12 HEATH

12 Heath

‘You two have the worst taste in music.’ Sophie’s voice was raised over ‘Bat Out of Hell’.

‘You have no taste,’ Charlee chipped back. ‘That stuff you play is for funerals.’

Heath had to agree with his daughter. Sophie was one of the few people who actually enjoyed inoffensive elevator music, and she complained when the on-hold music in a phone call was interrupted by an automated voice telling her she’d progressed in the queue.

‘You can turn it down a bit, Charlee.’ He raised his voice. ‘I’m trying to concentrate back here.’

‘And I’m trying to concentrate up here.’ Their daughter had an answer for everything. It was exhausting, exasperating and endearing. ‘You always say the driver gets to choose the music and the temperature. I’ve had to suffer for sixteen years, so it’s my turn now.’

‘It’s your turn when you get your Ps,’ Sophie said. ‘You don’t need any distractions.’

‘You know how many studies there are into music helping with focus, don’t you, Mum?’

‘Sorry, can’t hear you.’ Sophie pointed to the console as the track switched to Joan Jett’s ‘I Love Rock ’n’ Roll’. ‘I think there’s a tumbler of gravel stuck in the engine. Slow down as you come up to the intersection, Charlee.’

‘I’ve got right-of-way.’

‘Yes, but you can’t assume all the other drivers on the road are as brilliant as you are. So slow down and look, anyway.’

‘We’re in a hundred zone, it’s dangerous to slow down for no reason. I’m supposed to maintain a constant speed.’

Sophie sighed. ‘Just slow down, Charlee.’

Charlee eased her foot off the accelerator, but Heath knew she’d keep arguing the point. Sophie was just about as bad, though. She never understood that the only way to deal with Charlee’s need to win every discussion was to terminate the conversation.

Heath shuffled the papers on his lap together and reached down to put them in his briefcase. It was too dark to work in the back of the car, and they’d be home in five minutes or so. He’d pull out the files again after dinner.

‘Besides, you have to drive to the conditions,’ Sophie said, and Heath groaned inwardly. That doggedness, the need to win, was where Charlee got it from, yet it was their similarity that had the two women he loved at loggerheads so frequently. His daughter’s laughing gaze met his in the rear-view mirror, her eyes sparkling beneath the jaunty chequered golf hat that was her latest wardrobe quirk. He nodded toward the highway, redirecting her attention and tacitly supporting Sophie’s instruction.

‘It’s roo o’clock,’ Sophie continued, ‘and you need to be constantly scanning the verge for kangaroos. I don’t know how you can even concentrate with the radio so loud.’

Any second now, Charlee would start citing statistics from research into loud music aiding concentration. She had either an eidetic memory or a brilliant flair for inventing plausible quotes. ‘It’s not the radio, Mum. It’s a playlist.’

‘Whatever. Look at this idiot. His headlights aren’t even on.’

Heath pulled out his phone. He couldn’t see his files properly in the gloom, but he could draft a few emails before they got home. Although they’d have loads of typos: Charlee could text with both thumbs flying across the keypad, but he pecked at the screen with one finger, often hitting the wrong key.

‘I’ll flash him.’

‘No, you won’t. I’m quite sure that’s illegal on your Ls.’

Heath winced at the tightness of Sophie’s tone. Her patience with their daughter’s relentless assertiveness had worn thin. They had a deal that she would oversee Charlee on the drive into town to pick him up once a week and he’d be the instructor on the way home. He’d bailed, though, figuring the twenty minutes would be better invested in knocking over some extra work. Besides, it wasn’t like Sophie was snowed under: with nothing but their neat house to worry about, she had plenty of time she could use to help Charlee sign off her required hours. Though it was the night driving their daughter needed more experience with, and Sophie wasn’t keen on that, because her night blindness played up.

‘You’re confusing flashing headlights with using the horn as anything but a warning device,’ Charlee said, never willing to let an argument go. ‘Right, Dad?’

Her eyes searched the mirror for him, and he held his phone up, conveying that their argument had nothing to do with him. ‘I’m not going to get any work finished at this—’

The impact threw him sideways across the rear seat.

Metal screeched on metal. Glass shattered.

Then silence.

Nothing except blackness and the moisture on his face.

The music playing.

He couldn’t see from his left eye. He put a hand to his face, a sticky mess pulsing beneath his fingertips. Had he lost his eye? For a mad moment, he felt he should still be able to see from it, that the detached eyeball was rolling around on the floor of the car, transmitting a vision of the stash of lost coins and pens beneath the front seats.

And then the screaming started.

Heath sucked in a great breath, his lungs spasming as though punishing him for having the audacity to believe he should be permitted to draw breath. Was this dream, this memory, any better than the regular one? At least this time his nightmare hadn’t put him in the front seat, responsible for Charlee’s driving. Could that mean that, after two years, his subconscious was finally letting him off the hook?

As he tried to unclench his fists, the knuckles locked and aching, he shook his head. No. Back seat, front seat; it made no difference. The accident was his fault.

An angry mosquito above the farmhouse, the drone of the single-engine plane, brought his head up. He’d seen Amelia in Settlers Bridge a few times over the last month, which meant he’d been hanging around the town more than he’d done over the entirety of the previous year. The first time had been to drop off the second lamb, which she’d laughingly named Kismet, stressing the ‘e’ so it sounded like a bleat. He’d been careful not to mention her need to nurture animals again. Her reaction in the pub had been odd, to say the least, and he didn’t want to be in the position of having to deal with her if she chucked another funny turn. So he’d cut the visit short, using the excuse that Sean was waiting in the car—though getting Dad to remain in there had been a mission in itself. Sean was all for taking the opportunity to get to know Amelia—along with everyone else in the town—better.

Another time had been when he’d reluctantly agreed to go to the stock market with Sean, and had ducked into Ploughs and Pies to get their coffee. He knew the silence of the two women in the cafe meant they’d discuss him the minute he was out of the door, but exchanging a brief greeting with Amelia outside the IGA had somehow dispelled his irritation over still being the subject of small-town gossip.

Evidently, Amelia had kept her job, because she’d also been at the second Regional Action Group meeting. She’d drawn the short straw again and stayed to lock up after them. Not that the meeting had run late. The group had unanimously decided they were happy to wait for Ethan’s research into skateparks to eventuate rather than investigate other ventures or projects. Moving anything ahead in this town was going to be a slow uphill grind. He knew the RAG would sit on the one idea for months, chewing it over like a piece of gristle, then probably never commit to anything. He should cut his losses and stop attending the meetings. Or take a six-month break, and no doubt step right back in where he’d left. With no forward momentum, the RAG was just a group of people entertaining themselves with a load of pointless back-and-forth on Thursday nights—but now he’d got the skatepark idea in his head, it was hard to let go. Even if it had been Ethan’s suggestion, he could see the merit in providing somewhere for kids to hang out. He’d grown up in the country himself, and recognised that, from an adult’s point of view, it was the perfect life: fresh air, open space, rivers, motorbikes, plenty of sports clubs. Yet he could still remember that, as a pre-driving teen, being stuck out in the bush was a death sentence: nothing to do, nowhere to go to hang out with mates, no fast food, no entertainment that wasn’t overseen by adult coaches and cheered on by over-involved parents.

Unsurprisingly, Ethan had sent his apologies instead of attending the second RAG. Or perhaps that was surprising, given that it meant the guy was actually aware of his obligations, even if he failed to act on them. The call from Ethan was more contact than Heath had had from Charlee in the past month. In fact, it had been Ethan who’d told Sean that Charlee was back at uni full-time, despite his daughter flagging her intention to drop out when Heath had tried to have an encouraging word before she left.

Old Dave must have enjoyed the last board meeting—or, more likely, he’d enjoyed the bring-a-plate tea that followed—as he’d moved for another pointless meeting Thursday week, saying that community members should be invited to air their views.

Heath flung aside the quilt with a grunt of annoyance. He didn’t have time to waste on the small-town bickering. No, that wasn’t true—he had plenty of time, just no intention of getting embroiled in the brewing debacle. Dave had signalled his resolve to oppose the skatepark at every turn, and had likely used the time between meetings to enlist his supporters, beating up the potential for increased drug problems in the town. Oddly, Heath hadn’t caught any of the RAG committee looking sideways at Charlee in that first meeting. Perhaps it wasn’t obvious to them that she was buzzed. Or maybe—and the thought gave him the tiniest bit of hope—she hadn’t been? Or perhaps—and far more likely—she was building a tolerance to the drugs.

The plane circled again and his mind followed it as he made for the vintage pink-and-green tiled bathroom. Amelia had mentioned that she was taking her mate, Gavin, for a flight early today. She had a pretty good life, working part-time and cruising the skies the rest, free as a bird. Obviously, she had made all the right choices in life or rubbed the right genie lamp, or something like that. It was unfair how some people had all the luck.

Ten minutes later, he ambled into the kitchen, irritably pushing his wet hair into place.

‘Looks like you’re due for a cut,’ Sean observed over the rim of his coffee mug. He would have been up for a couple of hours by now, was probably on his third coffee. For some reason, he’d recently started taking it without sugar, and Heath wondered how he could tolerate so much of the bitter brew so early.

‘Yeah. I’ll cadge a lift into Adelaide when you go to AA.’ The irony didn’t escape him. Where most men his age would be thrilled to be hanging onto their hair, the genetic blessing that he carried from Dad was more of a curse. Heath ran a hand across his head. ‘Maybe I’ll get the lot shaved off. You know, like that bludger.’

‘Ethan? With a Master’s degree, I’m not sure you can call him a bludger,’ Sean responded mildly. It was funny: years back, he’d had a hot Irish temper. Heath was never sure whether the temper had disappeared with the booze, or if perhaps it was the alcoholic removal of inhibitions that had previously robbed him of the ability to keep it under control.

‘Classic move for someone who doesn’t want to work. Keep studying, keep adding to a HECS debt.’

Sean dunked a gingernut biscuit in the last of his coffee. ‘He works, lad. He’s part-time at a skate shop.’

Heath scoffed. ‘Hardly a job.’

‘A skate shop he owns. If you’d taken the time to talk with him, you’d have found that out.’

‘Got a vested interest in this skatepark idea then, hasn’t he? Don’t you think that should be declared to the RAG?’

‘I’m far more concerned about his interest in Charlee.’

‘Exactly!’ Heath pulled a chair up to the table and poured from the pot Sean had placed there. ‘You figured out his age?’

‘Nope. But I think he’s maybe not as old as he appears. Had a hard life, by the sounds of it.’

It irritated him that Sean had so quickly flipped to defending the guy. ‘You found out all that from him in one visit?’

Sean stood and took his mug to the sink. ‘Wasn’t all from him. Charlee called a couple of times, filled in some blanks.’

‘Charlee called?’ Heath couldn’t keep the longing from his tone. When was the last time his daughter had contacted him for anything but a top-up of her funds? And she only did that by text. ‘Is that why you’re concerned about her and this … guy?’

‘“Concerned” is a poor choice of word … maybe more like “interested”.’ Sean leaned against the cupboard, crossing his ankles like he was settling in for a chat.

Heath immediately stood, determined not to be cornered into anything resembling a meaningful conversation, even if it cost him his coffee.

‘I think he’s having a positive effect on Charlee.’

‘Positive?’ Heath exploded. ‘The guy’s a crackhead, in case you didn’t notice.’

‘A crackhead who’s holding down a job and about to finish a Master’s.’

‘Great, so a high-functioning crackhead who is associating with your drug-addicted granddaughter, in case you didn’t notice!’

Heath headed for the back door. His dad might have a handle on his anger, but he had a long way to go himself. Distance and silence were the only things that brought him peace. No, that was a lie: there was no peace. But he could shelter those he loved by keeping his torment, frustration, anger, guilt and grief to himself.

‘Ex-crackhead,’ Sean retaliated.

‘I would have thought that you, of all people, would know that’s about the worst kind of person for Charlee to associate with.’

‘Except he’s got her back at uni. And talking to me!’ Sean yelled at his back.

He hadn’t planned to leave the house, hadn’t intended to find himself outside, but it wasn’t all bad, Heath mused. Propelled by his nightmare and his need to escape his father’s judgement—although that, he admitted to himself, was actually judgement on his own judgement—he strode across the yard. It was early June, one of those confused days when the new season wasn’t entirely committed to what it should be doing. He’d noticed a couple of weeks earlier, on a trip into the city, that the European trees through the Adelaide Hills had started to lose their autumnal colours, the leaves littering the ground in deep drifts. But out here the native vegetation made a far more subtle display of changing seasons: scrubby mallee gums hid discreet yellow, almost white, blossoms among their dark olive leaves, revealed only by the busyness of bees appreciating the last snatches of sunshine before winter set in. The birds were noisy; along with the obvious galahs, magpies, crows and pigeons, tiny fieldmouse-sized birds he’d never noticed before flitted amid the vegetation, the flocks twittering their way to the protection of boxthorn bushes. Beyond the fence at the bottom of the yard was the paddock he’d trekked across with Amelia a few weeks earlier. A fuzz of green now lay like a patchy tablecloth over the remnants of the grey stubble. Dirty brown sheep called loudly as the splotched white-and-black lambs ignored their mothers’ summons in favour of frolicking in groups of three or four. Clearly they didn’t need a skatepark to entertain themselves.

Heath snorted. Amelia had said she planned to wash Karmaa and Kismet. She was going to have her work cut out for her there. Still, doting on the sheep was probably one up on having a houseful of cats, which seemed to be the go-to of most lonely old spinsters.

His mind wandered along with his feet as he followed the fence line around the home paddock. It was odd that Amelia was single, even with her animal fixation. He’d heard the lament about the shortage of women in country areas plenty of times, and he very much doubted that had changed over the last couple of years while he’d had his head buried in the sand. Charlee used to watch a TV show based on bringing women to the country to pair with lonely men: Farmer Wants a Woman , or something like that. Despite his protests, she’d insisted on updating him on the drama each episode, vehement—as always, because that was Charlee—in her insistence of who should get with whom. She’d been addicted to that show. Back when addiction had been something to joke about.

Heath scowled, but whether it was caused by the direction his thoughts had taken or the realisation that he’d somehow limped his way out to the airfield, where a sedan was parked alongside the hangar, he didn’t care to dissect.

Right on cue, the Jabiru appeared low above the tree line. He couldn’t even make a run back to the house now—his escape attempt would be far too obvious.

Gritting his teeth against the inevitable pleasantries, Heath strode to the car and leaned against it as the Jabiru touched down with impressive smoothness. The aircraft wheeled around on the runway, then taxied toward him. The engines cut and Amelia clambered out, barely shooting him an acknowledging glance as she dashed around the aircraft, to the far side.

‘All right there, Gav?’ she said as she helped the older man navigate the deep lip that cradled the cockpit.

Gavin took a moment to gain his balance, one hand on Amelia’s shoulder, the other resting on the frame of the aircraft. ‘Right as can be, love. And better now I’ve got some sky in my eyes. It’s like a tonic, you know.’

‘That it is,’ she replied, leading him toward the car. ‘But I reckon you can overdo any tonic. Maybe we should skip next week?’

Gavin shook his head. ‘Not unless you’ve something better to be doing?’ He held up a hand to stop her reply. ‘No, let me rephrase that. Lovely young woman, of course you have something better planned. So how about we say I’ll fit in whenever you can make time. If next week’s no good, that’s fine. Hannah will just have to put up with having me under her feet.’

‘Of course next week is okay with me. You know I’m only working a few hours. As long as I’ve fed the terrible twosome—’ Amelia shot a grin at Heath and the pleasurable jolt he felt at his unexpected inclusion surprised him ‘—I’m free as a bird.’

Gavin nodded at him. ‘I reckon we met at the pub a few weeks back, when you were peeling me off the carpet?’

Heath stepped forward. ‘Sounds like a regular night at any country pub to me.’

He caught the glimmer of gratitude in the other man’s eyes. Like him, Gavin didn’t want his frailties noted. Or perhaps Gavin was trying to deny his own mortality. Funny; Heath would have sacrificed his mortality rather than acknowledge his own injuries, forced to remember daily how they’d occurred. But Sophie would never have forgiven him for that.

‘How are those sheep getting on, then?’ he asked Amelia, diverting his train of thought with an inane question that barely rated better than remarking on the weather.

She chuckled. ‘Eating me out of house and home, like you predicted. Karmaa’s decided he’s not made for sleeping on the floor and I keep finding him up on the bed. I picked up a playpen from the second-hand shop to try to corral them, but he’s already worked out how to push the entire cage across the floor until he’s right alongside the bed.’ She sounded like a proud parent.

‘When you’re sleep deprived and grumpy, just remember I gave you Kismet, not Karmaa.’ As Amelia cradled her free arm across her chest, he noticed a thick strip of buff adhesive bandage wrapped around it. ‘Looks like you’ve been in the wars,’ he said.

‘Those babies have sharp milk teeth.’

‘They bite?’ he asked in surprise.

She fiddled with the frayed edge of the sticking plaster, and he made out the purple of a bruise around the edge.

‘No. They’re so eager for their bottles, they butt into my hand really hard. Despite only having one row of teeth, Karmaa’s managed to graze a chunk off my knuckles.’

Gavin had lowered himself into the car. ‘You coming back into town with me, then, Amelia?’ he called. ‘Or hanging around here?’

‘What? Oh, I’m with you,’ Amelia said, seeming suddenly flustered, as though she’d forgotten the older man’s presence.

‘You take care of that hand, then,’ Heath said awkwardly.

‘Sure. I’ll see you at the meeting next week?’

‘You drew the late shift again?’

Amelia regarded Heath for a moment, then gave a small smile. ‘Like I said, not much to do around here. So I volunteered.’

She slid into the car alongside Gavin, but didn’t break eye contact with Heath.

‘Even if it’s just to throw a spanner in Faelie’s works.’