Trouble in Nirvana (12 page)

The commune lay in darkness. Primrose crept inside, thankful her room was at the front of the house. She grabbed a nightie and headed for the bathroom.

Ten minutes later, clean and exhausted, she collapsed into bed.

****

Someone was knocking. Primrose’s eyes flickered open. Insistent tapping more than knocking. It stopped. Her eyes drifted closed. Tap, tap, tap. Persistent, annoying. Her brain clanked into action. Memories crashed through her head like an avalanche. Boulders of memory. Tom. Sweet, loving. His Rose. Tap, tap, tap. At the window. She sat up.

“Primrose,” hissed a voice. An angry voice.

She sprang out of bed and pulled the curtain aside with dread an indigestible lump in her stomach. How angry was he? And how did his anger manifest itself?

“Tom?” She kept her voice low. The last thing she, and undoubtedly Tom, wanted was a communal discussion on the subject.

A tall, dark shape blocked the early morning light. The window was open enough for conversation. Not enough for him to get physical if such was his inclination. Although she seriously doubted he would. Not Tom.

He leaned into the gap between the window and the frame and said with quiet vehemence, “Why did you leave without waking me?”

“I wanted to go home.” Now she sounded like a petulant child.

“Fine. But why not wake me?” The words came at her from the dark shadow of his face. Could he see hers? Yellowy grey morning light crept furtively over the far hills, silhouetting him.

“I didn’t think there was any need.”

“Are you ashamed of what we did?”

“No, of course not.”

“What then?”

“I wanted to avoid the sort of conversation we’re having now,” she said harshly.

“Keep your voice down unless you want bloody Kurt to join in,” he hissed. “And we wouldn’t be having this sort of conversation if you’d stayed.”

“I’m sorry.” She folded her arms across the flimsy nightie, conscious of how exposed she was the stronger the light became. “I don’t need any extra complications in my life. I thought you’d be pleased I didn’t hang around.” Why didn’t he go home? Why didn’t he just accept the situation?

He stared at her and it was as if her unspoken thoughts somehow transferred themselves to his mind. “So this was just sex to you.”

“What was it to you? Don’t tell me you love me,” she whispered with as much derision as she could muster. “We’ve known each other a week. What else could it be but just sex?”

He said, after a long moment, “I never thought of you as callous.”

“You don’t know me at all,” retorted Primrose. “We were attracted to each other, we acted on it and it was fun. I don’t want any more. You didn’t object, I might add.”

“So any man would have done last night, is this what you’re saying?”

She hesitated, faltered at the hurt in his tone. The male pride she’d trampled. “Not any man, no.”

He looked away down the verandah, then his head snapped back and his eyes pierced her like knives. “Thank you very much. I suppose that’s a compliment.”

“You’re welcome.”

He stepped closer to the window, yanking it wider, leaning in even further. “Can I just tell you, Primrose, next time you want a man to screw you, find someone else.”

A core of anger rose from deep inside. “Tell
me
something, Tom. Why is it when a man does what I’ve done it’s okay but when I do it, it’s not?”

His words hit like ball bearings. “I can’t answer for other men but I’ve never used a woman the way you’ve used me. I don’t think it’s ever okay.”

“Like I said before,” she said, struggling, drowning. Losing. “You didn’t object. Where were your scruples last night?”

He licked his lips and firmed them briefly. “I find you,” a pause emphasised the next word, “physically, very attractive. You seemed to feel the same about me. Last night I thought maybe we’d discovered something a bit special. Obviously you didn’t.”

Primrose stared up at him. All her carefully constructed justifications shattered around her, leaving her speechless, bereft of cohesive thought. The dawn light had strengthened and cast rosy fingers of light across the verandah. She could see his expression now, deadly serious. She had to look away from the disappointed disgust on his face or the sudden and furious welling of tears would undermine her completely.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I didn’t set out to hurt you. I’m in a mess at the moment.”

His expression softened. “I know you’re in a mess, Rose, but sex without love never solved anything. Even if you are on the rebound.”

He turned and before she could summon any form of response he’d gone. His ute started up and bounded away, quickly disappearing between the trees. She extended her arm to push the window even wider, seeking the fresh morning air, hoping the shame would dissipate in the vastness of the outdoors. The frame screeched and the upper hinges parted from the dry, rotten wood, leaving the window hanging precariously.

“Oh, bugger!” And that summed up the whole hideous situation. “Bugger, bugger, bugger.” And if Kurt heard her, too bloody bad!

Tom’s words seared themselves into her brain. Love. He’d said “sex without love”. Did that mean he’d made love to her? Really made love? Something special, he’d said. He
was
special but he couldn’t have fallen in love so quickly, could he? Was she on the rebound from Martin? He’d barely entered her head since she’d arrived. She swallowed and blinked hard. Salty tears scalded her throat. Tom called her his Rose.

Something black slipped from the windowsill to the floor at her feet. Her black panties. He’d returned them—again.

Chapter Six

Primrose surfaced from fragmented and unsettling dreams late in the morning. She lay sprawled across the bed like a discarded rag doll, heavy-limbed, cotton wool brained, mouth dry as the yard outside. Thoughts scrolled across her mind in an endless, unbearable, unstoppable torrent. She dragged her hands to her ears in a vain attempt to stop the voices in her head. Voices telling her she was a selfish idiot—thoughtless, cruel, crass, callous, promiscuous, wanton and all the other horrible things Tom had obviously wanted, but had been too gentlemanly, to say out loud. Gentleman. That was Tom—a gentle man. A special man. A proud man.

She groaned into her hot pillow. How could she face him ever again? How could she face anyone? News travelled fast in this town. Everyone would know—probably already did—how she’d broken the heart of the town hero. Too strong, broken-hearted? How she’d messed him around.

She dragged herself upright. It was stiflingly hot again. Slept too long. Blast Kurt and his rules of one miniscule shower per day, she’d have another. He’d never know and if he did—tough. She could say it was a trade-off for the ones he never took.

Twenty minutes later she staggered into the kitchen seeking water and caffeine. They only ran to instant coffee but it was better than Nirupam’s herbal tea which tasted like something scratched up in the goat’s yard.

Nirupam. Danny! The whole of yesterday’s toxic dispute erupted in her brain. Everyone. She’d upset everyone. Even innocent little Mojo who simply wanted to learn about music. Plus she’d caused death and destruction in the chook community.

Fern was standing at the sink washing vegetables. She threw a smiling glance over her shoulder. Lunch time already.

“Morning.”

“G'morn'n',” Primrose mumbled as she made a beeline for the kettle.

“Big night, last night?”

With the kettle safely doing its thing, Primrose slumped onto a chair. “Trivia night at the pub. I think I drank too much wine.”

Fern nodded and returned her attention to a lettuce.

Primrose breathed deeply. May as well make a start on atonement. Little things first. “Fern, I’m sorry what I said—about not wanting to teach Mojo music.”

“Don’t worry about it. We all walk our own path in life. Sometimes we’re destined to share the route, other times we aren’t.” A benign smile accompanied her words. Could anyone really be so unflappable? Maybe if you can read the future it gives you an edge—or if you believe you can read the future. Such certainty in the angels, whoever and whatever they were, and the cards, eluded Primrose.

“I think my route must be a very narrow single track at the moment. I’ve had a...a difficult time lately—musically. I’ve been wondering whether I should give it away altogether.” Apart from the funeral when she’d been asked, she hadn’t even thought about playing her flute since she’d arrived. That must mean something.

“Maybe you need a break. Rosehip tea for me, please.”

“Maybe.” The kettle clicked off. Primrose took two cups from the shelf and opened the tin of assorted tea bags. “Trouble is I can’t do anything else.” She picked up the kettle and poured.

“If you relax and allow yourself to open up to new experiences something will present itself.”

Primrose’s hand jerked so she half missed the cup and boiling water spread across the bench. If Fern knew how she’d opened up to a new experience last night...She finished pouring and wiped up the spillage.

“What I’d really love is a baby. I’m so envious of Nirupam.”

“It’s a truly wonderful thing.” Fern lowered her voice. “And I’m glad you’re here to stick up for her. We’ll be leaving in a few days and I was worried how she’d cope.”

“I thought you’d be here for the birth!” Primrose stared at Fern in shock. It was her idea for Nirupam to have no medical intervention and now she calmly says they’re leaving? What if Ellie couldn’t get here for the birth?

“So did we but something’s come up.” She began ripping the leaves from the lettuce and placing them in a bowl. “You’re here and that lovely midwife will manage. Nirupam and the baby will be fine. I’ve seen it in the cards.”

Right. So there’d be a cosy little group of four left in Nirvana. Danny and Kurt who detested her, and Nirupam who mistakenly regarded her as a saviour, a Joan of Arc. And not forgetting the man next door who despised her as well.

“Have you seen Nirupam this morning? Or Danny?”

“Danny’s gone over to see Tom, and Nirupam’s working on her jewellery.”

Luckily Fern’s back was turned so she didn’t witness the guilty start and the hot flush burning across Primrose’s face. What would those two be discussing? How friendly were they? Would Tom blurt out his disgust for Danny’s sister and confirm everything Danny always thought?

Fern went on, “It’s come over very cloudy. Maybe we’ll get a storm.” It
was
dark now Fern had mentioned it. “It’s incredibly hot. Building up to something. By the way I brought the washing in yesterday. Your things are in the laundry.”

“Thanks.”

Primrose wandered across to the back door. In the far yard Mojo was patting one of the useless goats with Sammy hovering at his side. A couple of hens scratched about by the wall of the shed. The survivors. She squinted up at the sky. Clear blue to the north but overhead dark grey and white bundles were piling up at an alarming rate. She walked further out and looked south and east. A thick wall of purple black. Strangely, the air was perfectly still, crushingly hot with a malevolent air of brooding.

The Golf was parked under a tree where she’d left it in her mad rush early this morning. Better off in a shed in case of falling branches or hail. Primrose hurried inside for her keys. “Massive storm’s brewing,” she said to Fern in passing.

“Did you see Mojo?”

“He’s with the goats. I’ll tell him to come in.”

She drove the Golf under shelter beside Danny’s ute and Jason’s battered station wagon. Mojo came round the corner as she closed the door.

“You’d better come inside,” she said. “Don’t want to be out in the storm that’s coming.”

A low rumble in the distance underlined her words. “Ooh.” Wide-eyed. “I don’t like storms.”

“Me neither.”

To her surprise he grasped her hand in his small grimy one as they started for the house. A flash of sheet lightning illuminated the bruised clouds building up over the roof line. Another, closer, burst of thunder grumbled threateningly, rolling around the hills. Mojo gave a squeak of alarm and broke into a jog, tugging Primrose along with him. Together they dashed up the steps and in through the front door.

“Are the others inside?”

“They’ll come in soon. Don’t worry.”

“They might get struck by lightning.” His anxious face peered up at her in the gloomy hallway.

“It’s very unlikely. You should wash your hands. Lunch is ready.”

“Kurt already did get struck by lightning.” Mojo turned and headed for the bathroom. More thunder cracked overhead.

“Really?”

“He got struck by a great big bolt of lightning and it made him deaf in one ear. That’s why he shouts all the time.”

And perhaps explained some of Kurt’s other peculiarities. “When?”

“Ages ago in Germany when he was young.” Mojo’s smile displayed great satisfaction at having so totally stunned her. He disappeared into the bathroom.

Primrose stood in the doorway watching him splash water about.

“Mojo, would you like to look at my flute after lunch?”

His eyes opened wide. “Yes, please. I’d love to play like you do.”

“There’s no reason why you shouldn’t be even better at it than I am.”

The hail started just as they sat down to eat. Big stones dropped one by one, loud on the corrugated iron roof.

“Damn hail will ruin the crops.” Kurt sat glowering at his sandwich as the crashes on the roof increased to a steady deafening roar.

“Danny must have decided to stay at Tom’s,” said Nirupam. “I hope he did.”

“He’s not silly. He won’t ride in this.” Primrose stood up and peered out the kitchen window. Hail fell in a white sheet completely obscuring the sheds and the yard fence. Mojo ran to the back door.

“It’s like snow,” he yelled.

“He said he’d be back before lunch.” A worried frown creased Nirupam’s pale brow. “What if he’s had an accident?”

Primrose resumed her place at the table.

“He’s fine.” Fern took a large bite of salad.

Nirupam didn’t look convinced. “He was only going over for a quick visit, he said. Half an hour at most. Will you go in the car, Rosie? Please?”