Nikki Gemmell’s Threesome: The Bride Stripped Bare, With the Body, I Take You (39 page)

No more talk, no more teasing, as you bullet south to Beddington. Dust hangs among the trees like smoke. You drink in the watchfulness of the moon, it’s following the Volvo like a hovering mother on the edges of a first date. Dusty old cassettes under his car radio have Ephemera 1, 2 and 3 written on them. You’d love to know what’s on them, would love to know what
Ephemera
means. You run your fingertip along a spine, tracing the distinctive boldness of the handwriting. Someone who is very sure of themselves, oh yes. Glance across to a stony concentration on the road. You retreat. Drum your hand on the car roof.

The lights of Beddy. Not long now.

Your heart accelerates. You don’t want to go back, it’s too soon after the diary incident; you have an instinctive wariness at the thought of home, it’s no longer a sanctuary in any way. You gaze at this new specimen in your life, so rarely get someone new in it. There’s a halo of aloneness around him, a pushing away that’s flinty in him. And wounded, somehow. There’s something about it that you want to enfold. You haven’t caught nearly enough of him, time is running out.

‘What’s your name?’

His look says you don’t need to know. ‘There’s no point. We’re not seeing each other again, remember?’

What you’re not telling him is that you left your bike behind. It gives you a purchase on his world. You will be back. Somehow. Because you are a work in progress and he can teach you.

What, you’ve got no idea.

He drops you on a ridge overlooking your home. You must walk in from the high road. You understand that there is something adult about this; that he will not come near your world, your family, he would never do that. Because of misunderstandings. A grown-up world, all that; an unbreachable gulf.

He hands across the little Victorian volume.

‘Not a whisper,’ he grins. ‘Alright?’

Doesn’t say another word, doesn’t say goodbye, just turns the car around and drives off.

An enormous smile plumes through as you look at the book; you’re like a goddamn firefly blazing in that dark.

You’ll find a way back. He said the author might be able to teach him something – he’ll need this returned.

That night the memory of him, all of it, soaked through you, like smoke; in your hair, your clothes, in the pores of your skin. The memory of his fingers, his desk, his dog, his hand on the gearstick, his waiting house.

The sky has released its payload at last. Rain pummels the tin roof. You open the canvas flaps, fling them up and breathe in the earth as you lie on your stomach on the pillow, and watch.

Your sky, his sky.

The only thing you have in common, and you are caught.

You cannot stay away. He is a brake on your life, stopping everything else.

It takes an hour and a half to walk back. You are wearing your denim overalls cut off at the knees and a Bonds singlet; the book with its cover cellotaped back on, and a screwdriver and hammer and new inner tube of a bicycle in your pockets: an excuse. You do not know what to expect when you get to the fence, you will walk the perimeter if you have to, to glean some way in; to firm everything about yesterday, that it was real.

The gate is ajar. Well, well. His head
is
in another place. You slip through, kicking a stone in a wide arc in triumph. Weren’t expecting this.

A second car is beside the Volvo. A Mustang, as decrepit as his. So, a friend. You slip off your Blunnies and sneak onto the verandah, heart thudding – please not a woman, you’re not ready for it.

A man.

Through the window of the drawing room. Much older, of no interest. Curly hair, already greying. Tall, a wide, round face. The two of them are playing cards, half-heartedly; the vigour is in their conversation which you can’t quite catch. They have glasses of red wine and bread and cheese on a plank of plywood and thick weekend papers, unread, and a scattering of books. It looks like they’ve been there for some time, rabbiting on, mates.

Your bike is not where you flung it. Odd. As odd as a gate still unlocked. As if you’re being enticed further into this. No, surely? You feel a prickle of a something as you watch, and watch.

You slip through the gap of a front door soundlessly. Hesitate, then knock softly, apologetically, on the doorpost.

The door into your new life.

His friend jumps as if he’s seen a ghost.

Your man from last night does not.

As if he was expecting this. As if you had misread him entirely. You look at him and he stares back but his face says nothing. He stares with the detachment of an anthropologist, waiting to see what will come next.

A blush.

Vining your face, neck, body. Saying more than words ever could, of course; and how you hate that.

‘Who is –?’ sputters the friend. ‘Hello? Can we help you?’

‘Hello indeed,’ your man replies coolly without taking his eyes from you, which only pushes the blushing deeper.

‘You never said anyone else was in on this,’ the friend says indignantly.

‘They aren’t.’

Your hands ball at your hips: excuse me. The friend is confused.

‘But you seem to know each other …’

‘Oh no. This is some wild thing from Beddington that the bush keeps coughing up. That keeps coming back – no matter how many times they’re told they can’t.’ As if you’re not quite there.

You point your hammer at him – the gate, mate, the gate. He smiles, distracted, looking at your bare feet; can’t make head nor tail of how you’d get here like that.

‘Your bike’s in the shed. For safekeeping. I had no idea when you’d be back.’ He raises an eyebrow. ‘Today. Yes. Of course.’

‘You left the gate
open
,’ you blurt indignantly.

‘Oh. Right. Yes.’

‘No distraction, mister,’ the friend warns, waggling his finger.

‘I know.’ The snap back.

‘You told me you’d sworn off the entire world and universe until everything was done.’

‘I’m here to work.’

‘Swore off wine –’ he looks down at his glass, shrugs, there goes that one – ‘bars, all night benders, parties, mothers, travels, women …’

‘It’s not a woman.’

‘Excuse me!’ you yelp.

The friend steps back, examining, his eyes resting on your hammer gripped tight. ‘Weeeell … what is it then?’

‘An annoyance.’

‘That wants her bike back,’ you retort. ‘You can’t go stealing it, you know.’

Your man smiles a ragged smile, despite himself. Touché.

His friend winces in exaggerated disgust. ‘I do apologise. He’s beyond repair.’

‘He was
so
rude to me!’

‘He always is. Especially when he’s got a project to finish … and will not.’ The friend gulps the last of his wine and wipes the rim of his glass unceremoniously on his shirt. ‘Would you like some?’ he asks absently, as if he does this automatically to anyone who crosses his orbit. ‘Sorry I can’t offer you another glass. He’s only got two. He lives rough out bush. Disgustingly.’

You look at him dubiously. ‘That’s a goblet you’re holding. It’s not a Vegemite jar.’

The friend holds the glass at a distance and looks at it theatrically, as if he’s seeing it for the first time. ‘Oh? Really?’

Your man snatches it away. ‘No.’

You redden again. Have never drunk before, your father doesn’t allow it in his house. But here, now, there is an inkling of a want, to crash catastrophe into your life; in some way, to allow it. God knows what. Before everything vanishes, before your proper life comes scuttling back.

‘As I explained before, your bike’s waiting for you. In the shed,’ your man from last night says brusquely, standing up and brushing himself off. ‘I’ve got work to do. And I might as well do it.’

He turns on his heel and stalks off to his study without looking back, everything in retreat.

The two of you stare after him.

Gone, just like that.

So. Alone. With this new person. In a room vibrating with the charged absence of someone else. The atmosphere as swiftly altered as a power cut in a night club.

‘I should be going.’

‘Do you have to?’ His eyes are resting again on your hammer. ‘It looks like you could be of some use. What’s Mr Grumpy roped you in for? Is he paying you? What does he want from you? This place needs all the help it can get.’

You step back, your arm slipping across your waist, don’t know why all of a sudden, what’s changed.

‘I’m a good … girl,’ you trail out, don’t know what you’re saying anymore, it’s all wrong, you just feel intensely awkward and out of your depth. You pick up a book and flick through it, reading nothing, as if it’s a text you’re studying and your lesson’s about to commence. ‘I’m learning,’ you mumble, embarrassed, turning away; speaking without thinking, mortified.

The man chuckles, astounded, at the thought of it.

‘About
what
? Him in there –’ he shakes his head with the
sheer hopelessness of it all – ‘
I
haven’t been able to get a single thing out of him for an entire year … more.’

‘I – I … want to know things.’

The conversation has run away from you, you’re not in control, don’t know where it’s going anymore. This new man looks at you sideways, your cheeks are burning, you feel so young, redundant, foolish; want out.

He plucks the book from your hands: ‘
Sheep Husbandry of the Highlands
,’ he reads. Great. Trust it to be that one. ‘Um, lessons about …
what
?’

You just look at him, stricken. How can you explain? That you want lessons in how to talk, to be, to act, not from people who covet gold American Express cards and Porsches but from those who read books and who’ve been to university and watch the ABC and read Tolstoy and Proust. Who drink wine and coffee, say supper instead of tea and eat at ten o’clock instead of five and go to Italy and France instead of Jindabyne and the Gold Coast. People who fall asleep at 3 a.m. and wake at ten in the morning and read half an hour of poetry, every morning, before getting up to drink absinthe or whatever they do and, and – all that. Men who
live
, seize life in the way that you want, who talk. Not shut themselves down from being eager beaver, sparky little lads, only to enter a world of muted inarticulacy, dampened down by adulthood, their conversation slipping into grunts and put-downs and awkwardness. No, these ones are different. And you want to be a part of it.

But of course you can’t say any of this.

‘I … I like it here.’ Looking around, at your hammer, their newspapers, books, rubbing your head like it hurts. ‘It’s different. A different … class …’ you stumble, barely a whisper.

But he caught it. He is stepping back, squinting as he’s looking at you, smiling; as if you’re the most peculiar mix he’s ever come across. You feel stripped.

‘There’s no class in this country,’ he says gently.

‘
You
say that. Your lot always say that.’ You hold your head high, cheeks flaming. ‘
I
don’t.’

The man looks at you and looks, and then nods.

With new, what?

Respect.

Yes, that.