Talk to Me Tenderly, Tell Me Lies. John Davis Gordon
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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,