Ringer (4 page)

“Seems like I am always opening things for
you, Miss Henry,” I said, with a crooked tilt to my mouth. I expected her to
blanch, to look at me with a double take and some ounce of
recognition—something, anything. Instead, she strode a defiant, determined line
and without missing a beat, she said, “Oh, fuck off,” walking straight through
the opened door and leaving her dad and me in stunned silence.

A real piece of work.

Chapter Six

Miranda

“I don’t give a
damn, young lady. You check that behaviour and leave that attitude at the door,
do you hear me?”

My dad was pissed, clearly. Gone were the
warm, welcome smiles and niceties from mere moments before. Instead, a raging
bear had come bursting into my room, his face so red, a vein pulsing in his
neck; I thought he was about to burst a blood vessel. I had sat on my old bed,
taken my shades off and rubbed at my fatigued eyes, zoning in and out of his
rant-like speech but listening enough to take in words like ‘ashamed’,
‘disgusted’ and ‘embarrassed’. All the strong ones. I hadn’t the energy to
argue, to say sorry, because I wasn’t sure that I really was. Well, maybe
taking my anger out on ‘gate boy’ was not really fair, nor had been nearly
running him over in the first place; still, the moment I drove into the drive
and spotted his yellow Ford, I knew for certain that this was the person Dad
had hired to take Max’s place. I felt my stomach twist at the memory of his
hand pounding on my back window as he yelled obscenities at me. I had stopped because
I had seen him come off the gate hard, and momentarily winded. I had had every
intention of asking if he was okay, but as soon as he started mouthing off at
me, the monster caged inside me reared its ugly head and instead I flipped him
off and left him behind in a trail of dust, relishing the thought that I had
the last say, or action anyway. A brave move surely, until I had come to the
realisation that I was about to be face to face with him. My heart had pounded
as I rolled into the drive. Maybe I would just apologise and explain that I was
just having a life crisis with coming back to Ballan to do my daughterly duty.
At the end of the day, I really should be thanking him. After all, he was going
to be looking after Moira, meaning I wouldn’t have to. I could probably just
visit for a little while and be free again, as long as my parents didn’t want
to investigate what I wanted to do for the rest of my life now that I was home
from Paris. To be honest, I really had no idea myself, and, try as I might, I
was not becoming a farmer’s wife. No way.

So sure, I would extend a peace offering of
sorts to yellow Ford driver, and I had completely intended to, until I came to
a halt out the front of the homestead and saw him standing there on the
verandah looking mad as hell next to Dad. His arms crossed across his chest,
glaring down at me.

Fuck!

Okay, so I had clearly not thought any of
it through. I hadn’t meant to be so hostile towards Dad; if anything, I wished
I could rewind the moment and just have hugged him and said it was good to be
home like any good daughter would, instead of stomping my way and telling a
stranger where to go. So I took the lecture—took it with every hollered shout
from my dad—as it really was a sign of being home. The amount of times I had
been lectured as I sat on my bed was too numerous to count, but unlike all
those times, I responded in a way that really did silence my dad.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered, looking down at
my hands. I felt like a child, not like some woman of the world I thought I
was. Maybe it was the bone-jarring fatigue that had stripped away all my
bravado, or the fact that I had never seen my dad this angry before, not even
when I was caught underage drinking at Tyler Mackie’s. No, not even then.

He was silent now. I didn’t look up to see
if his demeanour had softened, or if his face was still scarlet with fury;
instead, a long silence settled in the room and just as I hoped he would
finally speak, he did.

“Not good enough,” he said, before turning
to make his way out of my room and slamming the door behind him.

Right then, I really wished he hadn’t
spoken at all.

***

The room I once dreaded returning to now
had turned into my sanctuary. A safe haven from broody fathers and offended
farmhands. It served me well for the first hour as I busied myself by unpacking
my bags, then heading to my en suite for a shower, slipping into something more
comfortable, and crashing onto my bed before falling into a deep, much-needed
sleep.

Hours later, as the simmering summer sun
dipped from the sky, it wasn’t the much-welcomed dip in the temperature gauge
that stirred me from my slumber; instead, it was the feeling of my head
slamming into the bedhead as a heavy, bony-weight body slammed me out of my
sleep.

“Wake up! Wake up! Wake up!” the voice
screamed, as my mattress bounced to the beat of the sing-songed chants.

“Ugh, get off, Moira,” I said, feeling my
palm on a face and pushing; it did little to stop her bony knees in my rib
cage.

“Sacre-bleu,” she exclaimed. Always with
the French words.

I blindly fumbled with the side table,
awkwardly feeling for the lamp switch. I squinted at the offending beam,
blinking as my eyes adjusted; it didn’t help that Moira lay a mere inches away
from me, her head resting on her hand, smiling her metal-mouthed smile, her
eyes sparkling with glee. My icy façade thawed seeing my little sister, seeing
that look of happiness on her face, expecting her to voice how much she had
missed her big sis’.

“Oh my gosh, Miranda. Have you seen the
hottie Dad hired? Hubba-hubba,” she said, wiggling her brows.

The smile slipped from my face—my adorable
boy-crazy little sister: some things never changed.

I pulled the blanket up to my chin. “He’s
not that hot,” I scoffed.

Moira sat bolt upright. “Are you serious?
You don’t think Ringer is smoking hot?”

My head snapped around to frown at Moira.
“Ringer?”

“Yeah, that’s his name, how cool is that?”
she said with intense enthusiasm.

“What a ridiculous name.”

Moira sighed, hugging one of my pillows. “I
think it’s awesome.” Her eyes had glassed over with gooey affection; it was the
same moony expression each time Bluey brought the shearers out to Moira in
shearing season. She was so embarrassing; the day they had shipped her off to
an all-girls’ boarding school couldn’t have happened soon enough.

Moira snapped out of her daydreaming and
shifted herself into a cross-legged position. “So, what did you bring me back
from Paris?”

“Nothing.” I yawned.

“Yeah, right,” she said, playfully nudging
my shoulder.

“It’s true; what could I possibly get a
girl who has it all?” I mocked seriousness, causing Moira to pummel me some
more; the only protection was the doona I laughed and hid under. The squeals
and squeaks of the bed mattress soon came to an abrupt halt at the sound of a
cough from the doorway.

I slowly peeled the cover over my head,
wiping the wisps of hair from my face; I instinctively knew who that sound
belonged to.

My mother.

And, unlike my dad, she was less than
thrilled to see me.

Chapter Seven

Ringer

Dusk settled
into night and I found myself languishing in the peace and coolness of the
evening.

Rocking on the back legs of the chair in
front of the shearers’ huts, I had wasted little time relocating myself to the
out building. No matter how big the house was, it was never going to be big
enough for Miranda Henry and me. The wench should have come with a warning
label.

I blew on my cup of tea before shaking my
head and taking a sip.

Tea.

I had to laugh: hours from home in a simple
shearers’ quarters drinking tea, alone, on a Saturday night.

What the fuck was I doing with my life?

The sleeping quarters were pretty good,
actually: a long line of individual rooms that led onto their individual decked
verandah. It wasn’t far from the main house, the view offering the comings and
goings of the Henry household. Including what I assumed was the mother and
youngest daughter. Moira, was it? Returning home in their flash Land Cruiser
after a day in the big smoke. I had hoped that the shadows might have concealed
me, but Moira leapt from the passenger seat, fixing her eyes straight on me. I
offered a casual wave that caused her to smile as she turned and skipped into
the house with a heap of bags swinging from her arms.

“Miranda’s home! Miranda’s home,” she
sing-songed up the steps joyously as she struggled to open the door with her
cargo and raced inside.

Pfft, at least someone was happy about
it.

I slurped on my tepid cup of tea as I
watched Mrs Henry shut the passenger door. As predicted, she wore
cream-coloured capri pants with a navy linen shirt pressed to perfection. Her
sunglasses propped on her immaculate jet-black bob, as she gathered some
shopping and some wrapped flowers before locking the car and moving towards the
house without a backwards glance.

Ha! Don’t worry, luv, I won’t steal
anything.

It had made my stance to not stay in the
house a good one. Steve had said to come and grab whatever I needed from the
kitchen, but I didn’t wholly feel comfortable with that arrangement. The house
was spacious, grand, but I never felt anything more than claustrophobic in it,
now more so that the older devil child had returned. I was out of there, I
couldn’t have cared less about her eyes, they no doubt shot laser beams from
them anyway. No, I was best here in my simple room, with my single cot bed:
clean, comfortable, no TV, a rickety ceiling. That was all that mattered. I
knew I wouldn’t exactly find a mini fridge and a mint on my pillow but that was
okay. It was the change of scenery I had wanted. This was now my man cave.

Orientation would begin early on Monday,
which gave me the weekend to settle in, of sorts, get my bearings, become
accustomed to the lay of the land, all the while avoiding Miranda Henry. Should
be easy enough; she didn’t much strike me as the outdoorsy type.

Cuppa tea downed and now butting out my
last cigarette, I let the two front legs of the chair fall to the deck as I
stretched and groaned, ready to turn in for the night. It was only eight
o’clock, but with little else to do, I stood to make my way inside, pausing at
the sound of clinking cutlery and footsteps crunching into the dirt. I squinted
into the darkness, seeing the silhouette closing in from the house.

“Hello,” chirped a friendly voice.

“Hi,” I said, guarded until the form was
visible. The glinting metal smile of Moira, carrying a chinking tray of food.

“Mum thought you might be hungry.” She
grinned, stepping up to the verandah and setting the tray on the rickety side
table next to the chair.

“You bloody ripper,” I said. Sitting back
down on the chair, feasting into a tray of biscuits, cheese and fruit. It
wasn’t exactly two meat and veg. Still, I was grateful nevertheless, not
realising how hungry I actually was until I saw the tray of food.

“Thurnks,” I managed through a mouthful of
food, as Moira poured me a drink from a clinking ice-cubed jug.

“You’re very welcome,” she said, her
beaming eyes staring at me.

Oh-O
. I
swallowed my food roughly. “Well … um … tell your mum thanks for me.”

“There’s cake under here.” Moira lifted a
lid off a small plate like she was a magician. “I made it myself,” she said
with pride.

“Wow, thanks.” I nodded in good humour; I’m
not sure how much more I could say. Guessing that would be it, I thought she
would simply skip back to the house. Instead, Moira propped herself up on the
beam of the verandah and wrapped her arm around the post, making herself quite
at home.

“Is your name really Ringer?” she asked,
cocking her head with interest.

Here we go.

I inwardly sighed, shaking my head no as I
munched on some grapes.

“Really?” She straightened, her eyes alight
with interest. “What is it?”

I slurped on my cold … cordial? Wow, tea to
cordial. Things were starting to get wild.

I cleared my throat. “If I tell you, you
have to promise not to tell anyone, okay?”

“Oh, I won’t, cross my heart and hope to
die,” she said, physically crossing her heart. I was just about to reveal my
actual namesake when I was beaten by the distant calls of Moira’s mum.

“Moira? Come leave Ringer alone and have
some dessert.”

Penny Henry stood with her arms wrapped
around herself as if warding off a chill that didn’t exist on the tepid
February night.

Moira grimaced. “Muum.”

“Now, Moira.” Penny’s voice went down a few
warning octaves; it was enough to have Moira jumping off the beam and rolling
her eyes.

“I better go, she is in the worst mood
since Miranda’s come home.”

Really?

I lifted my brows with interest, which only
encouraged her to continue.

“Mum and Miranda always fight, you should
hear them go at it,” she said conspiratorially.

“I hope I never have to find out.” I
smirked.

“Ha. You’ll be lucky.” She laughed.

“Moira Henry!”

“Oh, I’m coming!” she yelled, before
turning to me with a double eye blink. “Night, Ringer.”

“Night, Moira.” I stood as she skipped off
towards her fuming mother. I lifted my hand to give a polite smile and wave,
which elicited a head nod in acknowledgment. It was any guess why she would
fight with her daughter, probably because they were so much alike … no doubt.

***

I dreamt of dust, and exhaust fumes, the
whoosh of air as I had sailed through it, right before my life had flashed
before my eyes. The images of my dealings with death played out in my
subconscious like a horror movie on a continuous loop except each time it came
to flipping me off, it wasn’t Miranda doing it, it had been one of my mates.
Sean, Toby, Stan … a different mate on each loop, always flipping me the
finger, before tearing away, and leaving me behind in a cloud of dust. The
sound of the car seemed so real, so loud, so …

I stirred. Lifting my face from my pillow I
struggled to decipher my new surroundings. I gingerly rolled onto my back
wincing at my rib cage where a bruise was slowly surfacing and providing me a
constant reminder of my fall. I rubbed the sleep from my eyes, sighing in part
relief that I had woken from my nightmare, a nightmare that seemed so real, so
loud, so very … current. I froze, listening to the very sound that had plagued
my dreams; I sat up, cocking my head to listen intently. It was the sound of
the Mazda; the beat-up devil car (if you could call it a car) certainly sounded
like it was manufactured in hell: wheezy, rackety and, in this case, failing to
start.

Good
.

It was about time it was put out of its
misery, I thought, as I lay back down, linking my hands behind my head. I
smirked in the dark, listening to its continued struggle as it refused to kick
over and come to life. I waited for it to die so I could relish the fact of not
having to listen to the sound again …
ever
. I yawned lazily, reaching
for my Nokia on my side table to check the time.

I frowned at the illuminated screen. What
the hell was the Mazda doing being started at one in the morning?

Before I could think too deeply about the
reasoning, I found myself moving towards my door, clasping the handle and
cringing as I twisted it slowly, hoping the sound of the creak of the hinge
wouldn’t alert me to anyone, not that they would be able to hear it over the
sound of the ghastly, spluttering motor. Unable to see much through the crack
of my door, I moved slowly to poke my head out and sneak a look down the
verandah towards the Henry homestead, where the Mazda had last came to a stop.
I slid along the wall of the huts, skimming myself along in the protection of
the shadows as I neared closer, squinting to focus in the dark.

What is she doing?

The interior light of the car was
illuminated with the driver’s door left ajar. There she was, Miranda Henry, her
face crinkled up in fierce determination with each attempt to start up her shit
heap.

Come on, give it a rest.

Stubborn as a mule, she kept going and
going to the point of me yawning and shaking my head.

You’re not going anywhere, sweetheart.

And then the thought occurred to me. Why
would she be going anywhere? She just got here. My attention snapped to a new
sound. The sound of silence.

I edged my way closer, but still pressed
far away from the rays of moonlight. Miranda’s head was pressed against the
steering wheel; she stayed that way unmoving for the longest of times. I half
wondered if she was okay? Had some fumes filtered back through the car? No, she
should be all right, the door was open a bit. Still unmoving, an uneasy feeling
stirred inside of me, and my brow furrowed at the strange sensation, the
feeling I could have sworn felt like … concern.

What a joke.

Now the noise had stopped I should have
just turned around and headed back to my room, gone back to bed and enjoyed the
fact that I would be safe from future nightmares about the ex-working Mazda
hatchback. Instead, as I watched the unmoving blonde head bent over in despair,
I sighed, straightened and stepped forward out of the shadows; my foot barely
landed on the deck lit by a strip of moonbeam when I paused.

Miranda was on the move.

I jumped back, cursing at how ridiculous
this all was, hiding like a child in the shadows, scared of the boogieman, or
in this case, woman.

I watched on as Miranda flung her door open
and slid out before slamming her door shut so violently, the sound echoed
through the still summer night. How could I have been the only one woken by all
the noise she was making, especially now that she had followed the door
slamming with a kick from her expensive European boot?

“Shit,” she cried, latching onto her foot.
Her boots were obviously not meant for kicking car doors.

A bemused smirk pulled at the corner of my
mouth, watching her limp to the back passenger door as she flung it open with
barely contained rage and grabbed for her bags. Much like she had when she
arrived, Miranda Henry slung her belongings over her shoulder and slammed the
passenger door. Shifting the awkward weight of her load, I waited for her to
storm the exact same line towards the steps, onto the verandah and through the
door. The only difference was I wouldn’t be there to open it for her, or to be
told to ‘fuck off’.

I fought the urge to laugh at the memory,
but then something happened that wiped all trace of humour from me.

She was headed my way.