‘Sure,’ Dylan said, trying to sound as if he meant it.
Gabriela sailed back in, carrying the tray, tendrils of steam disappearing behind her. The brown teapot and six chipped, mismatched cups were piled on an old tin tray with a picture of the Queen’s coronation.
‘Six cups?’ Joe said, an odd note in his voice.
‘Matthew came up for his tea – I told him he might as well join us. He’s just washing up.’
‘Great.’ Sara scrubbed at her face. ‘Just what I need.’
Matthew was already in the doorway. Sara lurched to her feet and across to the window. Over the crooked boards of the verandah, she looked down the slope to Towradgi Headland, a rocky outcrop silhouetted in the sullen blue of the sea. She leant her head against the glass, cool against the burn of her skin. She imagined her face, reddened with tears, her eyes puffy. She knew what she looked like when she cried. Why was it Matthew only saw her weak, ugly, weird?
Gabriela brought her a cup of tea. Her cup was chipped and read ‘Don’t let the turkeys get you down’. Automatically Sara drank a mouthful – it offered no comfort.
Matthew came to stand beside her. She did not look at him. She could think of nothing to say.
‘I’m sorry about your dad,’ he said.
She nodded and shrugged one shoulder, looking out the window.
‘What’s the matter with him? Will he be all right?’
‘I hope so,’ Sara replied.
There was silence between them. Tears rose again. ‘If I can do anything to help?’ he offered awkwardly.
She lifted a shoulder. Hold me, squeeze me, rock me, comfort me, tell me everything is all right. Tell me it was an accident. Tell me anything.
‘It’ll be all right,’ he offered.
She turned to him, almost smiling. ‘Will it? Really?’
Then, ashamed, she turned to the window, blinking back the tears, drinking from her cup. He drank too.
Joe drained his cup and stubbed out his cigarette. ‘Back to work,’ he said, the curtness back in his voice. ‘You two can come give me a hand, it’s about time you worked for your living. No holidays for farmers.’
The twins looked sullen but Joe ignored their expression, having seen it too often. ‘Coming, Matt?’ Without waiting for an answer, Joe strode from the room. He had that tight, cagey expression on his face that meant he was troubled.
‘I’ll carry the tray out,’ Matthew said, and helped Sara stack up the cups. All her old awkwardness came back as they walked to the kitchen together, Sara trying not to hold her hips stiffly.
‘I had to fix the phone this morning,’ Matthew said.
Sara was so interested she actually looked directly at him. ‘Oh, was it you who fixed it?’ she exclaimed. ‘I did wonder. It was broken last night when we tried to ring the police. The poor twins had to ride all the way into town through that terrible storm.’ Embarrassment began to scorch her cheeks but her desire to know was for once stronger than her desire to retreat into silence. ‘What was wrong with it? A big branch fell on the lines or something?’
Matthew shook his head. ‘One of the wires had worked loose in the connection box,’ he said. He hesitated a moment, then shrugged. ‘It can happen, I suppose, though not often.’
Sara chewed on her thumbnail. Matthew lingered a while longer, as if expecting her to comment or ask another question, then gave a small uncomfortable shrug and opened the door.
‘Do you mean you think someone tampered with the wires?’ she asked in a rush, blood burning her ears.
He looked down at her and gave the same difficult shrug. ‘Could be,’ he answered. ‘Looked like it. Wouldn’t swear to it in a court of law, though.’
She tore a thick white crescent of thumbnail away.
‘So, any idea what really happened?’ Matthew asked, one hand on the flyscreen.
She shook her head. This question was beginning to haunt her. ‘He must’ve just slipped, I s’pose.’
‘I s’pose.’
‘What else could have happened?’ Sara asked. ‘What are you trying to say?’
‘Nothing! Nothing. I just meant …’
‘Who would want to hurt Dad? Why do you all keep saying things like that? It was an accident. No-one would …’ A preternatural calm suddenly dropped over her. The tears dried. She looked at his dark heavy handsome face and waited.
‘It’s just – I wondered …’
‘What?’
‘It’s just – I heard …’
Sara waited. Her pulses began a slow, painful beat through her, quickening inexorably. She held onto her calm. Not this time, she swore.
‘This new woman of his,’ Matthew said in a rush. ‘She had a hubby, didn’t she? Wasn’t there a bit of a scene? I just thought …’
‘It was an accident,’ Sara said. ‘When Dad painted, nothing much else mattered to him. He could be close to the edge without really realising it. He must have set up too close. It was an accident.’
Matthew nodded and shrugged. The door banged shut behind him. Sara stared at it without seeing it. This new woman of his? What new woman?
Alex had hired Matthew in the New Year, to help get the farm back into shape. Sara had waited for his appearance with dread coiled like a cold snake in her belly. In five years she had not had to face anyone she did not know. Five years without once seeing a stranger.
She would have run if she could, but there was nowhere to run to. So the day Matthew was due to arrive, Sara had prepared herself as if facing the guillotine – washing her hair, putting on a childish white dress, strapping her feet into a pair of old red shoes that she had once loved, thinking they looked like a flamenco dancer’s. Then she had wandered about the house, trying to tidy things up, looking for mugs without too many chips, buttering the iced tea-cake Joe had bought at the supermarket, setting the table out in the garden, trying to settle her pulse with everyday chores. Matthew had driven up to the house on a motorbike, a big one with a throaty voice like Janis Joplin. The twins stared at it in envy. It made their trail bikes look like pumped-up bicycles. He had obviously taken some trouble with his appearance – his jaw was reddened from scraping at it with a razor and his damp curls were combed straight back – yet his Blundstones were worn and scuffed. He dismounted easily, kicking out the stand with a practised movement, and came smiling up the steps. He was older than Joe by at least three years, which made him twenty-five, a long stride away from Sara at twenty.
She busied her clammy hands with cups and plates, nodding at him brusquely when he smiled at her and turning her shoulder against him. He must have interpreted her abruptness as antagonism, particularly as Joe had all his hackles raised like a hostile dog. He did not seem to mind, though, sitting down at ease, taking the cup in his brown calloused hand, stretching out his legs, remarking on the view from the garden. He had an easiness in his skin that Sara had never seen before. She thought of black panthers slinking, and her neck grew hot.
‘So, know anything about dairy farming?’ Joe asked rather contemptuously. Sara knew he was trying to hide his own sense of deficiency but it made him sound smug and conceited. She blushed for him.
‘Grew up on one,’ Matthew smiled.
Joe snorted. ‘Got any qualifications, though?’
The smile faded. ‘Got my Ag. Certificate.’
Joe grimaced, lit a cigarette and blew the smoke out of the side of his mouth. Sara cringed, seeing him as Matthew must see him, every gesture and expression so exaggerated he looked fake and affected, when really he was just trying to assert his dominance. She glanced at the twins. They were sullen and silent, as usual, sitting together with their gangly wrists hanging between their knees and their heads hunched down. They both looked as if they wished they were somewhere else.
Augusto waved away Sara’s silently proffered cup of tea and poured himself another glass of wine. Now he bent forward confidentially, waving his panatella cigar at Matthew, saying with a bit of a slur to his words, ‘But surely
you’ve got dreams beyond cows, boy?’
Sara saw Matthew wince away from Augusto’s breath. He leant back in his chair, took a long drink of tea, and said, ‘I’d like to get into gardens. I might study horticulture when I’ve made some money. I like working with my hands in the earth.’
Augusto gave a contemptuous snort.
Joe turned on his father savagely. ‘At least the cows give us a living of sorts, which is more than your bloody paintings do! How many years since you sold a painting, Gus? Or even painted one?’
‘Mud and manure, that’s what your soul revels in, Pablo, isn’t it?’ Augusto sneered. He was drunker than Sara had realised, his voice slurring heavily. ‘As bovine as your mother, for all you look nothing like her.’
Joe hurled away his cigarette butt, heedless of the threat of bushfires, and leapt to his feet. ‘Don’t talk about my mother!’ He walked away through the garden, to the path that led down towards the sheds.
Sara could only stare after him with pity and sorrow. She knew the sheds had been his refuge, and now they were being invaded by this broad, dark stranger with his easy confidence and a certificate in Agricultural Studies.
She looked back to find Augusto breathing alcoholic fumes all over Matthew, as he went off into some ramble about the higher purpose of Art, that a boy with the soul of a cow couldn’t possibly understand, not meaning Matthew, of course, but his goddamn stupid son. Watching Matthew trying not to breathe, trying to make excuses for Joe, trying to be polite to her half-drunken father, a hot flame of mortification swept Sara from the soles of her feet to the roots of her hair. Without looking at anyone, she cleared away the cups and plates and slipped silently back to the kitchen.
There, she read the cards for Matthew. As she had expected, he was the Magician.
A little later, Augusto called to her to bring out the Courvoisier and some glasses. Miserably she got out two big curving glasses and the bottle of Cognac Courvoisier XO Imperial, which cost two hundred dollars a bottle. She could only hope Joe would not come back and find her father and the new manager drinking Courvoisier together. That would really turn her brother against Matthew.
She carried out the tray and poured them both a little of the rich golden brandy. Augusto held the glass in his hand, swirling the liquid round and round. ‘Fits into your palm just like the breast of a woman, doesn’t it?’ he leered. He always said that, so that Sara could have said the words with him. Then Augusto showed Matthew how to lift the glass and inhale the aroma, to cup the glass in your hand till it grew warm, to take a small sip and hold the cognac in your mouth, savouring its taste.
‘Notice how it has delicate notes of vanilla and crystallised orange that slowly deepen into a taste like fruitcake,’ Augusto said. ‘Can you taste it?’
‘Can’t say I can taste fruitcake,’ Matthew said, grinning, after tasting a few mouthfuls. ‘It’s sure got a kick to it, though.’
Sara watched them drink fistfuls of dollars with every sip and listened for the sound of Joe’s quick, distinctive step. Augusto was mellowing with every mouthful. He had offered the new manager one of his cigars now, which Matthew managed to avoid without offending him. He began to tell Matthew the story of Picasso’s birth, as Sara knew he would.
‘He was stillborn, you know, cold and blue as a dead fish. Nothing the midwife did could revive him. So she wrapped him up and put him aside, and turned her attentions to saving Pablo’s mother, who was very weak. But Pablo’s uncle, who was a doctor, refused to give up on him. They were all there with their champagne and their cigars ready to celebrate the baby’s birth. Pablo’s uncle lit his cigar and blew cigar smoke right into the baby’s lungs. It worked like a charm. They say Pablo coughed, took a breath and began to bellow like a bull.’ Augusto smiled, shook his head in amazement and lit up a cigar of his own. ‘You can always tell a cigar-smoking man.’
‘By the smell?’ Matthew said politely, glancing at Sara who almost smiled.
There was a nerve-wracking moment while Augusto decided whether to be amused or affronted. It’s hard to be affronted with Courvoisier XO Imperial heating the blood and blurring the mind, however, and so Augusto laughed. ‘No, no. Though, as Freud says, sometimes a cigar is just a cigar.’
‘Did you hear about the guy who was so horrified when he read about the harmful effects of smoking that he never read again?’ Matthew asked. Augusto thought this was hilariously funny, laughing so hard he almost spilt his brandy.
‘What about the guy who said, “If your wife doesn’t like the aroma of your cigar, change your wife,”’ Augusto said. ‘Now that’s my kind of philosophy!’
Sara sighed and looked anxiously down towards the sheds to make sure Joe was not on his way back. Silently she urged them to drink quickly so she could take the glasses away. Matthew was only sipping slowly, though, and wincing a little at every sip. She guessed he was a beer drinker.
Augusto had decided he liked the new manager. Flinging an arm about his shoulder he asked him if he played chess.
‘No, mate. Never learnt. My oldies were more into card games. My dad was a mean five hundred player. I know a good joke about chess, though.’
Augusto puffed luxuriously on his cigar. ‘Is that so?’
Sara held her breath. Joking around with Augusto was a precarious business. Though he liked to tease others, he disliked being teased very much and was quick to take offence.
‘Yeah. It was the Irish chess championships, OK? The two Irish grandmasters were sitting with their heads bent over the board, thinking over their next move. The minutes ticked by, then the hours. Then one of the grandmasters looked up and said, “Oh! Is it my move?”’
Sara smiled involuntarily, then realised Matthew was looking at her, watching for her reaction. She looked away immediately, drooping her head so her dark waterfall of hair swung forward to shadow her face, which had grown hot and stiff. She picked up the tray and edged away as quietly as she could, careful not to let the glasses clatter.
That was to be the pattern of their interaction over the months that followed. Eventually Matthew stopped addressing remarks to her, though he still sometimes glanced her way to see if she was laughing at his jokes, of which he had a seemingly endless repertoire.
Sara cursed her shyness constantly, but was unable to overcome the self-consciousness which kept her mute and clumsy as a wooden puppet. She watched him, though, fascinated by his strangeness, his boldness, his smell of the outside world. She begged Joe not to tell him about her weirdness, about how she never left the farm anymore, not even to do the grocery shopping, about how she could not even bear to get into a car. It was impossible to hide, however. No matter how hard Sara tried to pretend she was normal, even a blind man could see how very weird she was. The knowledge of it was a constant mortification to her.
After Matthew came to Towradgi, Sara dreamt of him often. She dreamt she sat on a gilt chair in the front hall, facing the staircase, curtains billowing around her. She dreamt Matthew came in the front door and walked up behind her, so that she could see his dark, dangerous shape floating in the mirror. She dreamt he put down his brown hand and closed it about her neck, as if around the stem of some exotic flower. She felt it, hard and warm against her throat, and dreamt she leant back her head so he could bend and kiss her, submerging her in a wave of yearning. Many times she dreamt of him – pressing her up hard against a tree in a shadowy forest, lying with her in a welter of sea foam on the strand, hidden by tall green cornstalks. It was as if he had cast a spell on her, dark magician that he was.
A little after noon, someone from the hospital rang to say Augusto had stabilised enough for the family to visit.
‘Thank you,’ Sara said and hung up. She stared unseeingly into space. Although she wanted to see her father badly, she knew it was impossible. No matter how much she willed herself to, she simply could not get in a car and drive the coast road to Moruya. She could not walk into the hospital, with so many people hurrying and fretting and shouting a
nd weeping and moaning. She could not look down at her father, broken and defeated. She had not left the tight green embracing arms of this valley since she was fifteen years old. She could not do it now.
Sara pressed her fists against her diaphragm and tried to breathe.
‘Honey, what is it?’ Gabriela’s strong arms were around her.
‘The … hospital …’
‘Oh no! Sara!’
‘No, it’s all right. He’s stabilised, whatever that means. They say we can go see him if we want.’
‘Oh, thank God. You had me going for a second. But … what’s wrong, then?’
Sara struggled to speak. ‘It’s just … I can’t. I can’t go. You know I can’t.’
Gabriela expelled her breath in a long sigh of exasperation. ‘But, Sara!’
‘You don’t understand. I can’t. I can’t go. I’d have to get in the car … and then … so many people … I couldn’t cope, I just couldn’t.’
Gabriela sat at the kitchen table and pulled Sara down to sit opposite her. She tugged at her hands till Sara reluctantly looked up at her through the weeping willow branches of her hair.
‘I’m sorry to have to say this, honey, but it might be the last time you see your father. You’ll never forgive yourself if you don’t go just because you’re scared of getting in a car!’
‘I can’t!’ Sara was fully in the grip of the panic attack now. The long night without sleep, the shock of her father’s accident, the trials of anxiety she had already undergone that morning were all too much. She let herself be flooded with emotion, clinging to Gabriela, sobbing and gasping in hysterical release. When her cousin seized her shoulders and shook her roughly, she was shocked.
‘Stop it, Sara! You’re not a child anymore! Get a grip on yourself! It’s just a trip to Moruya, for God’s sake, to see your father! You’ll be there in a little over half an hour. It’s unnatural to get into such a state about it. You can’t go on like this. No-one can help you get over these stupid fears but yourself. Do it once and it’ll be easier the next time. Each time you do it’ll get easier.’