Talk to Me Tenderly, Tell Me Lies. John Davis Gordon
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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.
‘But?’ he said.
She hesitated. ‘But nothing.’
‘You were about to say “but”.’ He smiled that smile.
‘Was I?’ She smiled back at him, self-consciously. ‘Yes, I was.’ She breathed deeply. ‘What I mean is this: But the kids have all left the nest now. One by one they had to go off to boarding-school in Rockhampton, when the School of the Air wasn’t enough for them anymore.’
‘“School of the Year”?’
‘Air. The radio. The government broadcasts lessons for Outback kids. At regimented hours the kids sit at their desks and tune into the government’s education programmes, just as if they were at school. Very good it is, too. And my kids were very conscientious. I made them conscientious. And I helped them, and the older ones helped the younger ones, et cetera, and it’s all pretty effective. But,’ she shrugged, ‘you reach a point where that’s not enough. They need the society and competition of other kids – and sport, and the esprit de corps of normal schooling. So …’