The Fancies, page 8
Slowly, she made her way across the grass, alert for any sounds of hissing or honking, primed for the flap of a feather.
No goose. She relaxed, muttering obscenities under her breath.
In the stables, she waited for her eyes to adjust to the gloom. There was the familiar close smell of fresh sawdust, hay and horse piss. She peered into each stall as she passed. All were empty apart from the final one on the left. As she approached, she heard the muffled heavy sound of hooves on straw, the clank of an empty feed bucket.
Abigail stopped at the half-door and looked in.
Staring back at her was a handsome bay riding pony. Snowy white blaze down her face, big brown eyes. At the sight of Abigail, the horse lifted her head and nickered, nostrils flapping. Abigail’s gaze travelled past the pony’s head, along her sleek neck, past muscled shoulders to see enormous, bulging flanks. The pony looked almost wider than she was tall.
‘Well, well,’ Abigail said. ‘You’re fat too.’
That’s when she saw the second set of feet, behind the pony’s rear hooves. Work boots, jeans, a pair of legs unfolding, then out from behind the mare stepped a man. Tall, solidly built, hair cropped short. Rolled shirt-sleeves, black zippered vest.
‘Obviously,’ she said, ‘I don’t mean you. You can lift.’
The man didn’t say anything.
Holding his gaze, she tilted her head, setting her elbows on the stable door. ‘Who are you,’ she said, ‘and what are you doing to my mother’s horse’s arse?’
The man patted the pony’s rump and Abigail took note of his big hands. Still he said nothing, so she asked, ‘You’re the vet?’
He gave her a single nod.
‘Okay, vet. Why is this mare pregnant in autumn?’
Abigail knew foaling season was typically in spring—the beginning of cray season. As a kid it wasn’t unusual for Abigail and her brothers to have been alone at breakfast, getting ready for school, just the three of them rattling around the echoing house while her father was out on the boat, her mother out with a broodmare. But here they were in mid-autumn, cray season over, and this mare was ripe as a peach and ready to drop.
The vet’s eyes trailed back to the pony. Finally he spoke. ‘She broke out.’
‘Broke out?’
‘Got in with a stallion.’
‘Aren’t those guys usually, like, double-fenced?’
‘She’s determined.’
Abigail looked the mare in the eye. ‘Hussy.’
‘You’re Abigail,’ the vet said, and her name in his mouth gave her a low stab of desire.
‘Have we met?’
‘Nope.’
Smiling, she scooched up closer to the stable door, hiking herself onto her toes and bringing her breasts onto her forearms. ‘How can that be? You’re not new in town, right?’
‘Yep.’
She stopped scooching. ‘Yes, you’re new? Or yes, you’re not new?’
The vet looked at her for a beat before he said, ‘New.’
‘Did you have to break through a fence, too?’
Now he stared at her and did not answer at all.
Granted, it had been some months since Abigail had attempted to flirt with anyone (and suggesting handies to the screws didn’t count), but this was going atrociously.
‘Have you got a name then, new vet?’
‘Nate Ruskin,’ he said finally. He took a step towards her and held out his hand, and Abigail shook it and it was the most sex she’d had since last winter.
‘Pleasure to meet you,’ she said. ‘How long have you been in this shithole?’
‘Not glad to be back?’
‘No.’ She took one elbow off the stable door, rolling her body sideways to look somewhere else, because she was starting to feel annoyed at herself and therefore also at him.
‘Six months,’ he said. She heard him step closer and now she had the impression he was throwing her a lifeline.
Six months? If Patty Smith’s kid was born here, owned a local business and was still considered a ‘blow-in’, what did that make the vet?
‘So how’d you make it into town?’ she asked.
‘How did I gain acceptance, you mean?’
She laughed to hear it said so plainly, from someone who a few minutes earlier had barely disclosed his name. ‘Of course that’s what I mean.’
The vet bent to retrieve a bag from the stable floor. He came to the door and she stared up at him, all six-foot-plenty of him, before slowly stepping aside to let him out. As he left the stall, the mare came up to the door, pushing her face past Abigail’s shoulder in a humid waft of horse.
‘Who says I have been accepted?’ he said.
‘You’re here.’ She indicated the stables in which they were standing. Her mother’s.
The pony nudged the vet’s sleeve and he scratched between her eyes, returning to his brooding quiet.
Abigail straightened, but she still didn’t reach much higher than the vet’s breast pocket. ‘Well,’ she said. ‘It’s been nice, but I’ve got a wheelbarrow to find, and no doubt you’ve got other horses’ arses to attend.’
‘Tell your mum I’ll be back to check on this one again tomorrow, if she lasts that long.’
Abigail nodded at the mare. ‘How much longer?’
‘Any day now,’ he said. He gave the mare a final pat then stepped away. ‘Did you say you’re looking for a wheelbarrow?’ He indicated the direction of the feed room with his chin. ‘You’ll find nothing in there. It’s a mess.’
‘Oh, Nate Ruskin,’ she said, smiling again. ‘If only you knew what kind of mess I am used to.’
Nate’s eyebrows twitched.
Then, pinning her ears, the mare sunk her teeth into Abigail’s upper arm.
THEM
Jessica Bram watched the spectacle at the boat ramp through the front window of the gift shop. She saw old Fish Fisher in his tractor staging an unexpected sit-in, she watched that beefsteak, Twitch Witchens, looking perplexed and Spike Flaherty, on the deck of Young Dick Fancy’s boat, looking pissed off. Jessica watched Young Dick Fancy stride up and make it all better.
Hanging the Back in 5 minutes sign, Jessica slipped out and hurried across the street.
She sidled up to Col Morton. ‘What’s going on?’
Col glanced at her. There was something unreadable in Col’s eyes, Jessica noticed. He lingered on her face a moment and then his head tilted, almost imperceptibly, as if something curious had happened.
‘Lofty’s boat’s missing,’ Col said.
‘Missing?’
Col nodded. ‘Fish thinks stolen.’
‘Stolen?’
They blinked at each other, mystified, then out came the explanation: Fish wouldn’t move the tractor because he claimed someone stole Lofty’s Queenie II after the bone washed up—maybe someone knew something about where the bone came from and they needed to dispose evidence offshore, Col conjectured—but Young Dick Fancy talked Fish down. There was also something about Lofty’s ex-wife and a gang of angry bikies, but Col didn’t want to say much more about that.
‘Weird,’ Col finished.
‘I’ll say,’ said Jessica.
Jessica wasn’t looking at Col, she was looking towards the ramp, where Spike was lashing Young Dick’s boat into the trailer, but she felt Col’s eyes on her again. Very casually, without looking at Col, Jessica said, ‘First a bone, then Abigail Fancy comes back, now this.’
Col said nothing, but he didn’t look away.
Early yesterday morning, when Mrs Potts’s dog had dragged the bone out from under a pile of kelp, Mrs Potts had shooed the dog away, returned home and mentioned it to her son, Damon. Damon promptly headed to the beach, saw the bone himself and called the police. And Damon Potts called the police because he was a massive suck-up. Somehow always relegated to peer in from outside the inner circles of Port Kingerton, Damon had decided, in this case, to plant his flag firmly into the fertile centre. One look at that chewed white bone sitting on the sand and Damon Potts had known: this was his moment. If it turned out to be a cow or a roo as some people would say, so be it. He would take the gamble. Because if it wasn’t? If it was human, as his desperate, striving instinct had told him? Well. Damon Potts would forever be the person the cops spoke to first. He might even become a suspect. How awesome would that be? How lucrative, down at the pub!
This was the story Jessica Bram recounted to Col Morton now, verbatim, and Col said, ‘I know, Pottsy’s a tosser.’
‘Yeah,’ said Jessica, ‘but look at it now—he was right, wasn’t he?’
‘Right about what?’
‘There’s something to be in the middle of. Something is happening.’
‘Something what?’
Jessica pointed. ‘Human remains. The Fancys. Stolen boats.’
Now Jessica looked at Col and saw he was chewing his lip. Brows furrowed, his attention was again focussed on Young Dick Fancy, who was standing on the ramp as Twitch eased the tractor forward and Young Dick’s boat inched out of the water.
‘You know what this means, don’t you?’ Jessica said, in a tone that suggested it was obvious, and while it wasn’t obvious at all to Col, he didn’t want to admit that, so he made a non-committal noise that he hoped covered all potential responses, because he knew Jessica would continue anyway. Which she did.
‘The Fancys will be all over it.’
‘And?’
‘And I’ve had enough of those arrogant twats owning the place.’
It was a risk, Jessica knew, throwing such a bold line at Col Morton. Especially with Young Dick barely a hundred metres away. Everyone knew Col and Young Dick were tight. But everybody also knew that, even though Jessica’s grandfather Ed and Old Dick Fancy’s wife Lucy had both died years ago, finally putting to rest that long era of cock fighting, any respect between the Brams and the Fancys remained tentative and grudging.
So Jessica Bram wasn’t about to waste this opportunity to express herself.
‘You’re just nervous cos Abigail’s back,’ Col said, but he didn’t sound certain.
Jessica shook her head. She knew a pivotal moment had arrived. The cracks were already showing.
In Port Kingerton, it was time, once again, to choose who was right.
And who wasn’t.
While his boat was coming out of the water, Young Dick had been paying attention. He saw Jessica Bram emerge from the gift shop and pull Col Morton aside, and he marvelled about how time could fold away in an instant. All those years Abigail had been gone now felt like a heartbeat to Young Dick as he saw Col and Jessica draw together.
Whenever teenage Abigail had come home from school stormy-faced and swearing, it was usually Nell who dealt with it. Later, Nell would fill him in: someone called someone a skank; a chunk of hair sliced and tossed in the axolotl tank; a not-insignificant brawl that resulted in eyebrows painted with white-out. All Young Dick could do was wonder about old grudges dying hard. It was as if the animosity of their grandfathers had been passed to the girls in their blood.
Young Dick had always wondered if, in the end, he could have done more. Abigail and Jessica, a Fancy and a Bram, periodically expressing their hatred for each other was hardly new. And after a generation of smashed windows, burnt-out cars and sunken boats, Abigail and Jessica throwing eggs at each other seemed quaint. Young Dick had worked hard to put the animosity of his father’s generation to bed, to return the town to a state of pleasantry. But in doing so, he’d let himself become complacent. He’d dismissed the girls’ hostility towards one another as petty, childish rivalry.
It was a grave mistake. And Abigail had ended up taking the fall.
Now that his daughter was back, he vowed, he would do more.
Inspecting the hull of his boat, cold seawater dripping onto his head, Young Dick fought a sudden weariness. All he’d ever wanted was to fish for half the year and to potter about the house the rest. To look after his family, help Nell with the horses, maybe grow a few carrots.
But no.
His father’s disease, and bloody politics, and this town’s ability to cling to umbrage with glee meant constant vigilance. It meant Young Dick was always placating, always talking down, always watching.
Unfortunately, Abigail’s return had diverted his attention. It was only for a moment, but he had looked away long enough for the pot to begin to simmer. Before he had had a chance to sow the correct story about the bone, Lofty’s boat going missing was enough to turn up the heat, for things to threaten to boil over.
And the way Col Morton and Jessica Bram were looking at each other, Young Dick worried he may have left it too late.
OLD DICK
I reckon that young woman’s found the ladder. Either that or she’s about to hide it again.
I’m sitting in my room, waiting for that cranky Pom to come on the tele, and I hear a knock. I don’t want company. Can’t a man die in peace? But I say, Come in, because I’m polite.
Nobody comes in, so I turn back to the TV.
The knock comes again.
Fuck off.
Grandpa, says a voice, laughing. The window.
There she is, waving at me from outside the glass. Christ Almighty, that black eye. Looks like someone flogged her with the Old Testament. Not that she’d ever snitch, but if I find out who’s responsible I’ll take their legs off with a butter knife.
When I get to the window I see she’s standing there with the wheelbarrow. A person with access to a wheelbarrow probably also has access to other handy tools, like ladders, so that’s when I get suspicious.
What are you up to?
Can you open the window?
Who’s asking?
I need to walk to town and these boots are giving me blisters.
Blisters are good. Toughen up the soft spots.
She rattles the window. Just pop the latch.
Haven’t you heard of a door?
I don’t want to see Mum.
It seems to me a strange place to go to try and avoid someone—into their own house—but I do as she asks and open the window.
She climbs inside and honestly it hurts me to witness, the way she flails, so I can’t imagine how much it hurts her. But she manages, and she’s inside and hobbling to the doorway, checking up and down the hall.
While she’s gone I inspect the wheelbarrow through the window. I see a garbage bag filled with I don’t know what, and frankly, I don’t want to know. Plausible deniability and all that. But where there’s a wheelbarrow there could very well be a ladder, so I get as close to the wide-open window as I can and peer out.
Ahh, smell that salt. A man could die happy with that salt filling his nostrils, tasting his last breath.
There’s a young woman standing beside me.
Thanks, Grandpa, she says. See you later.
Who is this woman and why is she going out my window?
I do not know this woman, Luce. I swear.
ABIGAIL
Swapping her boots for her mother’s sneakers was a relief only in easing her blisters. Because now she looked proper small-town: track pants, oversized jumper, sneakers.
‘You may have my pants,’ Abigail said, leaning back against the pull of the wheelbarrow as it gathered speed down the drive, ‘but you’ll never have my soul.’
The pony’s teeth had left crescent-shaped stains on her sleeve and her bicep would have an unholy bruise, but any pain from the pony’s bite quickly became old news as she once again navigated her parents’ steep-arse driveway. The fifth time in less than twenty-four hours. But Can’t go back was a mantra in her head, blunting the pain, enabling her to wrestle the barrow down the drive, past the pines and onto the road.
Can’t go back.
Down the hill, towards town.
Can’t go back.
Wheelbarrow squeaking, salt wind lashing.
Can’t fucking go back.
At the bottom of the hill a footpath appeared, flanked by lawn, dotted with the odd picnic table. She even passed a gas barbecue. Ignoring the footpath she continued on the road. There never used to be a footpath; there never used to be lawn or picnic tables or public barbecues. Those things are for tourists and there never used to be tourists. As a kid, Abigail zigzagged her bike up and down the road to town, and there was none of this kerbing bullshit either. New houses had sprung up facing the ocean, mansions of plaster and glass, predictably punned: Sailor’s Rest; Summer-by-the-Sea; Afar to Remember. Most of them looked empty, and she laughed at the idea that anyone would want to holiday here, but who could deny gentrification?
She wheeled the barrow onto the white centre line, because that never used to be there either, and she’d walked a kilometre and not met a single car.
And then, a little way up the road, someone was walking towards her.
At school Abigail’s class had been only a handful of students. Eight on any given day, maybe ten. That same handful of Kingo kids were thrust together whether they liked it or not for most of the years that formed them. So it was easy for Abigail to recognise that the woman coming towards her was Jessica Bram. Her walk gave it away, the chin-up way she carried herself, somewhere between a flounce and a hurry. She’d watched Jessica Bram walk like that across classrooms, across the quadrangle, across the beach when she was six, twelve, sixteen.
Lawyers and cops like to say how hard it is to get a prison sentence in Australia. Cops say the system is too soft on crims; lawyers say, unless you’ve done something very heinous like murder six backpackers or be poor, a prison sentence is usually a last resort. Funny though, Abigail always thought, how it certainly wasn’t that way for the people in prison. The number of women in Australian prisons over the past few decades had quadrupled—did that seem like a difficult place to get into?
Taking a firmer grasp on the wheelbarrow handles, Abigail reminded herself how quickly assault would land her back inside. The barrow wheel had started to squeak, a wheep emitting with every second footstep. The distance between her and Jessica closed, and when Abigail was within earshot, Jessica called out, ‘Heard you were back in town.’
