The Idea of Perfection (21 page)

Then the fat woman, the one whose Nanna made the miniatures, was standing beside Mr Cutcliffe with a plate of meat.

Here you go, Mr Cutcliffe, she said. Salad’s over on the table, you know your way around.

She took his place on the stool.

He’s the teacher, she said, watching him go over to the table. Mr Cutcliffe. Taught me, too. And look, I’m Leith. I know how it is with names.

Leith smiled peacefully over towards the swimming-pool.

He’s real good with the kids, Mr Cutcliffe. But you don’t want to get him started on the bushrangers. His mother was a Hall, see, and he’s that proud of it.

She shifted on the little canvas stool and it creaked dangerously.

Now listen, Harley, she said, and Harley tightened herself up against whatever was coming. She was going to be told she had done something wrong. Perhaps she had left one of the gates open on the way in.

Sorry you missed out on the bucket the other day, she said in her slow smiling way. Grandad’s a bit funny about the display.

Harley nodded, and tried to make her smile as peaceful as Leith’s.

Perfectly all right, she said. No problem at all.

But it made her giddy. She had come very close to losing her temper with
Grandad,
had nearly shouted at him, slapped the counter, stormed out of the shop. If she had, everyone in Karakarook would have known within half an hour. Here in Karakarook there would be no hiding a
dangerous streak.

The Asian man came over with a plate full of food for her, and another for himself, and with another strained creak from the stool, Leith got up.

Alfred, isn’t it? Harley said, remembering the tiny secretive writing on her list.

Then she wondered if that might be wrong, too. Perhaps he liked to be called
Mr Chang,
the way Bert Cutcliffe obviously like to be
Mr Cutcliffe.
Or
Alfred Chang
might have been someone else, and now he would think,
she thinks we all look the same.

Yes, he said, only I’m Freddy to my friends. Like the frog. Call me Freddy.

He smiled at her, a frank cheerful boyish smile, although she could see, close up like this, that he was no boy.

Try this rump, he said. Butchered it myself.

They chewed the steak together in silence for a moment. It was very tough. Harley tried not to let him see how her jaw was straining at it.

Tough as old boot leather, he said cheerfully.

Harley was getting ready to protest that no, it was
lovely,
such a
good flavour,
and
not really tough at all,
but he got in first.

Leave that, he said. I’ll get you some snags. No need to be polite.

After the snags he took her plate away.

Got something to show you, he said.

He did not quite take her by the hand, but the gesture implied it, and it seemed impolite not to follow him. Coralie glanced up and did something with her face that was some kind of message, but at that distance it was impossible to know what it meant. In the far corner of the garden, bushes screened them from the party and the light turned green, filtering down through a big tree of some thick shady kind.

The butchering tree, Freddy said. Grandpa was cook out here in the old days.

He pointed up into the leaves, where a thick branch hung directly over their heads.

See? The hook. Hang the beast up on that, slice it down, all the guts fall straight out.

If he was trying for shock effect, he had picked the wrong audience.

Oh yes, Harley said, but she was already moving to go back to the party. As she was turning, Freddy was suddenly in front of her with a hand gripping her elbow.

Know what Karakarook means? he said.

She could feel his thumb, stroking the skin just above her elbow.

In Aboriginal?

Taking her elbow had brought him very close to her. He was shorter than she was, chunky and muscular, and was watching her in a certain kind of intent way.

It means elbow.

She knew that intent look. She had received it a lot in her younger days, in spite of her lack of
looks.
She knew what it came from, and she knew exactly what it led to. It was flattering, in a way, to be getting it at her time of life, and from a man certainly not lacking in charm.

Number two husband had been like this Freddy: that nice lopsided smile, that nuggety quality. Like Freddy, he had given off a kind of steam of sexuality, an innocent animal vigour. He had flirted with anyone. It did not mean anything. It was just a reflex, the way you saw the kids in Newtown going along trying the handles of all the parked cars, just on the off-chance. Occasionally, often enough to keep them trying, one of the doors would open.

Freddy was to be congratulated for being willing to give such unpromising material a try. In Karakarook there’d be a terrible shortage of new doors, not much room for
just on the off-chance.
You’d know everyone, and they’d know you, and there’d be no room for secrets. A new person, and especially a new person who was just passing through, would be an opportunity you would just have to take when it was offered.

Poor Freddy was not to know how entirely her history had made such intent looks irrelevant. Not so much unwelcome as simply obsolete.

She resisted the impulse to laugh.

To demonstrate what he meant, he crooked his own arm, the one that was not holding hers.

Because of the bend in the river.

Crooking his elbow and holding it up to show the way the river bent had brought him even closer.

Well, she said, and moved herself away just slightly. That’s an interesting piece of information, Freddy.

He caught the tone straight away and dropped his hand from her elbow.

They looked at each other. He was not surprised, not disappointed, just weighing up whether it would be worth trying again.

Any time you need information, he suggested, watching her.

Thanks, she said.

She heard the dryness in her tone and for an instant she was sorry. You would have a few laughs with this Freddy.

Elbows, knees, he said. Body parts in general.

I know where to come, she agreed, and allowed herself a smile.

From over at the barbecue, someone called out
Bring us the lemonade while you’re there, love! Bottom shelf of the fridge!

 

 

Back with the others, heat pressed down on everything. People had found places to sprawl under the big leafy trees. They had gone quiet, conversation progressing in fits and starts with long pauses in between. Even the children had stopped hurling themselves at the water, and had disappeared somewhere.

Coralie came over and sat beside her on the grass.

I see you’ve met our Freddy, she said.

Harley could hear how she was feeling her way.

You could start a scandal in Karakarook that way. Go behind the bushes with the butcher for two minutes. One person noticing would be all it took.

Not telling you about Karakarook, Coralie asked. What it means in Aboriginal?

Well, as a matter of fact, yes.

Coralie gave a sudden admiring laugh that made Donna’s husband glance over from scraping the barbecue.

Doesn’t waste any time, our Freddy.

They both watched Freddy getting beers out of an esky and handing them round.

Not a bad bloke, Coralie said. Got his mother and his auntie out on the farm, they’re neither of them well. You’ve got to hand it to him, looking after them the way he does.

She glanced at Harley.

But it‘s, you know, limiting for him.

Harley watched Donna’s husband, a calm, smiling man whose tee-shirt said JACK THE RIPPER with blood dripping off each letter. He was hoisting up a little girl who had run out of the house. She sat astride his hip, picking at the thick rubbery paint of the blood.

So have you got a husband at all, yourself?

Harley could tell Coralie meant it to sound casual, but it came out a bit blunt.

She rushed on, covering it up.

Don’t take any notice of me, love. We’re all stickybeaks out here in the bush.

Then she left a silence.

I did have, Harley said. But he’s gone.

Her own laugh took her by surprise.

Not dead and gone. Just gone.

It was true, more or less. It was completely true of two of the three husbands. True of the majority.

Any little lie that was necessary to keep covered up the way in which the third husband was
gone
was a kindness. There were times when everyone was happier with a little lie.

Coralie turned her glass, looking at the way the light made the beer look like honey, put it down on the grass, made a reasonable assumption.

They do that, don’t they, she said finally. They can be bloody idiots.

Donna came over to them. She had a plastic bag full of something she wanted to show Harley, but could not bring herself to. It was interesting, watching someone else being shy.

Go on, pet, show her, Coralie said, but Donna was half-angry.

Oh, it’s nothing, it’s just a lot of rubbish.

Exactly! Coralie cried, and turned to Harley. Just what you said, wasn’t it, pet, about the rubbish?

It was not hard to see who wore the pants in that relationship.

But Harley was not going to get involved in this one.

Oh, well, she murmured diplomatically. Well, you know.

Coralie grabbed the bag and pulled out a handful of what was in it: tailor’s samples of dark wool, dozens of them. A couple of the squares dropped out of her hand and Donna quickly bent to pick them up. Now that Coralie had got the ball rolling, Donna was braver.

Mr Sinclair’s grand-daughter gave them to the fete, she said. But nobody wanted them.

She held up a lustrous navy-blue with a faint grey stripe.

I could have told her that, but you can‘t, when it’s a fete, can you?

I’d have bought them, Harley said. Like a shot.

They were quality wool, dense sombre colours, mint condition. She actually felt her mouth watering at the idea of piecing them together.

Want them? Donna said. You’re more than welcome.

She held the bag out. Harley had to stop herself snatching it and pawing greedily through the squares.

Just what I needed, she said. I’m doing a sort of pretend wagga. Based on the old bridge, you know?

This threatened to create the sort of silence that had greeted
Australian vernacular,
but Mr Cutcliffe rescued the moment. Ah, show and tell, eh? he said, coming over. Ten and a half out of ten, girls.

Coralie and Donna laughed, even though Harley did not think it was much of a joke, but after a moment she felt she should join in too. Mr Cutcliffe looked round at them all going
heh heh heh.
You could see how pleased he was to have made them laugh, even if they were only being polite. It was worth the little effort, to see the pleasure it gave him.

It was a new idea for Harley. In the city you could avoid people like Mr Cutcliffe, who did not know when enough was enough on some subject dear to their heart. You could pretend to be terribly busy. The word deadline could be used or you could be
just on your way out of the house.

But out here, she could see people went by different rules. You did not just pick out the best bits of life. You took the whole lot, the good and the bad. You forgave people for being who they were, and you hoped they would be able to forgive you. Now and again you were rewarded with the small pleasure of being able to laugh, not uproariously but genuinely, at a small witticism offered by someone who was usually a bore.

More than the heat and the flies, that was what made the bush feel like another country, where anything was possible.