Chapter Twenty-Seven
CHAPTER
27
An icy winter wind whips through the trees, but by the time we turn back to the saddlery Phoenix’s flanks are damp with sweat. His rugs, draped over the gate, flap against the wire. I check my watch. 4.40. Plenty of time to—
Kit, on foot, is a hundred metres away on the crest of the bridge. There’s no mistaking his height, the breadth of his shoulders, his Viking stride. Where is his bike? I pull off my gloves and shove them in my pocket before sliding to the ground.
‘We’d better get a move on.’ Phoenix stands quietly as I take off his saddle and loop the girth over the seat. By the time I’ve rubbed him down, Kit’s boots crunch on the gravel behind me. Four weeks and five days have passed since he held me at my mother’s house. Was that too long for him to wait or has he been counting too? His hair skims the collar of his corded blue shirt. Over the shirt, he’s wearing a rough-knit blue and white jumper. A Viking jumper. Antarctica colours. He drops a bag at his feet.
‘Mackenzie.’
Condensation forms a cloud when I exhale. ‘You’re early.’
‘I called.’
My phone is out in an instant. One missed call. ‘It was in my pocket.’ He already knows that.
‘You ride alone.’
A statement. An accusation. ‘Until I can trust Phoenix not to race in company, I have no choice.’ I take a towel and, for the second time, rub at the rectangle of sweat that’s formed beneath the saddle blanket. ‘I have to rug him.’
I stand back as Kit walks through the gate, but when he holds out his hand I pass him Phoenix’s lead rope and he strokes his neck firmly. He’s not afraid of my big black horse. Why doesn’t that surprise me? He scratches under Phoenix’s chin, strokes his neck again.
‘I thought you reacted as you did when I fell because you didn’t understand horses.’
‘I understood he could have killed you.’
His speech is different not because the words are out of order, or difficult to understand, but because it’s so …
Clear and concise. Clipped.
‘You climb mountains.’
‘I take calculated risks.’
I check Phoenix’s hooves are clear of stones. ‘Do you ride?’
‘My brother does.’
‘Are your brothers scientists like you?’
‘Seb is a pilot. Fin an engineer.’
Bracing my feet, I throw a rug over Phoenix’s back. ‘Ah!’ I hold my arm and count to three.
‘What, Mackenzie?’
‘It only hurts at night. Maybe it’s the cold.’
After a disbelieving stare, Kit secures the chest straps of the rug as I fasten the leg straps. Next is the neck rug, which has velcro ties up one side. I work on fixing the straps from the bottom, Kit works from the top. When our elbows bump, I pull back and, careful not to touch again, pull the lead rope from Kit’s hand.
By the time my horse has his nose buried in the trough, Kit is outside the paddock with his bag over his shoulder. Upright stance. Shoulders back. Cranky but cautious.
I blow on my hands. ‘We’ll go inside.’ We’ve almost reached the house when what I don’t see reminds me. I stop at the verandah steps and face him. ‘Where is your bike?’
He jerks his head towards the town. ‘Back there.’
‘Why?’
He opens his mouth, shuts it again. ‘It’s triggering.’
‘What?’
‘The motorbike.’
I take hold of the verandah railing. ‘How do you know that?’
‘Your grandfather told me.’
‘What? How?’
‘I saw him today.’
I’m hot. Cold. Then hot again. My nails dig into my palms. ‘You bastard!’
He takes a step towards me. ‘Gordon called me this morning.’
I push against his chest. And when he leans into my hands I push harder. ‘Get back!’
When he does as I ask, I trip up a step and he grabs my arms. ‘Mackenzie!’
‘I told you to leave him alone!’
He lets me go. His mouth is tight.
How long do we stand there? My throat aches. My head thumps. I walk up two steps so I’m almost as tall. As he watches, I pull out my phone.
‘Grandpa? Are you okay?’
‘Is the snow bloke there?’
‘Yes.’ I glare. ‘I’ll get rid of him. I’ll come and see you.’
‘No need, Mary Mackenzie.’
‘He had no right to—’
‘It was me who did the inviting, love.’ Grandpa coughs. ‘But I’m a bit weary now, truth be told. It might be good to have an early night.’
A firm voice. ‘When you’re ready, Mr Henry.’
‘Nurse Frances is taking good care of me. I’ll see you tomorrow. Sleep tight.’
As I disconnect, a large black crow perches on the roof of the shed. My eyes sting; I blink and focus again.
‘Grandpa said …’
‘He wanted to see me alone. When I got there, he wanted to know why you were upset last night. I told him I couldn’t talk about you unless you were with us.’
‘You should have told me you were going.’
The Viking unbuckles his boots. Looks up. ‘Yes.’
A simple acknowledgment, and suddenly the fight goes out of me. For months, at Grandpa’s insistence, I’ve been his only visitor. Yet he wanted to see Kit Thorsen.
‘Was he okay?’
‘The nurse said today was better than yesterday.’ His tone gentles. ‘It was good to meet him.’
I take a breath. ‘Where are your jacket and helmet?’
‘With my bike.’
His socks, like his shirt and his jumper, are blue.
Keith Urban, tail wagging wildly, runs circles around us as Kit follows me into the kitchen. I flick on lights then wave towards the table. Scooping out a cup of kibble for Keith, I take it to his bowl on the back verandah before filling up his water. When I crouch next to him and watch him eat, he looks up curiously, as if wondering what the hell I’m doing. My knee creaks as I stand.
Kit bends over the table as he opens a sleek black laptop and logs in. I fetch two glasses of water, placing them at respectful distances side by side. When I sit on the edge of my chair and open my laptop, he looks up.
‘You won’t need it.’
‘You can airdrop the files.’
‘Your hard drive is inadequate.’ He indicates his laptop. ‘This has the software you need to open the files.’
‘The other pictures were okay.’
‘These are videos.’
‘Are you saying I need a new laptop?’
He pushes his laptop along the table. ‘This is yours.’
‘I can’t accept that.’
‘I told you I’d give you digitised files in exchange for your father’s Antarctica film. That’s what you’re getting.’
‘I don’t want a laptop.’
‘It’s from the production team, not me. You’ll be paid for the documentary. This is no different.’ His eyes are on my fists, clenched on the table. ‘All of your father’s work, photos and videos, are loaded on this device.’
I pull the laptop towards me. Then push it back towards him. ‘I want to see what’s there.’
There’s a long list of folders. Mary Mackenzie Henry. Gordon Henry. Samuel Henry. Summerfield township. Summerfield mine. Summerfield bushland/national park. And an even longer list of files within each folder.
He clicks on files in the Mary Mackenzie Henry folder. Photos of a newborn with spiky white hair. A toothless smile. A video of wobbly toddler steps. Sitting on Grandpa’s knee while he stitched leather. A cartwheel. Bigger and bigger ponies in the paddock where Phoenix now lives. Reading aloud from a book. Curled up in an armchair and reading to myself. Cross-legged in the dirt, a sketchbook on my lap and a pencil in my hand. Up on a stage, accepting an award. On the school oval running a race. Out in the shed, Grandpa looking over my shoulder, as I cut leather. Pitching a tent, setting a campfire. Carrying a pack and looking over my shoulder, warning Dad he’d better hurry up. Grumbling complaints from a sleeping bag when Dad tells me the sun is up and we’ve got a big day ahead of us.
Dad always said that one day, when he wasn’t so busy working to pay bills, he’d make documentaries. Was this a practice run? A film about me?
When my throat tightens, I point to the next folder. ‘This one.’
Grandpa’s hair whitens as mine gets darker. His wrinkles deepen, his whiskers get thinner, but the twinkle in his eyes is always the same. Mostly he’s laughing and a lot of the time I’m laughing with him. I must be six or seven when I sit at his feet and he plaits my hair. I lift an unsteady hand and trace a parting down the middle of my head. I remember those plaits.
‘Mackenzie?’ I’d almost forgotten Kit was here. He can plait too. ‘Look at the rest later.’
‘Just one more folder.’
Dad must have used a tripod in the next lot of footage. Grandpa is sitting on the verandah with a saddle on his lap and Dad is sitting next to him. Kit’s thumb moves over the touch pad and the image disappears. I blink and refocus as different footage appears on the screen.
Plants and trees at the park, the river and waterfalls and escarpment, lizards and wildlife and insects. Colourful, vibrant, beautiful. The mine footage is filmed in colour but all the shades are monochrome. Raw, earthy, gritty.
I inch my chair closer to Kit’s. ‘Can we go back to the movies of Dad?’
He rubs around the back of his neck. ‘Look at them with your grandfather.’
‘It would upset him.’
‘It will upset you.’
‘Yes, but …’
‘I don’t want to upset you.’ He searches my face. ‘Why didn’t you tell me about the bike?’
‘If I had, you would have talked about Dad’s death and the coroner and …’
‘I know better now. I know you better.’
The lump in my throat is stuck fast. ‘I keep a lot to myself.’
‘Yes.’ His expression softens. ‘I see that.’
‘Do you ever get scared?’
He hesitates. ‘Often.’
‘What scares you?’
He thinks about that. But then he shuts down. ‘Not now.’
‘I shouldn’t have pushed you.’
‘You protect Gordon.’
I tear my gaze away, back to the screen. ‘Please show me.’
‘You’re tired.’ He glances at his watch and then outside. ‘It’s late.’
Since when did it get dark? I check the time. We’ve been here for an hour and a half. When Keith Urban whines at the door, Kit stands and walks around the table to let him in.
‘This upsets you, Mackenzie. You shouldn’t do it on your own.’
‘I’m not on my own if you stay.’ As soon as the words are out, I look away. I feel his eyes on the side of my face as my gaze goes back to the screen.
Dad has the camera on a tripod again. I don’t seem to have been aware I’m being filmed or if I am, I ignore the camera. He and I are sitting on the floor.
‘Walk to me, Mackenzie.’ It’s not about my wobbly toddler walking, it’s about Dad’s face as I’m doing it. His eyes were a paler shade than Grandpa’s twinkly blue, but they light up in much the same way.
‘Daddy.’ Baby teeth. One or two years old.
‘Say that again.’
‘Daddy!’ A squeal.
In the next video, my second teeth have come through.
‘What do you want to be when you grow up?’ Dad’s eyes open wide. ‘Tell me the first thing that comes into your head.’
‘When I grow up …’ A gap-toothed smile as I bob up and down on my chair. ‘I want to go on adventures with you. Lots and lots of adventures.’
‘Where will we go?’ Dad’s smile is infectious.
‘I want to go to Antarctica to see the penguins!’
‘What’s this then?’ Grandpa isn’t on the screen, but I hear his laughter. ‘Are you leaving the Summerfield saddler behind?’
‘I’ll come back to see you, Grandpa,’ I call out. ‘I promise I will.’
‘Mackenzie.’ Kit mutters a string of words I don’t understand. Then, ‘Enough.’
I’m not aware I’m crying until a tear splashes on the keyboard. I swipe it away but another one falls. The screen blurs.
‘No more.’
‘You’re here.’
Another teardrop, this one on the back of his hand. It slides down his knuckle and sits at the base of his thumb.
‘Mackenzie?’ His voice is gruff. ‘Look at me.’
Soggy green eyes on blue. How many seconds? Two or three? Twenty-three? I sniff and swipe a hand across my face. My shoulder pulls and I wince.
‘Sorry to blubber.’
When he changes the angle of his hand, the teardrop sparkles in the light. Eyes on mine, he presses his mouth against it. My breath hitches.
‘Du vet ikke hvorden jeg ha det.’ He sighs. ‘It’s painful.’
‘Whatever that means …’ A hiccup. ‘Yes.’
He takes my hand, turns it in his. He wipes under my eye with a fingertip. ‘You do everything on your own.’
I glance at the screen and back again. I pull free and shudder a breath. When Keith Urban shoves his nose against my leg, I stroke his glossy ears.
Kit stands abruptly. And although I don’t tell him where the bathroom is, I’ve barely had time to draw in a breath before he’s holding out tissues.
‘Thank you.’ My voice is thick. My brain is scrambled.
‘Mackenzie …’
‘Why do you call me that?’
He frowns. ‘It’s how I think of you.’
I blow my nose, take a shaky breath. ‘You’re so definite about everything.’
When he crouches, we’re much the same height. He puts a finger under my chin, searches my face. ‘Your arm hurts, yes?’
‘A bit.’
‘I should go.’
He’s attractive. Dangerous. Two hours ago, I wanted him out of my garden. I used to want him out of my life but now … not so much. When I stand, he does the same, then follows me through the workshop, standing back as I open the door. Streetlights on the far side of the bridge cast a hazy light over the town.
‘What did you and Grandpa talk about?’
‘Your father,’ he says quietly. ‘Antarctica. Gordon’s plans.’
I suspect he’s as surprised as I am when my hand shoots out. We both stare. And then he grasps my fingers. But we don’t shake like strangers. We don’t shake at all. The touch of his palm throws darts through my heart. Our fingers tangle. He closes his eyes for an instant then opens them again.
‘Mary Mackenzie Henry …’ His voice is low, a whisper. ‘This wait was too long.’
‘Do you have to go? You do, don’t you? Do you know about roos on the road? And wombats.’ A shiver runs through me. ‘You’ll be careful?’
He lifts a hand and drops it. ‘With this, I am careful.’
Am I braver at touching than he is? The thought runs through my mind as I lay my hands on his chest. His muscles are hard; the wool of his jumper is soft. When I spread my fingers and knead like a cat, he lowers his head. Just for a heartbeat, our mouths touch. But then he straightens, takes a step back. His touch is lighter on the right than the left when he rests his hands on my shoulders.
‘Call, and I’ll come.’