“Relax – you don’t have to look so serious. Uncle Leslie wouldn’t actually do anything to you. It’s his idea of a joke – I think … You know, the band? He’s just really shy about some things – like s-e-x – it embarrasses the hell out of him! And anyway, I didn’t say anything that wasn’t true, you know!”
Allan leans forwards on the bed and shakes his head from side to side like a metronome.
“Bloody hell, Jenny, what am I going to do with you?”
“Don’t say that, Al – you sound like my mother!”
I take a measured look at him, and see that, in our future life together, there will be things he’ll never feel comfortable talking about, either.
Allan takes a deep breath. “Come here,” he says.
At the end of the passage, a door creaks open.
“What’s going on there?” My uncle shouts. “What are you two mamparras getting up to? If I find out there’s any funny business going on …”
I jump off the bed and put my finger to my lips.
“We’re not doing anything, Uncle Les, we’re just talking,” I shout.
“Don’t you two start anything,” he bellows, striding down the dark passage. “Your mother trusts me to keep you safe – in order.”
“I’m perfectly safe, Uncle Leslie, you don’t have to worry about a thing!” I shout back. “We’re just saying goodnight!”
He grunts, turns around and stamps his way back to the bedroom.
I sit down on the bed with a bump and put my hands on my knees. My face feels flushed. Above our heads, the corrugated-iron roof clicks in the cold night air.
“Actually,” I say, “if I have to be honest, it was a really awkward conversation, you know. It was all I could do not to howl with laughter. I knew exactly what he was trying to say, but he was so embarrassed – his face got all red and he started stuttering and stammering. He wouldn’t look at me at all. But he meant it.” I turn to look into Allan’s eyes. “You’d better believe it – he meant what he said about not starting any funny business.”
Allan runs his fingers through his hair, brushes it back off his face. He closes his eyes. His lashes lie on the tops of his cheeks, long and dark.
“God, this’s embarrassing,” he groans. “How am I going to face him at the breakfast table tomorrow? I really want him to like me, you know? I know how important it is to you that I pass The Test!”
He says The Test slowly and clearly. The words sound significant, as though spoken in capital letters.
“Unless you’re planning to get up at four o’clock in the morning,” I laugh, “he’ll be long-gone into the veld. Don’t let it worry you, Al – it’s just the way he is. Anything personal freaks him out. He’s my favourite uncle, my really special favourite – I so want you guys to get on, to like each other. He means more to me than my own father does.”
Allan reaches out and takes my hand.
“It’s okay,” he says. “I know, and I know how you feel about the farm, how important it is to you. I love you for it. And really, I do like him – he’s a terrific, crusty character, Jen, and he’s already told me you’re his favourite niece. He also told me I’d better take great care of you, or I’ll have him to deal with.”
“He told you that?” I ask. “When?”
“Almost as soon as we got out of the car!” He laughs.
“He’s funny. You’d better listen to him, hey.” I dig Allan in his ribs and sit back on the bed. The springs squeak. “You hear that?”
He nods.
“Every time you turn over in this bed tonight, the whole house is going to know.”
He rolls his eyes.
“Shh,” I say, “listen.”
Birds call out in the dark, and a night wind steals like a cat through the cypress trees near the fountain. I can hear it coming across the veld. The vanes of the windmill near the shearing shed clank and rock in the moving air. I shiver against the warmth of Allan’s side. He tightens his arm around me, rests his head against mine. We sit quiet on the edge of the bed, tense with listening and the creeping cold.
“I don’t think I’ve ever heard so much quiet,” he murmurs.
I nod. I hear it too, the quiet, how it hums and patters, whispers and chews at the fabric of the night.
A door creaks. We sit motionless and wait, our ears focused on the sound. Footsteps tiptoe clumsily up the passage and stop at the open door of my bedroom. A loud grunt, heavy with knowing, travels up the dark passage. I squeeze Allan’s hand hard. The floorboards groan as the feet make their way past the open bathroom door. Another grunt. The footsteps gather pace, walking faster and louder to the lounge where the two of us sit perched on the edge of Allan’s bed, our faces wreathed in virtuous smiles.
“Hello!” I say. “Can’t you sleep, Uncle Leslie? You know it helps to count sheep, don’t you?”
My uncle, his customary comb-over in wild disarray, squints at us from the open door. Shadows flutter in the candlelight. He sweeps the beam of his torch across the undisturbed bedding behind us and grunts again. It’s late. It’s been a long day. We’re tired. I make my voice meek, subdued.
“I’m just trying to persuade Allan to sleep with a hot-water bottle,” I say.
Allan’s arm tightens around my shoulders. Uncle Leslie stands in the open doorway, an avenging angel wielding the righteous sword of light in one hand and the wrath of God in the raised forefinger of the other. He lowers his head and stares intently at me. Then he shakes his finger at us both, clears his throat and growls, “No funny business, hey! It’s late. Get to bed.”
As if we were ten years old.
I pretend to wither under his grim gaze. Still shaking his finger, he turns on his heel. The torchlight arcs across the wall, and, moments later, we hear his bedroom door closing.
“Oooh,” I sing softly, rocking back and forth, “that was close, hey! Lucky we weren’t actually doing anything, Al – he’d have had a stroke on the spot!”
Allan laughs uncertainly. “So, you’d say there’s definitely no chance of my pussyfooting down to your room tonight?” he asks.
My lips curl. I shake my head slowly. He sighs.
“Not a chance,” I say. “If we could hear him tiptoeing down the passage, you can rest assured his every nerve will be strained and quivering all night, making sure my modesty’s protected! Seriously, Al – he’ll be listening for the slightest movement. Just one step on these yellowwood floors? He’ll hear it. Why d’you think you’re sleeping in the lounge anyway, so far away from my bedroom? No, man, my uncle Leslie’ll be sleeping with one ear open all night.”
I yawn and stand up. Allan reaches out to hold me back. I look down at him and smile.
“So, I’ll just leave the hot-water bottle here under your blankets, okay?”
“No,” he says, shaking his head, “you take it. I won’t need it – I’m tough, and anyway, I don’t think it’s that cold.”
“Ohh,” I sing, sweet with knowing, “you’ll be sorry! You’ll be begging for one later on.”
Cowhides and cushions
The next morning in the star-speckled predawn, my hands wrapped around a steaming mug of coffee for warmth, I look around the lounge. Every chair and couch has been stripped, and piles of cushions – brocade-covered, square and hard, scatter pillows in cotton or smooth satin in different shapes and sizes – lie heaped, bulging in mysterious peaks and plains all over