“I’ll start the generator.” Not a statement, nor a shout. More a plea.
Rosie didn’t move. Her mouth hung open in surprise. Her hand still reached out in front of her. She wondered what had suddenly got into the man. Perhaps she’d just hit him with a massive dose of static electricity. Maybe it was her vomit breath. Or maybe—just maybe—she was the first woman who’d ever touched him. Christ, don’t tell me, she thought. All this way and the bastard turns out to be queer. But weariness overcame speculation, and she dragged herself up the steps and into her new home. She slumped wearily into a chair and looked around her. It didn’t occur to her to turn up the brightness of the propane lamp. The place looked clean, though, which surprised her. Dying old men weren’t noted for their housekeeping. A generator coughed, and the bare bulb above her head flickered into life. She was wrong. The place wasn’t clean, it was spotless. Scrubbed to within an inch of its life. Even the gold and silver flecks in the tacky Formica countertops shone. Fresh flypapers hung from the ceiling. The screen door creaked open as Red returned.
“Looks like you’ve been busy.”
Whatever devils had got into Red had gone back into hiding. He looked away, embarrassed.
“The flowers are a nice touch.”
“Thought I’d better check the place out before you arrived. Make sure the water was all right and the generator worked.” Red felt guilty about the work he’d done around the house and was beginning to regret the fact that he’d done it. Angus would never have agreed to it and would be furious if he ever found out. But Archie would’ve approved. Whenever they heard more prisoners were moving up to the camp, they always did their best to prepare huts for them, dug latrines and organized whatever food they could. Invariably, the new troops arrived hungry, exhausted and in no shape for work. It wouldn’t have been right to leave them to fend for themselves. Survival depended on helping each other.
“I appreciate what you’ve done, Red.” Rosie looked down at the tabletop, weighing up what next to say. The contradictions in the man staggered her. He’d made it clear she wasn’t welcome, then laid out the welcome mat, having vacuumed and fluffed it up first. The absurdity of sitting there having a normal conversation with a stark bollocky, naked man who was a virtual stranger added to her confusion. Nothing made sense. “I think if I’d walked into a mess here tonight I wouldn’t have bothered to unpack my bags.” She looked up quickly to catch Red’s reaction, but he’d already turned away from her.
“Kettle’s on,” he said, and began to put on his clothes.
Rosie took a good look at Red while they drank their tea. Fred Ladd had been right on a number of scores. He was certainly wiry, pleasant to look at and totally devoid of small talk. But there was no sign of the thousand-yard stare or anything that would make her want to drop her knickers. Even in the dull light she could see his eyes had a brightness, but they were as lifeless as a dead fish’s. He stared silently into his tea like a fortune-teller into her crystal ball. She guessed he was trying to come to terms with whatever had spooked him.
“Well, are you going to show me around?”
“Sorry!” Red shot up like a startled bird.
“No hurry, take your time.” Rosie laughed to ease the tension, but her gesture was ignored. He took her on a tour of the house, slowly reverting to the cold and distant person who’d picked her up from Fitzroy. Red had remembered the game plan. He introduced her to the kitchen, living room, two bedrooms and bathroom. She smiled when she saw the way the blankets were folded neatly at the foot of the bed. Only soldiers and nurses folded blankets that way. The bed sagged slightly in the middle but looked comfortable enough. At that point, she would have given anything just to curl up in its hollow, but there were things she needed to know. He introduced her to the outside lavatory, which operated on the big-drop principle. It was enclosed in weatherboard for privacy, and for ventilation, the bottom and top two planks were omitted on three sides and the door cut to match. Red had dropped a couple of buckets of soil down the toilet to try and smother the odors, but had met with only limited success.
“Needs a new hole dug,” said Red. “That’ll take some digging.” He flashed her torch around the vegetable garden. “Needs weeding and new topsoil,” he volunteered. “Ages since Bernie did a trip down to the flats for more soil. Needs fencing and a secure gate. Henhouse could do with a clean. You’ve got half a dozen chooks, but they don’t all lay.” He led her back inside. “The whole place needs fixing and painting,” he said, “particularly the gutters.” Rosie realized Red was about to provide a whole catalogue of things that needed doing, all of which were calculated to discourage her.
“All it needs is love, Red,” she said. “And all I need right now is sleep. I need to wash and clean my teeth and rinse my mouth out. My breath could melt asphalt. Perhaps you can come back tomorrow and show me how the stove works.”
Red hesitated. The temperamental old stove was one of the cornerstones of their plan. “Do one thing for her and we’ll be running after her for the rest of our lives,” the old Scot had said. “There’ll be precious little peace then.” In his heart, Red knew that Angus was right and that their plan was sound. But old Shacklocks could be tricky to operate. They’d agreed to drop her in at the deep end, but just how deep did it need to be? Surely just having to rely on an old woodstove for cooking, heating and hot water would be enough to discourage any woman accustomed to limitless electricity. Surely it couldn’t do any harm to show her how it worked. But he wouldn’t cut firewood for her. He’d draw the line there.
“I’ll come around sometime tomorrow,” he said, and turned to leave.
“Red, before you go.”
“What?” What else did she want? Surely she wasn’t going to start making demands on him already.
“Thank you,” she said. And reached up to kiss him lightly on the cheek.
Only one person at Wreck Bay greeted the new day with enthusiasm, and it wasn’t Angus. He rose early and made porridge to ward off the cold. He hadn’t slept well because he was worried about the woman, and he wasn’t ready to start writing because he was worried about Red. Change was in the air, and he was consumed by a feeling of unease. The thing that concerned him most was that he didn’t trust Red to stick to their agreement. Some people were just born to do good works, and it was a condition he knew to be incurable. But it could be managed if one was diligent enough. Aye, he thought, and when it came to diligence there were few better than he. He’d almost had to take a gun to stop Red from leaving too early to collect the woman from Fitzroy. He’d forced Red to see that it made sense to pick her up when it was cold, dark and wet. To let her know right from the start that life on the Barrier didn’t come any harder than at Wreck Bay. The sooner she was forced to face the truth, he’d argued, the sooner she’d be gone. Red had acquiesced but was plainly unhappy about it. The man was soft, no doubt about it, and that was cause for worry.
Angus poured himself a cup of tea, wandered out onto his veranda and automatically looked over the bay. The madman was already up and cleaning his boat. The fool was obsessive! He looked up at the sky to see what sort of day would be forthcoming. Clouds and more clouds tumbled down the hillside, big and puffy, roiling and boiling, charcoal hued and swollen with rain. He almost cackled with glee. When he concentrated he could hear the roar of the wind in the treetops high up on the ridge. It was going to pour down, nothing surer, and provide precisely the sort of welcome he wanted for the city woman. Soaking wet