As Far as You Can Go (7 page)

‘Don’t
, Gray,’ she says, but she’s relieved at the humour in his voice. ‘Her in that shed!’ She reaches for the giggle she’s been suppressing – but it has died away. She hunkers down, sweat squishing in the creases behind her knees, and fingers the papery petals of the flower.

Box 25
Keemarra Roadhouse
(Woolagong Station)
22nd October

Dear Mum
,

Well, here we are safely arrived at last. It’s hot and really does seem to be miles from anywhere. We’ve got no proper address even! At least, the post isn’t delivered here, it’s picked up and delivered from the roadhouse. You’d love the wild flowers, but they’ll soon be over apparently. Nice garden, tomatoes, beans etc. Larry and Mara are an unusual couple, but seem very nice. Well, must go now, bread to bake! (I’m trying your failsafe recipe to start with – thanks.)

Love
,

Cassie

xxxxxxxxx

Cassie stands in the hall of the shearers’ shed. The floor is made of wide-beamed wood, silky with age, needing a sweep to rid it of the dead bugs, leaves, drifts of dust. The doors stretch either side of her, three each side, a door to the outside at each end. A bit like a railway carriage. Larry said they could look at the other rooms but still her heart beats as if she’s doing something wrong.
Snooping
. Dark in the corridor and almost cool. The walls are papered with a design of flowers and vases. Was that appreciated by the shearers? A couple of framed photos on the walls: sweaty men swilling beer down their gullets; a shearer with a sheep struggling between his thighs.

She tries the far door. Narrow bed, khaki blanket, pair of boots, kerosene lamp. Must be whatsisname’s – the neighbour. She shuts it. The next is stuffed with junk: broken bed-frame; drawerless chest; bundle of stuff, old covers and curtains. A faded calendar dated 1979: half-naked women on farm machinery, advertising sheep dip. On the opposite side is a room with a sagging single bed, the window patched with a sheet of tin. And there is a room filled with light, bigger than their room, a lovely feel to it. Not that there’s anything wrong with theirs but – she steps in.

The floor slopes but still – they could bring the double bed across – the curtains are buttery yellow, the walls dappled with faded roses. A pretty room. Why did Larry give them the other
one? White chest of drawers, rag rug. She crouches and examines the bits of different material, just tiny cotton rags individually but gathered into a subtle mottled swirl, like a dust storm. And on the small humped bed a patchwork quilt, fantastic, a pattern she’s never seen before, shading from cool blue in one corner, diagonally across to fiery reds and oranges. Cold to hot. Hand-done. She could make a quilt, while she’s here. Copying this pattern. She can just see it on her – their? – bed at home. People will say,
How exquisite
and she’ll tell them, her
children
, even, she’ll tell them about this place, this odd chapter in her life.
My Year in the Outback
. Will Graham be part of her life then? Will he be their father? She sits down on the lumpy bed and sighs.

*

Graham stands by the kitchen window, looking through the smeary glass to Mara’s shed outside. The shut blue door. He takes a roll-up from behind his ear and lights it. What
is
that woman doing in that shed? She must have some story to tell. What is
he
doing in this kitchen, in this sheep station, in this
country
, in this
hemisphere
?

Least he’s alone. First time in days. The tap drips, the fan squeaks, flies buzz studiously over the table, his jam-smeared plate. He turns the tap and waits for the water that comes cloudy at first, almost as if soapy, and then clears, though it never gets completely cold. He swigs some anyway and goes to look again at the little painting. If
she
did it she’s amazing. The brush strokes fine; the finish shiny. Maybe shellac? Good. Not his sort of thing, but pretty good. But then what
is
his thing any more?

He thinks back to college. Hell of a long way back. He knew his parents were disappointed.
Art college
after the packet they spent on school. Couldn’t have a kid but they’d adopted him, at four years old, and spoiled him something rotten. He knows he’s spoilt – what’s he meant to do about it? Nothing he couldn’t have – that you could buy. Remembers the piles of
presents, the silver-wrapped bike under the Christmas tree; the room full of stuffed tigers and elephants. ‘Jungle theme,’ his mum would say, showing it off to guests. The computer before everyone had computers. Wanted him to be lawyer like his dad. Sold a pup, weren’t they?

He remembers walking into that room for the first time: the frieze of animals stalking, more toys that he’d ever seen outside of a shop. The smell of new paint and plastic toys. Lawyer! But he
could
draw. So, architect they thought, but no.
Not
straight lines but grey skies, sulphur yellow reflected in puddles, oily rainbows on the canal. Got him a first at college. ‘Difficult Light,’ his dissertation. No difficulty here, the light is all too easy.

‘If I had your talent I wouldn’t squander it.’

‘Cheers Jas,’ he mutters. What would she say about this setup? Where his leap has landed him.
Twenty thousand miles away
. She’ll be in her studio now – but no, maybe not. What time in England? Eight hours difference one way or the other, can’t be arsed to work it out.

He picks three oranges up from the table. Throws one up, another, till he’s juggling, each orange landing with a cool thwack in his hand, a smell of citrus rising with the bruising of their peel.

Cassie bursts into the kitchen and he drops an orange. She chucks her sunglasses on the table and, before she speaks, drinks down a glass of water, not even waiting till it clears. Her face is deep pink, the spray of freckles on her nose looks almost green.

‘What’ve you been up to?’ he asks, putting the oranges down. One has rolled under the table and he leaves it.

She wipes her lips on the back of her hand, comes over and kisses him, her lips cool and wet. ‘Just poking around,’ she said. ‘Exploring. I found us a new room! Come and look.’

‘You’ve caught the sun.’

She squints at her shrimp-coloured arms. ‘Yeah, went for a
walkabout before. Forgot to put more cream on, never mind. Mmmm,’ she snuggles her hips against him. His arms go round her like a shot, but she peels herself away.

‘Come and look at the room. Larry said we could –’

‘Which one?’

‘Opposite ours. It’s got a much bigger window.’

He hesitates. ‘Thought I’d use that. For painting. Better light.’

‘Oh – but –’ Her mouth turns down. ‘I thought you’d be painting outside.’

‘Still need a studio.’

‘Studio!’ she snorts.

‘Our room’s OK. You said you loved it. Want me to paint, don’t you?’

She goes to the fridge. ‘Did you find any bread?’

‘Not yet.’

She turns. ‘I think it’s really selfish of you. You could easily paint in the other room.’ Sounds like she’s about to burst into tears.

‘Hey Cass –’ He grabs hold of her again. ‘You said you liked our room.’

‘Before I saw the other one.’ She turns her face away. ‘Must get the lunch.’

‘Premenstrual?’

‘Oh fuck off.’

‘Tut tut.’ Her shoulders are smooth and sun-flushed. He pulls her to him, kisses her hair, snuffles up the salty, sweaty scent.

‘Must get the lunch,’ she repeats, stiffening.

‘No rush is there?’

She pulls right away. ‘Why not go and paint or something? Do some sketching. You’ve got an hour, at least.’ She crouches down to peer into the bottom of a cupboard, pulls out a bowl, leaps back with a little cry as something live falls out. ‘And we can
talk
later.’

The threatened
talk
. He goes quickly out of the kitchen and round to the shearers’ shed to get his pencils.

*

Cassie takes a basket round to the garden to pick tomatoes for lunch.
Premenstrual!
But anyway, lovely breathing in the thick green smell, listening to the dull gush of water in the tank, the cheeping of the birds, the rasp of a grasshopper or something like. Something chips at her, like a beak. Maybe this is all a mistake? Herself and Graham? No. Give it a
chance
.

She cups a tomato, still attached to its plant, in her palm. She wonders what variety it is. A hot heavy handful, rough-skinned. Digs her thumbnail in and the skin grins open, revealing an ooze of cloudy flesh. She does feel sexy, could have done it if she hadn’t felt so cross, they would have had the time. Why should
he
have the best bloody room all to himself? She licks the juice off her thumb. The taste is warm and sweet, pungent in a way that English tomatoes just aren’t. The tomato unclips itself easily from its stalk. She picks three more. So huge that one each will be plenty.

She gathers some runner beans and a warm limp lettuce, cradled between the leaves of which is a yellow caterpillar, thick as a baby’s finger. It rears up at her, displaying the black hairs on its concertina-sectioned underside. She flicks it off and watches it wriggle in the dirt. She lifts her foot to squash it. If she doesn’t it will turn into a butterfly and lay a million eggs. Most of the lettuce leaves are frilled around their edges with caterpillar-bite shapes. There isn’t a thought in its head, it won’t suffer – just simply cease to exist. It would hardly even count as a death. Just a patch of dampness on the ground, drying to nothing within half an hour.

She grits her teeth, looks away and does it. Better than using pesticide.

She wipes her sandal-sole in the dust and goes to fill the watering can from the overflow tank. Good to be busy, doing things, enjoying the green and the smell of growing.
Studio!
Something so self-important about that word. Why not just
room
? He’d better bloody well get painting, then. The earth darkens with the water, the thick tomato stalks slurp it up, the leaves seem to quiver and stiffen as she watches. She will start a compost heap. Today.

Yella comes round into the garden, nudges her leg with his nose.

‘Hello, boy.’ He cocks his head at the watering can. ‘Want a drink?’ She remembers that he’s deaf and bends to pat him.

‘He doesn’t want to drink it.’ Larry makes her jump.

‘Pour some on his back,’ he says.

‘What?’

‘Go on.’

She lifts the watering can and lets the spray run over the dog’s back. He arches it, closing his eyes and groaning with comical pleasure. Cassie ducks and laughs as he shakes, a glittering spray speckling her legs. The stupid creature rolls on to his back and wriggles in the dirt. And stands up, bright-eyed, spiky with mud.

‘Simple pleasures,’ Larry says.

‘Well, yes!’ Cassie rubs her sprinkled shins. ‘Larry?’

Larry squints at something on a tomato leaf. ‘These need a squirt.’ He indicates a drum of pesticide. ‘Yes?’

‘Can I ask you a question?’

‘Naturally.’

‘Why – I mean, I know it’s none of my business but why – when Mara’s so ill and everything, do you choose to live so far from – well –
civilisation
, without even a radio or anything –’

‘If we lived nearer
civilisation
, as you put it,’ Larry says, ‘it is likely that Mara would be incarcerated in an institution.’ He steps closer and smiles. ‘Believe me, strange as it may seem, it’s the best solution.’ His beard is jutted forward, his pale eyes looking down into her own.

‘I’m sure,’ she says, ‘it must be so hard. It’s very unselfish of you.’

‘Unselfish?’

‘To live here – to give up everything and all for Mara. Not everyone would. What about work?’

‘I work.’

‘What do you do?’

‘Oh,’ he shakes his head. ‘Plenty of time for all that. Now, must get on.’

She picks up her basket of vegetables. ‘I’m going to use organic methods,’ she says, ‘rather than you know, nasty chemicals.’

‘Nasty chemicals!’ He gazes at her a moment longer, shrugs. ‘Up to you entirely. Incidentally, now we’re alone, Graham –’

‘What?’

‘How shall I put it? He’s not quite what I was expecting.’

‘What did you expect?’

‘Someone more,’ he says, ‘someone more –’ but he breaks off, shrugs, gives her a wry smile. ‘But I’m sure we’ll all rub along. When we get used to each other. Now,’ he looks down at his watch, ‘I’ll be busy until lunch.’ He turns and leaves, Yella at his heels.

Cassie takes the salad and beans inside, washes and slices the tomatoes. Someone more what? Polite? Tall? Humble? Efficient? But she knows what he means. She wishes he was someone more ? too. That’s why they’re here, isn’t it? She picks a tiny grub or two out of the flesh and sprinkles the juicy slices with pepper, salt, oil and torn basil leaves. She boils eggs, cuts up the remains of one loaf and locates another – naturally Graham forgot – in the white furry depths of the freezer. Later she’ll start a new batch of bread.

She has an uneasy feeling between her shoulder blades as if she’s being watched. But there’s no one. She opens the pantry and peers in at the tins. Something scuttling away from the light makes her recoil. An old brown smell in there: oilcloth, candle wax, plain ordinary dirtiness. The whole lot’ll need clearing out – some of the cans are ancient, rusting round the rims, the labels
scarcely legible. It’ll be fun, in a way, getting it all in order. She finds a can of tuna, another of anchovies. Salade Niçoise? Though there are no olives that she can see.

She nips and peels the strings from the beans. He’s right. They’ll get used to each other. In time. It’ll all be fine. She carries knives, forks and plates out to the table on the veranda. A big table, the top of it made of a single slab of wood, but like wood magnified, all the grain wide and whorled around a complex knot. Dirty, too – old food, old God-knows-what, candle wax embedded with crumbs – so much to do. She smiles, remembering the look on Graham’s face when Larry told him not to swear.

She stands at the top of the steps and looks past the shed, past the wind-pump and down an incline to a stand of gums. Used to be a paddock, Larry told them, a paddock of five thousand acres, there were still relics of the fence here and there if they cared to look.
Five thousand acres
. Ten times bigger than a whole farm back home.