Anticlimax

7

Anticlimax

    Steve’s face was very red. “Whaddaya mean, you’re goin’ bush for a bit?”

    “Goin’ bush. For a bit,” replied his uncle stolidly, though with an ironic gleam in his eye. “Walkabout, if you prefer.”

    “No, I bloody well don’t! Look, Ben—” Steve broke off.

    “What?” replied his uncle, very, very mildly.

    “You know ruddy well what!”

    “I probably do, but I just thought I’d like to see you cram your great boot in yer gob trying to explain yourself, Stephen.”

    “Don’t bloody well come the sarky bit with me!” he roared.

    Ben just waited.

    “Look, me and Trisha have to get back to work—and come to think of it, Madam Kyla’s gotta get off her bum and find paid employment, too—but we thought Harrie could have a bit of a holiday.”

    “She’s having a bit of a holiday, isn’t she?” replied Ben blandly.

    “YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN!” he roared.

    Ben eyed him thoughtfully. “Mm. Well, she can hang on here if she wants to, it’s no skin off my nose. So long as she doesn’t touch the boat.”

    “She’s not interested in yer flamin’ boat, she chunders on anything that moves, hasn’t that dawned YET?” shouted the driven Steve.

    “Yes, but it’s nice to get it clear. Go, on, then, tell ’er she can stay if she wants to.”

    “You know bloody well she won’t take it from me! What’s wrong with you, Ben? I thought you were a decent bloke!”

    His uncle eyed him drily. “You thought I’d offer yer sister-in-law me heart and hand and all me worldly goods, ya mean. Well, they’re not on offer, but she’s welcome to stay if she wants to. So long as—“

    “She doesn’t touch the ruddy boat; YES!” he roared.

    “No, so long as she doesn’t try to suburbanize, gentrify, or otherwise pretty up the place. –Me or the place,” he added thoughtfully.

    Steve sighed. “She’s not that sort, are you blind?”

    Ben shrugged. “They’re all that sort. It doesn’t always show, in fact it may not surface for a year or two—depends how good the sex is, usually,” he added thoughtfully. He shot a look at Steve’s purpling face. “Look, Steve, mate,” he said more kindly, “I’ve been on me tod, more or less, all me life. I can’t change now. If I was twenty years younger—even ten, maybe—well, say fifteen—I might come at it. Harriet’s a nice woman, I don’t want to give her another disappointment. –Who the fuck was this earl bugger that Trisha was rabbiting on about, anyway?”

    Steve gulped. “Aw—that. It was a picture. She seen it in England. Fixation, or somethink.”

    He raised his eyebrows a little. “If you say so. I’ll ask her to stay on if you insist, but I’m not about to give her the wrong impression.” He waited. After a while it appeared to sink into the concrete between his thick nephew’s cauliflower ears that he was expecting a response.

    “Yeah, all right,” Steve agreed heavily. “She could do with a decent break. And we’ll help her with the fare back.”

    “Glad to hear it,” he replied unemotionally, ambling off.

    Steve breathed heavily for some time but finally said to himself, though without much optimism: “Well, it might come to somethink. And she won’t wannoo—what the fuck was that, that ’e said? Gentrify the place? Well, weirdo cushions à la Madam Kyla and ’er bloody art teacher aside. –That reminds me.” He strode off, looking grim. “OY! KYLA!”

    Harriet was over on the point, in the little grove of mango trees that fortunately hadn’t been recognised as such by the yobbos that infested Big Rock Bay’s caravan park from time to time—not so much since the motel had expanded, building more cabins on what had been the camping ground, thank God for small mercies. Grasping the nettle, Ben went over there and sat down on the scruffy grass by her side.

    “Your brother-in-law’s got a bee in his bonnet,” was his opening gambit.

    “He usually has,” replied Harriet calmly. “What is it this time?”

    Ben took a deep breath. “Wants me to offer you me heart and hand and all me worldly goods. Only they’re not on offer—sorry.”

    Harriet had turned scarlet but she replied steadily enough: “I never thought they were.”

    “That’s good,” he conceded mildly. He hugged his knees and gazed out to sea for some time. At last he said: “I’ll be going walkabout in a bit.”

    Harriet was over the initial embarrassment—though she wouldn’t have minded strangling Steve. “That’s nice,” she said mildly.

    “Yeah—no, I mean, if you wanna stay on for a bit, you’re welcome to. No strings. Uh—well, don’t say I might not do you the minute they’ve pushed off, I am only human, but sex apart, no strings.”

    Harriet went very red again. “Steve put you up to this, didn’t he?”

    “No, it generally does it of its own accord, even with blokes of my age, Harriet,” replied Ben dulcetly.

    She gave a strangled laugh, looked away and gasped: “Yes!”

    He put a hand gently on her knee. “The sex was my idea but the rest is his. Not the no strings, I mean: you staying on.”

    “What on earth would I live off? I’d be eating you out of house and home, he’s mad,” replied Harriet dazedly.

    “Practical,” noted Ben wryly. “The pension amount’s far too much for me, I haven’t got many expenses; don’t worry about it.”

    “That wouldn’t be fair.”

    “Okay, don’t stay on,” he said stolidly, withdrawing his hand.

    Harriet bit her lip. “Well, um, when were you planning to go walkabout?”

    “I was planning to go the minute they leave, but if you stay on, say a fortnight after that.”

    “I—I suppose I could stay on for the extra fortnight, then,” she croaked.

    Ben put his hand back on her knee. “You can stay on for as long as you like: have the place to yourself, while I’m gone.”

    “Um, how long will you be?” asked Harriet limply.

    He shrugged. “No idea.”

    “I see...” she said slowly.

    Ben gazed at the sea. Finally he said: “Last time I was away for three weeks. Time before that—woulda been six months before that, I think—it was fourteen months. Don’t look at me, I didn’t count ’em,” he added drily. “That’s Laverne’s arithmetic. Down the pub,” he clarified, as she was looking completely blank.

    “Yes, of course, Laverne, the nice lady at the pub!” gasped Harriet. “Fourteen months? Where did you go?”

    He shrugged. “Here and there. Up Cape York for a while. Met some Abos that were all set to lynch me, until they realised I wasn’t prospecting for one of the bloody mining companies. Spent a while mucking round fishing with them—dunno how long. Then I went down to Mount Isa—well, not deliberately, just drove sort of south. It’s a dump, been there before. Don’t like towns, anyway.”

    “No,” said Harriet dazedly. “So how long did it take you to get back home from there?”

    “Dunno. Stopped off at a few places. Well, not places. Stopped off a few times.”

    “I see. You just like to wander.”

    He shrugged. “Go walkabout—yeah.”

    Harriet smiled a little. “Go walkabout in your four-wheel-drive, Ben—yeah!”

    “Gotta move with the times. Even them Abos up Cape York, they had transport. Of sorts. Mighta been a four-wheel-drive, once.”

    “All right, don’t lay it on with a trowel,” she said mildly.

    Ben grinned. He squeezed her knee hard. “Well, wanna stay on?”

    “I’d like to, but I can’t afford the fare home,” said Harriet frankly.

    He scratched his chin. “Mm. Well, Steve’s offered to cough up for that. –Before you do yer nut,” he warned as she took a deep breath, “I’ll drive you down to Brizzie. Dare say there’s a bus you can— Hang on, do ya get sick in buses as well as boats?”

    “Yes,” said Harriet in a small voice. “And cars, on bendy roads. I’m usually okay if I go in the front with the air-con on. Or the window open.”

    “It’d be the window open in my heap, that’s for sure. How about bumpy roads?”

    “Mm, awfully; I was sick all over the back seat in Mum and Dad’s car once, when I was little, and Mum swore she’d never take me on holiday again.’

    “And did she?”

    “No; she was like that,” said Harriet with a sigh.

    “Yeah.” –Okay, taking her walkabout in the great Aussie Outback in his uncomfortable heap was out, that was for sure. If he’d been intending to make the offer. Which Ben didn’t think he had been, really. She was okay, not a fusser, but in his considerable experience women were hopeless once you were out of reach of a clean bog—went to pieces. Well, not the ultra-sporty, outdoorsy types, that were convinced they could do anything a bloke could—no. Unluckily for him he couldn’t stand them, any more than he could the ultra-genteel, ladylike types.

    “Um, I suppose if Steve and Trisha helped me with the air fare I could pay them back, once I find a job,” ventured Harriet cautiously.

    “Eh? Yeah, ’course ya could! Righto, that’s settled, then. Uh—there is just one more thing,” he added cautiously.

    “Mm?”

    Ben had been about to clarify the exact position between him and the “nice lady at the pub”. He found he’d lost his nerve. “Uh—never mind. Well, lay so much as a finger on me boat and I’ll kill ya, but—“

    “I already know that,” replied Harriet, trying not to laugh.

    “Good-oh. Better give us a kiss, see if I’ll have to perform before I take off for the bush, eh?”

    “Nobody’s forcing you,” replied Harriet faintly, once more turning very red.

    “Not bloody half!” Ben put a hand under her chin and kissed her gently. Then he really kissed her. Then he sort of pushed her back and sort of rolled on top of her—

    “Cripes! Better stop, or one of the kids’ll be bound to interrupt us!” he gasped, sitting up.

    “Yes,” agreed Harriet faintly.

    Ben looked down at her very flushed and painting form, and smiled. “Boy, you’re soft all over, anyone ever toleja that?” he murmured.

    “One or two,” replied with Harriet with dignity, sitting up and attempting to straighten her rumpled blouse.

    “Yeah, I bet. Why the fuck aren’t you married or at least divorced—at least three times?”

    “Why aren’t you?” retorted Harriet crossly.

    “The reason that blouse won’t do up is that I undone that redundant bra you’re misguidedly wearing and them pair are lower in their natural state than what the 21st-century blouse designer allows for,” he replied conversationally. “I’m not married or divorced three times because I can’t stand domesticity, I can’t stand suburban life, I’m not interested in bloody consumables, and I’m not interested in having me life run by a woman who’s so possessed by the nesting instinct she can’t stop to think.”

    “It’s not their fault, it’s their hormones,” replied Harriet detachedly.

    “The coasters under the drinks and the matched towel sets with them fluffy mats on the bloody bog cover are hormonal, too, are they?” he retorted acidly.

    “I think they must be!” she gasped, struggling with the bra.

    “Take the fucking thing off,” he drawled.

    “No! Trisha and he kids’d be embarrassed!” she gasped.

    Ben sighed. “Cummere, turn round. Take a deep breath and then let it right out. ...There!” he gasped. “Jesus, you women are barmy! The thing must be strangling you!”

    “Socially brainwashed,” replied Harriet unemotionally.

    “You’re telling me! Go on, why haven’t you ever been married?”

    “Because I’m not socially brainwashed to the right extent, and they can sniff it, apparently. That’s their hormones. ’Cos that’s what most of them want, at heart.”

    “Flaming coasters under the beer cans—if they let you drink it from the can in the first place, highly improbable—and lovely fluffy mats on the bog—oh, and round its foot, too, that’s really barmy—in tasteful shades of peach or lemon?” he croaked. “You’re kidding!”

    “No.—Didn’t lemon go out in the Fifties? I’ve never seen an ensuite with lemon fluffy things.—Not quite that, but having their life run by a woman: definitely. And they may come out with the obligatory macho grumbles to the peer group about the fluffy mats and the other thingos, like what you said, but they want a comfortable suburban lifestyle, you betcha.”

    “You’re right. God help us if they do drop the bomb, because that mob, what’ll be left of them, are never gonna hack getting out in the bush and killing something for their womenfolk and kids to eat, never mind killing the odd other bloke that’s after their womenfolk.”

    “No, but so far the odds are against the bomb being dropped, you’re still living in the Fifties with the lemon thingos!” squeaked Harriet, suddenly dissolving in giggles. “Fallout—shelters—in the back yard!” she gasped, wiping her eyes. “Actually,” she said, smiling at him, “it’d work out okay, Ben, because natural selection’d ensure that only the macho ones that were capable of going out and killing things survived and carried on the race.”

    “If there were enough of them—yeah. Well, yeah, I suppose that’s something.”

    “Not really, because it’s their genes that invented wars and the stupid atomic bomb in the first place,” replied Harriet placidly.

    He gulped. “Yeah.” He lay back on the warm grass, sighing. “I do like your mind, Harriet. Just as well I never met you twenty years back or I might’ve been tempted to offer you suburban domesticity, complete with the lemon fluff.”

    “And the coasters—right. Twenty years back I’d’ve been stupid enough to accept, too,” she said thoughtfully, staring out to sea.

    Ben Rivers was very tempted to say “And not now?” He didn’t, though. Those twenty years had taught him a few things.

    “Jesus, they’ve actually gone!” he said, sagging against the verandah post, as Steve’s ageing vehicle roared down the drive and disappeared.

    “If they haven’t forgotten something,” replied Harriet cautiously.

    Ben smiled a little. “I can almost guarantee that unless it’s something very, very valuable, like his wallet, Steve won’t let her come back for it.”

    Harriet swallowed. “Um, no.”

    “Come inside and get it over with!” he said with a laugh.

    She swallowed again. “I am very nervous, actually.”

    “Yeah,” he agreed mildly. “You’d better have a piss first, then.”

    “Um, thanks!” she gasped, disappearing.

    Ben ambled slowly into the main bedroom, grinning. He chucked his clothes and got into bed, no point in hanging about, was there?

    “Are we in here?” said Harriet nervously from the doorway.

    “Looks like it. –She’s changed the sheets,” he assured her sweetly.

    Harriet glared. “Of course she has, any decent person would, houseproud suburbanite or not, and you can drop that entirely!”

    “All right, I’ve dropped it,” he said meekly, “and can you please take that clobber off and get in here, ’cos it's killing me, frankly.”

    Harriet hesitated.

    “What?” said Ben mildly.

    “Um, you are gonna use a condom, are you?” she gulped, turning scarlet.

    “No, I’m gonna get you up the spout and keep you chained barefoot to me kitchen sink forever and a— YES! They’re in the bloody bedside cabinet, will you for Pete’s sake get into his here bed!” he cried.

    “You’d think it was important, too, if you were the one that might get pregnant. It isn’t my fault, you know: it’s only an accident of biology,” replied Harriet grimly.

    He sighed. “Yeah. Sorry. Think I’m a bit nervous, too, ’smatter of fact.”

    “You?” said Harriet in amazement, casing to unbutton her blouse and staring at him.

    “Mm. –Look, I gotta ask this or go barmy. It’s not that I’m that particular about what a woman wears, but— Where the Hell did you get that abortion of a blouse, and why?”

    “This thing? It’s one of Mum’s. I’m recycling it. It used to have a collar and a sort of bow thing, all in one; I took them off.”

    “Good on ya. And kindly do me the immense of favour of taking the whole thing off and never wearing it again,” he begged.

    Obligingly she took the blouse off, though noting detachedly: “Some people like giant brown daisies.”

    “With magenta leaves on a khaki background, yeah, only I’m not one of them. You can take that flamin’ bra off and leave it off for the fortnight, ta.”

    “Righto.” Harriet struggled with the hooks, very flushed.

    “That view’s real good,” he admitted, “but if you come over here I’ll improve it no end.”

    “Okay, but for Heaven’s sake don’t bust the hooks, I’ve only got two bras, they cost the earth.”

    “Uh—maybe it’s different in New South Wales, but I’m almost sure—sit on the edge of the bed, I can’t reach you there!—and I don’t bite, well, only at appropriate moments,” he admitted, as she sat down with her back turned. “—I’m almost sure I’ve seen a ruddy TV ad for some sort of cheap, uh, bra warehouse? Or was it only in my wildest dreams?”

    “It must have been, you haven’t got a TV.”

    “No, woulda been down the pub: it isn’t permanently jammed on the footy, appearances to the contrary.”

    “I see: the macho men of Big Rock Bay watch the bra ads in between the footy!” said Harriet with a breathless laugh as he unhooked the bra.

    “Whaddelse? Though they’re much nicer in person,” he assured her, hauling the thing off and hurling it— “Fuck! The bloody thing hardly weighs a thing!” he said with a feeble laugh as it landed on the end of the bed.

    “No. Weight for weight they’re probably one of the dearest commodities in the world,” she said thoughtfully.

    “Mm,” he agreed vaguely, getting a good handful of each. “Oh, boy! Definitely better in the flesh! Um, yeah, why not buy them cheap at these bra warehouse places?”

    “They never have them in my size, I’m too big,” replied Harriet on a glum note.

    “You’re just the right size for me!” Ben assured her. “Cummere, lean back on me— Boy, that’s not half bad!” he panted, nuzzling her neck. She gave a squeak and he released one boob and slipped that hand down into the panties...

    “Ooh!” gasped Harriet.

    “Yeah: good, eh?” said Ben into her ear. “Hey, if I give you one like this,” he murmured, “can I turn you over and fuck like a crazed rabbit?’

    “Um, yes. Um, you could do that anyway,” said Harriet, as her ears went very, very red.

    “Mm-mm,” he agreed, nibbling at one of the said ears. He put his tongue it in it and she squirmed and gasped. “No, thing is,” he admitted—she was lying on his old man, it wasn’t half bad, except that some cretin hadn't managed to get the sheet out of the way before he pulled her on top of it—“I’ve been wanting you like crazy ever since I laid eyes on you, and what with the holding back and not having it for quite a while anyway, because, um well, not wanting to give a certain dame the wrong impression, really—um, I might just go bang if I try fucking you.” He swallowed hard. “So to speak,” he ended on a lame note.

    “I see. I thought older men had more control?” said Harriet feebly. That had always been Sean Nesbitt’s line, anyway.

    “Have a heart! Not the first time, love!”

    “Oh,” said Harriet very, very weakly. It was really nice being called “love” like that, sort of casually, by Ben Rivers. Not that she— Well, clearly he wasn’t into permanent things, and she didn’t want a permanent thing with him, really, though if he’d suggested it she wouldn’t have refused, she’d already recognised that, dumb though it would’ve been. “Well, um, whatever you like, really, Ben.”

    Crikey! “Well, yeah, I do like,” he said limply—fairly limply. Well, his voice was limp. Which reminded him— He began stealthily edging the sheet out from under her bum...

    “What are you doing?” said Harriet numbly.

    Ben gave in. “Trying to get the sheet out from under you that some tit forgot would prevent contact between his naked old man and your nice squashy bum, that's what!”

    “Oh. I’ve still got my underpants on, though,” she said feebly.

    “That woulda been stage two. If you just raise your bum a bit— Ah-hah! Gotcha, ya bugger!” He peeled the sheet back and pressed the naked piece of meat to her... “Jesus, this is good!” he said in a shaken voice.

    “Mm. It feels very—very nice,” agreed Harriet. “Sort of cosy, really. Well, intimate.”

    “Mm-mmm,” he agreed into her neck. He licked her neck and cheek a bit—mind you, his hand was still in her panties—and after a bit she yelped: “OH! Oh, Ben; oh, Ben!”

    “Yeah,” said Ben softly. “Lemme get these flaming things right off you, love. –No, stay where you are, I’ll manage!” Surprisingly enough he did manage. Oh, boy!

    “Hey, listen,” he said after a certain heart-thudding period had passed—largely in holding back, on his part, to be strictly accurate—“if you raise your bum a bit and I edge down and sorta—well, I could sort of stick him between your thighs, geddit?”

    “Mm,” said Harriet in strangled tones.

    Grinning, Ben wriggled a bit and— Blast! Finally he got his hand under her and forcibly positioned his old man. “Jesus, I can feel your wet!” he gasped.

    “Yes,” said Harriet faintly. “Can you? Um, yes.”

    Ben grimaced, biting his lip. “Look, sweetie, for Pete’s sake have a come or I might explode!”

    “Um, aren’t I too heavy for you like this, though?”

    “Eh? No! Just about right.” He experimented a bit, jigging her gently— Shit! “Look, you better get off me, sweetie, it's too bloody exciting—I mean, you’re wet as Hell down there, and I— That’s right, lie on your back and I’ll kiss you a bit. Might do you down there with me tongue, all right?”

    “Mm,” agreed Harriet, very pink indeed.

    Ben smiled a bit. “I see: like that, do you?” He put his mouth gently on hers before she could reply. Oh boy! “Can you just hold me old man— Jesus!” he shouted. “No, stop—Jesus!” he gasped.

    Harriet stopped obediently. “Wasn’t that all right?”

    “Too all right, thought I was gonna come!” he panted. “Come on, I’ll just—” He got down there between acres of pale thighs and—

    “OH!” shrieked Harriet. “Oh, Ben, oh, Ben! Oh, Ben!” she gasped. Then she really yelled.

    Ben had had screamers in his time, true, but somehow or other he felt himself go red as a beet with pure excitement. He sat up, grabbed a condom from the drawer, wrenched furiously at the bloody packet with his teeth—she was still coming, so he kindly helped her a bit with a finger—hauled the thing on at last and shoved his old man up her with no finesse whatso—JESUS! She was still coming, all right! He might’ve given her two or three strokes, he was past counting, before he let go with a mighty roar.

    ... “Oh, boy,” he said, several aeons later.

    “Yes!” admitted Harriet with a shaken laugh.

    “One of us bloody well needed that,” Ben admitted.

    “Two,” she murmured.

    “Mm. –You always liked the old sixty-nine?”

    Harriet reddened and replied defensively: “I think so. I’m not the only woman that does, if you read—”

    “Masters and Johnson, yeah,” he said, taking her hand and squeezing it tightly. “Not criticising, just checking. Put it like this, you’re welcome any time, okay?”

    “Um, yes. Thanks. –I was gonna say The Hite Report.”

    “Well, yes, the bowdlerized version for the semi-lit— Shit! Sorry, Harriet.”

    “That’s okay. It was pretty well a standard text in the public library when I was in my twenties.”

    Ben did dazed arithmetic. “Uh—yeah. Woulda been. I remember the fuss when it first came out. None of them had read Masters and Johnson, ya see.”

    “No, of course not. It was only available to the intelligentsia.”

    He squeezed her hand again, more gently this time, and sighed. “That was bonzer... Might manage to go a proper round next time. Show ya what I’m made of, eh?”

    Harriet smiled slowly. “Hah, hah.”

    Ben grinned. “Mm.” He kissed her gently and nuzzled into her silky shoulder...

    “Bloody Hell, did I drop off?” he croaked, sitting up dazedly.

    “That’s all right. There’s a lizard on the ceiling,” replied Harriet dreamily.

    “Mm? Aw, yeah—a gecko.”

    “Will it drop on us?”

    “Nah, it’s only jagulars that drop on you from a great height. –No, it’s got suction pads on its feet. That’s why they’re so big. –Proportionately!” he said with a smothered laugh as she stared hard at the gecko.

    “I see... Isn’t Nature wonderful?” she said dreamily.

    “Too bloody right!” agreed Ben fervently. He squeezed her breasts gently, since they were there. “Fancy a drink, love? Beer? Glass of white wine? Fruit juice? Anything, really. The moon?”

    Harriet smiled at him. “I’m not into dispatching heroes to fetch me the moon. Um, well, actually I feel like something fizzy, if there is anything.”

    Ben rubbed his chin. “There’s a bottle of champagne that I was hiding from Steve, but it won’t be properly chilled.”

    “I never saw any champagne.”

    “No, it’s in the cellar.”

    “What cellar?” replied Harriet, very puzzled.

    He winked. “I never told you, all right?”

    “Um, yes. Oh! You mean don’t tell Steve?”

    “Too right. It’s under the shed.”

    Harriet stared at him. “But he kept going out there! How did he miss it?”

    He coughed. “It’s slightly disguised, see? When ya go in there’s a pile of old junk to your left—”

    “And your right, and in front of you,” noted Harriet mildly.

    “Yeah, but this isn’t actually a pile of old useful junk, it’s a pile of useless old junk, glued together—Liquid Nails, with a minor bit of welding thrown in—and all you gotta do is heave on that old pram handle and she swings up and there you are! Nice little trapdoor! Solid concrete down there, but proper air vents, the fake junk doesn’t block ’em—”

    “You’re paranoid,” stated Harriet flatly.

    “No, I’m not, I’m just fond of a good drop that none of my bloody nephews have got the palate to appreciate. Them or that mob of Abos from up the coast that make a bloody good fist of pretending to believe that what’s mine is theirs in the good old traditional way, never mind that they’re all living in nuclear families with one car per bloke that none of them’d give to their so-called skin brothers to stop them walking their feet down to the ankles!”

    “I thought you were more liberated,” said Harriet faintly.

    “I am, if ya mean non-racist, but I’m a realist as well. They’re a pack of cunning bludgers that can work on the do-gooders’ Leftie consciences like nobody’s biz. They can drink beer or Bundy same as the rest of the country, and like it!”

    She smiled slowly. “Your beer and Bundy, this’d be, would it?”

    “Well, when they drop in on me, yeah,” replied Ben on a defensive note.

    “Mm. Is there any soda water?”

    “Don’t think so. There might be some Coke left, if the kids didn’t get down on it all. Well, Bundy and Coke, with lots of ice?”

    “Yes, lovely. Not too much Bundy, though, thanks,” said Harriet, smiling up at him.

    Ben bent down and nuzzled those tits, since they were there. “Mmf,” he said in muffled tones. “Good.” He sat up, rather flushed. “Sure I can’t get you the moon while I’m at it?”

    “Quite sure, thanks. Um, do they come down often?” asked Harriet in a small voice as he got out of bed.”

    “Eh? No, I just said, they won’t drop on you at all, they’re not jagulars.”

    “Not the geckos: the—the Aborigines,” she faltered.

    “At least you didn’t say ‘the Aboriginal community’ or some such benighted euphemism.” He looked at her distressed face. “No, sorry, love. They live a fair way up the coast, and they only come down here about once every six months, if that, and it’ll just be a few blokes, and if they see a lady round the joint they’ll sheer off. Well, they might ask you if I’m around, but all you gotta say is I’ve gone walkabout—” He broke off. “All right, Harriet,” he said gently, “if you don’t feel you can say it to them—they’d accept it as perfectly natural, ya know—just say I’ve gone bush for a bit, and they’ll sling their hooks.”

    “Mm. Okay. I’ve never met a—a country Aborigine,” she faltered.

    “No, you wouldn’t of. They’re good mates of mine, there’s no need to be scared of them.”

    “No,” agreed Harriet in a small voice.

    “In any case, they were down about three months back: don’t think we’ll see them again for a bit. I’ll get those drinks.” He went out, looking cheerful.

    Harriet sank back onto the pillows. Oh, dear. It was a different lifestyle, all right.

    The rest of that day and the next were good—really good. He didn’t seem to expect her to do anything, in fact he capably made all the meals himself—well, they were pretty casual meals, even more so than when the others had been here, but he didn’t ask her to make them, just as well, because she was terrified of his primitive barbie and his ruddy camping-gas burner that Jimbo had thought was the cat’s whiskers, and she’d already discovered she couldn’t work his old electric stove very well. And he only laughed when she discovered guiltily—on the second day, when they were actually up—that they’d forgotten to make the bed.

    The following day was a bit different. When she woke up he wasn’t there. At first she thought he might just have pottered out into the garden or gone for a swim, but when she went cautiously into the kitchen there was a note on the table that said “Gone fishing”. Oh, dear. How long did a fishing trip take and—and should she have breakfast without him, or wait? He’d taken Steve and the kids out fishing in his little tinnie a couple of times but after Trisha had told him off for taking Jimbo with him one time without letting her know, he’d stopped. Um, would he have taken the little boat this time, though, or did he only mean he was surfcasting? Him and Steve had done that a couple of times but then Trisha had gone along to watch and put the kybosh on it: she’d said it was terribly dangerous and you heard reports on the news all the time of people being drowned surfcasting. Steve had pointed out that you heard reports of cretins being drowned, yeah, and Ben wasn’t dead yet, but she’d burst into tears, so— Yeah. It hadn’t stopped Ben, though: at least, he hadn’t said anything, but he’d disappeared several mornings and resurfaced with some big fish for lunch and his big rod, so it couldn’t have.

    Um, well... She could have a shower and then maybe if he hadn’t turned up just a mug of tea—he did have some real coffee and a coffee-pot, one of those Italian ones, but no instant coffee, and there was no way she was gonna risk making coffee in his pot on his stove or, worse, on the horrible camping-gas thingo, like he did. Um, yes. Harriet went off and had a shower and got into some clean knickers, a pair of shorts and a clean blouse. It was one of Mum’s but not the one he hated: this one was big blue daisies, well, splodges, sort of flower-shaped, and purple leaves on a sicky cream background dotted with more of the purple. She’d excised both its collar and its sleeves, it was a nice cool blouse to wear, but she did have a sort of feeling, looking down dubiously at the way it strained over her bra-less breasts, that he’d hate it as well. But she was a bit short of tops, you sweated awfully in this climate, and it was no use kidding yourself you could wear the same thing two days running—in fact Trisha and Kyla had both changed their tops at least once during the day. It looked awful without a bra, too, but she didn’t dare to put one on in the face of his prohibition. Besides, the less you sweated into them the longer they lasted. Harriet went into the kitchen, boiled the electric jug and made herself a mug of tea. He did have teabags, he’d emerged from the 19th century to that extent.

    By nine-thirty there was still no sign of Ben and she was starving. We-ell... If he turned up while she was having her breakfast she could always make some more for him. Um, was there any bread? Cautiously she investigated the cupboards. Help, only a few slices left. And come to think of it, it was a loaf that Trisha had bought; did he ever buy sliced bread? Because those two loaves he’d had when they got here were both unsliced white. Jimbo had remarked on them admiringly, the kid had never seen unsliced white before in his life... Politely Harriet took half the bread. He didn’t have a toaster, and there was no way she was gonna either use the ancient stove’s electric grill, though mind you they were less scary than the gas ones, or use the flaming camping-gas thingo like he did, with the bread balanced on a fork. Funnily enough only Jimbo had expressed admiration of this feat: Kyla had said “Ugh!” and backed off, Trisha had also backed off, into the bargain ordering Jimbo to stand back and not to try doing that by himself, and Steve had asked his uncle why the Hell he didn't buy a cheap electric toaster like the rest of the country, the answer being “Don’t need one.” There was butter, but no marg: Trisha had bought some but she’d taken it with her, since Ben had said cheerfully that he didn’t want that muck. Harriet thought guiltily of the huge pile of chips she’d eaten last night, with the fish fried in batter into the bargain—homemade, he’d whipped it up himself, it had been delicious, but— She put some Vegemite on the dry bread and sat down at the old kitchen table, trying not to wonder how on earth she’d get home if he’d gone and drowned himself surfcasting.

    By twelve-thirty she was almost sure he had gone and drowned himself, but she didn’t have a clue where to start looking for him. There were several spots he did it from, depending on the tides or the wind or something... He had plenty of books she could have read but she was too worried to settle. Eventually it dawned that if he had taken the aluminium dinghy out it wouldn’t be down there at its spot, would it? So she went down to the beach.

    Phew! It wasn’t there, so he couldn’t be surfcasting after all! Harriet was so relieved she just flopped down and sat for ages and ages...

    When she got back it was already gone three, help! She felt quite hungry, so she looked hopefully into the fridge and the cupboards. Oh, dear. It was a choice between eating up the last of the bread or opening a tin of the baked beans which Trisha had forbidden Jimbo sternly to touch: they were full of salt and sugar and dye. And if the dye didn’t send him silly the preservatives would, and LEAVE THEM ALONE! –Like that. Ben had noted mildly that they were his emergency rations, he hardly ever ate them himself, so Jimbo had subsided. Looking back, it could well have been a lie: Harriet had now realised that he came on extra-mild either when he was being very kind and genuine, or when he was telling a thumping great lie. Or sometimes when he merely wanted to have a go—it could be quite confusing, really. Dubiously she picked up a can of baked beans. Oh, heck, they were the sort without a tear-tab and his tin-opener was a manual thing that dated from the Ark, no way could she manage to work it! She’d failed before, first on a tin of artichokes that Trisha had found on special at the supermarket in the nearest town—Ben had picked it up, raised his eyebrows and drawled: “Why?”, that hadn’t gone down too well—and next on a tin of apricot nectar that Trisha had bought in order to make a special jellied pudding. It hadn’t worked, she’d forgotten that the special pudding needed a lot of whipping with an electric beater and guess what Ben didn’t have? Yeah. It hadn’t gone down too well. So Kyla had decided that she and Mum and Aunty Harrie could have a lassee each, they had some plain yoghurt. Kyla and Trisha had also failed with the tin-opener, but Ben had worked it without apparent effort. Probably the same as he opened these ruddy beans!

    Harriet had a go, but it was hopeless. She didn’t even manage to dent the thing. Oh, help. Bread or not, then. No, hang on! The mango trees were dripping with the things, it was a bumper year! Um, there was the thought that too much mango gave her the runs and she’d had a whole one yesterday... Um, no. Harriet looked sadly at the bread. What was the betting that if she gave in and ate it he’d come back and wonder what had happened to it?

    She sighed, made herself another mug of tea, noticing glumly that there was almost no milk left and deciding to leave it for him, and wandered into the lounge-room to choose a book. The walls were lined with bookshelves. ...Help! Loads of history and heavy-looking biographies without coloured jackets, and a lot of technical stuff, engineering or maths or something, and shelves of philosophy—Harriet gulped. No nice novels at all. Well, there were quite a lot of novels, but nothing that she thought she could get through. Whole sets of nicely bound 18th-century English novelists, ugh! Could you get more long-winded than them? Er, yes, you possibly could, he also had sets of Flaubert and Balzac, in the original French, cripes, and a lot of German stuff, worse. Quite a few Australian novels of the turgid and heavily meaningful sort, yuck! It had been bad enough having to pretend she took that muck seriously in her professional life, she wasn’t gonna volunteer to read it! Tom Kenneally, um, well... Schindler’s Ark was good, true. Goodish: privately Harriet didn’t rate it as great literature, it was a grossly sentimental theme, wasn’t it? Almost bound not to fail, really. Went straight to the post-War liberal consciences of the trendy lefties, kind of thing... Cripes, loads of turgid and heavily meaningful American novelists as well! Faulkner? Harriet had once tried him. She shuddered, and moved on. About the only things that she both recognised and could stand were the Dickenses. Oddly enough not a full set bound in leather. What looked like part of a set, half-bound in leather, and the rest were fat dog-eared paperbacks. Well, yeah, Dickens was a good read but, let’s face it, pretty heavy going, especially in the streaming humidity of Queensland in December! Sighing, she chose The Pickwick Papers, as being both funny and composed of short episodes, and took it out to the front verandah. The sun wasn’t on it, so it was relatively cool. Relatively.

    She’d forgotten how laboured Dickens could be, of course. Too much exposure to those colourful BBC efforts on the box. Er, well, no: too much to those earlier colourful BBC efforts—that David Copperfield had been really good—but no-one could have called the latest offerings colourful in their wildest dreams. Well, you call a work Bleak House, you’re almost asking the TV adapters to do something silly with it, eh? And the way they’d galloped through it—! Mrs Williamson from next-door had come over to watch it with her at first, reporting that he wanted to watch something silly on one of the other channels, but had given it up, complaining that she couldn’t follow it at all. Harriet had carefully explained the plot but she still couldn’t follow it.

    When Ben got back it was almost dark and she was sitting there crying into the book, convinced he’d overturned the boat and drowned.

    “What in Hell are you bawling over, there?” He took it off her lap. “Pickwick Papers? Are you nuts? It’s the lightest thing he ever wrote!”

    “No,” said Harriet, sniffing, and wiping the back of her hand across her eyes. “Not that. I thought you’d drowned.”

    “You were wrong, then,” he said cheerfully. “Haven’t drowned meself yet, have I? What the Hell made you imagine today was gonna be the day?”

    Another tear ran down Harriet’s cheek. “Nothing. It was silly,” she said faintly.

    “It was that, all right! And kindly don’t bawl over my books, they do badly enough in this bloody humidity as it is, they don’t need to get even damper!” he said with a laugh. “I got some decent fish, thought we could have fish for tea, for a change!”

    “Hah, hah,” said Harriet wanly. “There’s nothing to go with it.”

    “There’s a few bottles of decent Riesling down in the cellar, that’ll go down well.”

    “Mm,” said Harriet, sniffing. “No vegetables or anything, though.”

    Ben scratched his chin. “There’s a row of lettuces, and another of eggplants and capsicums, unless the local possums have suddenly developed a taste for ’em, and I don’t think Steve and Jimbo managed to get through that sack of spuds, did they?”

    Harriet looked at him in dull surprise. “What sack of spuds?”

    “In the shed. Sitting on that table with the strange metal ‘leggings’ that you remarked on. Just in case the local rats develop a taste for spuds. And if you fancy something a bit more up-market there’s jars and jars of preserved capsicums and eggplants, Italian-style, in the cellar, ’cos I had a bumper crop a while back and decided not to waste— What in Christ’s the matter?” he said numbly as Harriet burst into tears.

    “All—those—veggies!” she sobbed.

    “Eh?” said Ben feebly. “It’s nothing to bawl over.”

    “I couldn’t find anything!” she sobbed.

    “Eh? You only hadda look.”

    “Mm. I didn’t know where.” She snuffled. “Have you got a hanky?”

    “No. You better go inside. And if you aren’t gonna read that book, put it back where you got it from, would you?”

    Harriet got up, sighing. “That’s the obsessive, anal side of your personality coming out, isn’t it? Steve was right all along.”

    “Steve? If he ever said any such thing I’ll eat my hat and Pickwick Papers as well!”

    “Not in so many words, but he did warn me you were obsessive. And very stubborn,” said Harriet wanly, going inside.

    Ben followed her slowly, scratching his head and grimacing.

    Having fed her on grilled fish and eggplants with mashed potatoes that he used the rest of the butter in, washed down with a bottle of the Riesling, he got her into bed, gave her a very nice come, had one himself and then managed to get the full story out of her without her bursting into tears again.

    “All right: setting aside the fact that there was stuff to eat, and the further fact that my note seemed quite clear to me, if you couldn’t see anything to eat why the Hell didn't you get on over to the supermarket and buy some stuff? Come to think of it, you could’ve had lunch over there, too, there’s a couple of coffee bars.”

    “But it’s miles!”

    “Not that far, but like I say, you coulda had lunch over there.”

    “No,” said Harriet in a small voice. “You don’t understand. I can’t drive.”

    “What?”

    “No, and I’ve had lessons and I can’t do it, and don’t go on about it!”

    “I wasn’t gonna,” he said weakly. “—Can’t drive? Okay, now I’ve heard everything. But there’s the pub, you coulda gone there, it’s only twenty minutes’ walk, even at your pace.”

    “I know, but I thought you might come back,” said Harriet in a small voice.

    Ben stared at her. “And?”

    “Well, um... I dunno.”

    “That makes two of us, then! Look, if I’m not here, just do your own thing, you’re not me bleeding chattel!”

    “Okay. But anyway, Laverne doesn’t do lunches during the week, does she?”

    “She’ll do you a sandwich or something any time you like to ask, ya nit! And she’s always got pies! The caravanners down the Big Rock Bay Motel seem to live on ham sandwiches and pies.”

    Harriet smiled weakly. “Probably because that’s all there is. Well, okay, I’ll remember that.”

    “Yeah. And try remembering that vegetables don’t grow in the ruddy fridge, too. And you’d better remind me to get a new tin-opener,” he added heavily.

    Harriet bit her lip. “Mm. An electric one. –I’ll pay for it!” she added quickly.

    “Don’t be bloody mad.”

    That seemed to be that. Harriet did feel a lot better, but— Well, he was a difficult man to live with, wasn’t he? Never mind he came over as so easy-going, at first.

    The next few days were much better: he didn’t disappear first thing again. They went shopping and he bought a lot of quite sensible stuff. Well, he wouldn't let her buy cornflakes, claiming they were over-processed muck, but he didn’t seem to mind when she chose some low-fat milk, and he didn’t say anything when she put a tub of marg into the trolley. He’d said something about making “spag bog” which Harriet had worked out must mean spaghetti Bolognese, but he didn’t buy any mince, he bought some chuck steak. Harriet didn’t say anything: perhaps he’d changed his mind. He hadn’t, though: when they got home he got out a hugely heavy old mincer—she could see he was sparing his strained arm, he lifted it with his left—and minced it up by hand.

    “What’s it made of?” she said dazedly as he took the thing apart to wash it.

    “Meat,” replied Ben cheerfully. “The supermarket beef mince is full of fat, and if it’s only labelled ‘mince’, look out, most of it’ll be sheepy hogget. The sauce ends up tasting of mutton fat—revolting. Not wasting a good slosh of my Shiraz on that!”

    “Mm, I see. Um, so what’s the mincer made of? It looks very heavy.”

    “A mincer oughta be. Cast iron.”

    Harriet was silenced. She picked up a tea-towel but he told her briskly to leave it to dry in the sun.

    “Isn’t there anything I could do?” she said as he chopped onion briskly with a horrible big cleaver.

    “Set the table?”

    Harriet set the table. He didn’t have any place mats or tablecloths, or serviettes, of course, so it took two minutes. “Um, could I do anything else?”

    “Siddown. Have a drink!”

    Meekly she sat down. She couldn’t have a drink: he hadn’t opened the bottle of wine and of course she couldn’t work his horrible manual corkscrew. –And very probably that was the last bottle of Shiraz in the whole of Australia that still had a cork instead of a screw top, yes! She gave it an evil look

    “Whassup? Don’t like Shiraz?” he said cheerfully.

    She jumped. “Um, no, I mean, yes, I do! Aren’t we gonna have it with the meal, though?”

    “Could start on it now, shove some in the sauce, see how we go, open another?”

    “Mm. Um, I can’t work your corkscrew.”

    “It’s just a corkscrew,” said Ben blankly.

    “Corks always break for me,” replied Harriet wanly.

    He shrugged. “Give it here.” Expertly he operated. The flaming cork came out clean as a whistle, of course. Strained arm or not. Harriet swallowed a sigh.

    The “spag bog” was superb—superb. Really rich-tasting, the best she’d ever eaten.

    “All right?” said Ben, grinning round a mouthful of it.

    “Yes, it’s wonderful,” said Harriet dazedly. “What on earth did you do to it?”

    He laughed. “Well, you were here!”

    Yeah. Redundantly, though. She had been wondering at some stage if he’d like her to make a frittata—he had a nice frying-pan, it wasn’t non-stick but he’d made omelettes in it a couple of times and they hadn’t stuck—but no way! Even if she didn’t ruin it, it was now quite clear that it wouldn’t turn out nearly as nice as anything he could toss up.

    As the level in the bottle of Shiraz sank she managed to ask: “Where are your cookery books?”

    “Mm? Aw—up there,” he said, jerking his head at the top row of cupboards on the wall opposite the bench. “Don’t use ’em any more. Just do me old favourites. Or use whatever’s to hand.”

    “Yes,” said Harriet heavily. “I see.”

    It must have been about three days after the superb spag bog that she woke up to find him getting into his jeans, instead of snuggling up suggestively.

    “I’m going fishing. I’m not gonna drown meself, I’m just getting out in the tinnie, okay?”

    “Mm.”

    “There’s plenty to eat, but why not go down the pub for lunch?”

    “Okay,” agreed Harriet meekly.

    Ben paused at the door. “I've had a cup of coffee: you want the rest?”

    Harriet was now awake enough to smell it: he’d made real coffee. “Um, yes, thanks. I’ll get it.”

    “You’ll have to: I don’t wanna miss the tide. See ya!” He rushed out.

    Harriet looked at her watch, and snuggled down again for forty winks... “Half-past seven?” she discerned dazedly, waking up again. But it was half-past seven before! Had her watch stopped? ...No. He had a bedside radio, surprisingly enough, so she put it on. It was half-past seven, all right. In that case she’d misread the watch before and it had been half-past six. Presumably the time when macho men had to catch the tide. She was now thoroughly awake, so she went to the loo and then went into the kitchen. The coffee was there, all right: sitting in the top part of his Italian pot, stone-cold. Stone-cold. Maybe it had been half-past five when he left! Now she had the choice of heating it up in a saucepan on one of the electric elements, or not. As her last effort at this had been disastrous—she’d turned the wrong element on and a pot with glue in it had got red-hot and Ben had told her she was a stupid hen and it was a miracle it hadn’t burst into flames—not explaining what a saucepanful of glue was doing on the stove, of course—discretion was definitely the better part of valour. Harriet poured the coffee carefully down the sink. “I’ll tell him it was delicious,” she said under her breath.

    She boiled the jug and made a mug of tea, not realising until too late that if she dropped the teabag in his compost bucket as ordered he’d see it there. But maybe she could bury it under the rest of the— Harriet looked hopefully in the cupboard under the sink but gee, he’d efficiently emptied the compost bucket at crack of dawn. She thought hard as she drank the tea. It wasn’t until she’d made herself a second mug, with the same teabag, and was spreading marg and Vegemite on the sliced bread she’d chosen that inspiration struck. Ah-hah! Harriet ate her breakfast happily and then went out into the garden, opened the sacred male shed, found a sacred trowel hanging on its appointed nail, all shiny and nice—he was anal, all right—and carefully buried the teabag in the middle of the compost heap. Not breathing as she did so, because, maniacal composters’ claims to the contrary, the stuff stank. Then she washed the towel carefully under the outside tap, dried it carefully on a rag she found in the shed—probably the wrong rag, probably only used for some sacred macho rite, but never mind—and put it carefully back on its nail. “There! Hah, hah!” she said gleefully.

    It did strike her as she returned to the house that this was an extreme version of “Parent and Child”, Mr Jung and his mates would’ve loved it, and she’d better stop, but too bad. If one person came on like the totally knowledgeable Parent—without meaning to, doubtless, but nevertheless—that didn’t leave much of an option for the other person, did it?

    She did go down to the pub at lunchtime—they’d popped down several times, now, and Laverne, the owner, was very nice, and besides, if she didn’t go, he’d probably ask if she had. Now that she had he wouldn’t ask, of course. Ugh, help, that noise from the bar could only be described as a roar of conviviality—most unusual at lunchtime, though on Saturday nights the place was usually full. Harriet went in very cautiously. There was a crowd here, all right. Tourists, judging by the clothes. She was hesitating, but Laverne spotted her and called loudly, waving: “Harriet! Over here, dear!” Muttering: “’Scuse me—sorry—’scuse me!” Harriet forced her way through the chattering crowd of tourists to the bar counter. “Hullo, Laverne,” she said weakly. Cripes, she had two girls helping her! There was usually one on Saturday nights: Kylie Wong, her family were farmers from the district, and her sister, Diana, worked at Big Rock Bay Motel, helping Isabelle Bell, the owner, with the reception and cleaning. Information which both Laverne and Kylie had imparted most readily, unasked.

    “How are you today, Harriet?” smiled Laverne.

    “Good, thanks, Laverne.” Harriet smiled at Kylie but couldn’t speak, the girl was snowed under. “You’ve got a crowd in today,” she ventured as Laverne rapidly served a lady tourist in a startling red tee-shirt adorned with a traditional Aboriginal dot design in black and lilac, not colours its traditional owners would ever have recognised. A turtle. There were eggs, too. Gee, she had the shorts to match: the sort you only ever saw on middle-aged tourists: baggy, almost knee-length, riding up horribly between the pudgy thighs. Lilac. Cripes.

    “Yes, they’re a special tour group from the motel. They’ve got a chartered coach. It’s a new company Isabelle’s trying out,” explained Laverne, not lowering her voice. “If they don’t suit, she won’t let them book again.”

    Was that how commerce worked? But as Harriet had now met the forceful Mrs Bell, she didn’t say anything: Isabelle was an attractive-looking woman, quite young, couldn’t be more than about thirty, but talk about determined! She ran both the motel and her large lump of a husband with a rod of iron.

    “I can do you a sandwich if you’re hungry, dear,” Laverne added, rapidly serving the male counterpart of the be-shorted lady—fawn baggy shorts, riding up horribly between the pudgy thighs, deep turquoise tee with offensively tan dots—“but you can’t sit out here, with this mob, you’d better come through.”

    Harriet had no idea what she meant: the big old pub had only the one large bar area, there was no lounge bar as such, though apparently there had been, way back in the place’s history. Um, did she mean the dining-room? She was raising the flap in her counter and smiling expectantly at her. Meekly Harriet went through.

    Help, no, she didn’t mean the dining-room, she took her into her own lounge-room! It had clearly been done up quite recently, it looked very modern—not as if it had anything to do with the low, sweeping lines of the old pub as seen from the outside. There was a smart little dinette area, with a hatch to the adjoining kitchen: she sat Harriet down there. And rapidly set a place for her. “I’ll just be through here, dear: I’ll make your sandwich mysel—Angelina!” she called sharply, sticking her head through the hatch. “Not all those pies at once, dear, the microwave won’t cope! Only four, and set it at defrost! And mind you heat them in the toastie oven before you serve them.” She turned back to Harriet and, not closing the hatch, said: “Girls these days! Honestly! Well, she’s willing, I’ll give her that.”

    “Mm. Angelina’s a pretty name,” replied Harriet desperately.

    “It’s really Angela, but she changed it, you know what girls are. That’s almost the last of the pies, I’ll have to put a double order in this week. I did say to Isabelle I could lay on a really nice selection of sandwiches, but she reckons the tour group people told them to ask for real Aussie meat pies.”

    “Who are they?” asked Harriet dazedly.

    “Toastmistresses. With their hubbies, it’s not one of their conventions.”

    “I see, but, um, Aussie ones?” she croaked.

    “Yes, they have quite big clubs, Harriet, dear,” she told her kindly.

    Cripes, did they? “Mm, I see. I’d’ve thought they’d be used to pies, then.”

    Laverne looked dry. “I don’t think they’re the sort that go to the footy, not even the hubbies. And they’re all townees, of course. No, this tour’s advertised as ‘Experience the real Aussie Outback.’”

    “Then the only surprising thing is, they’re not wearing fawn safari shirts and those huge lace-up desert boots!” replied Harriet with a sudden loud laugh.

    Laverne gave a delighted whinny. “You’re not wrong, there, Harriet, dear! Now, I can do you a nice ham and salad open sandwich, and how about a lemon, lime and bitters with it?”

    Though phrased as a question this was not one, of course, and Harriet meekly accepted the offer, also meekly accepting an offer to use Laverne’s own bathroom, as she—apparently—didn’t want to use the public one with that mob. Was it merely the numbers? wondered Harriet, obediently following Laverne’s directions and going down a tall, cavernous corridor that must be part of the pub’s original layout, surprisingly wallpapered in a toile de Jouy pattern, mauve on white. There could be nothing objectionable, hygiene-wise, about nice lady townee toastmistresses.

    She already knew that the public Ladies’ was very nicely done out in pink, in fact it had even received Trisha’s seal of approval, so of course she was expecting Laverne’s own bathroom to be pink, too, but it wasn’t. It was pale yellow and white. Harriet raised the fluffy-matted toilet lid slowly, feeling a very peculiar sensation of déjà vu, though she’d never been in here before in her life and in fact couldn’t remember ever using a pale yellow trimmed bathroom. Trisha’s friends all had horrid Year-2000-type stark white ones, one lady allowing a single long-stemmed turquoise glass vase to appear in hers, a striking effect, and another lady varying the effect with piles of cream towels, not white, and cream pyramids of guest soaps in cream fake alabaster bowls, and if entertaining more important guests than Harriet, a big vase of cream roses and carnations, very tasteful. It was really odd...

    She’d been, flushed it, remembering just in time to replace the fluffy-matted lid, since that was apparently what you did in nice ladies’ bathrooms, and was washing her hands, carefully not using the pile of lemon-shaped yellow guest soaps in the small white fake marble bowl because that would have ruined the effect, when it dawned. They weren’t pale yellow, they were lemon! Lemon fluffy thingos, just like Ben had gone on about! Could it possibly be a coincidence?

    Harriet stood there in front of Laverne’s stretch of gold-framed mirror, her heart hammering, no longer seeing her own reflection or Laverne’s round lemon handbasin or Laverne’s palest yellow laminate vanity top with the speckles of glitter in it. It must just be a coincidence. Or—or maybe she’d let him use it once and he’d subconsciously remembered— No. She was kidding herself. He’d remembered, all right, subconsciously or not, but he’d been in here a lot more than once! Laverne Collins wasn’t young, but she was younger than Ben, she had a nice figure, and there was no Mr Collins in the offing, never mind that load of fancy rings on her left hand.

    Harriet had never kidded herself that Ben had lived like a monk, but heck! The woman lived just down the road, he used the pub several times a week, he’d brought her down here several times; he might at least have told her! And—and how recent could it have been? Or—surely it couldn’t still be going on? But why was Laverne being so nice to her, in that case? As far as Harriet could tell she was quite genuine, ladies usually made it pretty clear if they were only being gracious. Well, um, maybe they’d broken it off and she didn’t bear him a grudge. What was the word? Um... Amicably. Yes, amicably. Maybe they’d broken it off amicably. Well, it was very clear that he’d never be able to hack Laverne’s lifestyle and she’d never be able to put up with his. ...Or maybe, thought Harriet bleakly, staring right through her own reflection, this was the usual pattern: he did anything that turned up on the side, but Laverne was his regular one, and she didn’t mind because she knew that they all moved on and Harriet would move on like the rest, and then he’d be back with her. Ugh. And she didn’t want anything more from him. Anything more like—like momentary fidelity, for example!

    After what seemed a very long time she tottered back and sat down in the dinette. Laverne didn’t seem to notice anything, she was through in the kitchen making her sandwich and giving loud orders to poor Angelina.

    “Just take your time, Harriet,” she said kindly, serving her with a large plate of ham and salad on a token slice of bread. Help, there were three kinds of lettuce, and some halved cherry tomatoes, and a couple of cubes of fetta, and even some pieces of tinned artichoke in the salad, it was really flash! “That’s Heinz salad cream, I sometimes have it myself, just for a treat. Well, it is fattening, but once can’t hurt, can it?”

    “Thank you. It looks wonderful. You shouldn’t have gone to so much trouble.”

    “It’s no trouble, dear!” she said with a kind laugh, mercifully going.

    Mechanically Harriet ate the lovely salad, reflecting numbly that in her shoes she’d have been tempted to put rat poison in the Heinz salad cream. –It was gorgeous, incidentally. She made a mental note to buy it—though it’d probably be twice as much as ordinary Praise mayonnaise...

    “All finished?” said Laverne brightly, bustling back. “Now, they’ll all be back on their bus in a few minutes, dear, so would you like to come through and have a proper drink? What about a hot lime and lemonade, like your sister likes?”

    “Um, no, thanks, Laverne. That was lovely; thank you. Um, I was wondering, have you—I suppose you’ve known Ben for ages, haven’t you?” she faltered miserably, feeling herself go very red.

    Laverne gave her a sharp look but only said: “Well, I’d say ever since I bought the pub, but that year he was away on one of his everlasting walkabouts, so-called—he takes off every so often, sometimes he does just go bush but I know for a fact he’s taken jobs all over the country, it’s not what I’d call walkabout!” She sniffed faintly. “It’d be over fifteen years now, I suppose.” She looked at her kindly. “He won’t change now, Harriet, he’s too set in his ways.”

    “No, I know,” croaked Harriet. “Anyway, he’s much too iconoclastic, isn’t he?” Blow, she shouldn’t have used that word, the woman was looking blank! “Um, you know, he consciously rejects all the—the social norms. I mean, I don’t subscribe to”—not the consumer ethic, no—“um, rampant consumerism, but you can go too far in the opposite direction, can’t you?”

    “Exactly. Personally I prefer to be comfortable, there’s no point in suffering unnecessarily; and you really need proper fans and air-con in our climate.”

    “Yes. The big fans in your bar are lovely.”

    Laverne looked smug. “Of course. People expect that, these days. It may only be a country pub, but we’re not that far behind the times! –Scott Bell was saying I oughta do out the Gents’ in one of those wallpapers with old newspaper cuttings—you know: the arrest of Ned Kelly and stuff. What do you think?”

    “Ned Kelly was never in Queensland, though, was he?” said Harriet dazedly. “Well, I always think they look totally ersatz—um, you know, very fake—but they’re fun at the same time.”

    “That’s exactly what I thought! Isabelle thinks it’d be too fake, but then, between us, the poor girl’s got no sense of humour, has she?”

    “No, I don’t think she has!” admitted Harriet, smiling suddenly. “I think it would be fun, Laverne.”

    “I’ll think about it. Might check online, you never know what you can pick up these days, and the end of a roll’d be enough: I’d just do one wall.”

    “Mm. Um, and I know what! Has it got all Formica walls now, like the Ladies’?”

    “Well, yes, hygiene, you know, and men can be pigs,” said Laverne detachedly.

    “Um, yes, I mean, not that! I mean, maybe you could do another wall, um, a side wall,” she explained, blushing, “in sort of fake raw wooden boards. I’ve seen that in a magazine.”

    Laverne looked dubious. “A laminate, was it, dear? Or a wallpaper?”

    Harriet bit her lip. “I can’t remember.”

    “Never mind, I’ll look it up on the Internet!” she decided. “I’d put a brass lamp in there, you can get very nice reproduction ones these days, only there’s always the chance that it’d get nicked—not the locals, of course, but you never know who they’ll get in at the camping ground. Well, Isabelle tries to be particular, but these days it's often an online booking, and you can’t tell, can you?”

    No, presumably brass-lamp-nicking yobbos had credit, the same as the rest of Australia. Harriet agreed you couldn’t tell, and let Laverne usher her through to the bar. The tourists were flooding out: she let herself be swept out with them.

    She didn’t say anything to Ben: what was the point? But two days later, when Isabelle Bell rang and invited her warmly to lunch at Big Rock Bay Motel, arranging firmly to collect her and drive her back, she accepted, without consulting Ben, and went. He looked pretty disconcerted, actually, but serve him right!

    And they duly settled down in Isabelle’s pleasant dinette to a nice ladies’ lunch of quiche and salad. The amiable Scott Bell had been banished firmly to the motel office—he’d gone, with a wink at Harriet and the remark that real men didn’t eat quiche, though his spouse had noted acidly that that leftover cold sausage on his plate wasn’t going to do his colon any good—and so there was just Isabelle, Harriet, and Isabelle’s tiny Lily Rose, named after the film star who’d been in the film the overseas production company had made at Big Rock Bay, but she wasn’t just a film star, she was actually Isabelle’s oldest friend Dot’s cousin... Harriet didn’t listen very much, she ate her lovely lunch and smiled a lot at Lily Rose, who was adorable, with tiny ruffled black curls, rather like her mother’s, except that Isabelle’s weren’t ruffled, and a wide, beaming smile that was a miniature version of her father’s. And a complexion, never mind the Queensland climate, like a palest pink rose. The name suited her.

    “This is a new slice recipe,” said Isabelle on a guilty note, getting it out of the fridge. “Well, I thought, just for once! And it has got rolled oats in the crust.”

    Mm. It’d also have a great deal of sweetened condensed milk somewhere about it, or she, Harriet Harrison, had never suffered through Trisha’s step-by-step lesson on how to make a slice, everybody could, Harrie, you’re not listening! She now listened obediently while Isabelle told her exactly what amount of whipping the thing required—the filling was fluffy, true. Fluffy and very, very sweet. And guess what it had in it? Well, yes, cream cheese, but— No! Unsweetened condensed milk, and honey! Isabelle had been very tempted to make a different recipe, with a green marshmallow topping, she’d got it off her friend Dot’s Aunty Allyson, but green food dye was a no-no for Lily Rose. Well, no, she wasn’t allergic, but there was no sense in taking risks, was there? Lily Rose, who was three, was allowed a very small helping. Harriet watched anxiously, afraid she’d choke on the rolled oats, but no, they vanished with the rest, and she beamed and demanded: “More!”

    Harriet would have bet her last cent on what came next and gee, she wouldn’t have lost it. Because Isabelle corrected this firmly to: “More, please, Mummy,” and when the poor little cherub fluted it hopefully, replied firmly: “No, Lily Rose, no more. One helping’s enough.” And into the bargain firmly put the slice back into the fridge. Harriet was rather surprised that Lily Rose didn’t bawl—but on second thoughts, she must be used to this sort of thing.

    The dishes then went firmly into Isabelle’s big commercial dishwasher—they used it for the motel breakfasts and of course it had been invaluable the year they put on lunch and tea for the film people—and Lily Rose was allowed to sit in front of the TV—some frightful ABC kiddies’ programme, ultimately patronising, turned very low—while Isabelle and Harriet sat down for a nice chat.

    It wasn’t until Lily Rose was down for her afternoon nap and Isabelle and Harriet had wandered outside—with plenty of Isabelle’s sunscreen on, plus their hats—that Isabelle said in a very casual voice: “They need staff up at the ecolodge, if you were thinking of staying on for a bit, Harriet.”

    The ecolodge was the motel’s neighbour, but you couldn’t see it from here: its choicest “cabanas”, so-called, were on the low cliff top on one point of the little bay, but they were screened by tropical growth, and the ecolodge building proper, together with several more cabins, was quite a long way back from the beach. Its clients did use the beach, but they had their own private path to it, screened off from the adjoining caravan camp and motel grounds by a high fence of, Harriet rather thought, coconut palm logs. Tropical, if not native—yeah. There was a clutch of white wooden sun-loungers with huge white sun umbrellas at that end of the beach, all of them bearing small metal labels announcing they were the property of Big Rock Bay Ecolodge, wholly owned and operated by YDI (Australia) Pty Ltd.

    “Um, no, not really,” she gulped, swallowing.

    Isabelle gave her a sharp look. “Trisha did mention you need a job.”

    “Yes, but I—I don’t want to stay, really, Isabelle, I mean, it’s lovely, but, um, I’m just on holiday,” finished Harriet in a small voice.

    “I see.” She took a deep breath. “Actually, if you don’t mind me saying so, Harriet, I think that’s very wise. Me and Scott have been here for quite a while, now, and, well, we do know everybody, it’s a small neighbourhood. Ben Rivers is a nice man, and I’m sure he’s perfectly trustworthy, I mean, I’d trust him to babysit Lily Rose or look after the office, no worries, but, well, I wouldn’t call him reliable. Not in—in the personal sense, I mean,” she elaborated, going rather red. “Not like Scott. Well,” she said, looking back at the office, outside which Scott could now be seen leaning against the doorjamb looking amiable while an elderly male moteller in crumpled grey shorts, huge orange and white sneakers, a faded Hawaiian shirt and a bent panama hat bored on and on and on—“that’s Mr Jackson at it again, he’s lonely, poor old thing, but you can understand why his son and daughter-in-law didn’t come with him this year!—Scott does need pushing, I admit that, but he’s solid as a rock, he’s simply wonderful in an emergency, and when Lily Rose was on the way and I wasn’t very well I can’t tell you what a relief it was to have him here to rely on. Poor Scott: he didn’t even go up to the pub for a single night for the last four months, though he could of, I wasn’t that bad! Um, well, it isn’t just emergencies I mean, Harriet; I mean, I know he’ll always be here for me,” she said, looking at her awkwardly.

    “Yes, you’re very lucky,” said Harriet with perfect sincerity. Scott had spotted them watching him; he gave them a wave. They waved back, smiling. “Thanks for warning me, Isabelle, it’s very kind of you. But I can see that Ben’s the sort that can’t commit to anything. He’s got good practical skills, he’d be good in an emergency if he was there, but he never would be there, would he?”

    “Exactly. You need to know you can rely on your partner. Well, I mean, not necessarily partner, but you know,” she added quickly, getting rather flustered.

    “Mm, and simply being there’s a big part of it,” said Harriet, smiling at her and deciding she was much nicer than she’d so easily assumed, with quite a lot more to her than just the super-efficient young matron thing.

    “Yes,” said Isabelle with a deep sigh, smiling as Mr Jackson took something out of his pocket and dangled it in front of Scott and he appeared to admire it. “That’ll be his blimmin’ fishing lure, he designed it himself and made it in his son’s garage, and if he’s shown it to him once he’s shown it to him a thousand times. Oh, well!”

    “Fishing seems to be the big thing in these parts,” ventured Harriet.

    Isabelle sniffed. “For them—yeah. You won’t catch any of the womenfolk sitting out there dangling stupid lures and whatnot for hours! I mean, six hours to catch two fish? It can’t be cost-effective, can it?”

    “No,” she agreed, trying not to laugh. “Was this Scott?”

    “No, he doesn’t really like fishing, though he does sometimes go if someone asks him. No, it was Mr Jackson. Well, he was very generous, he wanted us to share them, so Scott did them on the barbie, and they were delicious, but heck! Six hours?”

    “Mm. So the fish didn’t eat the lure?” said Harriet, very puzzled.

    She shrugged. “Don’t look at me! Well, no, I don’t think they eat the things, do they? Ben’d know—ask him.”

    “Mm. If he’s even there when I get back,” said Harriet on a sour note.

    “Well, there you are,” returned Isabelle kindly but firmly. “Um, and there is something else, Harriet. I mean, it’s none of my business, and if you’re not staying on... But he did mention you might be using the house while he goes bush, that’s why I thought you might be interested in a job at the ecolodge.”

    She’d stopped, so Harriet, who had a pretty good idea of what was coming, said: “Go on: what?”

    “Um, well, him and Laverne have been an item for ages. Off and on, kind of. Um, well, she did dump him when he went off on one of his stupid trips without saying anything and stayed away for months, but then it seemed to be on again, only she stopped going up to his place. But, um, well, we have the same delivery van for the groceries—the big orders, of course, I choose the fresh stuff at the supermarket myself—and it’s usually the same driver, Merv, we usually give him lunch, we’re at the end of his run, you see, and, um, well, he says he’s often there in the mornings,” she ended on an apologetic note. “And, um well, you know. It’s such a small place, everybody knows.”

    “Yes,” said Harriet wanly. “It’s all right, Isabelle, I had sort of guessed. I mean, he said something about lemon things in bathrooms and Laverne let me use hers a few days back...”

    “Yes, she’s very fond of lemon. Well, there you are. It’s not serious, but it is, um, long-standing, I suppose you’d say.”

    “Yes, but she’s been very nice to me, Isabelle!” said Harriet on a desperate note.

    “She’s a very nice person,” replied Isabelle simply.

    Mm. Added to which, she clearly didn’t perceive her as a threat—and how right she was!

    “It’s all right, I'm not upset,” she said as the young woman looked at her anxiously. “It was very brave of you to mention it; I appreciate it. But I’ve seen through Ben from the start, really. I know I couldn’t hack living with him. Actually, he's starting to drive me mad already,” she confessed. “It’s the not the unreliability, so much, though that’d be the sticking-point for a longer-term thing—it’s the super-capable thing with it!”

    The super-capable Mrs Bell looked at her blankly. “Super-capable?’

    “He can do everything! All the macho stuff and as well as that he’s a miles better cook than me, and he’s just so efficient round the house! I mean, the other day he washed the kitchen floor and did the bathroom as well while I was up on the point picking a few mangoes, and when I said he should’ve let me help he said the whole thing only took twenty minutes. And Mum’s kitchen’s smaller than his, and it takes me at least two hours to do it and the bathroom! And heck, I have been living there, after all, and so far he hasn’t let me do anything! I feel completely redundant!”

    “I see,” she said kindly. “He was in the Navy for a bit, did you know that? –Oh. Well, he was; I think they teach them to do that sort of thing efficiently. But I see what you mean. He doesn’t need anyone. He’s got his life organised the way it suits him.”

    “Mm,” said Harriet with a sigh. “I’ll be glad to get home, really.”

    “I thought you might stay on,” said Steve glumly as he drove her home from the airport.

    “Mm, I know, Steve, but I couldn’t hack it. It wasn’t his way of life, it was his complete self-sufficiency—mentally as well as practically. He liked me, I could see that, but he doesn’t really need or want another person.”

    “Aw. Yeah, see whatcha mean. So he is going bush, is he?”

    “Yes, in fact he must’ve gone, now. He loaded up the four-wheel-drive with camping stuff and said he’d take off as soon as he’d seen me onto the plane.”

    “Right,” he acknowledged glumly.

    … “I suppose,” he said heavily as they reached the Harrison house, “the next thing is to see about putting this dump on the market.”

    “Yes, or we’ll go broke paying the bloody mortgages,” Harriet agreed.

    She let him haul her bag in, since he seemed to want to, and thanked him nicely for collecting her, and was very surprised when he suddenly gave her a bear hug and said in a choked voice: “He’s barmy, that’s what! I’d like to kill the bugger!”

    Steve was more or less over it when he got home. “N.B.G.,” he reported dully to Trisha.

    “Well, we thought that when she let us know she’d be coming home, Steve.”

    “Yeah. Back to square one, then,” he concluded sourly.

Next chapter:

https://trialsofharrietharrison.blogspot.com/2023/09/mr-morrison.html