Bella's Run (30 page)

The helicopter landed in a flurry of dirt, clods of grass kicking up as the skids hit solid earth. The passenger door opened and a figure jumped out. The man, bent over at the waist under the still-moving rotors, moved away from the chopper towards where Bella stood frozen in horror. The pilot powered down the machine, obviously intending to stay for a while.

‘Bella? Bella! Darling, how good to see you!’ The voice hailed her as he stepped clear of the rotors, which could take an appendage off without a thought.

Why not his head?

What?

Had she just thought that?

She willed her feet to move forward, one step at a time. Left then right, slight hesitation, right then left.

‘Warren . . . what a surprise! I hadn’t expected you to come after everything that’s happened.’

And then he was standing before her, all corporate and citified-looking in his double-breasted Italian wool suit, white hanky in a pocket to the right. Pressing a kiss to her cold mouth.

‘Wozza!’ Trinity bowled past Bella. ‘You’ve come just in time to party, mate! Great to see you could make it. Love the chopper, man. Great way to fly! You’re lucky it’s such a clear night, no rain in sight, though that would be good. We sure need it up here, my word we do.’ The ebullient groom grabbed hold of Warren’s shoulders and spun him towards the marquee, to where the hundred or so people had all piled out of the party to see the helicopter land.

Bella watched the tightness surrounding Warren’s eyes squeeze into a grimace as Trinity bandied around the nickname from his youth. Warren wouldn’t stand that from many people, but Trin, having a similar background to Warren, was the only one of her friends that her fiancé actually liked.

‘I’m fine, Trinity, and yes, I’m here for a couple of hours then it’s back to the city. There’s no time for rest in the investment-banking world. Not like the life you lead up here, quietly farming your life away . . .’ Warren plastered a smile on his face. ‘Anyway, how’s married life so far, old boy? Sorry I couldn’t make it to the ceremony.’

Warren was obviously determined to make an effort, but Bella couldn’t help wincing at the slightly patronising twist in his words. Thank goodness it had flown right past an oblivious and tipsy Trin.

‘Come on, Wozza. Come inside and have a beer . . .’

Bella watched as Trin guided Warren toward the marquee, willing herself to breathe deeply and recover some composure before she faced the crowd of guests.

‘So that’s the
fi-an-cé
, is it?’ A deep voice, thick with contempt, came from her side.

She turned to Will and took in his state. He was already on the rum. His tie was loose and hanging free around his neck and his shirt was unfastened to the point where red-gold hair sprang gently from his muscled chest. The same shirt, which was hanging loose outside his trousers, had dirt smears and sprigs of dry vegetation clinging to various places – all signs of a rumble with a sheila in the thick native grass smothering the mountain plains.

‘Yes, that’s him.’ She went to move away, towards the marquee into which her fiancé and Trin had disappeared.

Will’s hand came out and grabbed her arm.

She looked down at his strong, brown fingers. Why did this hand feel so different to the one that had clasped her in the same spot only days ago, dragging her into the casino to meet Eddie Murray?

Chemistry, girlfriend, chemistry.
Patty’s voice rang clearly in her head again.

Ignoring it, she looked up at Will’s face, a warning, a challenge.

He let her arm go. His move was grudging; his gaze lingering. He watched her walk away, once again.

Out of his life.

Chapter 28

Like many of the other female guests, Bella hung around in the marquee under a huge outdoor heater trying to stay warm.

She watched Warren standing with a group of men. He stood out, a shiny boy in his city clothes. The blokes around him only wore a suit to a wedding, a funeral or a B&S, and even then it was usually from the op shop or smelled of another man’s BO. Their feet were clad in RM’s or in some cases black work boots. Warren, on the other hand, lounged easily in his black Fiorelli suit and leather loafers.

The conversation ebbed and flowed all around. She was enjoying not having to say anything, just observing the people she’d left behind eight years ago. Most had been happy to see her, asking what she’d been doing in Melbourne with avid interest, rather than the polite distracted air she’d become used to in the city. It was a welcome change to talk to the people who’d meant so much to her so long ago.

The only ones she’d avoided were Mildred and Roger Vincent-Prowse. She’d noticed they’d been skirting her too. The girl standing next to her, also soaking up the heater’s rays, spotted her interest in the Vincent-Prowse’s.

‘Prowsy’s gone to Scone,’ said the girl, a blob of cerise-in-satin-shantung. She looked surprisingly like a pink jelly bean.

‘I beg your pardon?’ said Bella, trying hard to remember who the girl was. She knew she’d seen her before but couldn’t put a name to the round, puffy face.

‘Prudence Vincent-Prowse’s gone to Scone,’ said the jelly bean again, pronouncing the place like the cake. Scone? Bella finally got it. ‘Oh, Sc-own?’

‘So
that’s
how you say it! It’s spelled s-c-o-n-e, like the one you bake. So it’s Sc-own, right?’ The jelly bean giggled. ‘Suits Prowsy really, thinking she’s
so
ooh-la-la! Not sure how the bump will suit her, though. Might cramp her style a bit, ay.’ The girl giggled again as she tenderly rubbed her own very pregnant belly.

‘Prowsy’s pregnant?’ asked Bella.

‘Certainly is, according to old Ma Mildred over there. She’s been trying to rub that one into Will’s nose ever since she heard. Doesn’t seem to have worked. Although . . .’ she paused, considering, ‘you really wouldn’t know with Will, he keeps his cards pretty close to his chest, that one. See, they couldn’t have babies apparently. Or one of them wanted them and the other didn’t. Something like that, anyway. Not too sure on the details.’

Bella frowned, confused.

‘You knew Will married Prowsy, didn’t you?’ asked the girl.

‘Yes, I knew that,’ said Bella quickly, as she finally put a name to the girl’s face. Shelley Lukey. The storekeeper’s daughter. Standing just over five-foot tall and very round, she was Burrindal born and bred, a hometown kind of girl. She’d married a faller, a thickset-looking timber cutter who lived up the bush during the week and came home to play on the weekends – and play he obviously did, judging by the size of Shelley’s tummy.

Shelley certainly remembered Bella. While Shelley was growing up, Bella Vermaelon and Patty O’Hara were the belles of Burrindal and Tindarra: pretty, funny and always out for a good time. Then Patty was killed and Bella disappeared, back home to Narree they said and then on to Melbourne.

Shelley had seen the size of the diamond solitaire sitting on Bella’s ring finger and took in the look of the man who’d put it there, standing in a group of blokes not so far away. It was an impressive rock, that was for sure, but Shelley was wise to men, even if she wasn’t to the rest of the world. And that bloke didn’t look like a keeper, not to her mind.

‘I didn’t know Prudence was pregnant. Who’s the father?’ asked Bella, back to the topic at hand.

‘The horse-breeder she ran off with, I suppose.’

Bella raised an eyebrow, inviting more information. Shelley was happy to oblige, leaning in closer and lowering her voice.

‘A few years ago this horse-breeder from New South Wales came to town ’cause he’d heard there were a few good mares to be had around these parts. He went out to Will’s place, liked what he saw and took it away with him when he left town a week or so later. He probably bought some horses too! We didn’t see Will at the Burrindal store for weeks, but then I think hunger must have driven him down from the hills. He looked pretty shithouse picking up all them lawyer’s letters, but then again he looked worse when he came home from Melbourne a few years before . . .’ Shelley trailed off, realising she’d just contracted foot-in-mouth disease.

‘Oh shit, oh shit . . . I’m sorry! My mouth runs away before my head catches up.’ The puffy face blushed.

‘I’m sure I looked the same, if you’d seen me in Melbourne after he left,’ replied Bella softly, while trying to stop her own face from reddening.

She could see Warren was turning, an impatient expression on his face. He was looking for her. It was a chance to excuse herself from Shelley. And it was time to move back in again: talk the talk, walk the walk; participate in this charade of fun and enjoyment, while all the time wondering where her mountain lover had disappeared to in the night.

Will was outside standing at the fire drum, drowning himself in rum. He knew he was going to regret it in the morning, but at this stage he didn’t give a shit. There were plenty of blokes crowded around the drum, piled high with blazing logs, and Macca was having a fine old time telling a yarn on the other side of the fire. But Will was an island of silence, not inviting anyone else to share his space.

He’d let her walk away again. He couldn’t believe it had happened twice. He caught himself wondering if it was three tries and you’re out. ‘You’re a bloody fool, O’Hara,’ he muttered to himself as he took another slurp to empty his can. He threw the aluminium Bundy bear on the ground, squashed it flat with his boot heel, then picked it up and threw it on the fire.

‘Whoa, bucko! I’ll have to clean that bugger out in the morning. Don’t want to be fishing for bloody dirty cans.’ Old Wes Ogilvie hobbled up to his side. ‘You pissed?’ he asked, peering at Will with concern.

‘Yep,’ said Will.

‘Mmm . . . Not like you nowadays. What’s up your gander, or are you just pissin’ Trin’s booze into the wind ’cause you can?’

‘Don’t really want to talk about it, Wes. Here, have a can.’ Will pulled two from an esky loaded with ice, beer, rum and bourbon.

‘Ta, mate. I don’t mind drinking Trin’s piss. He don’t give it away too often. He’s as tight as those molars he used to pull, is that grandson of mine. Although, I have to say, he’s been splashing it around lately with this flash weddin’ and then there’s that new ute he’s bought. I tell you, if it has tits or wheels it’ll cost ya.’

No answer.

Wes took another look at Will, who was staring sightlessly into the shooting, bright orange flames. Sparks hissed into the air as a log dropped further down the drum.

He tried again. ‘If you don’t want to talk about it, it must be a woman who’s driving you to drink. They’ll do that too.’

‘Don’t want to go there, Wes.’

‘She must be good.’

‘Yeah, she’s good all right,’ said Will as he remembered the passionate scenes on Hugh’s Plain only hours before. Then he clamped his hand around his new can and squished it a bit, as he realised what he’d said.

‘Is she worth it, mate?’ asked a shrewd old Wesley, as he juggled to pull out a pipe for a smoke.

‘Dunno. Probably.’ Will moved his weight, agitated now. ‘I’ll be fucked if I know, Wes.’ He took another swig and stared at the blue-and-orange helicopter sitting on the airstrip.

Wes might have been old, but he’d experienced forty years of true love with his wife Catherine before she’d passed away. He followed Will’s gaze to the helicopter.

‘You want something bad enough, boy, you’ll fight for it. But you gotta want it bad enough first.’

Will slowly turned to the old man at his side and stared silently at the wisdom in his eyes. He tipped a pointer finger to his hat and walked away, into the dark mountain night.