Chapter Eight
Dan leaned towards the glass and peered out into the street. The road had fallen quiet and the lights were on in homes across the bank. It was hot inside the office and he reached down for the telephone’s smooth plastic handle. It had not rung and the sun had already sunk behind the tree line. He slowly sat in his chair and looked down at the desk in the dark.
You are embarrassing yourself, he thought.
Up stream, the lights of the bridge flickered on and he reached out and switched on his desk lamp. His office felt like a type of lighthouse, beaming light out from its window into the dark. He knew it could be seen from the street through in the hibiscus and he began drum-rolling his fingers on the desk, waiting. Ruth’s questions about his whereabouts that morning still lay ahead, but he couldn’t explain the visit even to himself.
A car approached and he stood quickly. He yearned to see it pull up in the driveway with Ned’s face behind the windscreen. Oh, how he ached for it. But the headlights continued on and it steadily disappeared into the distance. He put his hands in his pockets and strolled towards the corner of his office, turned and doubled back. He stopped and reached out for the telephone, making sure the handset was down.
That night, however, despite his genuine yearning, Ned Col did not appear.
-
Ned opened the screen door of the low-set house and slowly walked in. He saw Ted Henry standing behind his desk, picking loose skin from his pealing nose. He took off his broad-brimmed hat, dropped it to a seat and looked out the window. The farm had been stripped bare as far as he could see.
‘G’day, mate,’ Ted murmured.
Ned glanced back. ‘Hey,’ he said. ‘Whad d’ya know?’
Ted slowly sat in his chair. Ned saw mud had been tramped around the table and an oily engine part up on the desk. Ted began moving things about and Ned glanced back out the window.
‘Time you got yourself a computer,’ he murmured, looking out the glass.
‘Bloody things,’ Ted said. ‘I can’t work ’em. Hate this time of year.’ He put on his reading glasses (they were light and fragile, like those worn by Swiss watchmakers, and out of place on a greasy farmer’s face) and searched under loose sheets of paper. ‘I can’t find the blasted calculator,’ he muttered. ‘Anyway, what do we owe ya?’
Ned told him and Ted opened his drawer and removed a small receipt book and began writing. Ned regarded the pen closely, watching the figures as Ted wrote them.
‘So that’s it for the season?’ Ned asked.
Ted shrugged with his head down. ‘Afraid so,’ he said. He felt under more paper and found the calculator. ‘Ah, here it is…’ He began punching numbers. ‘Gotta get yaself a summer job,’ he said. ‘We can give ya a bit of work, ploughin’ N-runs and stuff.’ He looked up with minimal concern.
‘I gotta do something, I guess,’ Ned said. He slipped his hands into his pockets. ‘I gotta house to pay for.’
‘Yeap,’ Ted murmured, looking down, ‘we’re all trying to pay something off.’ He punched the keys. ‘What do ya think you’ll do?’ He looked up. ‘Want that ploughin’ work?’
Ned pondered. ‘Na,’ he said, waving his hand dismissively. ‘I got plans. I’ll be fine.’
Ted stared at him. ‘Sure,’ he said. He took a metal container from the drawer and removed a wad of banknotes. Ned scratched his face, wandered up to the desk. He watched Ted counting through several yellow fifties and felt OK again. Ted’s dirty fingers placed the wad into a brown envelop and he prepared to lick it. ‘Seal it?’
‘Na, mate,’ Ned said. ‘It’s fine like that.’
Ned wiped his hands on his jeans, took the envelope and slowly wandered up to the window. The sun, nearing the horizon, was beginning to shine into his eyes. He reached back to his pocket and removed his packet of tobacco. He rolled a cigarette, took his Zippo lighter and lit up. The smoke he exhaled mulled around the window.
‘Here ya go, mate,’ Ted said. Ned looked back and Ted slid the receipt book across the table. ‘Sign here.’ Ned stepped up to the desk, signed and the two men shook hands. ‘Take it easy,’ Ted said.
‘Sure,’ Ned said. He took his broad-brim from the seat and headed for the door.
Ned sat on his sofa and quietly sipped his beer, wanted to be alone. He heard the clatter of cutlery in the kitchen, looked back at the dining room and saw his young son eating at the table. Edith appeared from the kitchen and quietly spoke to Ned.
‘You finished?’ she said.
Ned looked down at his half-eaten meal on the arm of the couch. ‘Yeah,’ he said. She quietly carried it away.
Ned stood with his bottle and tobacco and headed towards the door. He walked out onto the porch, crossed the old boards and sat in his rocking chair. He calmly began rolling a cigarette.
‘Chr—st,’ he thought to himself. ‘Things are pretty lousy.’
It wasn’t just work – last month he had celebrated his thirty-fifth birthday and, since then, things had just felt flat; there was just a little less glow about what lay ahead.
He did not hear, but felt Edith walking through the lounge. He sensed her, like you sense a cat slinking behind you. Seconds later, the screen door squeaked open and her quiet footsteps came out onto the deck. He looked back, saw her approaching and turned back towards the road. He listened to her steps pull up nearby then the deck went quiet. She said nothing; this reticence was usual and it bugged him. He shook his head, slipped the cigarette into his mouth, and started working the flint wheel.
‘Hi,’ she said.
He glanced back. ‘Hey.’ He inhaled on the cigarette and felt the soothing nicotine fill his lungs. The bottle was down on the boards and he reached down. ‘Hey, Edith,’ he said, ‘if you’ve got something to say then say it. I know something’s on your mind.’
She remained silent and he took a slug of beer, looking at the road.
‘A man called for you today,’ she said.
He pulled the bottle from his lips and tilted his head towards her. ‘A bloke called Amos?’
‘Yes.’
‘Yeap,’ he said. ‘He found me.’ He reached down, resting the beer onto the boards.
‘Was it important?’ she said. ‘He had a posh voice.’
He waited then looked at her. ‘Na... It was nothin’.’ He inhaled, reached out and tabbed the cigarette over a flower pot.
Edith stepped into his periphery and halted. ‘Tommy’s birthday’s next week,’ she said. ‘We gotta think about gettin’ ‘im somethin’.’
Ned didn’t want to think about it but slowly nodded. ‘Yeah, I know.’
She hesitated. ‘So, how are things?’ she said.
He exhaled steadily, watching the smoke fill his view of the street. He slowly looked at her. ‘With what?’
She waited. ‘Our situation?’ she said.
He shrugged and looked down at his boots. ‘Not so good,’ he said. He leaned back and the chair’s wooden frame creaked beside his ear.
‘I know you don’t like me asking,’ she said. ‘But sometimes, I just need to know… That’s all. You never tell me anythin’.’
He felt himself growing irritated but breathed steadily – she always knew how to push it. It wasn’t the time, so she did things. He slowly turned and eyeballed her, hoping she would soon get the message. ‘Hey, Edith,’ he said. ‘You’ll know when I choose to tell ya, OK?’ She closed her mouth and looked down. ‘Just watch it,’ he said under his breath, and a tense silence ensued.
Finally, Edith turned and slowly walked away. He watched her walking towards the door and frowned to himself because she moved with a spineless, lazy gait that had always irritated him. She had no structure to her life; she did not know who she wanted to be or where she wanted to go. She was a person without direction and he hated her.
The door opened and he slowly shook his head. Chr—st, he thought, one day she’ll finally learn how she winds me up.
He looked back at the street and heard the screen door slap
closed. He inhaled on his cigarette and thought about his next step, listening to the quiet crackling of his burning tobacco.