Sole Survivor. Derek Hansen

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СКАЧАТЬ 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.

Eight

      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 and no hot water. He rubbed his hands together gleefully as he contemplated her discomfort. Shut indoors with no television and no telephone. And no food other than what she’d brought, unless … unless the madman gave her some fish. The thought caused his brow to furrow. Damn the man! That was exactly the sort of fool thing the man would do. He looked up once more at the sky to see if he’d have time to get down to the beach and back before it rained. It was time for words, no doubt about it.

      In every respect, Red’s day had begun as any other except for one thing—he couldn’t keep the woman out of his mind. She’d interrupted his sleep and intruded into his consciousness. She’d kept him company over breakfast. Accompanied him on his rounds of garden and chookhouse. The only time he’d escaped from her was during the discipline of his exercises, when he’d emptied his mind and looked inward as he had been taught, calming himself, strengthening his body and keeping the many parts of his fractured mind together. But when he’d finished, she was there waiting patiently for him. He’d resented that. She disturbed and unsettled him, made him feel guilty for having to do things that went against his instincts. The woman did not belong. She had no right to come where she was clearly not wanted. He set off for the beach the instant he’d brought his calendar up to date.

      The stench of her vomit as he cleaned out his boat didn’t upset him. He’d grown accustomed to the smell of vomit and human feces while helping out in the camp hospital, helping the men dying of cholera and dysentery, washing fouled sheets and Jap-happies, the loincloths the men wore after their trousers had rotted away. He’d looked after men dying from injuries inflicted by swinging boots and rifle butts. He’d scraped tropical ulcers and putrefying sores. He’d lanced boils. Vomit didn’t upset him, but it was unhygienic, and hygiene was important to survival. He couldn’t help wondering if Angus’s embargo on help extended to the woman’s toilet. Perhaps he should help Rosie sink a new hole. Whenever newcomers arrived at the camps, those already there always helped dig new latrines.

      “You! You out there!”

      Red looked up from his work. Angus was waving to him from the beach, lean and angular in khaki shirt and baggy, knee-length khaki shorts.

      “What do you want?”

      “Come ashore. We need to have words.”

      “I’m nearly finished.” Red continued cleaning the boat in his usual methodical way. He thought about topping up his fuel tank but hadn’t used enough on the run back from Fitzroy to justify it. He rinsed his brush over the side and put it away. He picked up a bucket filled with fresh water and a clean cloth and began to wipe all the interior surfaces so salt wouldn’t build up.

      “C’mon, man, I haven’t got all day!”

      Red wiped down the console and his seat. He wiped down all the metal around his controls. Things rotted in saltwater and salt air as quickly as they rotted in the jungle, unless they were properly cared for. He tossed the dregs over the side, stowed the bucket and went forward to the bow locker where he kept his storm cover.

      “For heaven’s sake, man! Can you not do that later?”

      Red could see that Angus was getting agitated. СКАЧАТЬ