Talk to Me Tenderly, Tell Me Lies. John Davis Gordon
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wanly. ‘We kind of had them bang, bang, bang. Went to bed too early, I guess. There was no television out here in those days.’
He grinned. ‘And …?’
‘And what?’
‘You started off by admitting the “But”.’
She smiled. ‘Well, so, the kids are all doing fine at school. Good at games, good at their lessons. They come home once a year, Christmas holidays, for six weeks. The other holidays they go to my parents.’ She shook her head. ‘And when they come home, they’re full of what it’s like in Rockhampton, what fun it all is, and after a couple of weeks they can’t wait to get back there. Their mates and all. And Tim thinks he’s in love with the head girl – he’s head prefect this year – and Wendy’s got a crush on some young giant in the footie team, and there’s no social life for them here, and so on. And Jacqueline’s mad about tennis. Even Cathy complains that there’re no newspapers – she wants to be a fashion reporter, would you believe? Age eleven! And they all want to go and disport themselves on the beaches and ride on those surfboards.’ She raised her eyes in despair. ‘And the bosoms on my girls …? Even little Cathy is busy hatching two beauts.’
Ben smiled, and couldn’t help glancing at mother’s endowments. ‘And …?’
Helen took a sip of brandy. She gave an appreciative shudder.
‘And, well, now Clyde has had to go back to the mines to pay for this little lot. With the droughts, and all. And, in fact, he’s okay, too. He’s got a nice bachelor bungalow, good tucker, good pay – thank God. He’s very generous, sends me enough money and all that – he’s even got a laundry and a cleaning lady. And he deserves it. But the point is …’ She paused, then took a deep breath. ‘The point is, none of them need me anymore.’ She shook her head at him. ‘They’re all okay. Well provided-for. As I am. But the point is, what about me?’ She looked at him. ‘What is my purpose now?’
He ventured: ‘You’re here. They know you’re here to come home to. Mum.’ He smiled. ‘The rock in their lives. And, you’re looking after the station. The cattle.’
She snorted. ‘Oh, the station … Do you know how many cattle we’ve got out there now? Sixty-five only. And a hundred and fifty or so sheep, until the lambing begins. We sold off the rest last year when they still had some meat on them. And even they don’t need me – they’ve got Billy.’
‘When he isn’t drunk or on walkabout.’
‘But that’s one of the reasons he’s so hopeless – there’re so few animals. Nothing. We haven’t even got a drinking-water crisis because there’re three windmills still producing and fifteen acres of lucern under irrigation to feed the animals if the drought continues.’ She shook her head. ‘The station doesn’t need me. The home doesn’t need me. So …?’ She looked at him. ‘Everybody’s okay. But what have I got?’ He started to speak but she continued, in exasperation: ‘Oh, I don’t mean, what have I got. I’ve got a perfectly good home and a loyal husband and enough money to get by. We’re hard-up, but we’re not broke. What I mean is – what is my usefulness now? What am I doing with my precious one-and-only life? With my perfectly good head? With my hopes? With the … remnants of my youthfulness, my energy and … creativity? With my life?’
Ben looked at her sympathetically. It was getting dark. He got up, went to the back door and pressed the green button. There was a distant doem doem doem as the generator started up. The kitchen light loomed on.
‘Thanks,’ she said, without looking up.
He sat down again. ‘What do you want to do with it? Your life.’
She snorted softly, put both elbows on the table and rested her chin in her palms. ‘I don’t know.’
He said: ‘Leave? Go and do the things you wanted to do when you’d finished your degree?’
She pressed her fingertips to her eyelids. ‘Oh, how can I do that?’
‘Easy. Just pack a bag and do it. Even if it’s just for a year or two.’ He added: ‘You could crank up that VW van.’
She lowered her hands. ‘Just take off on a holiday? Clyde would have a fit! Him working so hard to provide for the family and me just taking off, spending the money?’
‘You need only spend the money he sends you anyway for your own maintenance. As you say, the ranch doesn’t need you – why should Clyde be a dog in the manger over your time? Your life? Have you any money saved? Of your own, I mean.’
She made a wry face. ‘A couple of thousand dollars, maybe, in the post office.’
‘You could get a job somewhere.’
‘Doing what? The only thing I’m trained for is damn housework. Though I did do a short course at Uni in shorthand and typing, but I’ve forgotten it all.’
‘You’d pick it up again quickly. You’d be able to get a job in an office somewhere, an intelligent woman like you.’
She looked at him, then sighed.
‘Oh, I’d love to do it. But Clyde would never allow it.’
Ben frowned. ‘You don’t need his permission. As you say, it’s your precious, one-and-only life, to do with what you want. If you want to keep Clyde happy, forget it. But if you want to have a couple of years enriching your life, do it, even without his permission if necessary. But then there would be a price.’
She rested her face in her hands again. ‘And that is?’
‘Depends. You may never be the same again – you mightn’t want to come back. Or Clyde might not want you back. In both cases the price would be called Sadness. Even Grief. And there’s another one, unless you’ve got enough money – it’s called Hardship. And another, called Loneliness. Enriching your life can be the loneliest business in the world.’
She looked at him through her parted fingers.
‘What are you saying to me, Ben?’
He smiled. ‘I’m just being realistic. You said you wanted to do more with the precious remnants of your life. You said you were helpless to do so. I’m just trying to show you that you’re not helpless, but there’s probably a cost. So, you must weigh the cost and decide what’s worth what, and try to be satisfied with your decision.’
She gave a big sigh.
‘Oh how I envy you.’ She sat there, her face in her hands. ‘Oh … I’m drunk.’ She sat up and lowered her hands. ‘Brandy and beer will do it to me every time. I had a couple of brandies before you came in, to try to sleep.’
He shrugged. ‘So, get drunk.’
‘I’m supposed to be the hostess.’
‘So, I’ll get drunk with you.’
She looked at him; her eyes were a little puffy. ‘Why?’
He smiled at her. Why had she said why, like that? Because she suspected he wanted to get her drunk so he could have another grab of her? Perish the thought! That sweet possibility hadn’t entirely escaped him, but even sex-starved Ben Sunninghill wasn’t a cad, was he? His reply was almost truthful:
‘Why not? We’re enjoying ourselves. They’re our lives, they’ll be our hangovers. You’re answerable only to yourself.’
‘What does that mean?’
Oh, dear. Tramsmash Sunninghill. So she really did think he might be after her drunken body. ‘Only what it says. You’ve had a tough day. You want to get drunk, do so. Nobody’s here to criticize you.’ (He wished he hadn’t said that, too.)
She snorted wearily, apparently satisfied.
‘No