Only Killers and Thieves(103)
The road twists through hilly bushland, then drops into town, giving a view of the whole place as he rides in. It’s not much, really. One of everything just about. Baker, butcher, general store. There’s a pub and some tearooms and an iron-walled shed they call a town hall. All on the one street, houses scattered around, spreading up into the hills. The same creek that flows through his selection also winds through the town; they’ve tried to make a feature of it, built a hump-backed bridge, a bandstand, there’s a park with flower beds and a paved walking path. It’s nice here, he supposes. He’s lived in worse places since leaving Glendale.
Although, can he really claim to live here? That he belongs? Certainly he’s at home on his own land, but even after six years he’s something of an outsider in town. Not that he’s unwelcome—the fires of ninety-eight had seen to that. From his hillside he’d seen the smoke cloud coming, read its movement, read the wind, knew it was headed for town. He’d ridden like a madman to warn them, come tearing in along the road to find plenty still oblivious, going about their business, no clue what was coming their way. He’d carried water from the creek, stood with them shoulder to shoulder in the face of the fire. Then afterward, the bulk of the town mercifully spared, others not so lucky, he had done what he could to help. They’d all been grateful. He wasn’t a stranger anymore. Despite the lingering suspicion and disapproval at how he lived, this man Robert Thompson—a name he’d taken from a headstone in a town called St. George—was an alright bloke after all. Gently, he pulled away again. Kept to himself on his farm. He has a story all worked out but doesn’t like to tell it. It’s easier not to have to. Easier on his own.
But they’re friendly enough. They pass the time and wave or touch their hats when they see him riding in. Today is no different. He smiles and does the same. He walks Lady in the direction of the general store, but then notices that the baker’s wife is serving and dismounts outside the bakery instead. He tethers Lady to the rail, takes off his hat as he walks in through the door.
“Well now, Bobby, isn’t this a nice surprise.”
She is around his own age, blond-haired, green-eyed, sharply featured, and attractive despite a billowing apron and a day’s work in her face. She smiles wearily and fidgets as he approaches the counter, touching her clothing, her hair. They often do this, the women in town. He is thirty-three years old and unmarried, and they don’t get many newcomers here.
“Hello, Emily, you keeping well?”
“Oh, you know. Too hot with the oven. You alright up there, are you?”
“Aye, we’re fine. Running short, though. Couple of loaves if you would.”
She looks around the shop with a pained grimace. The shelves behind her are bare. A few meat pies and pastries in the cabinet but that’s all.
“It’s the end of the day, Bobby. Bread’s all gone. If I knew when you were coming, I’d have kept some back. You only have to ask.”
“Don’t worry. Just two of them pies, maybe. Still warm, are they?”
She shakes her head pityingly, then laughs. “Not your day, I don’t think.”
He laughs too. “Ah, give ’em here. Be lovely if you’ve made them anyway.”
Her cheeks flush a little deeper. She wraps and bags the pies. He watches her fondly, this woman he barely knows, enjoys the two of them flirting like this, the effect it has on her, on him. He is aware that women talk about him, that they watch him through the windows as he walks down the street, and are all the more curious for how little he reveals.
“It’s just not healthy, a man living all alone like that.”
“He’s got that native up there with him. A woman now, I heard.”
“Well, that would explain it. Man like that should be married to a nice white girl, not chasing after some black.”
“And children. Should be a father by his age.”
“Exactly. To look at him you’d think there’d be a litter running around!”
In fact, there had been a woman, once. He had met her in Melbourne, on one of his visits—he has business there a couple of times a year. A waitress by the name of Anne; she had served him his tea. Fair-skinned, red-haired, freckles on her arms and cheeks. They had briefly spoken, then he found himself returning to the tearooms the following day, knowing it was a mistake but allowing himself to make it all the same. He had allowed himself so little. He thought maybe she was worth the risk.
Six months later Anne came out to live with him. He’d intended marriage, but she was back in Melbourne within eight weeks. The isolation unnerved her; he wouldn’t let her change things, wouldn’t change himself. The stolen nights they’d shared in the city, their carefree conversations, were replaced with anxiety and questions about his family, his childhood, his past.
“Whatever happened I’ll still love you,” she once told him, her damp eyes pleading, her palm against his cheek.
“No you won’t,” he said, brushing her away and heading back out to the fields.
The force of his dreams had been a shock to her: they had never come for him in Melbourne, in her lodgings or his hotel room. She saw the very worst of him, the screaming and the sweating and the horror in his face, and knew there was something rotten within. He could see it frightened her: how could they be married when she was scared of her man?