Chapter Four
CHAPTER
4
Keith Urban and I are crossing the bridge on the way back to the saddlery when I spot the glint of metal through the leaves of the scribbly gum tree. The vehicle isn’t large enough to be a ute or four-wheel drive or even a car. It’s more likely to be a—
Years before my father had a motorcycle licence, he rode battered old dirt bikes on farmland and on the fire trails outside of Summer-field. As soon as he could lawfully ride, he raced bikes for fun, and only drove a four-wheeled vehicle when he had to. Dad’s history with bikes made the way he died particularly difficult for Grandpa, who believed his son might still be alive if he’d had a firmer hand when he was growing up. I was fourteen when Dad died and he was thirty-eight. I’d occasionally ridden on the back of Dad’s bike, but never expressed an interest in riding one myself. Even so, Grandpa once said, ‘If I ever see you on a bike, Mary Mackenzie, you’ll get your hide tanned.’
‘You’d never do that, Grandpa.’
‘No?’ He huffed. ‘I’ll send you to your room.’
‘You wouldn’t do that either. Anyway, I like horses, not bikes.’
I don’t want to upset Grandpa by telling him that Dad’s accident put me off motorbikes more thoroughly than even he’d want. The trouble I have with them is that if I’m not careful, they make me think of other things. And those other things trigger—
Flashes of light, meteors of memory crashing and burning. Two police officers at the door—a man and a woman. There’s been an accident. Colour leeching out of Grandpa’s face. It can’t be true. A newspaper poster in the general store: a twisted bike and a stretcher. Filmmaker dead.
Bile claws up my throat. Whimpering softly, my hand on my thigh, I crouch in the dirt. Focus on pain you can control. A few shallow breaths. A few deep ones. Keith Urban presses his damp squishy nose against my hand. His slender brown tail slaps against my leg.
The bike parked at the saddlery sign is the bike I heard when I was lying in the dirt on the film set. It’s the bike I skirted around when, paramedics either side, I insisted on walking to the ambulance. Twin exhaust pipes, thick alloy wheels, chunky tyres and a long black seat. The panels are onyx, marked with silver fleurde-lis. It’s the type of bike even Grandpa would cross the street to avoid.
A black leather jacket is draped over the seat and a helmet hangs over a handlebar. Standing between the bike and house, hands in his pockets, the Viking is pointedly looking my way. Did he see me stop at the side of the road? I clumsily pull out my phone and study the screen as if I have an important message. When Keith Urban looks up, a question in his pale blue eyes, I repocket the phone and rub under his chin.
‘Stay close, boy. I might need your help.’
I didn’t want to reply to the Viking’s email until I’d spoken to Grandpa. Now I have spoken to Grandpa but I’m still not sure what to say. Kit Thorsen, notwithstanding his frown, was crazy good-looking and physically commanding last time I saw him and nothing has changed. As I take a wide berth around the bike, Keith Urban bounds ahead, sits at the Viking’s feet and lifts a paw. The Viking crouches, taking Keith’s paw before gently pulling his ears.
‘What’s his name?’
‘Keith Urban.’
After standing, the Viking searches my face. Then, eyes on my sling, he frowns. ‘The break. How is it?’
Even though I’m left-handed, I always shake hands with my right. As it’s in a sling, I could use my left, but …
The Viking undid my buttons, took a knife from his boot and cut through my clothing. It’s not that he did anything he shouldn’t have, but I don’t want him to touch me again.
I nod politely. ‘All good.’
He shields his eyes with a hand as he looks towards the house. Then, after I walk determinedly through the gate, he follows me along the path. Standing at the bottom of the steps, he puts a shiny black boot on the top one and unclips a buckle.
‘Keep them on.’ My voice is too high.
Out in the shed, there’s fifty years’ worth of tools, equipment, mountains of leather and dust. But in keeping with what Grandma wanted, Grandpa kept the workshop inside the house—where he mostly stitched and oiled—spick and span and neat and tidy. A place for everything and everything in its place.
The ceilings in the workshop are high, but there’s little clearance between the top of the Viking’s head and the frame of the door. His dark blond hair, streaks of gold and brown, has the same scruffy well-cut look it had last time I saw him. Does he plan his three-day growth? Monday. Thursday. Monday. Shave, shave, shave.
He takes in the broad strips of hardwood on the floor, the whitewashed timber walls and pressed metal ceiling. Did the ceiling inspire my sketches in the way that Grandpa claimed? The panels are divided by a crisscrossed lattice design and decorated with vines, berries, fruits, leaves and flowers representing summer, autumn, winter and spring. We’re halfway through the first season. What will other seasons hold?
‘How old is the house?’ the Viking asks.
‘It was built in 1910.’
He walks to the hooks and shelves before peering inside a timber box containing pencils, inks, engraving tools and knives. After closely considering the intricately stitched headband of a bridle, he runs his hand along the seat of a saddle and breathes deeply.
When he catches me staring, I walk to the fireplace and, with a finger, follow a squiggly cream line on the granite surround, ending my trail in a splash of glistening quartz.
‘Mackenzie?’ He’s standing beside a bench stacked with paper-thin sheets of copper and brass. ‘Is this where you work?’
‘Sometimes.’
After leading the Viking to the kitchen, I indicate one of the dining chairs that faces the window and tell him to sit. When he politely declines tea and coffee, I put a glass of water in front of him and sit opposite. Biting hard on my lip, I readjust my sling and then I remember. My painkillers are due for a top-up. Getting to my feet again will hurt so I stay where I am. His serious expression isn’t particularly encouraging.
‘You’ll film in other countries besides Australia, won’t you?’
‘New Zealand, Argentina, Chile, Great Britain, France and Norway also have claims in Antarctica. We’ll focus on one country in each episode for this series and tie them together at the end. The chosen projects will have potential for future episodes.’
‘Grandpa said this is a long-term project.’
‘Correct.’
‘How many projects made the shortlist in Australia?’
‘Three.’
‘What made Summerfield special?’
‘Gordon Henry’s push for environmental change in a degraded landscape, your father’s cinematographic work, the natural landscape depicted in your drawings. The other projects focus on protection and conservation of existing landscapes; your project has a rehabilitation focus.’
‘You want a worldwide perspective? How does that work?’
‘We consider each nation’s climate challenges and their approaches to change within their communities.’
‘And how does Antarctica fit into that?’
‘Parties to the Antarctic Treaty treat the region respectfully. The focus is scientific, not commercial—there’s no exploitation of natural resources. The world’s interests, not the interests of independent member states, come first.’ He frowns. ‘Can your grandfather be involved as proposed in the submission?’
‘He can’t leave the nursing home.’
‘The environment association. Tell me about it.’
‘Grandpa set it up to lobby for the closure of the mine.’
‘And now?’
When I straighten, my shoulder pulls. ‘We lobbied the government to commission engineering reports, which they did. The reports stated that demolishing the dam at the fork of the Summers River was achievable, and we have government funding to make that happen.’
‘You’d need more funding to complete the project.’
‘Incremental funding isn’t unusual for large-scale projects like these. We have the support of local members of parliament, environmental organisations, and many others. The work on the dam will be ready to start in the last few months of the year. That’d be good for the documentary, wouldn’t it?’
‘Your grandfather is unwell, you have an injury.’
‘Grandpa said you want personal perspectives, not lobby groups. Is that why you’re concerned about our health?’
He pointedly looks at my sling. ‘You work with your hands, you draw. Why take on stunt work?’
‘How is this relevant?’
‘I don’t take chances.’
‘You climb mountains.’
‘I take precautions.’ He frowns yet again. ‘You didn’t.’
‘In your view.’
His gaze goes to my hand, fisted in my lap. And then to my other hand, fisted in the sling. His brows lift. ‘Correct.’
‘My grandfather wants to be involved.’
‘Can we interview him?’
‘You can find out anything you want to know through me.’
‘I need firsthand history and context.’
‘I’ve lived here most of my life. That’s firsthand.’
‘You’re not enough.’
‘In what way?’
He crosses his arms. ‘Your age, experience, profession.’
What about the gap between my two front teeth? When Keith Urban trots around the table and sits at my feet, I bend down too quickly. A knife-sharp stab. My breath hitches, my eyes water.
‘You’re in pain.’
If I tell the Viking to piss off, he might storm out. And what would Grandpa say to that? He’d forgive me for losing my temper. Then he’d pat my hand and tell me I always do my best.
I see the Viking through a blur. ‘It’s nothing.’
‘Summerfield is unlikely to be chosen.’
‘Even sick and with an injury, Grandpa and I can be useful.’
‘A Western Australian submission deals with endangered flora. Your artwork would complement that project.’
‘I won’t leave my grandfather.’
‘We could give you images of the plants.’
An unfurling fern, a eucalyptus leaf blackened by fire, stamens on blossoms. A root poking out of the earth. The weight of a bee on an orchid, a drop of dew on a blade of grass. How do I explain what I see when, the scent and sounds of the bush all around me, I sketch?
‘I need to see where a plant comes from.’ I push words through. ‘Where it grows.’
He frowns. ‘Without this, you can’t draw?’
How does he feel when Antarctic winds blow through his hair and he breathes the scent of the ocean? Can he express that?
‘I have to be there.’
He opens his mouth, shuts it again. ‘Your father’s work in Antarctica, your artwork and your grandfather’s long-term commitment to Summerfield complement each other. If Mr Henry is not available, the submission is weakened.’
‘You said the other projects were about preservation and conservation, which makes the Summerfield project unique. You also said the documentaries will look at things long term. Within a year, the dam will be demolished and water will flow into the wetlands. Even before that, we can imagine what might be created by going to the national park. Are you prepared to throw all that away because my grandfather is sick? Because I’m young and have a trade and—’
‘It’s more.’
‘My father’s connection to Antarctica is unique.’
He nods stiffly. ‘We have his film.’
‘Grandpa says there’s other film. Film you haven’t seen.’
The Viking stills. Then he sits forward, puts his hands flat on the table. ‘Of Antarctica?’
I ease back in my chair. ‘Dad was contracted to work on an Australian base for the first six months he was in Antarctica—that’s the film you have. For the next eighteen months, he worked freelance, sometimes for others, mostly for himself.’
‘You have access to his film?’
Providing the rats haven’t eaten it … ‘Yes.’
‘Will you give it to me?’
I pick up my glass and carry it to the sink, but I let go too early. Clunk. The Viking stands too. I feel his eyes on my back, then on the side of my face.
‘Mackenzie?’
‘Dad also filmed the mine and the national park. He was going to make his own documentaries.’
‘Why didn’t he? What work did he do here?’
‘Administrative work at the mine.’ When I adjust my arm in the sling, a shaft of pain takes my breath. My painkillers aren’t strong, so I need them regularly.
‘Given recent ice melts and geologic changes, your father’s film of Antarctica could be important. I’d like to see it.’
‘Will you reconsider my grandfather’s submission if I give it to you?’
His eyes narrow. ‘You would bargain with me?’
My head is fuzzy; I take hold of the table. ‘My grandfather deserves a fair hearing. In return, we’ll help the institute.’
He bites back words. Then, ‘Do you have the support of your community?’
‘The environment association is fully committed.’
After one final narrow-eyed look, he leads the way through the workshop to the verandah. Once there, he rolls down his sleeves and fastens the buttons at his cuffs. Does he think his tough Viking heritage, his jacket and helmet, will be enough if he falls off his bike? Grandpa said he had a string of letters after his name. He’s clearly not stupid, so why would he risk—
‘Mackenzie?’
I’m not only sore, but increasingly nauseous. The buttons of his shirt have a pearly sheen, like shells. His shirt is a similar shade to his eyes, stormy blue like ocean. The shirt he used to make a sling was a lighter shade of …
I grasp the doorframe, briefly look back towards the house. ‘I have your shirt.’
By the time I’ve retrieved it, he’s leaning against the verandah, both hands on the railing. Is he angry? You would bargain with me. I hold the shirt awkwardly under my sling and swipe my other hand against the creases.
‘I washed it.’
His eyes travel over my face. His mouth firms. ‘Sit down.’
My legs are wobbly. Grandpa’s chair is close. I should sit down. But somehow it’s beyond me. Anyway, we’ve said all that we have to say. I want him to go. So why would I—
When my shaky legs give out, he catches me, his hands at my sides, and lowers me onto the chair. He kneels on the floorboards, shifts cushions behind me. I lean against the backrest, take my teeth from my lip. Please, please, please don’t throw up.
His expression isn’t as fierce as it was. ‘Breathe, Mackenzie.’
‘I couldn’t iron your shirt.’ The words spill out.
His frown is fleeting. ‘Medication. Where is it?’
‘Kitchen bench.’
Firm footsteps through the workshop, silence and then, by the time I’ve tipped back my head and counted backwards from twenty, he’s crouching at my feet again. He puts a hand on the top of my left arm, raises the glass and I sip. He examines the two bottles and the foil strip of stronger tablets.
‘What do you take?’
‘Paracetamol. I missed a dose.’
‘Where were you when I got here?’
‘Town.’
‘Do you have help?’
‘What for?’
He swears under his breath. ‘Which pills?’
‘The emergency doctor said not to take Endone if I was by myself.’
‘I could stay until—’
‘No.’
He holds up the ibuprofen. ‘This works differently than paracetamol.’
‘I took it in the first two days. I’ll take one now.’
‘Have you eaten?’
I have to think about that. ‘Yes.’
He hands me one ibuprofen and two paracetamol.
‘It’s okay to take them together?’
‘Yes.’
He watches as I sip from the glass, take the tablets and sip again. Are his irises so blue because of the flecks? Grey. Steely grey. But …
‘I’ll be okay now.’
He lifts a hand, drops it. ‘Was the break displaced?’
‘Not lined up?’ I swallow, shake my head. ‘No.’
‘Is there a doctor in Summerfield?’
‘I have an appointment at the hospital next week. They’ll check it out.’
‘Is it still swollen? Is there a lump?’
‘Not this morning.’
‘I should check. Hold your arm to your chest. Support your shoulder.’
It’s not like he wants to check, just that he should . And, for a Viking, he seems to have a particularly firm handle on contemporary medicine. When I do as he asks, he releases the sling and, just as efficiently as he did when I fell from Athena, he opens my buttons and eases off my shirt. Instead of a regular bra, which I’d have no hope of fastening at the back, I’m wearing a crop top that I can step into.
He takes a handful of my hair before twisting it and pushing it back to keep it out of the way, then he eases aside the strap of the crop top. The bruising has faded to purplish-pink. His gaze slips from my collarbone to my shoulders. He rests his hands, firmly yet carefully, across my collarbone. His fingers skim my shoulders. Are the painkillers working so quickly? Nothing hurts, but I’m jittery with …
Agitation?
Attraction?
‘No.’
He looks up. ‘What?’
‘Thanks for your help.’ I shake my head. ‘You can go now.’
He lifts his hands from my body as if he’s been burnt. Then, in one fluid movement, he rocks back on his heels before standing. When he grabs his shirt from the railing, it lies crumpled in his hand. At the top of the steps, he turns.
‘I’ll email.’