Spotted Lily (26 page)

—41—

As soon as I got in the door, Brett was all over me like a rash. 'A thousand thousand thank you's. You have given me such joy!'

His hands, grasping my shoulders, hurt in pleasant ways. He held me at arms' length so we could look into each other's eyes. In the capricious end-of-day light dancing in through the windows, his irises were of many colours.

His joy in seeing me was unmistakable. Suddenly, I, too, felt a spurt of joy, and intense eagerness for tomorrow.

Behind him, though, Mum sat at the far side of the table, facing us and trying not to. I pulled away from Brett. 'Not in front of Mum.'

'Oh.' His hands came away from my shoulders instantly, and he bounced back to the table. Picking up a jam jar with a spray of insignificant white flowers, he presented it to me. 'We picked these for you, Angela!'

Two empty mugs sat on the table, and Uncle Percy's book.

'Tea, Angela?' Mum asked, getting out of her chair.

'Yes, please.'

'Brett says you like steak.'

'Just a cuppa. A mug,' I corrected, embarrassed. 'I've eaten,' I lied. I didn't want her cooking for me. Nor did I want to know what Brett had eaten.

'You didn't tell me he's a naturalist,' Mum called from the kitchen, as the kettle sang.

'And an artist,' I yelled.

Brett blushed. He reached up to his cheek, feeling it. 'You have a beautiful place here, Angela.'

'Thank you,' I said.

'Do you like the flowers?' he asked, strangely shy.

'Yes, Brett,' I smiled.

'You don't really,' he said, and then smacked himself on the head. 'I forgot.'

He reached back to the top of the bookcase and picked up a magnifying glass. 'Look at them now.'

They were lovely up close. And they had a freckling of lilac spots.

He picked up Percy's book. 'They're here. Would you like to see?'

Before I could say anything, he had opened to the page—the one that he'd done the big illustration of.

'It's the spotted lily, Angela. Not like all those other spotted lilies abroad. According to your uncle, uh, great-uncle, this is only to be found on Wooronga. And as you know, it isn't even a lily. It's an orchid.'

He was so excited, his words came out in jerks. 'And Angela. He only found it twice before they made him leave. Twice, Angela! Think of the portent!'

Mum came out just at that moment, like a servant does who's been listening at the keyhole but has to emerge some time.

Brett hadn't finished. He smiled at her, and then turned to me.

'For us!' he whispered.

~

I drank my tea while they pored over a collection of botanical specimens spread out on a torn sheet on the floor, comparing them with pictures in books that Mum took from the shelf. Then they took the plants off to the kitchen, where I heard them arranging the stuff on racks to dry in Mum's warm oven.

'We didn't get in so long ago ourselves,' she said when they came back to the lounge. 'Glorious day, wasn't it?'

Meanwhile, Fly was acting weirder as the evening wore on, moaning around Brett's feet.

When Brett sat at the table again, he reached down in his usual way, easing his laces.

'Ah,' said Brett, in the way he always did at that action.

'Wrrrooof!' said Fly, who went ballistic, sniffing around Brett's ankles, running to Mum, going back to Brett and circling, and then, because of the level of deafness in the room, leaping on Mum's lap and snapping a huge
woof
a hair's breadth from her nose.

'That's it!' snapped Mum.

She got up so fast, her chair fell over. 'Goodoh, boy,' she said to Fly. 'I'm ashamed of you, Angela. Don't you notice anything?'

She clomped off to the kitchen, and I heard the door open and close to the outside, as she went to a little outhouse and came back.

She came in carrying buckets and a towel and a big plastic basin.

Brett rushed up to her. 'I'll take that,' he said.

'You'll do no such thing,' she said. 'Sit in that bloody chair.'

Fly agreed, happily herding Brett into one of the easy chairs.

Mum reached for his boots. 'You taking 'em off, or do I?'

'No!' he screamed—already too late.

With a mammoth pair of scissors and one snip each, she'd expertly sliced through the back of each boot, and whipped it off.

Brett's hands covered his face.

Mum rocked back on her heels.

Then she literally jumped to her feet and rushed to the desk, where she yanked on the bottom drawer. It stuck as it always had. 'C'mon, yur blighter!' she growled, and punched up from below. She pulled again and the heavy drawer came smooth as pleeze. At that, she grabbed it out and dumped it upside down on the floor—where she sat, throwing legal documents, a paper punch, a dog collar, and empty boxes out of her way. Under all that, she found what she wanted and rushed back to Brett. He still had his hands over his eyes, and was making sounds like the death moan of a fly against a window.

She grabbed one of his legs and plonked it on the thing in her hand.

'Look,' she commanded.

The plaster cast fit Brett as if he had stepped into the very mud that the cast had been made in.

Brett looked, stunned.

'Sure as eggs,' she said, matter-of-factly, and put the cast on the floor. 'You don't remember us doing this, do you, Angela?'

I did. Boofhead was a yearling then, and had just won at Wagga.

Mum got up and opened every window and the door, and threw some books onto the desk to keep the papers safe from wind gusts.

Even so, the smell was powerful—diarrhoea mixed with Limburgh cheese.

'How could you let him get this way?' Mum asked, not looking at me. 'How do you ignore your friends like this? Sorry, Brett. I don't have a good smeller.'

I wanted to leave the room, but couldn't.

'Just treat him, Mum.'

'I am, Angela.' But first, she reached over and patted Fly on the head. He had settled by the basin, where he supervised Mum.

She mixed blue powder into water.

'I would normally cut,' she told Brett, 'But I don't know how those doctors did this. And I could hurt you. Now dunk them both in for a good soak.'

Brett had stopped moaning. He did as he was told, watching Mum's every move.

'Have you gone the whole way?' she asked, sitting back on her haunches.

Brett was at a loss to answer.

'You've got a tail, haven't you?'

He nodded, incredulous.

She smiled. 'That's only proper. Angela wouldn't remember Boofhead's tail but—'

'I do,' I interjected.

'Foot rot's a terrible thing,' Mum said. 'Fly always picks it out. They must have been beautiful when they were first done, but now . . Never mind. You have this long? And why the blazes did you shove those boots on? No wonder you didn't take them off. A crowbar couldn't have shifted them.''

She clucked for a while more as she knelt beside the basin. Then, 'Up,' she instructed, as she lifted one of Brett's legs, and he lifted the other out of the water. She shoved the basin away and picked up the towel beside her, placing it in her lap. Then she lowered the hoof to her lap, and carefully dried it. Gingerly, she lowered it to the floor. Then she did the same to the other hoof. 'Can you get off the chair and lay on your tum,' she asked, 'or you need help?'

'No,' Brett said, going down on all fours.

She dragged the cushion off his chair, and some dried peas of venerable age bounced onto the lino. The cushion thudded to the floor. 'Put your head on that' she instructed.

When he was settled on his stomach, she took up position, sitting on the back of his thighs.

'Stay there,' she ordered, jumping up and going to the desk, where she found some reading specs under a pile of papers.

Settling herself on Brett again, she picked up one of his hooves and inspected its underside, running her forefinger between its cleft. Suddenly, it jerked in her hand.

'Stuhh-die!' she commanded, clamping his calf between her thighs. 'Right?'

'Sorry,'

'It'll hurt,' she said, and set to digging away the stinky stuff with the delicate touch of a watchmaker, but the speed of a dog eating dinner.

Whether it hurt or not, I can't say. He lowered his head to the cushion, and let her do what she would.

Finally, she blew into and all around each hoof, till each was clean. 'You mind Stockholm Tar?'

His neck muscles stood out as he craned backwards. 'Should I?'

'Use it for everything. Tree wounds, sheep. Love the smell of it. Don't you?'

All this time, she had been working with the odd glance over her shoulder at his face on the pillow. Now she held up the jar of molasses-thick tar. With her other hand still holding one hoof against her stomach, she twisted her torso and stretched, to get the jar closer to his nose.

'Mum!' I jumped up to take it to him, but he was already craning his neck, so I had to sit down again.

He sniffed, and then breathed in audibly. 'It smells familiar.'

It should have. It resembled his own scent when he was happy.

She tarred, and then bandaged each hoof in white gauze. 'This breathes,' she assured him, 'You're done.'

She got up off him. He turned onto his back. She replaced the cushion on the chair and helped him to climb back onto it.

All in all, this had taken almost an hour. I offered to clean up, but she demurred. 'It's easier for me than to tell you how.'

I stayed in my chair at the table while Brett sat where he had been put. He held his legs parallel to the floor.

'Put your hooves down,' said Mum, wiping her tarry hands on a piece of torn sheet. 'It won't hurt.'

He looked stuck in position.

'What's wrong?' I asked.

Mum took his arm. 'You feel unbalanced, don't you?'

He nodded.

'How long you had those bloody boots on?'

'I don't know.'

'Well, they're Fly's now.'

And it was true. Half of Brett's left boot was already in Fly's stomach, and the way those jaws were moving, there'd be no boots for Fly, for brekkie.

'A cuppa before bed?' Mum asked.

'Ta,' said Brett, smiling at me.

'I'll help,' I said, and went with her to the kitchen before she could say no.

'Thanks for helping, but he's a very private person,' I said, somehow needing to say it rather than having everything at her level of recrimination.

'I understand, Angela. Sorry I got hot under the collar. I was red-faced, you know ... making such a silly mistake when you came.'

'No problem, Mum.' This was better than the feral atmosphere back there, and Mum was Mum. Since there were only a small number of hours left that I'd have to put up with her, it was better that they be civil ones.

'I shouldn't have jumped to conclusions,' she said.

'That's fine, Mum. I told you, no worries.'

'Especially since he's too old for you.'

I repressed a strong desire to scream. She'd think of me as
nightie night
age, or was it seventeen? for the rest of her life. I read that somewhere. Your image jells in someone's mind, and you are forever young, as the rest of the world grows older. She didn't look any different to me, either.

'Anyway...' She stuck out her elbows to pour. 'I made up your room.'

'Again?'

'No, girl!'

A sound that I remembered now came out from between her teeth. 'That's what I was trying to say,' she said. 'I didn't know you weren't a couple, and that poor Brett would have to spend the night outdoors. I made up your room for you, and Brett can sleep in mine. I'm bedding down in Stuart's.'

'That was a lot of work, Mum.'

'How often do you visit, Angela? It's nothing.'

—42—

We had our cups of tea and Mum took her leave. She'd fixed the hot tap, and sounds of the shower travelled down the hall.

I told Brett about the sleeping arrangements. 'You better make your bed look like you've slept in it,' I instructed.

He nodded.

'You're going out tonight, aren't you?'

'I have to,' he said.

'Are you prepared?'

'I'm still preparing. Angela...'

'Night, Brett.' I got up from the table.

'Angela...'

'What
, Brett.' This was no place to discuss anything, particularly why he hadn't trusted me enough to let me know about his feet. I wanted to go to my room, if I couldn't leave this house yet, to nurse my hurt.

'Do you think I'm ugly?' he asked.

'For god's sake!'

'Meaning?'

'Brett. You make me so
angry
.'

'But—'

'You're gorgeous. Can you walk?'

'Yes.'

'Well, get the fuck ready for tomorrow.'

'Yes, Angela.'

He got up from the table and began walking down the hall.

I ran after him and grabbed. 'I'm sorry, Brett. This is difficult here for me. Tomorrow is D-Day?'

'D-Day?'

'Aangela, save me. Pleeeze!' I mocked.

'Yes, Angela,' he smiled.

'Well, kiss me,' I said, putting my arms around his waist.

'Nightie night,' Mum called from the hallway.

'Nightie night,' I yelled, my face lifted to Brett's, confusing him so much that he broke away, embarrassed.

The moment was lost, but this house was not exactly conducive to romance.

'Till tomorrow, Brett.'

'Yes, Angela.'

'Remember to muss the bed.'

~

My old room had been cleared of everything except my bed and a little night table—the same I grew up with. I got into bed naked. I had forgotten to tell him, and he had forgotten to remember.

Tomorrow is the nother day
I whispered to myself—Dad's saying on the eve of momentous occasions.

~

My head ached abominably. My spit stunk. My armpits smelt like decaying mice. And the only good thing was that now I was awake. My nightmare of a life—awake—was better than the nightmares I had just woken from, whatever they must have been. My mattress was wet—a mixture of fear and the sweat of day. What were the dreams about? I hadn't a clue, but it was already 10 am.

I jumped out of bed and had to put my clothes on to go down the hall, to the shower. Luckily, no one was there. The only soap was Sunlight, stinking of sheep, but even that was better than my own body odour.

After my shower I went to find Brett, but he wasn't about. If he delayed much longer, we'd be late.

I sat on the sagging wood of the top step, calling out occasionally, a great way to increase one's headache and general bonhomie.

Just when I was ready to cry, he rushed up from behind the house.

'Good morning!' he called.

I rattled the keys in my hand. 'We're gonna be late.'

Mum came out the front door. 'Good morning,' Angela. Have a good meeting.'

'Thanks, Mum. Come
on
, Brett!'

'Should I wear gumboots?' he asked.

His hooves were still covered with bandages. He seemed to have no problem walking but he looked pretty weird—so much plant matter sticking out from the gauze that they could have been Yeti feet in camouflage.

'Up to you,' I said, and jumped in the ute. 'But get your bloody arse into gear!'

As he fit first one pair and then another onto his hooves, finally finding the right bowl of porridge, I gunned the engine and counted the hours till this period of my life would be over, and the new chapter would begin.

I was just pulling out when I remembered something. 'Don't touch anything!' Leaving the engine running, it only took a second until I was back, tossing a real hat into his lap.  'Brush off the dust before you put it on.' 

'Is this right?'

I glanced at him as I sped down the gravel track, and grunted.

Funny, I thought, how here I was, on the cusp of my life's fulfilment, and here he was, if anything, more devastatingly handsome than ever—and all I felt was a mighty irritation, a barbed-wire ball of anger.

I took the risk of looking at him for a longer moment—my companion, my life, my ticket to the future, there in the seat beside me. And
funny
, I thought,
how I much I really want at this moment, to smack him in the kisser
.