waved a hand – ‘even the glittering lights of Bundaburg itself.’ She snorted softly. ‘They’re sheep farmers near there. That’s how I met Clyde. Anyway, they had to save hard to put me through Uni, and I threw it all away.’ She added, in self-defence: ‘Though I did help by working at night as a waitress and so forth.’

‘Which university?’

‘Brisbane.’

‘Did you enjoy it?’ He upended the beer can and emptied it.

She sighed. ‘Beaut. Have another one?’ She got up before he answered and fetched two more cans. ‘Left over from Clyde’s last visit. Or would you prefer brandy?’

‘No, it’s good beer. Why do they call it Four-X?’

‘Because Queenslanders can’t spell beer.’

He threw back his head and laughed.

She smiled: ‘Old joke.’

‘Good joke.’ He took a grinning swallow. ‘So? Your parents didn’t approve of Clyde?’

She took a big sip and shook her head.

‘No, they thought Clyde was beaut. Even though he’s a Catholic. He was a sheep-shearer. You know, in this country sheep-shearers are highly skilled itinerant workers. And well paid. And he’s a very solid bloke, Clyde. Nice-looking, good manners, hard-working. He’d also worked on the mines and been a shift-boss at only twenty-six. That mightn’t sound like much, but believe me, underground is very responsible work. Anyway, he was buying this station on a mortgage, that’s the only reason he was sheep-shearing, to make extra seasonal money.’ She sat back. ‘No, my parents had nothing against Clyde – my mother even flirted with him! Not seriously, of course, she just thought what a nice man, and Dad thought he was a great guy. But in their view I was destined for greater things than the Outback. They begged me to at least finish my degree first.’ She sighed again. ‘But, we were madly in love. And he was about to disappear into the Outback again and he was afraid that in another year I’d meet somebody else. “All those smart guys at Uni,” he said. And I was scared he’d meet some other lusty wench. Et cetera, et cetera.’

Ben smiled. ‘How old is he?’

‘Seven years older than me. Forty-nine.’

‘So you got married and came straight to this station?’

‘Yes. Dad shouted us a week’s honeymoon on Lord Howe Island first as a wedding present. That’s beautiful. Wonderful reefs …’ She grinned mirthlessly: ‘The furthest overseas I’ve ever been.’

‘That was nice of him.’

‘Very. Oh, my parents are lovely people. Dear, dear people.’

‘Do you get to see them much?’

She twirled her beer can. ‘Only very occasionally. Two years ago was the last time. They’re over a thousand miles away, and you know what the roads are like out here.’ She got up. ‘I’m going to have a brandy. And you?’

He looked at his watch. ‘Not if I’m riding. I’ll have another beer in a minute, if you’ve got one.’

She hesitated a moment; then she said: ‘Must you leave today? It’ll be sunset soon.’

Ben was taken by surprise. He was delighted to stay another night. And, who knows …? But he put on a show of indecision.

‘No, I shouldn’t. I don’t want to impose—’

‘You’re not imposing. The cottage is empty. And I’m enjoying talking. It’s a nice change for me to have company.’

He smiled: ‘Instead of talking to …’ – he was about to say ‘Oscar’, then managed to change it – ‘the wall?’

She smiled bleakly. ‘Oscar, you mean. Oh …’ She slumped her shoulders. ‘Oh, I’d give my front teeth to have that doggie back. However …’ She forced a bright smile. ‘So you’ll stay another night?’ She added hastily: ‘In the cottage.’

‘Of course. I mean of course I’ll sleep in the cottage. If that’s okay, I’d love to – thank you.’

‘Thank you, for all your help. Good … So, you’ll have a brandy?’

‘Sure,’ he grinned. ‘What the hell!’

‘What the hell!’ she agreed. She disappeared back into the pantry and returned with the bottle and two glasses. ‘Water?’

‘Straight. What the hell.’

‘What the hell. Aussies make good brandy.’ She sat and sloshed the liquor into the glasses. He noticed she suddenly appeared a little tipsy, as if she had dropped her guard.

‘And good wine,’ he said.

‘And wine.’

‘I’ve got a couple of bottles of Shiraz in my saddle-bags I can fetch.’

‘Keep it for the road. Where’re you heading tomorrow?’

He took a sip. ‘East. Brisbane. Then Townsville, Cairns, then across to Darwin. I’ll have to look at the map.’

‘Oh, Brisbane …’ She sat back with a sad smile. ‘Those were happy days.’ She sighed nostalgically, and took a big sip of brandy.

He did the same. He was glad she was relaxing after the trauma of burying her dog – and optimistic about the evening ahead? ‘So,’ he said, ‘you regret …’ He changed it. ‘I mean, but surely you don’t regret getting married?’

She snorted softly. ‘No,’ she said, ‘how can you regret all that? Your husband? Your children?’ She waved a hand vaguely. ‘Even this lonely life. This is my home. It would be … unnatural to regret that. Like Lady Macbeth saying “Unsex me here”.’ She shook her head. ‘No, of course I don’t regret any of those actual things – I just wish I had got my degree, done my travelling … enriched my life first.’ She shrugged. ‘For just a couple of years, then done what I did. With Clyde.’

She looked at Ben, as if about to continue, but didn’t.