hand up under her shirt, the smell of the hot sun on the rubber tyre making the moment even sexier. His hands urging between her legs, which were smooth and honey brown in ripped denim shorts. Summer love. Newlywed love. Tractor love.
Rebecca shook away the memory. Long gone now. The farm and the river that had run through it and fed her soul had dried up — and so had that magic between her and Charlie. Nothing seemed to lift her out of a stupor that had only deepened when her second son had arrived. Nothing, except for meeting Andrew Travis. After that her whole world had begun to shift. Everything felt changed. She crushed her back teeth together till her jaw ached. ‘Maybe I should go on anti-depressants.’
Gabs butted out her cigarette in an already overflowing ashtray. ‘Or maybe you should go on a ten-inch dildo!’
With the Bundy now starting to warm her, Rebecca couldn’t stop a sudden jolt of laughter spluttering up, just as Muppet and Amber nosed their way back onto the seat and sat like a pair of Ugg boots on her lap. Reaching over the dogs, she picked up the hot pink Horny Little Devils catalogue from the dash and flicked through it. ‘So what is a jelly butt plug and a Gliterous-G anyway?’ she asked, her head tilted quizzically to one side, her freckled nose wrinkled.
Gabs shrugged. ‘Dunno, but I’m sure we’re about to find out!’ And with that she floored the LandCruiser, setting it sailing over a culvert drain. They shrieked as the wheels spun mid-air. The Cruiser landed with a bone-jarring thud, tyres hitting the rims, smokes falling from the dash, dogs’ claws digging into Bec’s thighs, two-way radio handpiece falling down. Then on the women drove, their laughter drifting up to the sky along with the dust.
‘Fuckerware party, here we come!’ Rebecca yelled.
Charlie Lewis took a swig of his stubby, then set it down in the drink holder beside him, belching out a puff of beer-soaked breath. He adjusted the revs on the tractor, feeling smugly satisfied with his choice. Why should he settle for a 224-horsepower tractor when he could go all the way to the top with a 300-horsepower one? Plus, as he’d told Rebecca several times, he could get a bonus diesel voucher from the dealer if he bought it before the end of January. And it came with not just one but two free iPhones!
‘One for the missus,’ the dealer had said brightly.
Charlie checked his phone to see if he was in range. It’d be good to call Murray to have a bit of a skite about the new Deere.
There was better mobile service at the top of the riverside block so he’d have to wait another round to make the call. The digital clock in the tractor was glowing 8.36 pm, exactly matching the time on his phone. He patted the tractor dash.
‘Legend,’ he said to it.
Murray, who had finished shearing at Clarksons’ today, would by now be taking the cut-out party of his rouseabouts and shed hands to the Dingo Trapper Hotel. Charlie wished he was going too, but he thought back to this afternoon and identified a foreboding conviction not to push his wife on the issue. She was still snaky with him for coming home at two in the morning after cricket training on Thursday.
Charlie recalled the sight of Rebecca’s jean-clad backside, which looked surprisingly broad from his angle, as she rummaged around in a kitchen cupboard.
‘Why can’t I find any fucking lids?’ Rebecca had said, jumbling through the clutter. ‘No matter what I do, there are never any complete sets of containers. And why is every bloody party organised round here “bring a plate”? I don’t know how many of my effing containers are scattered about the district! And now they want me to buy more at a bloody Tupperware party tonight! It does my head in.’
Charlie wanted to say, ‘Everything does your head in these days.’ Instead he bit his tongue.
In her exasperation, Rebecca began to crash things about a little too roughly for Charlie’s liking. He knew the plastic container cupboard was dangerous territory. It was the place where he had seen his wife lose her shit the worst. Particularly when it was school-bus time and Ben’s lunch wasn’t quite packed and ready to go. Best not to offer help at this stage, he thought, just in case. Charlie leaned on the bench, hands thrust deep in his pockets, looking down to the front of his blue checked flannelette shirt, where the buttons strained. He tried not to look at Bec, who was now kneeling on the floor holding a blue ice-cream container in her lap, staring at its lidless form. Her shoulders were hunched forwards, shaking.
Oh shit, Charlie thought, is she crying? Over lidless containers? Or is she laughing? He bit his lip and rolled his eyes, sauntering forwards, knowing he’d have to do something now.
‘C’mon, Bec, it’ll do you good to go to Doreen’s. You could get a new set of containers. Get a bit more organised. It’ll help you spend less on groceries.’
Bec swivelled around and delivered him a flash of fury so strong it was like a kick to the head. Charlie held up his hands as if surrendering to a firing squad. ‘I was only trying to help.’
Bec got to her sock-clad feet. ‘Help? You reckon help? Patronise me more like.’
‘I … I …’ he stammered.
‘When the fuck did my life become all about Tupperware and messy cupboards, Charlie?’ Tears welled in her sky-blue eyes, her face scrunched with emotional pain. She thrust the container violently at him and he received it like a mid-field rugby pass, clutching it to his stomach.
Charlie stared blankly at her, his mouth open. ‘What do I deserve that for? I work my arse off on your farm for you.’
‘You just don’t get it, do you?’
‘What’s there to get, Bec? You’re always mad. You’re always sad. Not much I can do about it.’
‘Do you ever wonder why?’
Charlie shrugged.
‘Maybe it could be something to do with a two-hundred-thousand-dollar tractor we can’t afford,’ Bec said. ‘Geez, Charlie! A tractor we didn’t need. And then you went and got a brand-new fucking plough. And the fact that I’m stuck here! Stuck in this fucking house!’
‘Someone’s gotta do the house stuff. And you might think we don’t need the machinery, but I do!’
‘Why does the house stuff have to be done by me? That was never the deal! And you know how I feel about ploughing. Have you not listened to a word I’ve said on soils and no-till cropping? Since learning Andrew’s stuff, I never wanted to plough a patch of dirt again on this place!’
Charlie, who had tolerated her surly mood till now, turned his head to one side and shut his eyes for a moment. Then he opened them, glaring at her. The anger rose. ‘Oh yes! That’s right! Andrew, Andrew, Andrew … your god of agricultural change!’ he said sarcastically. ‘Just because I’m not into your bloody New Age farming guff, don’t take it out on me! You’re just upping me because you like bollocking the crap out of me over nothing.’
‘That’s not true!’
Charlie thrust the ice-cream container back at her. ‘Put a lid on it, Rebecca,’ he spat. ‘Find another babysitter for the boys. I’m
