Trouble in Nirvana (4 page)

She was different to the usual blow-ins they got over there. More refined, civilised and downright sexy. Very self assured and confident. Didn’t seem to have the earth mother thing going. She was clean for starters, drove a good car and wore stylish store bought clothes as opposed to garments she’d woven, knitted, stitched together herself or bought at the Salvos. Played the flute. Professional, she’d insisted, so she must have a brain and talent beneath the packaging.

Funny—Danny had never mentioned a sister. He never talked about his family at all. Nirupam hardly talked about anything, poor girl. If ever there was a case for women’s lib she was it. Her place appeared to be in the kitchen if she wasn’t making her beautiful silver jewellery which as far as he could gather was their sole source of income. Apart from the peach crop. Not much profit there this season for anyone. So much for division of labour, equality of the sexes and everyone sharing the tasks in their brave new world.

How would Primrose, with her painted nails, French perfume and lacy underwear take to her role? Kitchen drudge. A week and she’d be out of there. She didn’t belong in a place like that anymore than he did.

He parked in the shed. Delilah waddled across wagging her tail. He roughed her ears then looked up at the sky. Still hot but a few clouds were building up to the south so with any luck there’d be a bit of rain later. He headed off toward the workshop and the pump engine he’d been dismantling when Primrose arrived. The radio had been on with the cricket so she’d managed to get in and take a shower without his knowing. And he wouldn’t have if she hadn’t used perfume and left dirty clothes lying about. What cheek! He laughed. She wasn’t going to own up, too proud. Too pretty to yell at. Much too pretty.

Last a week in that dump? He lifted the cover off the engine and peered in. Something was blocking the fuel line. He picked up a spanner. They were all crazy. And he’d had another tirade from Kurt. What a tiresome man he was. Why on earth did Danny put up with him? Why did Danny put up with any of them? They hardly contributed anything and he was always short of money, hence the sale of chunks of his land. The way Danny was going he’d end up with just the few acres surrounding the house.

Whatever the reason it wasn’t his worry and he was a ready purchaser of as much land as Danny wanted to sell. Chances were he’d own the thirty acre Back Block soon. He whistled “Uptown Girl” as he removed the fuel line. Primrose was one very attractive female.

****

Primrose sat on the front verandah on the old couch. This side of the house was cooler now with the sun setting behind the hills on the far side. A ball of golden light, it hovered on the lip of the horizon, just visible between the trees by the sheds.

Kurt was still down in the garden. Nirupam hadn’t reappeared. Neither had the other residents. Where were they and what did they do here? Although by the state of the place, no-body did anything much.

Was this a mistake?

Primrose stared unseeing across the paddocks. She knew her new life on the commune wouldn’t be easy, but she’d expected a modicum of organisation and efficiency. Not whatever this was. The local joke? Tom Fairbrother made it obvious he thought so.

Danny had been here six years. Doing what? He’d never been good at organising himself. He’d never been interested in agriculture as far as she could remember. That’s why becoming a self sufficient farmer had seemed such a ridiculous and hopeless venture.

The alternative would be going somewhere completely new and trying to restart a career. Very difficult, and she’d already done those calculations. Finding work as a flute player was tough. Not many fulltime positions were available and she really didn’t want the freelance life anymore. That was one reason why marriage and motherhood was so appealing and why now, with that prospect smashed to smithereens, she was adrift.

No. Too early to panic. She needed to slow down, adjust. Accept change as a positive thing. And the last thing she wanted was to prove Mr. Smart Arse Fairbrother right. She could stick it out for a few weeks before making any decisions about leaving. The reality was she didn’t have much choice. Her stomach gurgled.

Was dinner a communal meal the way she’d envisaged or was it every man for himself the way some of her student share houses had operated? Whichever way it worked it was close to seven and she was running on empty.

An engine roared in the distance. A motorbike. She stood up. The bike burst into view on the top of the hill. Danny? A cloud of dust trailed like a banner in his wake. The bike decelerated and ran into the shed next to the Kombi. Primrose waited for the dust to settle then walked down the steps. She crossed the yard, stopping as the rider got off the big blue bike and removed the helmet. He took grocery bags from the rear container.

“Danny!”

He turned, bearded, brow creased as he studied her. “Hello, Rosie.”

The expanse of dusty ground between them stretched into a vast no man’s land. Primrose paused, licked her lips, with a tentative smile hovering. Was he pleased to see her? A sudden and unexpected groundswell of emotion flooded her eyes with moisture, made her voice catch in her throat. “Hello.”

He put the groceries down. “Been a long time.”

“Yes.” She moved forward uncertainly, but the frown had gone. He smiled and she ran the last few steps into his open arms, sniffing back tears. She’d forgotten being a sister. Those shared memories and experiences didn’t go away, however neglected they may be. She and this man, her brother, were linked by invisible, cobweb thin bonds spun in childhood. Stronger than she’d thought.

“You’re looking good,” he mumbled into her shoulder.

She stepped back, ran a hand over her cheeks, grinning, wiping away tears. The clear green eyes hadn’t changed, but the hair was lighter and he’d lost weight. A lot of weight. His frame was wiry thin, bony, beneath her hug. “I’m fine. You look good, too.”

“How long have you been here?” He bent and scooped up the grocery bags and started walking toward the house.

“A few hours. I saw Nirupam. She’s asleep at the moment. Hey!” Primrose grabbed his arm. “Congratulations. You’re going to be a Dad.”

“A better one than ours, I hope.”

“You will be, and Nirupam will be a terrific mother.” Danny smiled briefly but said nothing. He stepped aside for her to go through the gate. Primrose said, “Is she well? She looks a bit pale, and you’re both very thin.”

“She tired, but it’s natural according to Kurt and Fern.”

“I haven’t met Fern. I’ve met Kurt, and he doesn’t strike me as knowing anything about pregnancy.” Or women or probably anything else.

“Fern and Jason live here too with their son Mojo. He’s seven.”

Mojo!? What were they thinking? “What does her doctor say?” Primrose pulled the door open.

“She hasn’t seen a doctor. No need. Fern’s here.”

“What?! What does Fern know about it? Is she a midwife?”

“No, but she’s had a child.”

“Has Kurt had any medical training?” Primrose squawked, unable to conceal the horror.

“No but—”

“But what? She needs to see a doctor, Danny. Where’s she going to have the baby? Here?”

He nodded. “It’s a perfectly natural thing, childbirth.”

“Maybe, but women and babies still die. What if something goes wrong?”

He wandered off along the corridor toward the bathroom. “I don’t know. It won’t happen. Fern’s predicted a perfectly healthy birth with her Tarot cards.” He left the grocery bags on the floor outside the bathroom and closed the door.

Primrose stared after him, hands on hips. He hadn’t changed. Still hopelessly vague, expecting things to take care of themselves. Well he had to do a darn sight better than vague with his wife in her condition. Fancy relying on the word of that maniac Kurt! And Tarot cards? What else did they have to offer poor Nirupam? Good vibes? Crystals?

“It’s a good thing I’m here,” she called after him.

“Take the groceries to the kitchen,” he said through the closed door.

Primrose picked up the bags and peered inside. “Do we all eat together?”

“Yes.”

“Who cooks?”

“Usually Nirupam or Fern, but she’s away. Can’t you wait until I come out?”

Nirupam? What’s wrong with the rest of them? Primrose strode to the newly cleaned kitchen, the plastic bags swinging in her hand. Why were they using plastic bags? Even she had Green reusable bags. As she stacked away, she investigated the food situation. The fridge housed a tub of margarine; left over something red with mould on it; a hunk of cheese; jars of jam, honey, peanut butter, yoghurt and various bottles of sauce and mustard. Nothing home made. She removed her beautifully iced tea from the freezer and swigged most of it in one gulp.

The vegetable drawer revealed a lettuce, cucumbers and a couple of bendy carrots which she tossed out and replaced with the fresh batch. A big platter of tomatoes ripened on the shelf over the sink by the window. They were home grown. Maybe she could cobble together some sort of pasta thing with the tomatoes and onions.

Canola oil hid in a cramped cupboard under the bench. It would do. Too much to hope they had olives and parmesan cheese. Primrose took out two of the saucepans she’d washed earlier and filled one with water. The old gas stove gamely resisted her efforts with a match, but she won in the end and set the pan on top to boil.

The toilet flushed. A door opened. Closed. Footsteps sounded in the passage. Another door opened and closed. Checking on Nirupam. No wonder the poor girl was exhausted. They should be looking after her not the other way around.

A heavy tread came from the back entrance. Kurt appeared, bare chested, in a clean pair of shorts, with a faded threadbare towel slung over his shoulder. His wild blonde hair and rust coloured beard hung damply around his red, shining face.

“Hello,” he boomed as if Primrose were on the far side of a paddock.

“Hi. Have you been swimming?”

“Ja. In the creek. Natural. Wash in the creek the way natives do. Only trouble, not much water now. Just one pool with leeches in it. But they don’t bother me.”

No doubt they knew better. If they survived the toxic run-off.

He surveyed her dinner preparations. “You cook tonight? What you making?”

“Pasta.”

“You go on. Have you shut in the chooks?”

Hadn’t given them a thought. “I’ll get this started first. Can I use those tomatoes? Home grown ones taste so much better.”

A series of furrows appeared in his brow. “Fairbrudder brought them. Said he had too many. Hah!”

“I thought you’d grown them.” Primrose turned to hide the smile. “What’s in your garden?”

“Lettuce, cucumbers, capsicums, chillies, herbs and tomatoes.”

“Are yours ripe?”

“No.” He picked up her half drunk bottle of iced tea and drained it in one greedy swallow. “Bad year for tomatoes. The root stock was rubbish. Just got two, three little ones coming. Fairbrudder tells the supplier not to give me the best. See? What can you do?” He crushed the drink bottle in one massive fist and tossed it toward the bin in the corner. “Hard to grow vegetables here.”

“But his grew.”

“Because he bought up all the good stock first. He didn’t need so many. Just took everything to stop us.”

“Would he do that?”

“Sure. Cheaters never change. Fairbrudder is the wrong name for him. He’s Unfairbrudder.” He grinned at his witticism.

“What’s your other name?” Hitler perhaps? Goebbels?

“O’Malley.”

“Really?” She nearly dropped the tomato. “I thought you’d have a German name.”

“I changed it. O’Malley is a good name. Easy to spell for Aussies.”

“What was your name before?”

“Schmidt.”

“Why didn’t you change it to Smith?”

“Too many Smiths. Too common like weeds. Nah, O’Malley is a good name.”

Primrose concentrated on peeling an onion. Insane laughter bubbled in her throat making her shoulders shake. Danny and Nirupam came in and sat at the table. She forced the laughter down and turned. Nirupam was still pale with dark purple rings under her eyes even after her sleep. Danny held her hand in both his. Loving and protecting each other. Primrose swallowed the little surge of envy.

“Rosie is cooking dinner,” announced Kurt.

“Thanks, Rosie.” Nirupam offered a feeble smile. “You shouldn’t have to cook on your first night.”

“It’s all right. I’ll take my turn now and someone else can do it tomorrow.”

“I don’t cook,” said Kurt. “I work outside.”

“What about the others? Are they eating here tonight?”

Kurt said, “They’re in Narooma doing a psychic healing workshop.”

Primrose sliced the onions. “Do we have garlic?”

Nirupam pointed. “In that cupboard.”

“The water’s boiling.” Kurt made no move to add the pasta.

Primrose jammed spaghetti into the pot. “Perhaps you could wash a lettuce.” She held her breath. He may have washed in the creek, wherever that was, but the walk up the paddocks had raised another pungent sweat.

“I have to put on a clean shirt.” He left the kitchen.

“How long has Kurt been here?”

“About eight months,” said Danny.

“I thought the idea was to share the chores.”

“We started out that way, but Kurt thinks everyone should stick to what they do best,” said Nirupam.

“Aren’t you the boss, Danny?” What on earth did Kurt do best? Bully people? It wasn’t grow vegetables.

“We have a weekly council to decide what should be done.”

“His way?” Primrose raised an eyebrow at Danny. He looked away. Typical. “Danny, it’s our land not his. Why should he tell you what to do?”

“He doesn’t. We discuss things.”

Primrose stirred her sizzling onions. Someone had to stand up to Kurt. It sure wasn’t going to be Danny. “So who pays for the groceries and the rates and everything? Do you have a kitty?”

“People contribute what they can,” said Nirupam in a vague other worldly tone.

“Money creates problems,” said Danny. “Possessions make people unhappy. The less you have the happier you are.”

“Right. Especially if someone else can pay for everything.”