The Quilt (42 page)

From under long lashes
Joanne studied his face, the strong jaw and the ice blue eyes squinting against the glare of the sun.  She followed his gaze to the fat lambs that lay in lazy, white fleeced groups under the shade of the trees. 

“Was Twin Pines sheep or cattle?”

Paul seemed to still for a brief moment and then reflectively pulled a blade of grass from his mouth. 

“Mainly sheep
.”

“Do you miss it?”

His eyes frosted and he studied Joanne before answering.

“I miss some things about it.  But it’s hard to walk forward
when you keep looking backward.”

Joanne felt her eyes narrow.

“Is that what you think I am doing?”

“I
think we are all guilty of doing that at some stage in our life.”

Hell
riding the Harley had released a minefield of unpleasant buried memories for him.  An involuntary shudder passed over his spine and Paul abruptly got to his feet.  He extended his hand and helped Joanne to her feet.

“
Fast or slow?”

“Pardon?”

Joanne looked up and saw the muscles in Paul’s face had relaxed and he was watching her with a soft mesmerising smile. 

“Are you happy to travel quickly on the bike or woul
d you prefer me to take it easy?”

“Oh.  Definitely fast
,” she met his eyes searching, “unless, of course, there is something to see.”

“You are very easy to corrupt Ms Kyle
.”

“And you are a very bad influence Mr Clarke
.”

Paul laughed and looked at the delicate hand still nestled
comfortably in his own.  Joanne self-consciously withdrew her fingers before walking briskly towards the car park.

The road continu
ed around the perimeter of the island, dipping into small bays of crystal clear water and putting up dust clouds as they passed clusters of housing and stands of lush sub-tropical bush.  The curves stretched up and the soft foliage blurred into a mass of green leaves and black shadows.  They were not travelling at the same dizzying speed of the isolated road but Joanne still had to strain to focus on the surroundings.  Hesitantly, she tapped Pauls shoulder allowing her hand to rest on the cool leather of his jacket.  He turned slightly and she imagined the blue depths of his eyes focusing on the road ahead.

“Can we slow down so that I can admire the bush?”

A slight nod confirmed he had understood and the roar of the bike became an even, comfortable throb.

The foliage flashed by in a blur of texture as the Harley ate away the miles.  Paul accelerated to a break neck speed.  His face was grim and frozen, his hands clenched on to the controls and his body hunched forward to greet the biting lines of icy rain.  He wore no helmet, his hair stuck in wet strands to his face, he wore no wet weather gear, the saturated material of his polo shirt clung to the muscles of his shoulders and back, he no longer cared.  All he wanted to do was distance himself from the enraged Leslie before he became like Allan Clarke.

It had been a long d
ay, made even longer by an unseasonal cold snap. The newborn lambs that had survived the night lay wet and yellow, shivering on the saturated pastures and conditions were predicted to deteriorate even further. 

He rubbed his
tired eyes and shook off the excess water that ran in rivulets over the surface of his oilskin.  For a moment Paul hesitated at the door.  He sniffed, hoping for the comforting smell of roasting meat.  But all that greeted him was the sound of rain beating a drum against the corrugated iron roof. 

The door groaned open, pushing before it a reluctant pile of rubbish.  The acrid smell of cigarettes and rancid fat filled the filthy interior.  Leslie lay on the cluttered coach eyeing him
with unbridled hostility.  She drew angrily at the cigarette in her mouth and expelled a ring of blue smoke towards the fly-spotted ceiling.

“Where the
hell have you been?”

She picked up the glass of cheap wine from the coffee table and gulped
greedily at the contents.

“I thought we had discussed
not smoking and drinking while you are pregnant?”

Her eyes froze and she
took another long drag on her cigarette while she regarded her husband with distaste.

“Leslie
, I really don’t want to argue with you tonight. ”

“
Really?  If that was the case you wouldn’t have bothered to come back to this dump!”

Paul
shrugged dismissively.  He pushed past and walked to the kitchen.  He began to prepare the beef fillet that he had put in a marinade before leaving to do the lambing beat at day break.

“Are you hungry?”

“Fuck off!”

He ignored her outburst and turned away in an attempt to h
ide the revulsion that coursed through his veins. 

“When this storm has run its course
, perhaps we could spend some time spring cleaning the cottage?”

What the hell did she do with her day?  He glanced away from the dirty dishes f
ighting for space on the discoloured formica bench and focused on the yellow-stained net curtain that hung lopsidedly over a grimy expanse of glass.

“What are you implying?”

Her voice was little more than a hiss and it was now located directly behind him.  Paul spun, raising his arm defensively as the cigarette bit angrily into his flesh.  Her eyes were glazed by the wine and she spat hatred as she fought ineffectively to claw at his face.

“
Go on hit me!  Hit me!  That would make you just like Allan Clarke!”

Paul looked at her
contorted face with horror.  His hand was shaking as it strained to hold her at a safe distance.

“I would never hit a woman
.”

Each word sounded punctuated.

“Then pretend I am a man!”

She was yelling
irrationally.  He knew she was attempting to enrage him.  What he didn’t know was why the hell she would do it.

“If you were a man
you would have been dead long ago.”

Paul swallowed hard fighting
the urge to react to the slow stinging pain as Leslie held the hot embers against his flesh.  A cruel, satisfied smile played at the corners of her mouth.  His eyes narrowed and he released her arms.  Red marks circled her wrists and he eyed them in horror.   Shit, I have to get out of here before I let myself become Allan Clarke.  He spun away from the shrieking hysteria that was his wife and without hesitating headed for the cold, wet comfort of the road.

Paul shook his head to dispel the unwelcome memories.  He slowed, taking a narrow road that dropped steeply down towards a tiny shell covered bay.  Small homes nestled on each side of the road and signs advertised cottage industries selling soaps, candles, pottery and organic produce. Paul guided the bike slowly along the waterfront, dodging the numerous potholes before coming to a stop outside a tiny wooden shop. 

Neglected paint flaked
off leaving large areas of exposed dirty brown timber.  A tiny porch jutted drunkenly towards the road and ancient dirty tables and chairs sat empty, waiting for customers.  An old man with a well-worn face watched them carefully.  His thin lips parted in greeting, revealing yellow stained teeth.  He extended a dirty, frail, purple-veined hand towards Paul.

“Paul Clarke.  What brings
you to this side of the island?”

“The best fish and chips in town
, of course.”

The old man
seemed pleased with the compliment and walked unsteadily back into the filthy building.

“You are joking?”

Joanne searched Pauls face hopefully. 

“Trust me
.”

Paul’s eyes danced a
nd, without giving her a chance to respond, he followed the stooped figure into the store. 

“You must almost be ready to open the restaurant?”

The old man addressed Paul without turning away from the smoky vats of hot oil.

“We are waiting on the last planning approvals.  They should be through in a week or so
.”

The lined wrinkled face turned towards them and he nodded.

“What’s a pretty young thing like you, doing with an ugly hulk of a man like this?”

The blue-
veined hand pointed towards Paul and an uneven chuckle erupted through the yellow teeth. 

“She’s a looker Paul
!”

Joanne felt her face redden under th
e appreciative rheumatic gaze.  He laughed at her discomfort and began to drain and wrap the contents of the fryer on to absorbent paper and then wrap it in layers of newsprint. 

The old man smiled warmly as he watched the couple walk across the
pitted road and settle themselves on to the sun warmed beach.

“You win.  T
his is the best fish and chips I have ever tasted.”

Joanne licked
her fingers appreciatively and tilted her face to the sun. 

“Takes you back to another time doesn’t it?”

“Leslie where are you?  We only have an hour before we are due for dinner.”

“It’s about time you got home.  I am in the room getting ready
.”

Nervously
, Paul looked at his watch.  It was late and Jean was cooking fish and chips for them tonight.  He pushed open the door and stopped.  He felt his face draining of colour.

His wife lay across the
bed.  Her head rested on an immaculately manicured hand.  Scarlet lipstick glistened on her pouting lips and long mascara cloaked eyelashes fluttered invitingly towards him.  Her legs stretched out under fishnet stockings and the tiny matching bra and panties adorned in lace clung precariously to her ample breast and pubic area.  A wave of nausea passed over Paul and pooled like acid in his stomach.

“Tell me I am sexy
.”

She looked at her husband
expectantly and repositioned.  Leslie lightly passed the tip of her tongue over her lips. 

“Tell me you will shift back in
to our room.”

A sphinx-
like smile slipped on to her lips and a slender hand ran suggestively down the length of her thigh.

Paul
looked towards the window.  A light breeze ran through the leaves outside and a tiny fantail flirted in and out of the branches.  He swallowed and his eyes filled with sadness.

“I’m sorry
, Leslie.”

It
had been the first time she had really struck him.  Perhaps his rejection had provoked her.  Perhaps he had been the selfish bastard she described. 

“Welcome back.”

He looked in
to the cloudy grey depths of Joanne’s eyes. 

“Jack was right
, you are a looker!”

Joanne giggled and suddenly
her face looked very young and very vulnerable.

“So what was she like?”

Paul moved uncomfortably.

“I am not sure I know what you mean
.”

“No man retreats like you unless there is or was a woman involved
.”

H
e searched her face before answering.

“Was
.”

Joanne nodded.

“Fast.  I would like to go fast back to Marinella.”

“
Ms, Kyle you definitely are a bad influence.”

They turned off the main highway onto another deserted road.  Paul accelerated quickly until the white line again became a blurred unbroken blemish on the tarmac.  The velvety trees lost their individual features and turned into a tapestry of lacy green, and the fragrance of the bush and damp undergrowth merged until it smelt like sweet musky liquid honey.  The adrenalin coursed through her body heightening every one of her senses.  Throwing caution to the wind she wrapped her arms around Paul’s broad leather clad body and leant with him towards the unforgiving ribbon of black. 

She could feel rather than see the disapproving stare of the two women seated at the large wooden table under a pergola dripping with purple flowers.  Their brows knotted in disapproval as they watched the Harley Davidson idle up the length of the vineyard’s driveway.  As it came to a halt, Joanne reluctantly released her arms from around Paul and deeply inhaled the earthy seductive smell of leather. She stretched like a contented cat absorbing the delicious warmth of the sun and revelling in the unfamiliar feelings of carefree youth that washed over her.  Could a day be made any more perfect?  She glanced shyly at Paul who stood beside the sleek bike casually removing his leathers.  He looked up, as if aware of her scrutiny and pinned her with eyes the colour and depth of glacial ice.  He smiled an intimate boyish smile and the rush of raw longing clenched somewhere deep under Joanne’s ribs.  What the hell? I might as well strip naked and run through the restaurant.  An unwelcome hot blush stole across her face.