Shelter from the Storm, page 12
She beams. ‘When will you come?’
‘I don’t think—’
‘You worry about my sons?’
‘I don’t want—’
‘Andreas brings his boys two nights a week, and sometimes on the weekends. Mateus is busy with his own farm and comes rarely. Hugo?’ She throws up her hands. ‘He helps his father with the farm. But visit his poor mother? We would as likely see snow at Christmas.’
‘Greta …’ I take a deep breath. ‘Hugo and I …’ Another breath. ‘It’s awkward. I couldn’t stay with you.’
‘I am in charge at my house.’ She purses her lips. ‘This is old-fashioned, yes, but my husband and sons must do as I say. You will convalesce, undisturbed, in the granny flat. This is my promise.’
‘It’s very kind of you to offer, Greta.’
‘I will care for you until you are well again. After that …’ she smiles and lifts her hands. ‘Pouf! I will disappear like edelweiss in summer.’
Prim looks at me hopefully. ‘Dr Gupta has his surgery in Horseshoe Hill. His nurse could do the house calls you’ll need, and you can go to the surgery when you’re well enough. And if I go to the Territory like you want me to …’ Her dimple appears as she smiles. ‘I could visit when I get leave.’
Greta walks to the side of the bed and smooths a crease in my gown. ‘I will cook for you, Patience, and also for your sister when she visits. I will wash and iron. This is my pleasure.’
‘Patience?’ When Prim tips her head to the side, her dimple nudges her cheek. ‘You insist you’ll be better in a couple of weeks. What do you think?’
With Phoebe away, Prim won’t leave me by myself. Any more than I would leave her. My eyes sting. My heart hurts.
‘I’ll think about it.’
Greta’s gaze softens as she kisses my cheek. ‘When you are unwell, it is better to rest than to think. There will be no argument. You will come home to me.’
Chapter
20
There are no baths in student accommodation, or on ships, or in the shared facilities I’m accustomed to. There was no bath in the house I grew up in. Did Mum wash me in a plastic baby bath? She must have.
‘This bath …’ I say quietly as I sit on the edge of the enamelled cast-iron tub in Greta’s bathroom, ‘I’ll never forget.’ I test the water before turning off the taps and, lifting my good leg over the side, lower myself into the water. I prop my other foot on the rim. It’s already mid-May, and this is my second week staying at the Halstead’s, but as the nurses and doctors predicted, the wound on my foot is still tender and vibrantly red. When bubbles gather round my breasts and dance on my stomach, I swish with a sponge and make shapes.
Southern ocean waves. Snow-capped mountain peaks. Dandelion seedpods in summer.
He loves me.
He loves me not.
Were things ever so simple with Hugo?
I’ve seen him twice in the past ten days. Even then, we were so far away that lifting a hand was enough. The granny flat is at the back of the house, separated by a strip of verandah. It’s selfcontained—a bedroom with two single beds, a kitchenette, a tiny bathroom with a cubicle shower, and a living room with a view of the Horseshoe range. As Greta promised, I convalesce in privacy.
For the first few days, when I wasn’t in bed I spent my time in an armchair. And in the following days, legs propped up and half-asleep, I lay on the day bed on the verandah outside Greta’s kitchen window. In the evenings, I’d eat whatever Greta put on my tray, before showering and collapsing into bed.
Yesterday, feeling better than I had for weeks, I carried my breakfast tray to the kitchen. But Greta, frowning fiercely, linked her arm through mine and marched me slowly but firmly back to the verandah. Derek was sitting on the steps, a mug of tea in his hand and pastry crumbs on his chin. Soxy sat on the day bed as if waiting. As I lay back against the cushions and stroked his soft black ears, Greta nodded approvingly.
‘You must rest, liebchen, for today you have your bath.’
Derek smiled. ‘You going to put Patience in that bathing room of yours?’
Greta huffed. ‘It is the perfect place.’
‘So how come you never go in there yourself?’
‘Every week, I clean it.’ Greta pursed her lips. ‘It is spick and span.’
‘It might smell like a perfumery, but you never get into that tub.’ He winked. ‘It would’ve been better to keep it for my bull.’
When he still worked as a carpenter, and before he’d met Greta, Derek intercepted an oversized bathtub destined for the scrap merchant and kept it at his parent’s house. Years later, Greta spotted the bath, now used as a water trough, in a paddock. She asked Derek to build yet another extension to their house—a bathing room to remind her of Bad Ischl, her birthplace and a spa town.
‘I’d love to have a bath,’ I said to Greta. ‘But only if you have enough water in the tanks.’
She delicately put a second pastry on Derek’s plate. ‘Now you can see my sense,’ she said haughtily. ‘The bathing room is useful.’
Having a bath doesn’t equate to a swim, but it’s the closest I’m likely to get to a body of water for at least the next few weeks. I look through my fingers, fringed with tiny bubbles. The bathing room is the size of a large bedroom, and the walls are painted a soft shade of pink. White timber shelves are stacked with fluffy white towels, embroidered face washers, sponges, bubble baths and salts.
Many of the unopened bottles have gift tags. Attached to a bright pink bottle is a handmade tag, the size of a large envelope, with upright rounded letters in smudged and faded pencil. Dear Mummy. This is for your birthday from me for your bath. I got it at a shop. I got money from Daddy for feeding Bertha. Love from Hugo
Another is penned in ink, the writing sloped neatly to the right. Dear Mum. I found these salts at a spa town near Salzburg. Happy Mother’s Day. Love, Hugo
Sunlight streams through the window—too high for anybody on the verandah to see through, but low enough that when lying in the bath, I can make out the tops of the gums and an ocean of sky.
Now it’s almost winter, it’s cool in the mornings, but the old-style radiator and heated towel rails take away the chill. Inside the tub, the enamel is smooth like silk. I make another shape in the bubbles. A boat’s wake. I close my eyes and inhale the scent. Mountain Mist. Bergamot and pine. Holding my breath, I tip back my head.
Besides my leg, I’m submerged.
Weightless.
Waterfall.
Warmth.
How long until I’m back at the river? The nurse from Dr Gupta’s surgery will make house calls for another week at least. She checks my temperature, takes a blood sample and prods and pokes my wound. I sleep twelve hours a night, I eat more than Derek and Soxy combined, and when Greta’s not looking I walk painfully slow laps of the verandah.
Surfacing, I push back my hair and wipe bubbles from my face. I stretch out my hands and fingers, let the water hold me up.
‘Patience?’ A tap on the door. ‘You are well?’
‘Yes, Greta. I’m fine.’
‘I will go to the kitchen. You will ring the bell if you need help, yes?’
A brass bell with a handle, like an old-fashioned school bell, sits at the foot of the tub near the taps. Greta made me promise to use it in an emergency.
‘I also have my phone,’ I call out.
‘Phooey your phone. A bell is waterproof. It has no need of a battery or reception.’
‘Yes, but—’
‘This morning, Andreas comes to work with his father, and Hugo arrives later. I tell you this because of my promise. There is no need for concern. You will rest. You will have peace in the granny flat.’
It’s almost five o’clock and the bright orange sun burns low in the sky. I’m lying on my side on the day bed when my phone buzzes.
‘Rick.’ I hold in a yawn as I position cushions against the solid timber arm and lean back. ‘Hello.’
‘Eliza has purchased an appropriate gift,’ Rick says. ‘I’ll send it care of Greta.’
‘You’ve already sent flowers, but thank you. Please thank Eliza too.’
‘I’ll reimburse her.’
‘Yes, but …’ Bending my knees, I pull the throw over them. ‘Have you received my messages?’
‘I’m pleased to hear of your recovery. As is Eliza.’
I slip my fingers through the fringe of the throw. The bruises on the backs of my hands are less purple than they were.
‘I’m sorry I’ve been useless, but you can send me things to do now. How did you go in Melbourne? Did you get all the data you wanted from the river? What are you working on now?’
My back is to verandah stairs when I hear footsteps. The screen door opens and closes as someone, without knocking or calling out, walks into the house. Derek’s tread is slow and deliberate. One, two. One, two. One, two. Andy’s tread is similar, but heavier.
This is someone else, possibly Hugo, but I don’t dare turn around to find out.
‘Rick? Is everything okay?’
‘No.’
‘Can you be more specific?’ I rest my chin on my knees. ‘When Hugo visited me in the hospital, he said you were anxious about something. Is it to do with the invoices? Has Professor Tedeschi told you what’s going on? Has he fixed the problem?’
When Soxy jumps on the day bed, sitting close to my leg but with his head over the edge, I rearrange the throw to cover him.
‘You mustn’t talk to Hugo,’ Rick says.
‘I don’t—’
‘I don’t want to talk on the phone. When can we meet?’
‘Can you come here?’
‘No.’
I lean against the cushions and close my eyes. ‘I can’t drive for another week, maybe two, and aren’t you back at the river on Monday?’
‘Hugo was afraid you would die.’
‘Yes … well.’ Greta is in the kitchen. Her voice is raised and she’s scolding. ‘I’m okay now.’
‘When can we meet?’
‘Realistically …’ I count days. ‘Four weeks?’
A shadow appears on the boards as Hugo, hands in his pockets, closes the gap between us. I clear my throat. ‘I have to go. See you soon.’
Hugo leans against the verandah railing and stretches out his legs. His eyes are shades of green. Gum leaves, streams, the golden haze of summer.
‘Hugo.’
‘Imp.’ His shirt and pants are creased but clean. He’s freshly shaven. ‘How are you feeling?’
I’m wearing trackpants and a faded T-shirt. I smooth the throw over my knees. ‘Much better, thank you.’
He nods towards my phone. ‘Making plans?’
I have no idea what Rick wants to talk about. Invoices? Misappropriation? But whatever it is, he doesn’t want Hugo to know about it. Anyway, my job requires me to keep my mouth shut.
‘It was my sister.’
‘In Norway?’ He looks at his watch. ‘What time is it there?’
I force a smile. ‘Prim.’
His eyes narrow. ‘She said you should call in the morning.’
‘What?’
‘When she couldn’t get through to you just now, she called Greta.’
I hold onto the arm of the day bed as I stand. Cling onto the arm. ‘Did you want me for something?’
‘Why so many secrets?’
I smile stiffly. ‘Anything else?’
His hair is longer, the sun-tipped ends are bright. ‘Lisa said you’d emailed, asking for work.’
‘Until I can join Rick again, I’ll have to work remotely.’ When Soxy jumps from the day bed, I fold the throw and line up the cushions. ‘I have skills. I want to use them.’
He slowly shakes his head. ‘It’s too early.’
‘Rick asked me to set up social media platforms for the team, and I’ve been posting for him. What about your frogs? I could write about them too.’
‘Memorise and recite?’
‘You think that’s all I’m good for?’
‘I didn’t mean—’
‘You did!’
He lifts a hand and drops it. ‘Why contact Lisa? Why not me?’
‘Because you underestimate me.’
‘That’s not true.’
‘Rick makes an effort to engage with people online. I’m helping Lisa with materials for environmental science students. Why won’t you do anything like that?’
‘I have better things to do with my time.’
‘People must look you up, ordinary people. They’ll be interested in your work.’
‘I have a profile.’
‘One photograph, and links to scientific papers with hundreds of footnotes. A lot of your work is funded by the government and universities. You must have to report on outcomes, and the impacts of your work in the community. Blog posts, Instagram, they might help with that.’
‘You sound like Sapphie.’
‘As she’s on Horseshoe’s Environment Committee, she’d know what I’m talking about. You have to engage with people to get the message out, and to maximise funding.’
He frowns. ‘I talk to people constantly.’
‘Colleagues at conferences and mates at the pub. Those people are already aware of you and your work. It’s important to reach out to others in the community.’
He smiles stiffly. ‘Do blog posts if you want.’
‘One a week?’
‘Sure.’
I nod politely. ‘I also want to ride again.’
His mouth firms. He walks to the railing and grasps it with both hands. His back to me, he looks over his shoulder. ‘A unicorn?’
My chest tightens. My breath catches. The frame of the day bed is hard against the backs of my thighs. But then I push off and—
He spins and blocks my path. ‘I shouldn’t have said that.’
‘But you did!’
He closes his eyes for a moment. He lifts a hand and drops it. ‘It’s not easy, Imp, seeing you here.’
‘Do you want me to go?’
He slowly shakes his head. ‘That’d be even worse.’
‘Then let me do what I’m paid for.’ My voice is scratchy; I clear my throat. ‘I’ll be well enough to go back to the river soon. After the secondment, I’ll leave.’
‘Back to your ship.’
‘That’s where I belong.’
Greta calls out from the kitchen. ‘Hugo!’
The Frog Blog
I’m a lieutenant in the navy, but currently on secondment to a team of scientists researching river and wetland environments. Part of this research relates to frogs and their habitats, which is where this blog comes in. Dr Hugo Halstead, a biologist and herpetologist (an expert in reptiles and amphibians), is one of the members of the team. When he’s not in the field, knee deep in ponds, creeks, rivers, wetlands and bogs as he searches for tadpoles and frogs, he’ll also hop on the blog …
Chapter
21
When she makes pastry, Greta cools her hands by soaking them in water. She kneads flour, egg and olive oil into a dough, resting it at room temperature for at least four hours before stretching it onto a lightly floured tablecloth until it’s as thin as parchment paper. To make the filling, she sprinkles the dough with toasted spiced breadcrumbs, freshly sliced apples, lemon rind and a tablespoon of sugar, rolls it up and brushes it with butter. The strudel is baked until the top is golden brown.
She calls me into the kitchen and serves me a slice from the baking tray. I lick flaky crumbs from my fingers. ‘Delicious.’
‘You must eat more,’ she says, holding out the tray again.
‘Your grandsons will want some too.’ As if on cue, a car door slams, and then another.
‘Children are always hungry after school.’
I’m sure Mum would have given us something nice to eat when we got home from school, but just like the bath, I can’t remember. Phoebe made us vegemite sandwiches. When I was older, even in summer, I warmed milk in a saucepan and made her hot chocolate.
‘Patience! Patience!’
Remy is five, in his first year of primary school. Ryan is fourteen, in his second year of high school. According to Greta, Andreas and Maria had a second child in the hope of saving their marriage, but things didn’t work out anyway.
As the boys wanted to stay in Horseshoe and Maria’s new partner lives in Dubbo, Maria mostly sees her sons in the holidays, and often on the weekends. The rest of the time they live with Andy, who has a farm close by.
Remy, who has curly brown hair like his father and a rounded cherub face, trots into the kitchen and sniffs the air. He has his arms out in front with his hands down, as if he has four legs. He whinnies and tosses his head.
‘Apfelstrudel! Yum!’
I laugh. ‘It’s lucky horses like apples, isn’t it?’
Ryan is a taller and ganglier version of his brother. ‘Thanks, Oma.’
‘I hope you were good boys for your teachers,’ Greta says, joining Remy at the kitchen table and pouring a glass of milk. ‘Drink, liebchen. This will make you a strong, wise horse.’
Remy tips his bag onto the table and forages for a library book. ‘Look, Oma!’
Ryan, grumbling under his breath, takes a seat next to me at the bench. ‘What’s the big deal about books?’
‘Do you have a lot of homework?’ I ask. ‘You know I’d be happy to help, right?’
He kicks his bag so hard it shoots across the floor and hits a cupboard. ‘Dad says you’re a mega brain.’
‘I like maths.’
‘I hate it.’
‘Andy said you’re getting help at school.’
‘Yeah,’ he mutters. ‘I’m at the bottom of the remedial class.’
‘If you want to ask me anything,’ I say, collecting the last of the crumbs from my plate, ‘I’ll be on the day bed.’
I’ve only been on the verandah for five minutes when Ryan, schoolbag over his shoulder, clumps along the boards. He drops his bag at his feet and kneels to stroke Soxy, lying next to me with his head on a cushion.
I close my laptop. ‘I’m looking up facts on frogs.’
‘Uncle Hugo knows heaps. Ask him.’
‘He’s a specialist. I want the basics. Did you know that every frog’s pattern, like a fingerprint, is unique?’
