Anchor Point (13 page)

Whose idea was it to drop out? Laura might have started it as they were exiting the pub, chairs stacked, tables wiped, lights turned up. Another assignment due in the morning that neither one had started.

‘Fucking TAFE,' Laura said recklessly, lips rubbery with drink. ‘I don't wanna go.' She recalled Bruce's face, the naked hope with which he had sent her off to Sydney.

Then she threaded her arm through the crook of Luc's elbow. They staggered together up steaming streets. Laura barely noticed where she was walking. With Luc it didn't matter where she was. She felt the blaze of his gaze, his radiant smile.

‘Let's leave,' he said. ‘Fuck it.'

Laura had skolled some UDLs on the way to the pub, to make her money last. Now they burned back up her throat. She suddenly felt sober. ‘What?' she said. ‘And do what?'

Though she could tell that Luc enjoyed going to class – in fact he was in his element, leading raucous discussions on any topic the teacher named – and though he was clearly capable of completing the work, he never really seemed to get around to doing any of it. He had friends to see and meetings to plan and causes to fight for. Laura had browsed Luc's diary, like a doctor's appointment schedule, booked out for weeks in advance. But the real issue was that, like her, he wasn't really all that interested in getting a Diploma of Agriculture. He disagreed with so much of what they had to teach; it surprised Laura he joined in at all.

‘But isn't it true,' Luc had argued the day before, ‘we do that and not only mess up the water table but compromise biodiversity as well?'

The teacher, well used to his interjections, sighed.

Laura saw the gap between the man Luc wanted to be and the man he actually was. It made her feel tender, protective, like the parameters of his true self and his failure to recognise them were a soft, vulnerable underbelly that only she could see. He could talk as much as he liked about getting his hands into soil, but the fact was he just wasn't interested in doing it, no matter what he told his father. Laura recognised that there would always be another banner to paint, a phone call to take, before he could get started on working outside.

‘We gotta do something that
matters
,' Luc emphasised as they walked home. ‘World's going to shit and we're meant to sit around … studying!' He was really striding now; Laura scurried to keep up. His face was glowing, beatific in the humid, pre-dawn light.

‘Hang on …' she said.

But Luc was off, outlining how they could both work at his parents' nursery for a few months, save some money, start something up. Greenpeace had to start somewhere too once, didn't they? Laura had heaps of good, practical skills, Luc said, while he had contacts. It was as though he had thought it through before, but how could he have?

Part of Laura wished she had never brought up the idea. She might have just gone on quietly failing at TAFE, never making waves. But another part of her, a part that had been tightly furled, was cautiously budding. Luc's ideas for an environmentalist collective, a group of committed activists who would do things differently, find a new model for making change that
actually worked
was one thing. But Laura had seen the specialist nursery his family owned: all those lush exotic plants, the kinds of ferns and flowers, rare bulbs and seeds requiring controlled temperatures and plenty of water to flourish. She had stepped into the wet heat of the greenhouse and inhaled the fragrant steam. She remembered Kyree summers, the buckets of greywater poured onto straggly plants that hardly survived the season. Plants were something she could be good at, given the chance. She allowed herself to imagine the future Luc proposed.

‘Reckon your parents would hire me?' she said.

He pressed a kiss into the crown of her head. ‘'Course,' he said distractedly, rushing on to talk about all the change they could make ‘in the world' – not just Australia – with the ‘right collective framework'. This was their chance to ‘take action'. Laura hesitated. Luc turned to face her then. He touched her cheek. ‘Are you going to let your old man make all the decisions?'

He might as well have hit her. Shocked, Laura searched for something to say. She hadn't told Luc much about her situation. She hadn't needed to.

Whatever happened, she knew that she would have to tell Bruce what she was up to. If anything, she didn't want him paying her course fees when she was working and sitting around in bars. He might be proud of her new job, she told herself. Glad, even.

A few weeks after leaving the course, Laura stood in the D'Angelis Nursery office, sipping weak Earl Grey. She fingered the bags of seeds she would send to Vik, herbs for her college sill. Maybe Vik was happier. She had Michael, didn't need Laura fretting, all that sentimental post. Goodness knew, she never wrote Laura back. Called rarely now, breezy, too busy to talk. But Laura couldn't stop herself. Everything brought Vik to mind. It didn't matter how long between visits: a lifetime of training, of being Vik's guardian, made her ever-present. There was a place in Laura's chest that ached all the time, just considering the possibility her sister was tired, without enough to eat. Separated by distance, Laura lived with Vik's ghost.

Look after yourself
, she wrote slowly, slipping the note into the parcel. Thinking but not writing,
I love you
.

Back in Kyree lay the things Luc wanted them to fight against. But she had been willing, an accomplice to the clearing and the farm. It was bad enough she wasn't going to learn the skills Bruce needed her to learn, bad enough she wasn't going back. Could she say that those things, her whole life up until now, were wrong?

Laura eyed the phone, touching the smooth grey plastic receiver. It was 2pm. Bruce would be coming in from the sun for a cup of tea. Laura could almost hear the rustle of the paper as he monitored the
Trading Post
, smell the sweat and manure and earth on his clothes, the chemical lemon-scent of the detergent she used to wash the kitchen floor. Her father would sit with elbows on tabletop. He would look up at her. He would be grateful and surprised by the hot drink she served, though the tea break was routine. He would say, ‘Thanks a tonne, love!' He would take the chipped mug from her carefully, winking. He would settle back in his chair, flapping the paper to straighten errant pages. He would sigh.

Outside, customers milled between pots in the greenhouse. Laura longed to hear Bruce's familiar voice. But if she dialled and he answered, what would she say?

When she finally got up the guts to tell Bruce, it happened fast. She didn't beat around the bush. ‘Hey, Dad,' she said, as soon as he picked up. ‘I'm sorry. I need to tell you something. I dropped out. The course: I'm not doing it anymore.'

‘Huh,' Bruce said. There was a short pause, long enough for Laura's composure to ruffle. She was about to launch into a rehearsed explanation when Bruce cut in. His voice was unexpectedly calm. ‘Well, no harm done, love.'

The longed-for words should have relieved some of the pressure on her chest, her guilt. Laura wanted more than anything to be absolved, but her father's response, his kindness, just made her feel skittish, as though she had consumed too much coffee. While Bruce patiently listened, Laura babbled on, explaining how the course just wasn't for her. Bruce made the right noises, reassuring, but there was an edge to his understanding; Laura felt it like a knife. Though he would support her, they both knew he'd done what he could to help her. He would not use the word ‘mistake' to describe the choices she'd made, but he would not be responsible for them either.

Laura ached to be told that she was doing the right thing. She couldn't stop herself from outlining all the good work she planned to do with Luc.

Bruce did not criticise, but nor did he praise. His disapproval came through his terseness. ‘Love, you're an adult. Do what you think's best.'

Neither of them mentioned the idea that she could just return to the farm, though Bruce would be missing her help. The responsibility to herself, her future, weighed heavily in a way that lack of choice had never done. She was like the chooks they had bought cheap when the Bindara battery farm closed down. It took months for the birds to stop cowering in corners, perturbed by their freedom. All that space.

‘I'll be back to help with lambing,' Laura said earnestly. ‘Organised three weeks off, come give you a hand. Vik'll be home then too, yeah?'

Bruce grunted, like he could take her or leave her. ‘Bring your fella,' he said. ‘Better meet this bloke. Cost me the best worker I've ever had!' He chuckled violently. ‘And the cheapest!'

It had been Luc's idea to head down to Kyree for the weekend by train, since he wouldn't be able to take time off to help with lambing. Too much to do, he said. He sat with bare feet spread, the crotch of his baggy shorts webbed between knees, reclined against the seat in a way that suggested innate power. Laura ran a hand over the cord of his bicep, recalling the feel of Posey's flanks, the coiled strength in her muscle. The smell of the animal's coat was there in Laura's nostrils then, sweat and grass. Years had dulled the pain of losing Posey, but Laura remembered the way it had felt on the day and after – a sudden, searing shock.

She didn't much like thinking about herself as a child: that serious, sad little adult, stooped with stress. It made her uncomfortable to remember herself that way, ashamed somehow, as though if she had only tried harder she could have been different, better, easier for her mother to love. In a funny way, remembering her childhood hurt almost as much as the original loss of Posey.

‘Be nice when we get there, okay?' she said to Luc. ‘Dad's just, you know, a farmer.'

She made a face as she spoke the word, hating herself. Luc turned the page of his book, absent-mindedly stroking her knee. He smiled without looking up. ‘It's cool. Don't worry. Everyone's Mum loves me.' Laura flinched, but Luc took her hand. ‘Your dad will too.'

She responded quickly, rubbing his skin with her thumb. She meant for it to be tender, but felt she was polishing away a blemish.
He's probably right
, she told herself, burying her misgivings and training her mind to the present, the physical fact of Luc: the heat of his shoulder, pressure of his thigh. The carriage was almost empty. Light was falling over the outer suburbs beyond the train, turning the sky pink. She settled back into her seat, feeling the almost imperceptible shift in the weather, the gradual slackening of rain as they headed south.

Laura wanted to go on travelling beside Luc forever. The exciting new life she had made for herself lay somewhere behind her on the tracks; her old life, all those memories, lay in front. Or was it the other way around? Regardless, Laura was aware that in that exact second, with Luc's hand beneath hers, she was wholly, blissfully content. Trapped on the train between destinations, there were no demands, no responsibilities. She wanted time to stop so that she might remain suspended in that perfect space. But every second took them closer to Kyree. Laura imagined the train from above, snaking across land. Her moment of happiness receding. Already passed.

In Kyree they stood shivering on the platform, waiting for Bruce. Laura had remembered the cold of the open country in winter, but abstractly, the way a negative recalls a photograph of a key moment in time. The physical slap of the air on her skin was another thing altogether, and it was only autumn. Dawn was breaking, and so the town, the hills, were softened in sepia light. Before they disembarked, Luc had pulled on a pair of old sneakers, a small concession to the weather, though he wore them without socks. It was the first time Laura had seen him in shoes.

‘You got a coat?' she said, eyeing his thin flannel shirt. It hadn't occurred to her that he might need to be told what to pack. Luc shrugged, hugging himself. He had a camera around his neck like a tourist, just a little ironic. Laura felt a twinge, her uncertainty, which she ignored. He could borrow an old coat from Bruce if he got cold.

‘This is it?' Luc said hesitantly. ‘Where you grew up?'

Laura nodded. Her sense of wellbeing was gone with the grit-eyed ache of having arrived without sleep. She jiggled on the spot to keep warm and calm her nerves. ‘Yeah, out of town a ways.'

Luc's eyebrows shot up. He glanced around, disbelieving. She could see what he was thinking. ‘So we're, like, in the town now?' he said. ‘This is it?'

Laura was saved by Bruce's arrival. He pulled into the car park, spraying gravel. Though he waved, he remained sitting in the cab with the radio blaring. Weather report, price of wool. Laura understood. Whole day out on the farm, no time to read, it wasn't worth missing crucial information for the sake of hellos.

But it was a very different welcome to the one Luc's parents might have given: rigorous embraces and chatter, offerings of food. Luc stood gaping, his fist opening and closing like it couldn't quite believe there was nothing there to shake. Impervious, Bruce waited in silence, staring straight ahead. He seemed more severe to Laura for her time away. It made her feel tender.

She understood how her father must appear to Luc: stiff, uncompromising, grim. But that wasn't really him. She wanted to take Luc aside and explain the way Bruce had put them to bed, carefully tucking the sheets in tight; all the lambs grown into sheep from bottle-feeding through the night; the money he had given her when she went away, part of the bond on the flat they'd just leased. She hadn't prepared Luc at all. She should have sat him down and told him everything: Posey, the old ute, Kath's disappearance, school lunches and unpaid bills, fencing in summer, felling trees. Joseph. The way the shearing shed smelled in summer – shit and lanolin. Luc didn't know, as Laura did, how readily sheep die when they sense their time has come. Could he ever?