Red Dirt Duchess Page 5

  ‘Jesus,’ Jon whispered.

  ‘Well, that’s been used quite frequently to describe it, not always in the same context. Before the hats went up, people would just stare at it.’ He hadn’t heard Charlie join him. She stood with her hands on her hips as she looked up at the wall.

  ‘Was he mad?’ Instantly, Jon regretted his words. He turned and saw her jaw set rigid. Slowly, she dragged her gaze from the mural and turned to him.

  ‘Listen, we’re all loners out here. Runaways and —’ she jerked her head towards the kitchen, ‘— drifters. People come and go. They like the atmosphere but most can’t cope with the loneliness. Only special people can cope with that. Special, or maybe just a little crazy.’

  ‘Was your father just a little crazy?’

  She was silent for a long moment, clearly weighing her words as she turned back to the mural. Jon let his gaze rove over her face, committing it to memory. The finely modelled nose and high cheekbones, the assertive arch of her brows. All these had been new to him yesterday. Yet he had the feeling that he’d been gazing at her for years. That he could happily look at her for many more.

  ‘No, he just felt too much,’ she said finally.

  ‘About what?’

  She shrugged. ‘Hard to say. Life? Maddie? He was an outgoing person, but there was another part of him that was very private. There were places I never went.’

  Jon waited while she bit down on her lip, searching for words.

  ‘He needed big spaces to carry the weight of what he felt. Huge canvases, whole walls. Even before we came here he was like that. He needed to throw paint in great spurts and then he’d go in with a knife to create texture. It was as though, having let it all out, he wanted to try to contain it, to explain what he felt.’

  ‘And what about you?’

  Finally she turned, the movement cautious. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You’re a part of it. Of this,’ he gestured at the mural then widened the arc to include the pub, ‘and this. It’s not your average lifestyle, let’s face it. Not many people could live like this.’

  ‘It’s home,’ she said simply. ‘Apart from Sydney, it’s the only place I know.’

  ‘That’s it?’ It irked him that someone could be so sure of themselves, not question who they were. Over the years he’d spent long enough in dark places examining that question. Turning over the possibilities and weighing them against the probabilities, without ever getting an answer. Maybe she was smart after all.

  ‘So, where did your painting come from?’ Her voice cut through his thoughts.

  ‘It’s not mine. Someone gave it to my family, I guess. God knows we wouldn’t have bought it.’ He stopped and flashed her an apologetic grin. ‘Sorry. Perhaps I should have said my family haven’t the good taste to recognise the talent.’

  Or, far more likely, they hadn’t had the spare cash to buy so much as a thumbnail drawing by a pavement artist, let alone a work by a talented painter.

  Slightly mollified, Charlie smiled. ‘Well, it’s a nice idea, but I think you’re wrong. We’ve been out here for nine years and before that it was Sydney. Of course, someone could have bought it and taken it back to London, I suppose. Cliff’s paintings were selling well before we left Sydney.’ Her brow smoothed, her tone making it apparent she thought that was the answer.

  He hadn’t been clear enough, obviously. ‘Well, no. It was in my father’s study when I was a child.’

  Charlie shook her head and moved forward to adjust one of the hats. ‘I really need to get them all down and give them a good dusting,’ she murmured.

  ‘I’m not talking about a recent painting,’ Jon persisted. It was all coming back to him now, like a long-lost slow-motion film recovered from a locked vault, flickering over a screen and revealing every detail. ‘It had a date on it, alongside the signature. The signature was just a scrawl but I remember the date because I was just starting to learn my numbers. It was 1975.’

  She stepped back and eyed her work, squinting a little at the hat arrangement. ‘1975? In 1975 Cliff was only —’ she paused to think ‘— eighteen.’ Disbelief flickered in her eyes. ‘It can’t be by him.’

  ‘Why not? Where was your father when he was eighteen?’

  She was silent for several long moments. Finally, she looked doubtfully out the door, as though the answer might be found there, and gave a deep sigh. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I just don’t know.’

  Jon was in the shade, leaning against the side of the truck and checking his camera, when Charlie came around the corner of the pub. She had a jerry can full of water weighing down one arm, and when he saw her he moved forward to help. She let him, their hands touching for one electric second before she relinquished the handle and he heaved the container up into the back of the four-wheel drive. She checked for the first-aid kit and blankets then went back to the verandah to pick up the cooler of food and drinks that Rhonda had prepared.

  When she returned to the truck, Jon was staring at the jerry can.

  ‘We need that much water for a half-day trip?’

  She gave him a dark look. ‘You never go anywhere out here without water. Lots of it.’ She flicked a glance at his top pocket. ‘Go on, take your notebook out and write that down.’

  He ignored her and jerked his head at the truck. Two massive tyres were bolted to the jack mounted on the back of the car and another was strapped onto the roof rack. ‘Why so many tyres?’

  ‘Do you see a tyre repair shop anywhere around here?’ What was with all the questions? She always carried three spares, Cliff had taught her that. On remote dirt roads a blown tyre was common. And having no spares could be deadly.

  ‘It’s starting to sound dangerous just going for a drive to see a waterhole,’ he muttered. His hair was spiked as though he’d run a hand through it, the tips of it gleaming in the hot sunshine. She studied the dark growth on his chin, the way it muted the chiselled perfection of his profile, and her body tingled in response.

  ‘It’s a walk in the park.’ She pulled open the driver’s door. ‘Come on. Let’s go before you chicken out.’

  They set off, heading along a wide, red-dirt track that quickly became just two tyre ruts in the dust. It felt good to be out of the pub for a few hours, and if an attractive man was by her side, who was she to argue? She sneaked a glance at him and found his eyes fixed on her, seemingly impressed.

  ‘So I guess you’re my tour guide,’ he said. ‘The magazine will pay, of course.’

  ‘That’s okay. Actually, you’re doing me a favour. I like to get away occasionally.’

  He glanced out the window. ‘And go where?’

  She was ready with a retort until she remembered how it had been when she and Cliff had first come here. After inner-city Sydney with its street life, crowded pubs, bright lights and noise, those first few weeks had been terrifying. But gradually the peace had settled around them, cancelling out their chaotic existence in the city. With Cliff as her guide, she’d learned to appreciate the space, the vistas, the stunning, saturated colours. She’d gained strength and resilience. And happiness.

  ‘You’d be surprised. There’s quite a good social life around here.’ She shifted gear and took a fork in the track. The surface became rougher and as she swerved to miss a hole, he shifted in his seat and his shoulder bumped into hers. It reminded her of last night, of how he’d felt up close. Strong and sexy. Almost irresistible.

  ‘Anyway, you can keep your cocktail parties or whatever,’ she continued. ‘When the outback throws a party, everyone comes. The airstrip? There’ll be thirty, forty light planes out there. Race meetings, B & S balls —’

  ‘I’m almost too scared to ask, but what’s a B & S ball?’ He gripped the handle above the door as they swerved around more holes.

  She gave him a pitying look. ‘Bachelors and spinsters, the great hook-up event for country singles. People come from all around, camp out overnight and get dressed up to the nines for the dance. It’s a chance
to blow off a little steam.’

  ‘Sounds classy.’

  She slid a look at him. ‘Yeah, well, you should try it sometime, hot shot.’

  He grinned and looked out the window.

  After ten minutes, he turned to her, a worried look on his face. ‘You do know where you’re going, right? There are so many tracks and they’re so random. I mean, why this one and not the one we passed just back there?’

  ‘Because most of them aren’t really tracks. They’re just detours made sometime when there was water on the road, so they’ll take you away from the road for a while but eventually lead you back a little further on.’ She lowered her voice and made a serious face. ‘That is, if you don’t accidentally take another track that leads off the detour track. It’s easy to do.’

  She shook her head. ‘One second of lost concentration and you’re heading down a track to nowhere. But it’s too late once you’ve realised, because when you turn around you can’t remember which track was the one you came off. You can drive around for days trying to find your way home. If you last that long.’

  He looked mildly freaked out but she couldn’t help adding, ‘Of course they’re not even tracks, some of them. Most are just tyre marks made by vehicles gone bush. As I said before, a lot of very strange people live out here. No one really knows how many fugitives there are.’

  He paled a little more and she was done. As sport went, it was perfect.

  Ten minutes later they turned off the track they’d been following onto a narrower one; a real track, Charlie informed him with a smirk. Here, by the river, coolabah trees grew, their low, spreading branches providing welcome shade. Charlie pulled into a clearing and shut off the engine.

  Jon tamped down on the surge of desire. Charlie had baited him the whole way out and he’d played along, enjoying the way she’d spun her stories and the easy familiarity it created. She drove with confidence, and he was quite sure she knew exactly where they were every second.

  It had amused him to fall into the act with her, to play the scared Englishman for her entertainment. The more scared he’d pretended to be, the more she’d pushed the envelope. Would she bring that same playfulness to bed? He smothered a groan just thinking of it, because he was sure the answer was yes.

  They got out of the car and Charlie tossed an akubra across at him. ‘Here, put that on.’ He held it by the brim, looking at the dark stains that hinted of sweat and greasy hands until he caught her look and jammed it on his head. She handed him the cooler and grabbed a blanket.

  Near the waterhole, tall grass and weeds grew and Charlie thrashed noisily through it. ‘Snakes,’ she threw over her shoulder. He grinned at her but remained silent. ‘Deadly ones,’ she added a moment later. He followed her until they reached a sandy clearing shaded by overhanging branches. She eyed him suspiciously. ‘Not working any more, huh?’

  He shook his head and she smiled, her mouth wide and ripe. Kissable.

  ‘Okay, back to business. So this is the waterhole.’

  Jon dragged his eyes from her lips. ‘I thought you Aussies called it a billabong?’

  ‘Sometimes. Sometimes not.’ She seemed to think it needed no explanation. He’d go with billabong. It would give the story a true Australian flavour.

  Charlie unfolded the blanket and spread it on the ground. ‘We can either walk up-river while you interview me or we can sit here.’

  ‘Interview you?’ His interest spiked.

  ‘Well, where else are you going to get the information for your article?’ She’d dropped to her knees, her bottom in the air as she flicked away small twigs and leaves.

  Right now, interviewing her on the rug seemed like a very good idea. ‘Usually I go with the internet, but you have a point. Why not get some local input?’ He put the cooler down at the base of the tree and joined her on the rug.

  ‘So do you have a tape recorder or anything?’

  Bright blue eyes met his hopefully and for a moment, he wished he did. When she looked at him like that, he wanted to give her anything she asked. She was different. So wonderfully different. ‘I hate to break it to you but … no.’

  ‘Oh.’ She gave a theatrical pout of disappointment, her lips as alluring as her body, her back arching as she leaned with her arms splayed behind her.

  His need for her, the slow-burning desire he’d felt all morning, was ratchetting up to unbearable. He needed to get that under control now. He pulled out his notebook and flipped some pages for something to do.

  For such a remote location it was surprisingly noisy. Small rustling sounds came from the long grass around them. In this waterhole, because of an unexpected gift from nature, wildlife had gotten busy. The humming, buzzing and rustling formed a wall of sound, intense and high. Overhead, huge flocks of birds perched in trees and screeched into the empty sky. Rhythmic flapping sounded overhead and a pelican landed on the river like a sea plane touching down. Another followed and then another, until Jon lost count.

  ‘This water has a long way to go. Once it reaches Lake Eyre there’ll be millions of birds,’ Charlie said.

  ‘That many?’ he asked, amused by her serious expression.

  ‘It’s a big deal. This is a once-in-a-hundred-years dry flood.’

  ‘How can a flood be dry?’ For her benefit he touched the end of his pencil to his tongue and poised it over his notebook, as though eager to record her answer.

  She pulled a face. ‘It means we don’t experience the event, just the consequences. The rain happened upstream three, four weeks ago.’

  ‘Upstream,’ he mused, thinking this might be just around the next bend or the one before that. ‘How far?’

  ‘About eight hundred kilometres.’

  He sat up. ‘Really?’ He thought back to his school geography lessons. Eight hundred kilometres was almost twice as long as any river in England. ‘How much further will it travel?’

  ‘Oh, another four or five hundred kilometres,’ she said casually, ‘until it empties into Lake Eyre.’ Maybe she was trying to impress him, but he knew she wasn’t lying. It brought home the vastness of this land and its emptiness. A great river could snake through it for over a thousand kilometres.

  ‘There’ll be ten million waterbirds down there, the biggest breeding event in years.’

  Breeding event. He swallowed as his eyes roamed over her body. He needed to get a grip.

  ‘I guess I’d better get some shots.’ He stood and pulled his camera from his backpack and took off the lens cap, lifting the camera and peering through the viewfinder. Everywhere he looked was special. He heard a flap of wings overhead and was just in time to catch a pelican coming in to land, its wings outstretched.

  Charlie leaned back, her weight supported on her hands, and admired Jon’s khaki-clad backside. He was lean, but muscled in all the right places. Very well put-together indeed. His loose shirt fluttered in the slight breeze, clinging to his torso. For a person who probably didn’t do much manual work, he had an impressive physique.

  She’d followed his movements as he stalked along the river, aiming his camera this way and that as it whirred and clicked. Unexpectedly, the day was turning out better than she’d anticipated. He headed back towards her, until, fifteen metres away, he stopped. He cocked his head to one side then raised the camera and the shutter clicked. He took a couple more steps and clicked again.

  Charlie bent her head, letting the fall of her hair hide her face. It felt so personal, this capturing of her image. It couldn’t be for his article, so why would he bother?

  He lowered the camera and called, ‘Do you mind?’

  She shook her head, ‘I guess not.’

  He reached the rug and dropped to his knees, his expression guarded. ‘So let me take one more.’

  He wanted to take her picture. Maybe it was just for fun but maybe, just maybe, he wanted to remember her. Charlie felt a sudden urge to snatch the camera and take a photo of him for the same reason. But then, she’d have to ask him to email her a co
py and that might be a bit embarrassing.

  He fiddled a little with the lens, then raised the camera to his eye. It was strange sitting there, looking into his face and trying to remember how he looked in this one moment while he captured her image. She blushed. He’d probably just delete the picture, but the thought that he might carry it back to England in his camera made her hot and confused.

  He was checking the shots on the back screen. ‘You’re incredibly photogenic. Has anyone told you?’

  She burst out laughing. ‘No. Cliff painted me quite a few times but I always ended up looking like an alien. It was all about deconstructing the planes of the face and reconstructing them in another order. Usually not in my favour.’

  And then she realised. There were no photos of her as a child. She couldn’t once remember a camera being raised to preserve her youthful image for all time. No grandparent had lovingly attached a photo of her to their fridge door. Cliff had never discussed his parents and it had never bothered Charlie, since her only other experience was with Maddie’s parents. They lived in a rigidly neat and sterile fibro house in Sydney’s western suburbs, and their disapproval of Maddie’s lifestyle and the way she and Cliff were bringing up “the girl” had caused an inevitable rift.

  So there had been no photos, just sketches and paintings, her face rendered in slashes of green and pink.

  Jon settled on the rug next to her and drew up his knees, crossing his arms on them. ‘You had an interesting childhood.’

  ‘I guess so. What about you?’

  ‘Oh, you know, the usual.’ He closed his eyes and raised his face to the sun. An avoidance technique if ever she’d seen one.

  ‘Since “usual” is not exactly part of my life experience, care to elaborate?’

  He kept his eyes closed and his head tilted. ‘Parents, father deceased,’ he said. ‘Siblings, one brother. Boarding school. University. That’s it.’

  ‘Riveting,’ she said drily. ‘You should become a writer.’

  He laughed and opened his eyes.

  ‘Come on, you know everything about me,’ she complained. ‘You’ve seen where I live, where I work – admittedly they’re the same place – and you’ve met some of my friends, although I’m not sure they’re your cup of tea.’