‘I’m not hungry. I had a big sandwich this afternoon, with the brandies. I should offer to make you something but I’m suddenly too drunk to try. I’m a piss-poor hostess, aren’t I?’
‘You’re a lovely hostess. And I’ve plenty to eat, in my saddle-bags.’
‘I’m sure you have, Mr Adventurous Sunninghill. You’re self-sufficient. Answerable only to yourself.’ She looked at him, then repeated wearily: ‘Oh, how I envy you.’
He smiled. What to say? She held up a finger. ‘There’s one thing I’d like you to do before you go to bed. Please wait right here until I’m in my bedroom. Then press the red button and shut the generator down.’
‘Sure.’
‘Otherwise,’ she said, ‘what always happens is I’ve got to press the red button myself, then dash through to my bedroom in the dark. Which gives me the willies.’
‘You could have a candle ready,’ he said. ‘Or a flashlight.’
‘Yes, but I never do have a candle ready, do I? And besides, candle-light is spooky when you’re walking alone through a big empty house, isn’t it? I kind of prefer to run, then lock myself in the bedroom.’
He frowned. ‘Do you really lock yourself in your bedroom every night?’ (Oh God, that sounded a terrible question.)
‘Absolutely.’
‘But why?’
She grinned. ‘To keep the spooks out.’
‘Really?’
‘No, not really. I know there’re no such things as spooks. I’ve told all my children that ad nauseam, so it must be true because mummies don’t tell fibs, do they? Mummies,’ she went on, ‘are absolutely pillars of truth and common sense, aren’t they? Mummies are rocks. Veritable lighthouses in stormy seas. Absolute bricks, aren’t they? And mummies know best. Know everything. Mummies aren’t scared of spooks, are they?’
‘Aren’t they?’ Ben grinned.
‘Absolutely not. Mummies are absolutely not scared of the dark. Even in big, empty houses slap-bang in the middle of the Outback. What spooks could there possibly be out here in Whoop-Whoop?’ She elaborated. ‘That means in the middle of nowhere. Whoop-Whoop is a remote, mythical Australian place—’
‘I know,’ he grinned. ‘You told me.’
‘Indeed,’ she said, warming to her theme, ‘what ghost would want to infest such an outlandish neck of the woods?’ She narrowed her eyes: ‘Only a real mean, nasty, sneaky son-of-a-bitch? A veritable pain-in-the-arse of a spook!’
‘Indeed.’ Ben’s grin widened.
‘Anyway, will you be so kind as to stand by that switch? And I’ll run. When I get to my bedroom, I’ll light my candle, then shout. Then you hit the red button. Okay?’
‘Okay.’
‘Right. Goodnight.’ She stood up, unsteadily. He stood up too. She grinned at him, then she kissed her fingertip and put it on his cheek.
That was his moment, to step towards her and take her in his arms unsuspectingly. They were less than two feet apart and it seemed he could almost feel the warmth of her body. But he hesitated, and the moment was past.
‘Night.’ She twiddled her fingers and turned to the passage door.
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