Hope Farm (19 page)

SUMMER

When I go back to that time in my mind — Hope, and Miller and Dawn, and Dan and Ishtar, and Ian, and the series of collisions we were all sliding towards — that little hut glows at the centre of my recollections as some kind of gift, a fluked idyll, all the more beautiful for how fragile, how short-lived, how untenable it was.

There was no logical reason for my feeling safe there. Miller was just down the road, and something bad was definitely going on with Ishtar, who became more and more withdrawn and uncommunicative. Yet during those first couple of weeks I experienced a sense of real happiness. I can only put it down to the actual place, which, after that incredible first day's transformation, represented what I had always fantasised about: a house that was just mine and Ishtar's, where we lived together, just the two of us. In a strange and completely unexpected way I had gotten what I'd always wanted — and even though I knew it wouldn't last, that was the comfort I held close as I fell asleep at night.

I loved being alone in the hut. After school, with Ishtar still at work, I lit a fire even if it wasn't cold, and swept the floor, straightened the meagre supply of crockery and the few jars and tins on the shelf. I put my school knapsack under the end of my bed and smoothed the blanket. Through the four small panes of wavery glass that made up the window in my room, the overgrown arm of the old rose bush presented fairy-tale orbs of rusty fruit. Even though I didn't like tea much, I boiled the kettle on the camp stove and made a cup, and sat with it at the card table, or outside on the sagging bench by the front door, holding it under my chin to feel the steam. I did everything slowly, thoughtfully, with a sense of spaciousness, almost of languor — even when heading out into the morning chill with the trowel and the roll of toilet paper, or lugging bucketfuls of water from the creek.

No more sneaking around, evading Jindi. No more overcrowded, noisy mealtimes, no more raucous late-night parties, no more tripping over other people's things, no more crying baby. Each morning, I woke and lay listening to the tick and whisper of the bush, and felt untouchable, sheltered in its cushioned heart.

Ishtar was sick. She didn't seem to have a cold or anything, and still went off to work each day, walking out to the dirt road in the mornings to flag down Gav or whoever else was driving past from Hope. But when she wasn't at work she mostly lay in bed. Sometimes she slept — often she was asleep even before it got dark — but other times she just lay there.

I was the one who kept the place clean, who washed the dishes in the tub and lit the fire and the lamp. She did buy some groceries, but she didn't cook — the two of us ate muesli and fried eggs, raw carrots and apples. Sometimes I would cook a pot of rice, which we ate just with salt and pepper. Ishtar chewed and swallowed in a joyless, methodical way, like someone taking medicine — even though, strangely, she seemed to be eating more than usual.

Our interactions were reduced, if that was possible, to the most basic of practical exchanges. ‘We're out of rice,' she might say, not lifting her head from the pillow. ‘Go round to Hope and get some. Take those oranges and do a swap.' Or at the sound of Dan's truck, ‘I'm asleep,' huddled with her face to the wall — and I would open the door and shake my head at Dan, who nodded and went away again.

She didn't invite Dan in at all after that first day. Same with Miller, who turned up at odd hours, his knock resounding with entitlement. Ishtar dealt with him; I saw only a slice of his solid torso and glowing hair as, murmuring, she pushed the cracked-open door closed again.

‘I'm sick.' Her voice was final. ‘I need to rest.'

Dulled, uneasy realisations threatened at the back of my mind, but lying on my new bed in the honeyed afternoon light, or sitting on the outside bench with my cup of tea, or moving soft-footed and quiet as a wallaby through the bush, I could ignore them.

The hut, the bush, the creek; the soft eruptions of blossom that swayed, damp and fragrant, as I went out with the bucket in the pink mornings. The band of sweet, moist air that sat over the water's surface, coating my hands and forearms as I plunged the bucket in. The push of my thighs as I stood, made a scoop with my palm, and drank. The taste, mineral and ancient, sent me down into the brown water, into that sinewy, tail-flicking world, layers of silt and ooze, secret openings in the flanks of rocks. The branches beckoned and up I went, cutting and banking, riding air. Or bracken passageways called, and my paws knew the powdery soil, my body telescoped and dived, my animal heart pattering.

If I could, I would have melted into that world, leaving my old self slumped on the bank, unwieldy, slow, and human.

I went to the doctor and made sure. Even though I knew any way it shook me up to be told it was true. All those years on the pill I always felt so safe but it can happen the doctor said, its just bad luck. You have a plan I kept saying to myself, this could be a disaster but realy its not its actually a way out. But I had that sickness and I couldnt think straight and the worst thing was it was just like last time. I tried to think about how to do it I had to get it right choose the right moment. I lay on my bed and tried but I just fell asleep straight after work, I fell asleep and didnt wake up till it was night and then when I did wake up, before I opened my eyes there was the sick feeling and my breasts all hard and sore and I kept hearing that old name Id almost forgotten and it was like I was back there again. I opened my eyes and there was the fire and the lamp hissing and Silver on the couch with her book all grown in to the stranger she was. I hadnt thought about any of it for so long it shouldve felt very far off but it didnt now it seemed very near just over my shoulder.

I had hardly seen Ian since I'd caught him taking the photos of Dan. We did run into each other by the creek one time and I told him about the move, but he showed little interest, which would have surprised me had I been more tuned in. Dean Price was giving him a hard time at school, I'd noticed that — seen the two of them at the centre of a scrum in the courtyard near the library. A teacher intervened, breaking up the knot of bodies and sending Ian, taut with rumpled dignity, off in one direction and Dean Price and his gang in the other. In the bush I had caught sight of him flitting through the trees, but something in his bearing kept me from calling out or running after him. Besides, I knew where he would be headed. I let him go, and managed to put him, along with Ishtar and her strange behaviour, out of my mind as I lay on my bed in the calm of the empty hut.

Then one morning I climbed the steps of the bus to find a new man in the driver's seat. He had rounded shoulders and a beaky nose, and a pang of worry went off in me at the sight of his hands, which were not draped casually like the old driver's but clamped stiffly either side of the wheel. When he pulled the lever to close the door it was with a desperate, grabbing motion, and even the way the vehicle accelerated under his control seemed nervy, irregular.

It was hard to say what exactly gave the usual bus driver his authority. The same went for Mr Dickerson. There were no readily identifiable signs, but it was clearly there, an air of confidence, of clout — and it was just as obvious that this man did not have those qualities, and in fact exuded weakness like an odour.

As we trundled uncertainly along the road it began: hoots and yells from the back seats, kids getting up and moving around — something the regular driver would not have allowed for a moment. Then a school bag went sliding down the aisle. The driver didn't respond, but his posture seemed to grow more defensive.

By the time the bus pulled into the school car park the noise from the back had reached zoo-like levels and, in the chaos of everyone getting off, Ian's jumper was snatched and tossed overhead from thug to thug. The driver just sat, hands still on the wheel, gazing out the windscreen like someone who has unexpectedly survived the first round of an unwinnable fight.

As I crossed the asphalt I saw Ian walking evenly, as if nothing at all had happened, to retrieve his jumper from where it had been stuffed into a rubbish bin. His words echoed in my head —
When they find you, you just have to endure
— and I was almost thrown off my own casual-seeming course by the strength of the strange, pity-laced admiration that filled me.

The same driver was back again that afternoon, and Dean Price got on our bus instead of his own. Three stops before mine and Ian's, he and his mob made a mass exit. Down the aisle they rumbled in a mute, grey herd, from which a hammy hand appeared, pulling Ian off his seat and along with the jumble of bodies.

I saw his jumper pulled up close round his neck, the raw-looking fingers gripping it in a bundle, his grim face pressed sideways into the back of the boy in front, his feet groping at the floor, barely reaching. I glimpsed the waiting roadside, empty of adults, of protection, and Ian's words flashed up in my mind like red-pen headings in an exercise book — avoidance, resilience,
revenge
— and, from nowhere, the thought gaped, of the black mineshaft going down into deadly depths.

They were off, and the driver was lunging for the lever again. I called, ‘Wait, please,' in a voice that came out so puny I was surprised he heard — and then I was scrambling down the steps and the bus, with a shudder and a burst of warm fumes, was gone, the sound of the engine fading into a sudden, terrible, wind-blown hush.

Four or five boys were standing in a bunch by the barbed-wire fence, their bags at their feet. Behind them a paddock bent its long grass to the wind. Dean Price, with Ian still in his grip, was nearer to the road. All of them — including Ian, a groove of disapproval between his eyebrows — were staring at me.

Dean Price's fat tongue lolled at his lips. ‘What's she doin' here?'

I had never heard his speaking voice before. It was surprisingly high, and raspy. Some of the cronies shrugged.

‘She a friend of yours, Munro?'

Ian didn't respond. His eyes dropped from my face.

Dean Price regarded me for a moment longer, then spat on the ground and turned back to Ian.

‘Now.' He let go of Ian's collar at last. ‘I hear you've got something interesting to show us, Munro, yer little ponce.'

Ian kept his head down.

‘Newt reckons he caught you in the darkroom, saw what you've been up to, snapping away with your little camera. That right, Newt?'

A ruddy boy with white-blond hair blown into a crest grinned.

Dean Price raised his hand, palm up, and wiggled his fingers. ‘Come on, then,' he said. ‘Giss a look.'

Ian didn't move.

Dean Price gave an exaggerated sigh. ‘For fuck's sake,' he said. Then Newt came over and seized Ian from behind, pinning his arms to his sides and lifting him off the ground. Dean Price ripped the bag from Ian's hands, opened it, and tipped out the contents. Some loose papers were snatched immediately by the wind and went whipping past me and off along the grassy roadside. A red plastic lunchbox and some books fell to the ground, as well as one of the white A4 envelopes photography students used to protect their prints, which Dean Price quickly put his foot on.

‘Aha!' Casting a jubilant look round, he bent and picked up the envelope. ‘This looks interesting, hey Munro?'

What happened after that happened very quickly, and almost all at once.

A vehicle pulled up, a small truck that I recognised with a throb of incredulous relief.

Ian suddenly twisted and kicked at Newt's shins, who released his grip for a moment. Ian then grabbed at the envelope in Dean Price's fist and the envelope tore, releasing a clutch of postcard-sized photographs that scattered and then tumbled over the grass in my direction, borne along by gusts of wind. As they went, they showed glimpses of their printed sides, which were more a washed-out grey than black-and-white: two shapes, indistinct but recognisably people — and clearly naked. Arms reaching, a head thrown back, a grainy but obvious bare breast, an unmistakable clump of dark pubic hair. Someone let out a whistle.

‘Catch them!' yelled Dean Price, and every boy except Ian stumbled into action. But the photos somersaulted on, and before anyone had moved three paces they had all vanished — apart from the one I'd trapped under my foot and the two that had leapt like eager pets to press themselves against the skirt of my school dress.

I stood still as a post, feeling the plasticky shudder against my thighs, the threat of the wind.

The mob halted and looked to Dean Price for instruction.

But Dan had climbed out of the truck now and was walking over, calling, ‘Hey,' and it was in the shadow of his approaching, adult, presence that all the boys stood, paralysed, and watched as I groped cautiously for the photos that had blown against my skirt and bent to retrieve the other one, then put all three into my bag.

‘What's going on?' Dan stopped between Dean Price and Newt. He had his hands in his pockets, and was wearing a pair of sunglasses I'd never seen before, with mirrored lenses — and he looked unusually, and blessedly, grown up. Newt and Dean Price stared at the ground. Ian stood, silent, off to one side.

Dan's voice wasn't loud, but its authority was undeniable. He stood head and shoulders above Dean Price, who dangled his hands like a chastened toddler. I stole nearer. Dan took out a cigarette and lit it, cupping it close against the wind and taking his time. He drew on it a few times in silence, then moved closer to Dean Price, ducking to see into the boy's face.

‘These two,' said Dan in that same low voice, ‘are friends of mine.' He let out a stream of smoke.

Dean Price blinked.

‘So you're going to leave them alone from now on.'

A nod from Dean Price.

‘Am I right?'

Another nod.

‘Am I right?' Dan's repeated the words in almost exactly the same tone, but this time he clipped the end of
right
with a metallic sound that somehow conveyed startling menace.

‘Yeah. Yeah. You're right.'

‘You okay?' said Dan to Ian, speaking across me sitting in the middle of the ute's bench seat.

‘Yes.' The spots over Ian's cheekbones had gone pink, and he was staring down at his knees.

‘You sure?'

‘Yes. I'm fine.' He faced the window. ‘I'm fine,' he said again, sounding almost irritated. His breaths were jerking in and out through his nose as if it hurt to draw them.

‘Where do you live then?' said Dan. ‘I'll drop you home.'

‘Not the next left, but the one after.' Now he was mumbling, like someone who'd been hauled up in front of the class by a teacher. He lifted a hand to push back his hair and I saw that his fingers were shaking.

My own hands I kept firmly on my school bag.

We drove the short distance in silence.

‘Here?' said Dan, and Ian didn't answer or even nod, only took hold of the handle and began to open the door before the truck had fully stopped. Away he stalked, onto the ridged dirt of the lane that led to his family's property, his ears pink, his collar gaping pitifully as always round his weedy neck, not turning to wave or call goodbye.

‘He all right?' said Dan.

‘Yeah.' My voice sounded thin. ‘He's just embarrassed.'

But I knew he wasn't all right, and I knew what was the matter. Everything had changed in the moments in which Dan had walked towards Dean Price, in the moments in which I had rescued the photos trapped against my skirt and under my shoe, and they had flashed their messages to me. I knew something that I hadn't known before — but I couldn't acknowledge it yet, give it space, not while I was sitting there beside Dan.

‘Next stop your place?'

I didn't answer. I stared out at the black and green stripes of tree trunks. When he pulled up at the hut I did the same as Ian, jumping out as fast as possible — although I did manage to blurt the word ‘thanks' as I slammed the door, looking away.

I had seen who it was in the photos, recognised the figures as I slipped them into my bag. I needed to check again though, just to be sure, and as soon as Dan had driven off I went inside and into my room, closing both doors behind me. Ishtar was at work, and not due back for a while yet, but still I listened out as I took the prints from my bag and put them on the bed.

They were of Dan and Ishtar, in the outdoor bath at Hope. Ian must have taken them from his hiding spot up on the hill and then blown them up in the darkroom. He'd had to zoom so far into them that they barely qualified as photographs — they were almost impressionistic, the figures ghostly, swimming among spots of grain like flecks in an old mirror, their features blowzy and dreamlike. They were recognisable, though — instantly so — Dan's rangy build, the way his dark hair fell at the back of his neck; Ishtar's long throat, the calm smudges of her eyes.

I was glad for the smokiness of the images, for their vagueness, as I looked them over, skittering my gaze past the lower reaches of Dan's nakedness in the one where he was still climbing in, and the blotches of his lips as they met Ishtar's in the second print and bled into the creamy round of her breast in the third.

I twisted my fingers in the blanket. More than anything, I felt anger at myself for being so stupid, for never suspecting. Of course Ishtar would have done this — taken what Dan had to offer, if and when it suited her.

Picking up the photos, I slid them into a pile. Where had I been when they were taken? Washed-out as they were, the prints still gave an impression of brightness, of saturation of light, and I could guess at how they might look had they been printed as they should have been, showing distance — the two small, illuminated figures, the bath like a white boat in the long grass, the backdrop of Hope's sleeping buildings, the open sky above, everything brimming with the liquid radiance of early morning. I remembered finding Jindi in the lukewarm bath that time, after the party during Miller's absence. That must have been it — Dan and Ishtar, the last ones awake, lighting the fire as the sun rose, taking off their clothes. Ian creeping over the hill with his camera.

I shook the image away. It didn't matter. We would move soon and I could forget about Dan, forget what an idiot I'd been. The wind creaked and tapped and sent a bramble flailing at the window. My stomach ached. Maybe I was going to get my period again; it had only happened that one time, a while ago now. A memory came, of Dan smiling at me in the hallway one of those mornings after our mortifying first encounter, and I allowed myself a brief lapse into wishing I could go back and feel it again — the gradual recognition of his kindness, his respect for me, and the uncomplicated joy, the soaring delight of that thoughtless, babyish crush. Then the weary, adult feeling settled in once more.

Looking up at the window, pressing the corners of the photos with my thumbs, I turned my mind to the other thing. I didn't need to look again to see what else the pictures revealed. The understanding that had buzzed, unwanted, at the edge of my mind ever since that day I'd caught Ian squirming in the grass with the camera, ravenously whirring and clicking, had crystallised — and the question of what was
the matter
with him had been answered. Ishtar was in those photos, but only just, and only the parts of her that were near or touching Dan. In all three photos most of her back and even parts of her head were cut off, while Dan was right in the centre of the frame. Even exploded into spacey, unreal drifts of grey it was there: the essence, the purpose of these photographs — and my mind couldn't help sharpening the images, filling in the details, the droplets clinging to the scatter of dark hairs on Dan's chest, the gradation of stubble along his jaw, the swell and dip of muscle beneath that luminous skin. This was what Ian had sought to trap, to take for himself.