The Goodbye Ride (6 page)

“My mother has point-blank refused to look
after Granddad. She’s left it all to Aunt Margaret. Mum says she can’t cope,
but that’s because having to care for someone else cramps her style. My mother
doesn’t like to put herself out.”

Owen finished his row, walked up two, and
started working back up the hill. This time he used the loppers on a gnarled
stump of vine and the muscles in his biceps clenched. The vine shook under the
force.

“What’s the other reason?” Liv asked.
Don’t
look at his arms.

“Ah, well.” Owen came up from the vine with
a crooked smile. “That would be a girl, of course.”

Somehow, the day suddenly seemed darker,
the air colder.

“The one who wouldn’t like helmet hair?”
She said, fighting the fierce stab of disappointment that wanted to knife
through her belly. She should have remembered there was a girl. With guys like
Owen there was always a girl. She definitely should
not
feel
disappointed.

“I think that was how you put it the other
day, yes,” Owen replied, returning to his vine with a wink.

A tumbling cane fell across her boot and
Liv kicked it viciously under the vine row.

The morning went like that. When their
paths crossed, they chatted—about work, family, music. When they were too far
apart for easy conversation, they pruned in companionable silence. The only
time it was different was when she mentioned his grandfather again. Three of
her four grandparents were still fit and healthy, living in their own homes.
Pop Murphy had died from a heart attack when Liv and Luke were at primary
school.

“How many years is it since your Pop could
look after himself?”

“He’d been doing great for a guy in his
eighties,” Owen said, lining up the loppers. “Then someone broke into
Granddad’s place at Mount Gambier and tried siphoning off some fuel from his
old Landrover. It was two o’clock in the morning and Granddad’s dog woke him up
with his barking. He took a baseball bat out to the shed to investigate.

“The guy was too high on drugs to even
notice the damn dog’s barking. When Granddad confronted him, he knocked
Granddad down and stole the bat and hit him twice around the head. The guy
broke his arm. Granddad was in hospital for weeks after the attack because his
bones wouldn’t knit and when he got out, he didn’t want to live by himself
anymore.” Owen crunched the handles on the loppers. “That was eighteen months
ago.”

Liv felt sick inside. “Anyone who could do
that to an old person is the lowest of the low.”

“Scum of the earth.” Owen bent his head
over the vines again.

Chapter
5

By lunchtime, the mists had
lifted. Every now and then the sun peeked through, but didn’t stay long. The
wind had freshened during the morning and the canes on the unpruned canopies
swayed like stiff reeds.

To the west, a deep line of
heavier clouds lumbered over the hills.

It was almost one o’clock when
Owen announced he was starving and hung the loppers over the trellis wire.

“I brought lunch with me,” Liv
said, shrugging off the carrypack.

“Come up to the house. I told
Mark he could manage to put together a few rounds of ham and cheese toasted
sandwiches for us. Or you eat what you brought. Whatever works.”

They climbed the hill toward
the house. The dogs trotted out to greet them. Owen kicked off his boots and
laid his vest on the couch and Liv laid everything over her Blundstones,
shoving her sunglasses on top of her head.

When Owen opened the door, the
scent of melted cheese made Liv’s stomach grumble. There was a football game on
the widescreen, commentary turned up loud. Mark was perched on the couch in the
first room on the right in front of the TV, foot elevated on a small stool.

He tore his eyes away from the
screen long enough to wave his hand down the hall. “Saw you coming up the
drive. They’re in the toastie oven now.”

“Thanks, man,” Owen said.

Aunt Margaret’s kitchen formed
part of an open plan rectangle that opened off the end of the hall. It was
divided by furniture into dining room and living area, with bookshelves and a
couch near a slow combustion fire that glowed against the far wall. On the
kitchen bench, a toastie oven hissed and spat tomato juice and melting butter.

“Your aunt likes bright
colours,” Liv said, looking around. The walls were the colour of daffodils in
spring. “So where is she anyway?”

“Saturdays she has a stall at the Wilunga
Market. She reads palms.”

“Serious? I wonder if she’ll read mine.”

“If she does, she’ll only ever tell you the
good news. That’s the type of lady she is. She’s one out of the box, my Aunt
Margaret,” he laughed. “Hey, if you need the toilet or anything, it’s that way.
Last door on the right.”

“Thanks.” Liv followed where
he pointed.

There was stuff everywhere in
this house: clothes over chairs and bedspreads; umbrellas and hats on hooks;
books and magazines open on—shock, horror—their spines. There were cheap and
cheerful hall runners, photos, drawings and paintings. Lamps. Figurines. Indoor
plants. Ornaments. Everything had a faint patina of dust that would have sent
Liv’s mother running for a cloth.

Sneaking a peek inside another
bedroom door, Liv saw a guitar propped against the window sill and thought she
might grab it on the way back. Maybe Owen was in the mood to show her some of
his John Renbourn skills.

On the back of the toilet door
a sign read:
If it’s brown, flush it down. If it’s yellow, let it mellow.
Liv
was still smiling at that as she re-entered the kitchen carrying the guitar.

Owen had his back to her,
cutting ham, cheese and tomato toasted sandwiches diagonally on a thick slab of
bread board.
He tossed the cut halves on a plate and turned, a smile
warm in his eyes.

“Uh oh.”

“Look what I found.” She
raised the guitar.

“I thought you were going to
the toilet? I’m sure I didn’t leave that in there.”

An embarrassed flush climbed
up her cheeks. “I kind of, might of… snooped a little bit.”

“Well don’t drop it. It’s
worth about four grand.”

“Four grand?” Liv clutched the
guitar tighter and made sure she it didn’t bang it with her knees as she
walked. Its timbers shone golden brown and it gave off an elusive scent.
Vanilla beans, maybe.

“I like collectors’ items,
remember? That’s a Martin. I bought it online from the States.”

Liv shook her head. “I’m in
the wrong industry. Since when did mechanics earn enough to buy four thousand
dollar guitars?”

“When they’re mechanics at
Wilson base.”

“Well, step in and take it any
time you’re ready.” She held the guitar out gingerly. “I can’t believe you’d
take something like this to Antarctica. Doesn’t the cold affect the strings?”

He grinned and brushed crumbs
from his hands using a piece of paper towel. “I took my old cheapie down there.
I’ve got two.” Then he swished the sandwich plates to opposite sides of the
table and held his hand out. Liv passed him the expensive toy then chose a seat
opposite and started eating, burning her tongue as she bit into melted cheese.

Owen pulled out a chair and
cradled the guitar across his knees. “See if you know what this is.”

He started to play. The guitar
chords drowned the football game commentary and Mark’s occasional cheers—more
like sneers—that wafted from the lounge. It didn’t sound like the game was
going well.

Then she forgot about
football. She forgot about everything. The music filled her head.

Owen’s grip on the beautiful
instrument was relaxed, yet strong and sure. Head bowed, brow furrowed in
concentration, it gave her a chance to really study him. His fingers flew over
the strings and he didn’t miss a note.

Watching him, a thrill
shivered across the skin at the nape of her neck. She couldn’t help but imagine
those skilled fingers plucking at her own body, treating her like he did those
frets and strings.

“House Of The Rising Sun,” she
said when he finished, the notes lingering in the air like smoke. “John
Renbourn wrote that?”

“Not Renbourn. I don’t know
who wrote Rising Sun. I just like the song.”

“Me too. You play really
well.”

“Don’t sound so surprised,” he
smiled, leaning the guitar against the seat beside him.

“I didn’t mean… I guess I
thought you might strum out Darling Clementine, or something. Not a proper
song.”

He cocked an eyebrow at her.
“Since when wasn’t Darling Clementine a proper song?”

“If a six-year-old can play it
on a recorder it isn’t a proper song,” she said defensively.

“Fair point,” he conceded.

Liv could feel an answering
smile curving her lips. “I have to admit I’m impressed. You play really well.”

“I’m getting there, slowly.
One day I’d love to get good enough to be able to teach acoustic guitar. Maybe
get a few guys together so we can jam on Sunday afternoons in someone’s shed.
Stuff like that.”

“Sounds like you have it all
planned.”

They chewed in silence broken
only by the football game and Mark’s increasingly voluble groans.

Owen finished his sandwich and
drank half his apple juice in one go. “So speaking of plans, Liv, what were
your plans for the long weekend? Before I turned them arse-about.”

“Ben and I planned a motorbike
ride on Monday. We were going to take the Ducati on a road-trip up to Mannum.”

Owen locked his charcoal gaze
to hers. “And Ben is?”

“Ben is…was…my brother’s
boyfriend. They always used to ride up to the river on weekends when they were
together and we thought doing a commemorative ride would be a great way to say
goodbye.”

“Haven’t you said your
goodbyes? I thought he died years ago.” He must have seen the hurt flash across
her face because he raised his hand. “I’m sorry. That didn’t come out right.”

“It’s okay. Sometimes I think
you’re right. Luke died three years ago and I don’t know why it’s been so hard
for both of us to move on. The Ducati was special to all of us.” She didn’t
really expect Owen to understand. This was between her and Ben and Luke. How
did she explain that the goodbye ride just
felt
like the right thing to
do? “My dad had a problem with his only son being gay. He tried to stop Luke
and Ben seeing each other—”

“Aw fuck, Crows!” The shout
erupted from the hall, making Liv jump. The football game volume cranked up a
notch.

Owen’s gaze never wavered from
hers. “Sorry about Mark. He’s a mad Crows’ fan. You were saying?”

“The day my brother died–”

“Christ! Tackle like you
mean
it Crows. You’re playing like a bunch of faggots!” Mark roared.

Liv pushed her plate across
the table hard enough to make Owen thrust out his hand to stop it bull-dozing
his juice. Her half-eaten sandwich bumped and skidded off the plate and she was
on her feet, hands balled into fists.

From the hall, the television
coverage cut to the upbeat jingle of a burger chain advert.

“I hate the word
faggots,
”
she said.

“Mark doesn’t mean anything by
it.”

Her chin came up. “The
minority get heard when the majority stay silent, Owen. It happens all over the
world. It happens every second of every day.”

She exited the kitchen.

Owen heard Mark greet her: “I
hope you’re not a Crows’ fan, Olivia. They’re playing like shit.”

Whatever she answered he
didn’t hear because the ad-break ended, the crowd roared, and the next thing he
heard was the commentator welcoming viewers back to the game.

Owen lifted the Martin up to
the table so it couldn’t fall then crossed to the sink to dump the plates. By
the time he reached the lounge, Olivia had gone and the screen door quivered
itself still.

“You can be such a dickhead
sometimes,” he said, staring at his cousin.

Mark thumbed the volume lower
on the remote, sat back on the couch and looked up. “She called me
insensitive.”

“What did she say, exactly?”

He gestured with the remote.
“She said calling a homosexual a Faggot, is like calling a black man a Nigger.
She appreciates she’s a guest in my mother’s house, but she finds the use of
that word insensitive. That was it.”

“What did you say?”

“I didn’t have time to say
anything, man. She took off.” Mark’s eyes slid to the widescreen.

Owen felt the muscles of his
right arm clench. Part of him wanted to pick his cousin up by the scruff of the
neck and shake the shit out of him.

Mark’s thumb inched the volume
higher. “Fucking Collingwood. They’re killing us.”

The commentator’s voice rose.
“…another
goal and that’s trouble for the Crows.”