Talk to Me Tenderly, Tell Me Lies

CHAPTER 6

Helen was woken at sunrise, with a hangover, by the sound of his motor cycle. She frowned into her pillow. The noise increased, passing the side of the house. Then it began to diminish, heading towards the gate. She lay a moment, frowning; then got out of bed and shuffled to the window, holding her head.

Ben was riding down the track towards the gate, wearing crash-helmet, gauntlets, the works.

Helen stared. She was amazed. Without even saying goodbye? He hadn’t said goodbye last night, had he? Her memory was a bit blurred around the edges, but she was sure he hadn’t said goodbye! She stared at him angrily, her hung-over heart sinking.

‘Well, I’ll be damned …’

She glowered at the empty track, then tottered back to the bed and collapsed on to it. She pulled the covers up to her chin. She lay glaring at the ceiling.

‘Well, I’ll be damned …’

She was indignant. And her spirits were sinking. Oh God, the loneliness again. The emptiness of the Outback. It had been nice yesterday, knowing there was somebody around. Nice? Knowing she had to bury Oscar? Oh God, Oscar. She closed her eyes. I mean, it was good knowing there would be somebody to talk to afterwards. And she hadn’t made the most of it. She hadn’t talked enough – she had gone to bed like a delicate bloom when she could have stayed up and talked, talked out her grief for Oscar. He was such a sensible bloke, Ben Whateverhisnamewas. Sunninghill. A goddam hippy, but sensible and cheerful, and she had wasted the opportunity for a bit of human company!

The story of my life …

And she was hurt. Couldn’t he have hung about long enough this morning to say goodbye? Thank you, perhaps? Good luck? But no – the story of my life again. Just like the kids – he doesn’t need my help anymore. My usefulness is over – he’s got his spanner, fixed his bloody bike, had a couple of nights in a decent bed, a nice hot shower – which he doubtless needed – and now he’s on his bike again. Without so much as a cheerio …

Then she thought: Maybe he left a note on the kitchen table?

She began to scramble out of bed to check; then she restrained herself angrily.

A note – so what? Is a note good enough for a guest to leave his hostess? Is that how to treat people?

But maybe the note said he was just test-riding his bike after its repairs? ‘I’ll be back in an hour’?

Again she began to get out of bed, then she stopped herself once more.

What’s this? she demanded. Why this frantic curiosity to see if that little hippy left a bloody note? Frantic anxiety … This hope. You’re hoping that he hasn’t left. God, this is pathetic. You’re pathetic, Helen McKenzie! You’re turning into a dotty middle-aged woman desperate not to be slighted by a little New York hippy on a Harley-Davidson! This is what you’ve become!

She closed her eyes and lay there, her head hurting.

But isn’t it normal? Normal just to … hope for some enjoyable conversation? Shouldn’t everybody have the right to wake up expecting at least some human company?

She threw back the covers and swung out of bed. She unlocked the bedroom door, dashed on tiptoe down the passage to the kitchen door, slid back the bolt and hurried in.

There was no note on the table.

She stood there, naked, eyes darting over the surface as if she could will a note into existence.

Her shoulders slumped and she felt like bursting into tears. She put her hand to her throbbing brow.

Pathetic, McKenzie.

She took a deep breath. And, oh, her head …

Well, to hell with it, she was going to chase this hangover away with a beer! She’d never done this before, but what the hell! Clyde thought nothing of treating a hangover with a beer at sunrise, so why shouldn’t she? He was a responsible man and if it wasn’t degenerate when he did it, why should it be for her? Besides, she felt like being degenerate.

She fetched a can from the refrigerator. She poured it into a glass and took three big swallows. It went down into her system like a balm. She immediately began to feel better. With a grim sigh, she slumped down at the kitchen table.

Not only pathetic, but boring – that’s what she was! That’s why that little jerk had left without even a see-yer … Boring, and so insignificant that it didn’t matter if he was rude to her. A has-been Outback wife who’s so boring he’d wanted to leave yesterday afternoon – she had encouraged him to stay and then got so drunk that he thought it was best if he just folded his tent and pissed off in the dawn to avoid another encounter, another boring entreaty for him to stay yet one more boring day …

Boring boring boring and useless – that’s what she’d become! Because she hadn’t used her head for years. She wasn’t even physically attractive anymore!

What’s that got to do with it? she demanded. That’s how boring you’ve got, you mix things up, muddle arguments, bring in irrelevancies! What’s your fat body got to do with this? With that little hippy on his 1000cc Thunderbird or whatever it’s called? God knows – and this is the absolute honest-to-God dinkum truth – God knows she hadn’t the slightest physical interest in him. He was so … little. Besides, she’d never been unfaithful to Clyde in her life – and she’d had a few opportunities – possibly more than most wives out in the boondocks – and it honestly hadn’t crossed her mind to be so with little Ben Hippy Sunninghill. He had made a few remarks that could have been interpreted as a come-on, and there was that moment he tried to hold her – but she’d frozen him right out! And he’d backed right off, hadn’t he? So maybe they weren’t come-ons. So what’s your disgusting body got to do with this?

But, anyway, it’s true. Look at you!

She looked down at her naked legs.

Look at those cellulite-dimpled thighs, your tummy sticking out. Your stretch-marked tummy. Look at your floppy boobs …

Helen sat up straight, pulled her stomach in, crossed her legs and stuck her chest out a little. She looked down again.

Now that is how she used to look all the time. That’s how she should look, and could again if she wasn’t such a boring mindless slob!

She got up impatiently, fetched another can of beer, ripped off the top and took two big swallows.

Oh, she was impatient with herself … She strode from the kitchen into the hall, and glared at herself in the full-length mirror, her can of Four-X in her hand.

What a slob! She pulled her shoulders back, tummy in. Stick your tits out! There …

She looked at herself. Not bad – for forty-two. And four kids. Okay, she was about ten pounds overweight, but then she always was a big girl – ‘well-nourished’, as Clyde said (he’d got that out of some book and loved to raise a laugh with it). She would have preferred ‘Rubenesque’, or better still, ‘statuesque’. But dear old Mother Nature never meant her to be slim, and certainly not flat-chested – she was intended for breeding, that had been clear at Cathy’s age. (As it was clear about Cathy: but at least she wouldn’t be stuck in the Outback – she’d probably end up editing some glossy fashion magazine.) But, my word, she needed to lose those ten pounds …

‘Don’t I, Oscar?’

She froze, staring at herself. Oscar?

She closed her eyes. ‘Oh God, my Oscar …’ And she gave a deep sigh, and turned and walked slowly back to the kitchen. She sat down heavily at the table, leant on both elbows and dropped her head into her hands.

She sat there, nursing her light, unreal head, trying fiercely not to think about Oscar. Then she snapped herself up straight, stood up grimly, went to the sink and tipped away the rest of her beer.

‘Out, out, damned spot! Damned cellulite!’

She turned and strode back to her bedroom.

She had a shower, and washed her hair. She pulled on a fresh shirt and jeans, combed back her wet hair and tied it in a ponytail; she even put on some lipstick. Then she stomped through the house, out the back door, to the Land Rover. She started the engine, rammed the gear lever, and roared off up the track towards Billy’s hut.

To see if he had sobered up. To give him a few instructions. To bring some order to this neck of the woods!

CHAPTER 7

It was eleven o’clock when she came grinding back down the track towards the house. She slammed to a stop in the yard, scattering chickens and ducks. She scrambled out, slammed the door, and strode for the kitchen. She was going to radio Clyde right now – haul him up from underground if necessary – and tell him about Billy! She flung back the screen-door and burst into the kitchen, then came to a halt, staring.

Ben Sunninghill was sitting at the kitchen table, grinning that wide, impish grin, with a six-pack of beer beside him, one opened. A big coil of electric cable and two new door-locks lay beside the beer. And on his knees, with a ribbon round its neck, was a Boxer puppy.

Helen stared at them. At the puppy, at Ben, back at the puppy. Then her eyes began to moisten. ‘Oh Ben …’ she cried. She dashed to the table, dropped on to her haunches, grabbed the puppy.

She held it up to her grinning face, shining-eyed. The puppy blinked at her inquisitively, unalarmed. ‘Oh Ben! And a Boxer! Where did you get him?’ She pulled it to her neck joyfully.

Ben smiled. ‘Burraville Hotel. Jack Goodwin. You told me his bitch had a litter.’

‘Oh, he’s gorgeous!’ She clasped the little animal to her joyfully. ‘But I must pay for him! I bet that Jack Goodwin didn’t give him away!’

Ben smiled. ‘No, my shout. He didn’t cost much, not with your actual Ben Sunninghill of the New York diamond market doing the bargaining. He’s not pure-bred, his mother went to a picnic – even Jack Goodwin finally admitted that under my ruthless cross-examination. His father was a dingo.’

‘A dingo!’ Helen held up the grunting puppy and waggled it. ‘I don’t believe it!’

‘But that’s what I told Jack Goodwin. Nearly threw me out. Said at worst it was Mrs Johnson’s Labrador, Fred.’

‘Oh, Fred’s a beautiful dog!’

‘Don’t bank on Fred. I went over to the schoolhouse to check him out. Black as the ace of spades, Fred is, and this guy’ – he indicated the puppy – ‘is nearly all brown. I saw half a dozen likely candidates for fatherhood as I left town.’ He added: ‘He’s not a very likeable man, Jack, is he?’

‘Jack? No. Has he got a name, this little feller?’

‘Jack called him Biggles, because of that white mark round his neck, like a scarf. Think he was trying to impress me with how well-read he was.’

‘Biggles?’ She looked at the grunting face doubtfully.

‘I thought of Hogan. After Crocodile Dundee, because he came at me with those sharp little teeth—’

‘I know what we’ll call him – Dundee!’

‘Dundee? Yeah, that’s better.’

‘Dundee!’ She jumped up, held the unworried puppy aloft and waltzed around with him. ‘Oh, you’re much more beautiful than Paul Hogan, even when he’s scrubbed up!’ She turned to Ben, eyes shining. ‘Oh, thank you, Ben …’ She crossed the kitchen impetuously, flung an arm around his narrow shoulders and planted a kiss on his bristly cheeks. ‘Thank you.’ She stood back, beaming at him, her eyes moist.

Ben grinned up at her happily. ‘I’m glad. Enjoy.’ Then he glanced at his wrist-watch, banged his hands on his knees and stood up. ‘Well, I thought I’d fix those doorlocks and put an extension on to that generator switch for you, then I’d better be on my way.’

Helen stared at him, clutching the puppy. ‘Oh, you can’t leave today, Ben!’

Ben grinned at her. He could see she’d had a drink already and that was fine with him, he’d had a couple of beers himself in Burraville and felt in the mood for a few more. He didn’t want to leave today either. And who knew what might happen? ‘But I hate to impose,’ he said. ‘I really should leave—’

‘Oh, not today! And you’re not imposing! You can’t leave the day you thrust a new puppy into my arms! We’ve got to … celebrate! Welcome him!’ She shook her head: ‘Let’s have a nice lunch! I haven’t cooked you anything yet! You probably think all I do is drink!’

‘Isn’t it?’ he grinned.

‘No!’ she laughed. ‘You beast! No, no, no, I’ll have you know I’m a pillar of Australian society! I’m the lady they all talk about in reverent whispers in Burraville! I’m the After-lady in the Before and After advertisements! Have another beer?’ She sparkled at him, clutching her puppy: ‘I will if you will …’

Dundee was waddling around the kitchen, sniffing here, sniffing there, occasionally squatting. Helen pulled some paper off the kitchen roll and dropped it on a puddle.

‘I’ll start teaching him tomorrow,’ she said cheerfully.

‘But,’ Ben said, ‘I wouldn’t have left without saying goodbye and thank you. What kind of hippy do you take me for?’

‘I know that now. But I didn’t this morning with a king-size hangover and a terrible case of the blues. And you’re not a hippy.’

He gave that smile. ‘Aren’t I? What’s a hippy? Some guy who doesn’t give a shit about making money and just takes off?’

‘On a 1000cc Thunderbird!’

‘Harley-Davidson. Anyway, that makes me a hippy in the eyes of most Australians I’ve met. Or a wandering Jew, which is worse.’ He added: ‘Without the commercial instinct anymore.’

Helen had moved on to the wine which Ben had produced from his saddle-bags. She held up her glass: ‘Here’s to the wandering Jewish hippy on his 1000cc Harley-Thunderbird then!’ She took a big sip. ‘Did you ever have it? The commercial instinct, I mean.’

‘You can’t spend your life in the diamond trade and not have it, baby.’ (She wished he wouldn’t call her ‘baby’.) ‘You can’t spend your life amongst Jews – even if your name’s Sunninghill – and not have it. Cash-flow,’ he rubbed his fingers together, ‘that’s what business life’s about. But,’ he shrugged, ‘no more, for Mrs Sonnenberg’s little boy.’

She said enviously: ‘But you’ve got enough cash-flow to say to hell with it.’

‘Enough? Yes, if I take it easy on the fleshpots.’

‘And when it starts running low?’

‘I’ll work somewhere for a bit. I’ve got my jeweller’s tools with me; jewellers can always get a job. Anyway, what I’m going to do soon is buy a small yacht – you can always make a bit of money with a boat.’

‘A yacht?’ she echoed, almost indignantly. ‘I thought you were going back to Africa to do your foot-soldiering for the animals?’

‘I am. But when I get back to Africa I’ll need a home of some kind. So instead of paying rent I’ll buy a yacht and that’ll be my base – a mobile one. Between stints in the bush I’ll sail it here and there. In fact, when I get back to Perth I’ll buy a boat there, if I find one at the right price, stick my motorbike on the stern and sail back to Africa.’

Helen didn’t know how much of this to believe – it all sounded too romantically macho for a little New York jeweller. ‘Single-handed?’

Ben shrugged. ‘I’ll try to find somebody who wants to come along for the ride. But, if not – sure, single-handed.’

She looked at him, trying to imagine him doing it. The wind in his hair, his beak-nose to the flying spray. ‘So you really are an intrepid sailor?’

‘It’s not such a big deal, crossing oceans. There’re no rocks out there, are there? The danger for a boat is when you get near the real-estate. It’s like flying an airplane – the higher you are, the more air you have beneath you, the safer you are.’

Helen wasn’t so sure he had a licence to fly a plane either. But it was fun to talk. ‘What about the big waves?’

‘Well,’ Ben admitted, ‘I haven’t crossed an ocean on a small boat yet. But there’s probably more danger from big trucks when riding a motorbike. However, I’ve done a lot of sailing round New York. I know the winds – what to do with them, how to harness them.’ He smiled. ‘Maybe my Jewishness – getting something for nothing. The wind, the elements, they’re free – and non-polluting. It’s very satisfying working with the sea. So clean. So … harmonious with Nature.’ He shrugged. ‘Sure, I can cross an ocean.’

Helen sighed. She believed him. ‘And how much will such a boat cost?’

‘Maybe forty thousand bucks. Depending on where you buy it, its condition and so forth. But I can fix just about anything.’

She believed it. His self-confidence was infectious. ‘And you can always make money out of a boat, huh?’

‘Well, you don’t pay rent, for a start. And if I run low on money I’ll look for yachtsmen who want their boats fixed up. Ten bucks an hour.’ He shrugged. ‘Easy, I’ve tried it. Walk along any marina and holler “Who wants jobs done?” Plenty of work. Anyway, I don’t need much. A bag of rice goes a long way, and the seas are full of fish.’

Oh, she envied him his freedom from worries. That reminded her of Billy. ‘I must radio Clyde at lunchtime about Billy. The bastard’s still drunk. Drunker. His wife too and you know what they’ve done? Torn the bloody door off the hut and used it for firewood!’ She waved a hand. ‘Plenty of wood out there. But no – the door.’

‘Really?’ He added: ‘And what will Clyde do about it, two thousand miles away?’

She glanced at him and sighed.

‘Nothing, I guess. He’ll tell me to get on with it.’

‘And do what?’

She nodded wearily. ‘What indeed? Give him a bollocking when he sobers up. What else? I can’t fire him – I’d just have to look for another Abbo stockman. The devil I know is better than the one I don’t.’

‘So you’re radioing Clyde for his sympathy?’

Helen raised her eyebrows wanly. ‘Guess so.’

Ben sat back and shrugged. ‘Sure. Why not? That’s what marriage is all about. And you deserve sympathy.’

She glanced at him. Was that sincere? She decided it was.

‘No, you’re right – I won’t call him. I called him only last week, and it’s quite a performance to get hold of him. I’ve got to radio the mine captain’s office and get them to tell Clyde to stand by the radio at a certain hour, then call back.’

‘Does Clyde ever call you?’

‘Occasionally. But it’s a favour really, to use the mine captain’s office – he doesn’t like asking too often. And it’s not very satisfactory – you can’t get too personal on the air, can you? Anybody can listen in if they find your frequency. He won’t discuss money, for example – he doesn’t like the neighbours to know we’re hard-up. Though it’s obvious – why else is he on the mines? And,’ she smirked, ‘he can never bring himself to tell me he loves me.’

Ben raised his eyebrows.

‘Well, as long as he tells you in private …’ He paused, then: ‘Does he?’

For a moment she wondered about that question’s possible direction. ‘Of course he does.’

‘Enough?’

She was taken aback by his persistence. No matter how grateful she was for his help and company, she didn’t like that. She frowned. ‘Yes. Why?’

He disarmed her with his impish smile. ‘Because I’m told it’s very important. And I’ve heard that Aussie men are often a bit too macho to show much affection. I’ve heard that the definition of an Aussie male’s foreplay is’ – he put on a creditable Australian accent – ‘“You awake, luv?” Heard that in a New York bar, from an Aussie girl.’

She smiled. ‘Yes, that’s an old one. And I believe it’s mostly true, unfortunately.’

‘But not in Clyde’s case?’

She resented that. Too familiar. ‘No!’

Ben sat back. ‘Sorry.’ He smiled self-effacingly: ‘Too familiar.’

Again she was disarmed, and surprised at his perceptiveness. Word for word!

‘It’s all right.’ She took a sip of wine. ‘But what do you mean you’re “told” demonstration of affection is important? Don’t you know?’

Ben grinned honestly. (No harm in honesty when you’ve got little else to offer.) ‘Well, look at me, I’m not likely to have had much experience in that area, am I? Let alone success.’

Helen was disarmed further, because it seemed so plausible. ‘Oh Ben … But you’re a lovely bloke …’

He grinned. ‘That’s what I tell all the girls – all the time. But nobody seems to believe me.’ He added sadly: ‘Except my mother.’

‘I don’t believe it!’

‘See? It works.’

‘What?’

‘I’ve got your sympathy. Your disavowal of my physical limitations. But, unfortunately, that’s all I get.’ He took a sip of wine. ‘Oh, I’ve got lots of women friends. I get along famously with women as a gender. But unfortunately sympathy only works that far.’

Again she wondered whether he was trying to steer the conversation in a certain direction, despite his expression. ‘You’ve never been married?’

‘Married? I’ve never had a woman I didn’t pay for.’

That took her aback. That was astonishing self-effacement. ‘Whores, you mean?’

Ben sighed cheerfully. ‘But even that’s not on these days, with Aids.’ He grinned at her. ‘Don’t worry, I’ve been tested and I’m a Lloyds A1 insurance prospect.’

She blinked. Why should she worry? She began to change the subject, and Ben groaned: ‘Oh, my big mouth …’ He looked at her apologetically. ‘Sorry – again. Why should you worry? But that was just a figure of speech. Believe me …’ he put his hand on his breast solemnly and said, not entirely truthfully, ‘I have enough bitter experience of life not to be so presumptuous as to think I could talk you into the sack.’

Helen stared at him a moment. Then she dropped her head and giggled. ‘Oh, you’re funny.’

Ben nodded wearily. ‘Funny ha-ha or funny peculiar?’

‘Both!’

‘I knew it,’ Ben sighed, ‘I knew I couldn’t just be funny ha-ha.’

‘I mean unusual—’

‘Almost rare,’ Ben solemnly agreed. ‘My mother thinks I’m an endangered species. She thinks I’m beautiful.’

Helen threw back her head and laughed. It all seemed terribly funny. Little Ben Sunninghill … ‘But you are, Ben! I mean, you’ve got the loveliest smile. It makes you … shine. And it’s so … laughy.’

‘Got to have a sense of humour with a face like this,’ Ben agreed. ‘What about the nose? I could have it straightened, but not shortened, regrettably. Because, like most people, I do need the actual nostrils at the tip.’

Helen snorted into her wine glass. ‘And you’ve got the loveliest eyes, Ben! I mean, they’re so naughty. And kind.’ She smothered her mirth, her eyes moist, and waved at little Dundee. ‘Like getting me him.’