Page 37 of A Home Among the Snow Gums
‘I’ll have you know Dorley’s been looking out for this family while you’ve been gone doing god knows what and he’s no drunk.’
‘Tell that to the officer who picked him up on a drink-driving charge.’
Bruno looked mad enough to spit. ‘Well, if that’s the case, I’ll—’
‘You’ll what? Drive to town every week and start collecting your own rents?’
‘No, damn you. I’m useless.Useless.Can’t do a fucking thing by myself these days. I can barely piss in a bottle.’
Tom fell silent.
Bruno wheeled his chair so he was facing the century-old eucalypts that marked the station’s boundary with the national park. ‘May as well shovemein a sack and be done with me.’
‘Has—’ Christ, it was hard to switch gears from blazing recrimination to … this. Bruno—grumpy, hard-arseBruno—was looking broken. Tom had no idea what to say. ‘Has your doctor given you some bad news or something?’
‘Doesn’t have to. Fellow’s got a face longer than a wet week every time he comes up. That’s why I canned the campdraft. I can’t manage it and I’m damned if I’ll let Ironbark Station, my legacy, put on a substandard event. I can’t even be sure these damn things—’ he tapped his hand to an oxygen canister ‘—will keep me alive until then.’
Things weren’t right between them, not by a long shot, but he could see a crack in his father’s determination to keep him out. He decided to test it: ‘Well, if the oxygen doesn’t work, telling me everything I’m doing wrong might put a bit of spark in you.’
Bruno looked up at him, surprise and suspicion written all over his face. ‘Ha! Was that supposed to be a joke?’
‘A bad one. Dad, I’m serious about the campdraft. I don’t want to fight with you over it.’
‘Suit your bloody self,’ said Bruno, which Tom interpreted as grudging agreement. ‘Since you’ve decided to lift a bloody finger, maybe you can make yourself useful and pour me a whiskey.’
‘Sure.’
‘Pour yourself one, too, why don’t you. Then you can tell me what the hell is up with that Cody girl.’
CHAPTER
14
Hannah stood at the midpoint between her two trusty evening companions: the bathtub and the fridge. The bathtub beckoned, as it always did: blissfully hot water; just enough space to rest a wine glass beside the handmade soap Sandy had given her for Christmas; and her half-read books,Knock Yourself Up: No Man? No ProblemandBaby Making 101, propped on the windowsill between a vanilla candle and a long-dead fern.
The books were looking at her with disappointment, she was sure of it. They were sighing and shaking their heads, saying,Girlfriend, what is your problem?
They reminded her how hideous her afternoon had been. Calling Donny Hay, stumbling her way through an apology and sending him $1,199.99 for a new sigma something 85mm whatsit lens had given her a whopping headache and ratcheted her shame levels sky high.Andhe’d been sweet about her apology, which somehow made it worse.
Why couldn’t she be sweet?
To the fridge, then. She could line up its contents on the counter and then hunt online for the most complicated recipe involving grated cheese and green apples and a chorizo sausage that was only a tad slimy.Or she could make her standard easy tea, a baked bean toasted sanger, but that would barely fill three seconds of her evening.
Crap.
She plucked her phone off the bench and hit dial on her most frequent contact.
‘Kylie? It’s Hannah.’
‘Finally. I leave sixty-six messages and you decide to call me back just when I have a hot sirloin in front of me.’
‘Sorry. I’ve been wallowing in shame.’
‘Your car’s been ready since mid-morning.’
‘Thank you.’
‘But that was only what one message was about. The others were all saying WTF.’
