0 comments/ 55284 views/ 24 favorites The Broken Ankle By: Starlight Fantasy can be brought crashing down very quickly by the intervention of reality, and perhaps it should be. Yes, Jackie was beautiful. Yes, I thought this was the woman I wanted to spend my life with. In my eyes she was the loveliest and sweetest creature I had ever met, and I was deeply, passionately in love with her. I had spoken to her of marriage and she had smilingly gone along with my flights of connubial fantasy. Not for one moment did I doubt her fidelity and our future together. I had met her when I was twenty four and at university. I was working for my master’s degree, with the hope of eventually gaining a doctorate in geology. She was twenty and studying with the Department of Education with the aim of becoming a teacher. I was completely captivated by her as soon as I saw her. Of course, many other males were also captivated, and it was with amazement that I found myself to be her “chosen one.” A least, I thought I was chosen. Within a month we began our sexual relationship. She shared a small flat with a couple of other girls, while I still lived at home; so many nights were spent in her flat. There had been girls before her; girls I had been “in love” with, by which I mean, “infatuated with.” They had ranged from one night stands to a few weeks of “having a relationship.” With Jackie I decided, “This is it”. For almost a year I went along in my illusory heaven. Marriage, home and children with Jackie, what more could I desire, unless it was the far off doctorate? Yet even that would be for Jackie. Not only would geology be my other love, it would be the means of giving to Jackie. It was towards the end of our year together that I first experienced a change in our relationship. It began with little things like telephoning her to be told by a flatmate that Jackie was not there and, “She has just popped out for a while, but I’ll tell her to get back to you.” For a while she did get back to me, but ever more infrequently. We seemed to see less and less of each other. “Darling, not tonight, I’ve got an essay to write.” A few times I called at her flat without prior contact with her, to be greeted by one of her flatmates who would inform me, “Oh, she’s not here Brent. I’m not sure where she is, but I’ll tell her you called.” Formally I would have been invited in to wait for Jackie and be offered a cup of coffee. Now the door was almost being shut in my face. It was the night I decided to wait for her in my old station wagon in the street outside that the crash came. It was past midnight and I was about to give up and go home, when a car’s headlights swung into the street. It pulled up outside the building that contained Jackie’s flat. By the light of a nearby street light I saw a man get out of the car, go round the other side, opened the door, and out got Jackie. The man locked the doors of the car and together they went towards the entrance of the building. Right near the street light they stopped and embraced. I could clearly see their hips grinding together, just as Jackie and I had done in the past. They went inside holding hands and laughing. Under the street light I had recognised the man. He was studying in the School of Business Management, and was well known as the son of a local multi-millionaire. He splashed his father’s wealth around with great abandon, on cars, clothes, women and what passes for “The good life.” I felt as if the blood had drained from my body. There was a roaring sound in my ears and I suddenly want to defecate and urinate. Bile rose in my throat and my emotions tumbled over each other ranging from impotent rage to snivelling self-pity. In seconds my world seemed to fall apart. Had all the love and planning for the future been a hopeless self-delusion? Amid the turmoil I was experiencing a nasty little voice kept saying, “But it was you, not her who was always planning for the future.” I sat in my vehicle until four in the morning, and the man did not come out from the building. My imagination added excruciating detail to what I knew in fact to be happening up there in the flat. I drove home just after four and went to bed, but not to sleep. I lay there weeping for my shattered illusion and the humiliation that went with it. My mother called me for breakfast at the usual time, but I made no response. She must have assumed I had decided to take a day off from the university and was sleeping late, because she did not call again until lunch time. “Brent, you’d better get up and have some lunch.” I made no reply. “Are you all right, Brent?” No reply. Her head came round the door and a look of concern came over her face. “Brent what’s the matter, you’re as white as a sheet?” She came to me and sat on the bed. “What is it, darling? What’s happened?” I had always confided in mother, telling her of my hopes and miseries, my joys and despairs. She had always been a great support and comforter. She knew of my plans for Jackie and me, and if she had been a bit doubtful about Jackie and me getting married, she had said nothing. Now I told her of what I had seen the previous night. She tried to find acceptable reasons for what I had seen. Could it have been her brother? No it couldn’t as she had no brother and I knew exactly who the man was. After a few more futile attempts to find explanations she gave up and said, “Telephone her, Brent, there might be a perfectly innocent reason for what you saw.” We both knew there was no “perfectly innocent reason.” Never the less I telephoned, and this time Jackie did answer in a bright cheerful voice. At least, it was bright and cheerful until she learned it was me on the other end. “What do you want, Brent, I’m busy.” I halting told her what I had seen and got her response. “So what, you don’t own me.” I spoke of our plans to be married and she laughed. “They were your plans, not mine. I never said ‘yes’ to them. Look, Brent, I tried to let you down softly by not being available. If you chose to spy on me and didn’t like what you saw that’s your problem.” “But…” “There’s no ‘but’ about it, Brent. If you thought I was about to spend the rest of my life with dollar a week rock chipper, that’s your fault. Frankly, I’ve had a better offer, so goodbye.” She rang off. I ran to the toilet and vomited until there was nothing left to vomit on, and I lay with my head resting on the toilet bowl. Thus ends self-delusion. I ate nothing that day despite my mother’s urging. She must have told my father what had happened because when we were alone briefly that evening he said, “Had a bit of let down, old chap?” “Yes.” “Give it a bit of time, you’ll get over it, and there’ll be someone else.” I think I said something like, “Humph,” and went and hid in my bedroom again. For two more days I ate nothing, and obviously my mother was deeply concerned. She talked about a doctor and things like that, but it was my father who made the really bright suggestion. After his first rather cliché response to my woes, his wiser self prevailed. “Look, old son, have you got any field work that needs doing?” In fact I had a need to get out into the field to do some work in relation to my thesis, so I told him so. “Get out and do it then,” he said. “If you can get off for a week or even two, and bury yourself in work away from that girl and the things that remind you of her, you’ll start to mend.” For want of a better idea, I prepared to follow his advice. Despite Jackie’s scorn for my financial status, I was in fact not completely penniless, or rather, my parent’s weren’t. Whilst having nothing like the wealth that my rival with Jackie had, we were what people call, “comfortable.” As I could afford the trip at my own, or at least my parent’s expense, I had only to contact my thesis supervisor and let him know that I would be off on field work for a while. I hurriedly, and I must admit rather carelessly, loaded the station wagon with supplies of food, put some spare cans of petrol in the back together with a small tent, and set out next day for an area where I had intended to do some research at some time. I drove out through the city suburbs; passing by the building where Jackie’s flat was located, feeling a lurch in my stomach. Then I was out in the green rolling hills with the farms dotted here and there. I was initially heading for “The Hill” some six hundred kilometres north east from the city. I drove through small prosperous looking towns until finally I left the fertile region behind and was out on the arid plains. The railway line came to run alongside the road, and the little, almost derelict towns that had once existed to service the needs of the railway, were the only signs of habitation. I reflected that these places looked almost as bereft as I felt. Emus, wallabies and kangaroos made an occasional appearance. The kangaroos and wallabies were less frequent, but at night they are inclined to come on the road and fascinated by vehicle headlights, stand mesmerized to be mowed down by passing trucks. The roadside bore witness to this in rotting carcasses preyed on by hawks, crows and very occasionally wedge tailed eagles. My mood was such that I began to feel I had brought my self into a world of desolation that matched my own bleakness within. In a better personal state of mind I would have recalled how for all its apparent harshness, this region has a vibrant life of its own. The stranger’s eyes may not see this life, but the dwellers in this region know of it. I crossed the State border and shortly began to approach The Hill. A strange place in some respects, as it looks as if a city suburb has been translated into the desert, yet has a life that was peculiarly its own. A city built for the mines which have been its reason for existence, it now faced the closure of those mines as the seams containing the silver, lead, zinc and tin ran out. The city, despite the closure of mines, was still optimistic and vital. Tourism was its future, and in addition and almost unexpectedly, a community of artists had grown up, scattering art galleries across the city. As I drove into The Hill at that time, I cared nothing for its past, present or future. I intended to spend one night in the place, add any supplies I needed, and move on, dragging my misery with me like a starved horse trying to pull a heavy cart. I booked a room in a motel and actually managed to eat a meal at a nearby pub. After drinking too many beers I weaved my way back to my motel room, fell still clothed on the bed and descend into a restless alcohol inspired sleep. I woke next morning with a thumping headache and a mouth like sandpaper. I managed to make my self feel slightly more human with a shower, and ate some of the unappetising breakfast provided by the motel. From there a brief shopping expedition to purchase a few things I had forgotten to load at home, petrol tank filled up and a couple more cans of petrol purchased, and I was on my way. I drove North West out of the town, passing through an old ghost town now inhabited by a few artists and a museum keeper, and continued along a dirt road. After a few kilometres I came to the brow of a hill, and stopped my vehicle to stare out across a vast plain of salt bush and blue bush. In the distance I could see my goal. There was a line of low hills seeming to hang on the horizon like blue grey ghosts. Looking at them one might be unsure if they were really there, so indistinct they appeared. The map reassured me they were there, and I set off again down to the plain. Passing over a rough wooden bridge that spanned a dry creek bed, I came to a track running off from the road going in a westerly direction. Perhaps even “track” is too significant a word for it. It was a couple of vehicle wheel marks on the baked ground. I turned on to the track and began to bump and lurch my way along it. No one graded or attended to the track. Only vehicles had made it, and while generally it looked as if it had not had any used for a long time, there were signs that one vehicle had passed that way recently. There was just one line of new wheel marks, and as the track came to an end at the hills I was heading for, the vehicle must have been going in the same direction as I, and had not yet returned. I cursed whoever it was ahead of me. I had come for solitude not company and it looked as if I was to have the doubtful pleasure of someone, probably a geologist, to engage me in geological talk. In the hope that I would pass them on their way out I continued my journey, the wagon leaping a bucking over the ragged and rock littered ground, and kicking up clouds of dust in my wake. “My God,” I thought, “If I broke down here…” For a moment I was glad there was someone else ahead. The hills drew closer and took more tangible form. “Hills” is perhaps too grand a title for them. They were little more than large rocky outcrops but as I had been warned, did have some dangerous declivities which, if one fell into them, could mean serious injury. Injury in that country could mean death by starvation or thirst. The track ran alongside the hills for a while before they curved to loom up in front of me. I slowed down searching for a place to camp, then a couple of hundred metres ahead I saw a vehicle. It stood by a tumbledown corrugated iron shed. The shed, I conjectured, had been put up long ago by a pastoralist running sheep or cattle in the days when mustering was done on horse back. It probably had contained emergency supplies and some tools. Now, with most of the mustering carried out on motor bikes, off-road vehicles and even helicopters, the hut had become irrelevant. It should be noted that in this country you did not ask how many head of sheep or cattle were run to the hectare, but how many hectares for each animal. I pulled up a little distance from the stationary vehicle, wary in case I got a hostile reception. I got out of the wagon and tried to brush off the dust that covered both me and the vehicle. No one was in sight or sound. Alongside the vehicle was a tent, so I walked over to it. The flap was open and glancing inside I saw a camp bed with a neat pile of blankets, clothing and other paraphernalia that goes with camping, but unlike my own tent when I have been out on field work on other occasions, all was clean and orderly. A glance at the clothing told me nothing about the wearer. There were a couple pairs of jeans, some loose looking tops and socks. I noted that a rope had been strung between two stunted trees. From it hung another pair of jeans, two tops and a pair of socks. Since my own supply of clothing was very limited – one change only – and I never washed clothing, or often myself, when out in the field on my own, I was a bit overawed by my neighbour’s high standard of cleanliness. The vehicle gave no further clue as to the identity of its owner, but looking into the ramshackle hut I was surprised to see a large gas bottle and two gas rings for cooking. I intended to heat up my own Spartan supplies in an old saucepan and frying pan over an open fire. A thought struck me about the washing. Out here one of the most scarce and precious things is water. I had brought several jerry cans of water which, following normal practice would not be used for wasteful things like washing clothes – or me. I decided to investigate this phenomenon of apparently bountiful water supplies. I looked in the tent again, and then in the back of the vehicle. There was nothing that looked as if it contained water. I tried the old shed, and there stood two jerry cans of water I had not noticed before. One seemed to be full, the other around half empty. Also there were a couple of buckets and a large bowl, alongside which were soap and towels. This person’s hygiene was beginning to irritate me. At that point a voice behind me asked belligerently, “What the hell are you doing nosing round my things?” I whipped round to be confronted by the owner of the voice, a girl! Well, not so much a girl as a woman. She looked at first glance to be about twenty four or five. Being no more than about five feet three or four tall, and as I’m six feet two, she was looking up at me. She looked wary and had an aggressive stance that was enhanced by the way she held a geologists hammer in her right hand. In the other hand she held a canvas bag with something in it. I am a man of peace, so I sought to placate her wrath with soft words. “I’m terribly sorry. I was just wondering who was here. I didn’t touch anything.” “Who are you and what do you want?” My placating didn’t seem to have gone too well. “My name is Brent Wilde. I’m a geology student. I’m here to do some investigating up there,” I pointed to the nearby rocks. “Ah!” “Yes, I’m interested in the possibility of mineral deposits. May I ask about you?” “Smith. Norma Smith.” “I see you have a geologist’s hammer, are you one of our fraternity?” “Amateur. Just interested.” One certainly could not accuse Norma Smith of being garrulous. I decided not to pursue the matter for the time being, and asked, “You don’t mind if I camp over there?” “Can’t stop you can I?” “Well, if you really objected I could try and find somewhere else.” “Don’t bother. The track ends here anyway. How long you staying?” “A week, perhaps more. Depends on how I get on?” She had been sizing me up as we talked, and suddenly she seemed to relent. “Look, I’m sorry if I seemed rude, but you have to be careful out here, especially if you’re a woman on your own. You can call me ‘Smithy’, most people do.” “It’s okay,” I replied, “of course you’ve got to be careful, especially when you find a strange guy nosing round your camp. Call me Brent.” I extended my hand to shake hands with her, but she ignored it and seemed to recoil a little. “Man hater? Lesbian?” I queried to myself. “I’ll set up my camp over there,” I said, pointing to what seemed a likely spot. “By the way, I see you wash your clothes, is there some water around here?” “Just over there,” she said pointing to some lower rocks. “There’s a trickle of water draining down from the higher rocks. It runs into a sort of natural rock bowl then spills over just down there. Look you can see the bit of green.” She was right. In the midst of the prevailing grey and brown there was a splash of green extending away from the rocks to disappear about a hundred metres from them. “There always seems to be the trickle of water, even in the worst drought,” she went on. “God knows how it keeps going.” “You know about this place then?” She paused before replying, and then said, “Yes, I know about it, used to come here with my dad when I was a kid. He runs a pastoral lease and this is part of it. We sometimes came this way at mustering time.” I had been surveying her as we talked. She was really quite pretty in what I can only describe as a “serious sort of way”. She had dark hair cut short and although somewhat dishevelled at the moment, showed signs of having been well styled. Her face was slightly elongated in what some might call the “aristocratic manner”. Her mouth was small, and despite her serious demeanour, looked as if it could smile easily with its upward turning corners. In male fashion I had taken in her breasts which were not large, but were obviously unbridled, showing neat pointed nipples through her thin top. Her jeans clung closely to her body and displayed a feature that I have always found attractive in a woman, a swelling mound above her sex organ. Her legs I could not judge as they were covered by the jeans, but her buttocks were high and tight. One feature that I found most attractive about her was her voice. Always sensitive to the female voice, one of the questions I ask myself about a woman is, “Could I live with that voice?” Having lost its hard tone at our first confrontation, I discovered that Smithy had a beautifully modulated voice, rather like that of an unaffected actress, if there is such a creature. The Broken Ankle Had I not been so impotent from my shattering experience with Jackie, I might have taken more than a passing interest in Smithy. She was still going on about the water and the pool. “Look, if you’re going to use the water, for God’s sake don’t do what one of the stockmen did once, and bathe in it. It takes ages before the pool clears again. If you want to use it for washing, then bring some down in a pail. If you haven’t got a pail I can lend you one.” “Thanks,” I said, “I might take you up on that. I’ll go and make camp now.” She nodded and I left her to get on with my task. Having got my tent up and the camp bed erected (I never have learned how to achieve that task in one go and always end up pinching my fingers); I looked around for some wood to make a fire. It is not always an easy task to find fuel in this environment, but fortunately there were a few stunted and dead trees whose remaining branches broke off fairly easily. I dug the obligatory trench, and with the aid of some dry brush got my fire going. Out came my blackened old saucepan and into it went the splendid feast; one tin of baked beans. This would be more or less my standard fare for the time I remained here. Variation would come with the odd tin of spaghetti and some slices of bacon I had brought. No doubt a dietician’s nightmare. I saw Smithy depart in the direction of the pool carrying two pails, and shortly after she staggered back, the pails obviously full, and disappeared inside the old hut. I took no further interest in her activities and settled down to heat and consume my beans. Finishing, and having been slightly inspired by Smithy’s obvious hygiene, I thought it would be a good idea to wash the saucepan. No need to wash a plate since I had eaten straight out of the saucepan. Unwilling to broach my own water supply, and not having brought a bucket with me, I decided to take Smithy up on her offer to loan me one. I ambled over to her camp in search of her. She was not in the tent or the hut. I innocently walked round the hut and was pulled up short when I got to the back of it, by the sight of Smithy, stark naked, standing in the large bowl I had seen earlier, washing herself. I was just beginning to stutter an apology when she started to scream. “You filthy bastard, you rotten man, you just can’t leave women alone, none of you men can.” The abuse continued and my hasty retreat was encouraged by a large bar of soap hurled with great force and accuracy at my head. I felt somewhat aggrieved by this response to a perfectly unplanned sighting of her nudity, but I felt thoroughly reproved when, her abuse subsiding, I heard sobs. There was nothing I could do, as any intervention on my part would probably appear as another attempt to molest her. I made my way unhappily back to my own camp and its fading fire. I decided that a mug of tea might settle my crushed spirits, and as bake bean residue does not go well with tea, I relented and washed the saucepan from my own water supply. I filled the saucepan and set it on the remains of the fire to boil. As I waited for the water to boil I saw Smithy out of the corner of my eye flit from the back of the shed to her tent wrapped in a towel. I settled down to drink my black sugar loaded tea, and saw no more of Smithy that night. Darkness having descended leaving only the light of the stars, that are sharp and clear in the outback, I decided on bed. However hot the day may have been, there is always the strong possibility that at night the temperature would drop dramatically in the arid country. I wrapped myself in blankets and for the first time since my Jackie crisis, and even given my Smithy crisis, I slept well. I woke in the morning feeling refreshed and even a trifle cheerful, until I recalled that at some stage I would have to face up to Smithy. However we might try to avoid each other, it was almost impossible for us not to come into contact. I allowed myself a couple of slices of bacon for breakfast. The fire of the night before still had some feeble embers, so with the aid of some more brush and branches, I got it going again. As I prepared my own meal there wafted across to me in the still morning air, a delicious aroma emanating from Smithy’s camp. She seemed to be having the same meal as I, but doing it with more refinement. I ate my own shrivelled meal and drank a mug of tea, then contemplated my day. Smithy’s attention to details of cleanliness had made me somewhat self conscious about my own condition, but I found myself in a dilemma. My hasty and ill thought out preparations for this trip meant that I had no bowl, no bucket and therefore, no adequate means of carrying out personal ablutions. I wrestled with the problem for a while, considering if I might pluck up the courage to face Smithy, and ask for aid. I decided on this course, and approached her camp cautiously, ready to flee if she appeared with a bar of soap in her hand. I got to within a few metres of her tent and not seeing her, called out. Her head appeared round the opening to the hut. “What do you want…don’t come any closer.” “Look, I’m terribly sorry about yesterday evening, I really wasn’t trying to perve on you. I just wanted to borrow your bucket. You know…you said…” She stepped out from the hut looking fresh and clean in her jeans and top. “Yes, I know what I said, and I’m sorry. It’s just that…well…what can I do for you?” “I left for this trip in a bit of a hurry, and I’ve forgotten all sorts of things, including a bucket, and I want to wash and…” “You want to borrow mine?” “Er…yes.” “Got a bowl to wash in?” “No.” “Got soap?” “I think so.” “You think so! Got towels?” “No.” “Bit bloody useless aren’t you? I thought you geologists always organised your field trips carefully.” “Well, we normally do, but you see, I was…well…” “Never mind. Borrow the bucket and if you like you can use my bowl and this.” She held out her hand which clutched a bar of soap. I stepped backwards, tripped over a rock and went down on the ground. “God, you need a nurse to look after you. Get up and you can borrow a towel as well. Wash behind here where I was. I won’t come creeping round to look at you…” “Look, I said I’m sorry…I didn’t mean…” For the first time her face lit up with a smile, and in doing so I saw how she really was a very attractive woman. “I’m just joking, Brent.” “Oh. Well thanks very much.” I was still very wary and stood waiting for her to make a move. She remained by the hut opening. “I’m not your servant, you know. Just come and get the things.” I approached her and took the soap. She handed me a bucket and said, “When you’ve got the water you can use my gas ring to heat a kettle full. I’m going off to look for specimens, so help your self to the bowl and towel.” Getting close to her for the first time my other fetish about females came into play. I dislike women dripping with perfume or deodorant. Smithy smelt of nothing but a faint aroma of soap. Had she been quite plain to look at, her lack of artificial smells would have seduced me. “Thanks very much,” I said. “You’ve been very kind. If there’s anything I can do for you…” She gave a lovely tinkling little laugh and said, “I think not, Brent. I mean, you’re a bit of a walking disaster area, and you’d probably make any problem of mine worse, but thanks for the thought. I’m off now to do my specimen hunting. I’ll leave you to it.” I felt a bit like a little boy who had just been admonished by his mother, but decided not to get upset since I was about to use her property. I took the bucket and made my way to where the rock pool was. It was like a rock dish, and Smithy had been right. Only a little trickle of water flowed into it at one end, and spilled over at the other to dribble down to the earth below. The water was clear and unpolluted, so I filled the bucket and went back to Smithy’s camp, and using her gas, kettle, bowl, soap and towel, had my wash. That finished I at last began my days work. Long before prospectors had gone over this region in search of something to make them money. Some had struck lucky, but these hills had yielded nothing. With this in mind I did not expect to do any better than they, so it would be a negative chapter in my thesis no doubt. Never the less, I set to working my way slowly seeking any signs that there might be worthwhile minerals. This continued for the following days and I discovered nothing of note, except I did find a piece of soap among my gear, and didn’t need to use Smithy’s any more. I sighted and spoke to Smithy only before we set out for the day and when we arrived back at our camps in the evening. Apart from the soap I still used her other gear, and actually washed my clothes. We spoke little as Smithy did not seem to invite conversation, and I noted she recoiled from even chance physical contact. I had not even dared ask her what she was looking for on her trips into the hills. Whether one could say it was fortunate or not, had I been my “usual” self, I might have found it hard being in an isolated place yet having an attractive women close by, to have been shut out from closer contact with her. As it was, my experience with Jackie had made me wary, and I had even made a half-hearted resolve to forswear female company. It was on the sixth day after my arrival that misfortune struck. I had finished my day’s searching and was back in camp. Smithy was usually preparing her evening meal when I arrived, but on this evening she was not there. I began my own meal preparations, expecting to see her arrive at any moment. She did not. Darkness began to set in and still she did not arrive. Real anxiety about her took over. I knew about the danger of the declivities and I wondered. Then with the darkness gathering I could stand it no longer. One thing I had remembered to pack was a powerful torch. Taking this, I set out to begin a search for Smithy. If she was lying somewhere injured I gave myself little chance of finding her at night, but I had to try. Picking my way slowly over the rocks I kept calling her name then listening for a response. For two hours I tried before finally hearing a faint cry, “Brent…Brent.” I tried to locate the direction of the voice and kept calling out. It was a moonless night, so there was only the starlight and my torch to serve as illumination and the torch battery would not last for ever. Still calling out and listening, I went off in the wrong direction several times, her responses getting fainter. Then I found my self drawing nearer to the sound until I found my self standing on the edge of one of the declivities. In the light of the torch I saw the white face of Smithy looking up at me. She was hunched up with one foot at an odd angle. “I think I’ve broken my ankle, Brent.” “Bloody hell,” I thought, “this is all we need.” How was I going to get her out of there in the middle of the night and her with a broken ankle? Even if I did, I was not sure of the direction of the camp. I would need daylight to find my way; in the meantime I could hardly leave Smithy down there. The night cold was creeping in, and she only had her jeans and light top on. Come to think of it, so had I. “I’m going to try and come down,” I called. “No don’t,” she called back. “That’s how I fell and broke my ankle.” I ignored this and searched the walls of the declivity with my torch for any means of getting down. It didn’t look as difficult as I feared. There seemed to be projections of rock scatted over the surface of the walls, so slinging my torch over my shoulder on its strap, I began to make the descent. It was no more than five or six metres deep, but feeling for foot and hand holds in the dark was difficult. Never the less, I made it, and dropped down beside Smithy. “How does it feel?” I asked. “Bloody painful.” I had done a bit of first aid so I said I would like to feel her ankle. She made no fuss about the physical contact and my quick examination suggested that she did indeed have a broken ankle. The area was badly swollen and it was obvious there was no hope of her being able to walk. Had I been using the Geology Department’s vehicle, I would have had a two way radio available and could have radioed for help. Smithy’s vehicle also lacked this equipment, but in any case, there was the question of getting back to the camp in the dark. I knew that I could not leave Smithy alone. She was already shivering from shock and the encroaching cold. I decided that Smithy would have to set aside her apparent dislike of physical contact, and I would have to try and keep her warm with body heat until morning. I told her I would stay with her for the night, but we should have to cuddle up. I think she was in too much pain to care about her anti-contact feelings, so after trying to settle her foot comfortably I lay beside her drawing her close. She curled into me like a frightened child whispering her thanks. I had little hope that she would sleep, so I began to talk to her, asking her how she came to fall, what was she looking for – anything to try and distract her from the pain and cold. Eventually to my amazement, she went to sleep. Unable to sleep myself, my back feeling like a block of ice, I actually had beautiful protective feelings. I held her like a little one, sharing my body warmth with her as she slept. Somehow this was more intimate, more stirring than sexual contact. I wanted to hold her, to keep her from the night cold. Finally, towards dawn, I dozed off myself. I was awakened by Smithy stirring. She was still curled against me and my arms where round her. Her eyes were open, her face pale and drawn and her first words were like those of a helpless infant: “It hurts, Brent.” I was still trying to work out what to do next. I could leave her and finding my way back to the camp. Drive to The Hill or the nearest place that had a telephone or two way radio and summon help. That seemed to be the common sense thing to do. Then a thought occurred to me. Smithy had said her father ran the lease for this country, perhaps their residence was close. “How far is your home,” I asked. “It’s quite close,” she muttered through teeth clenched against the pain. “Only about seventy kilometres.” “Oh my God” I thought, “’Only’!” It would take hours to get there along the track and the dirt road.” Another thought; if I got to the road, I might flag a passing truck, they all carried two-way radios these days. But often did trucks pass along that road? Whatever I did it meant leaving Smithy where she was. She had not eaten since breakfast the day before, unless she had carried something into the hills for lunch. She might have been carrying a bottle of water, but there was no sign of it. The sun was up, and while we were still in shadow down in the declivity, before long it would be blasting down on her. I would at least have to go back to the camp, get some food and water for her, return with it, and then go back to the camp again. I decided I would make a dash towards The Hill. I asked Smithy where the nearest habitation was in the direction of The Hill. “There’s nothing until you get to within twenty kilometres of The Hill,” she replied. “Bugger it,” I thought. “Look, Smithy, I’ve got to leave you to go and get help, and…” Suddenly she clasped me tighter. “Don’t leave me Brent. Don’t leave me here alone…please…” “Smithy, I’ve got…” I stopped in mid sentence. What I hadn’t noticed before and should have done, was that the declivity at the far end sloped up to the higher level ground. If I could get Smithy up that slope we might have some chance of getting her to the camp. From there, using one of the vehicles, we could get to help. “Do you think you could get up that slope?” I asked. She looked out through pain narrowed eye lids at the slope. “If you could crawl,” I encouraged. She said nothing, but struggling to get on to her hands and knees, she began to edge toward the slope. I had to hand it to her she was a girl with guts. She made it about two thirds of the way up the slope where it suddenly steepened. “I can’t go any further,” she whispered. I once more weighed up the situation. If I could assist her…manage to just get her out of the declivity. “If I help you, Smithy…try and support you…” “I just can’t.” I was feeling desperate. My only recourse seemed to be to leave her and make the dash for help. Then I decided on one last attempt to get her out. “If you could get on my back I might be able to carry you out.” “You couldn’t.” “For God’s sake, Smithy, let’s at least give it a try.” I knelt down in a position where I thought she might be able to scramble onto my back. After a couple of minutes of struggling she was on, clinging to me, her arms over my shoulders. So I began the climb, the last three metres, to the top. Several times a felt myself slipping back and tore my hands as I grasped at rocky projections, but we finally made it. Smithy slipped off my back and I lay gasping and sweating from the exertion. I looked back to the bottom of the declivity and saw the torch and her hammer lying there, but I could not be bothered to go and get them. I was trying to work out the direction of the camp because in my night time search I had probably gone round in circles. Smithy seemed to sense my difficulty and said, pointing, “It’s over there.” Having got her to the relatively level ground, I could not leave Smithy exposed to the sun. I would have to try and get her back to the camp. “Do you think you could manage to move if I supported you on the side of your injured ankle?” I asked. “I’ll try,” she answered. Looking at her, hungry, thirsty racked with pain and exhausted, I gave us very little chance. Still she tried. We were on a smooth section of rock that extended for about a hundred metres, before the going became really rough. We made it with me supporting her, to the end of the smooth going, but a few metres into the rough, and she could go no further. I resorted to the previous expedient of getting her on to my back, and began a staggering progress in the direction Smithy had indicated. As I battled on, a vision of old western movies kept popping into my head. The hero, perhaps a cavalry officer, finds himself in some desert like place accompanied by the “heroine.” Somehow they have lost their horses and are being pursued by hordes of bloody thirsty “Injuns.” As they run the heroine, naturally, falls, twists her ankle, and is unable to proceed. The hero sweeps her up into his arms and walks about a hundred miles carrying her like that to the fort. The “Injuns,” always about the hundred yards behind the fleeing couple, and riding horses at full pelt, never catch up with their victims. Still carrying the heroine, and with no sign of fatigue, the hero strides in through the gates of the fort. The gates are closed; the “Injuns” come hurtling up to them. A few shots from the fort and a thousand “Injuns” drop dead, the remainder fleeing, to be pursued by a detachment of cavalry officered usually by the rather nice but soft looking guy usually played by some poor English actor who needs the money. Hero is in love with heroine. She promises to give up serving as a prostitute in saloons, and become a respectable officer’s wife. They ride together into the sunset through the place where the “Injuns” had been slain, but whose bodies have miraculously been cleared away. The Colonel in charge of the fort looks after the departing couple, and sagely comments, “The only good injun is a dead injun.” Scene fades. House lights up. “Don’t how that fellow carried the girl like that all that distance,” I thought. I was gasping and sweating as I stumbled and staggered along. Fortunately Smithy knew these hills, and guided me by the shortest and easiest route to the camp. The Broken Ankle We got there, and ever since I can’t for the life of me recall how we managed it, except it was painful and exhausting. Clearly I am not the western hero type. Smithy slipped from my back and flopped down on the ground. I fell beside her. I suppose this should be the moment when I reached for her full swelling breasts as our lips clung passionately together. The strings of the studio orchestra would swell as we realised we were in love. Well, I didn’t and the orchestra strings didn’t. If there had been an orchestra, and it played according to my mood, it would have been a very brassy and discordant noise. I felt a sort of resentment that “the silly bitch” had been stupid enough to try climbing down the declivity in the first place, and follow this with the unforgivable sin of busting her ankle, and thus putting me to great inconvenience, near frostbite and physical ruin. Mind you, after Smithy’s initial kindness in loaning me her washing goodies, I had said if I could be of help any time. She had pointed to my bumbling uselessness, so now at least, she would have to eat her words. After lying there for five minutes, I went in search of water and food. I found some dry biscuits and one of those large sausages. I got water from her jerry can and returned to feed the wretched woman. We sat eating and drinking for a while, and then I recalled I had some aspirin with my gear. I made my weary way to my camp, got the pain killers, and returned to her. I took a look at her ankle, which was now thoroughly bloated and a horrible purple colour. I gave her some aspirin, thinking it was like trying to kill an elephant by throwing a pebble at it. I took a couple of the tablets myself to try and quell the ache in my joints. The effect was slight. Smithy had said nothing since we got into camp. I think her pain was too bad for her to want to speak. “Smithy,” I said, “If I can get you into one of vehicles I can drive us out of here. We can make for The Hill. “Take me home,” she whispered. “I want to go home.” I looked at her lying there, eyes shut and tears squeezing out from under their lids. My anger with her dissipated. On first meeting she had looked tough and belligerent, now she looked very frail and vulnerable. We’ll use your vehicle,” I said. “It’s a lot younger than mine and built for this country.” “Keys are already in there,” she said. I gathered she meant in the starting lock. I managed to pick her up, western cavalry officer style this time, and got her to the vehicle. As I planted her in the seat I thought, “Bloody hell, he must have been some tough bloke. I only carried this one a few metres and I’m almost dead.” The motor started easily, and I began the drive along the track towards the distant road. It seemed to take an eternity but we finally made it. “Which way,” I asked. She pointed to the left – the opposite direction from the direction I had come from The Hill. I turned on to the road, and started to make better progress, even though we shook and clattered over seemingly endless corrugations. Smithy either fainted or went to sleep and she lay hunched up in the passenger seat. I kept a sharp look out for any sign of habitation and drove on and on. Eventually I spotted a well used track turning off the road with a simple notice stating, “G. Smith.” I turned on to it and saw at some distance a large house. It was one of those built in earlier days with deep verandas all the way round, to keep the place cool. As I approached a man came out from the house followed by two women. They must have heard the vehicle approaching. I pulled up in front of the house and the man came striding across to me. He must have been six feet four or five, and built like a heavy weight boxer. As I stepped out of the car he roared, “Where’s my daughter?” I indicated the passenger side and when he opened the door I was treated to another roar. “You bastard, what have you done to her?” I was exhausted, aching and hungry, and this was too much. “I’ve just pulled her out of hole, carried her God knows how far, and fucking well driven her here, look at her bloody ankle.” The woman had come up by this time, and through the haze of my fatigue I saw an older version of Smithy. The man towered above her, but when the woman spoke, I heard the voice of Smithy. “Get out of the way, you silly great idiot. Much good your shouting is doing!” The giant visibly withered in the face of the woman and backed away. She looked at Smithy, and although I could not see that side of the vehicle, she must have examined the ankle. She turned to the man: “It’s obviously a broken ankle and not a simple fracture at that. I’m going to radio the flying doctor. She’s not conscious so you pick her up – and damn well do it gently – and take her to her bedroom.” “Right, love,” the humbled giant muttered. She turned on me. “Young man, you look just about bushed. She turned to the second woman and said, “Mavis, take him to the kitchen and get him something to eat and drink, then show him where he can rest. He looks ready to drop.” I followed Mavis and entering the kitchen I said, “A sandwich and a cup of tea will do, I’m more tired than hungry.” She nodded and began to prepare the food. As she worked she asked, “What happened?” I gave her sketchy outline of events, being too weary to do more. “Sounds like she could have died,” Mavis commented. “She could have,” I agreed. “Poor kid, as if she hasn’t had enough to put up with.” “What?” I asked. Mavis looked embarrassed. “I’d better not say anymore. Gordon or Marge will tell you, if they want to.” The sandwich was ready and the tea made. I was not inclined at that moment to curiosity, so I shut up. When I finished eating and drinking my tea, Mavis led me to a small bedroom. “You look dead beat so I think you’d better rest in here,” Mavis said. “I’ll tell Marge where I’ve put you, so try and have a sleep.” I needed no second telling. I stripped off to my underpants and fell into the bed. I must have gone straight off to sleep. I’m not sure how long I slept but the room was dark when I woke. I got up and groped near the door for a light switch, and finding it, turned on the light. Not being sure what time it was, I didn’t know if everybody was in bed asleep, but I decided to venture out and see if anyone was still up. I dressed and opened the door. It opened on to a wide passage that seemed to run the length of the house. There was a light on in the passage, and from somewhere a bit farther along I heard a rumbling sort of voice, followed by a lighter, female voice. I went in their direction and came to a door partially open and the room beyond lit. I put my head round the door and saw the giant and Marge sitting there talking. “Excuse me,” I said. They looked up and Marge said, “Come in, we were just talking about you.” I stepped in and Marge rose and came to me, and to my surprise, kissed me on the cheek. “Thank you,” she said. The giant had risen and approached me with hand extended. “Bloody good job…er…Brent, isn’t it? Gordon Smith.” My hand was engulfed in an enormous paw and vigorously shaken. “She could have died out there. Thank God you were around.” “I…I er…well…where is she…er…Smithy?” “Flying doctor came in a few hours ago and they’ve taken her to the hospital at The Hill.” “Will she be all right? I mean... the ankle… and she was lying in that declivity long before I found her, and then she was there all night…” “Yes, we know,” said Marge. “Norma told us. You were marvellous. The ankle is very badly broken, and she’s suffering from shock, but I’m sure she’ll be all right.” “Poor little bugger,” said Gordon, “as if she hasn’t had enough to put up with.” This repeat of Mavis’ remark did arouse my curiosity this time, but I thought I’d better not pursue the matter until invited to do so. “Brent has only had a sandwich,” Marge interrupted, “perhaps he would like something now.” I suddenly realised how hungry I was, and agreed I would like something to eat. Marge left the room to prepare the food. As she left the room she said, “Gordon, you’d better tell Brent about tomorrow. “ “Ah, yes,” rumbled Gordon, “Tomorrow, yes. All your gear and Norma’s is still there. I don’t know if you intend staying there, but Stan, my station foreman can drive you out there tomorrow, and he’ll be collecting Norma’s stuff and bringing it back. If you like you can come back here and rest up for a few days.” At that moment it occurred to me that I had not given a single thought to the reason for my being in those hills at this time. Jackie had not even crossed my mind. As she came to mind now, I felt not a single pang of anguish. “So much for my undying love for her,” I thought. “How long will Smithy…er…Norma be in hospital, because I’d like to visit her, if that’s okay with you.” Gordon seemed embarrassed by my question, and said, “Well, they’ll only patch her up at The Hill. She’ll be gong on from there to the Royal City Hospital. You see, she’ll need, well, special treatment.” “Oh.” “Look Brent, we’d like you to come back here, even if it’s only for a day. You see, there’s something about Norma…I suppose you don’t need to know, but you saved her life and…well, Marge thinks you should be told. I’m not sure why, but she can tell you better than me. So how about coming back here and spending a bit of time with us?” Puzzled about what it was Marge thought I should know, and not averse to the idea of spending a day or two with Smithy’s…Norma’s – bugger it, what should I call her? – parents, I accepted the invitation. “Good,” rumbled Gordon. “Do you think you’ll be fit for an early start tomorrow?” “I should think so.” “Then I’ll tell Stan seven o’clock, okay?” “Fine.” The meal had arrived in the form of cold meat and salad and a mobile tray was trundle over to me so I could eat sitting in an armchair. As I ate I was questioned for details of my Norma “rescue.” It seemed that Norma had only been able to give sketchy details because of her shocked condition and the speedy arrival of the flying doctor. I did my best to satisfy their curiosity, but I was beginning to feel weary again, and seeing this, Marge said, “I think Brent ought to be off to bed again, he’s had quite a day.” I stood to leave the room and Marge came and kissed me again, offering further thanks with Gordon rumbling his in the background. Marge came with me to the door of the bedroom and pointed out where the shower and toilet were, and asked if I needed anything. I indicated that my clothes were filthy and sweat stained, and asked if there was anything I could borrow. Her brow furrowed at this request, but she said, “I can get you a dressing gown, so why don’t you take a shower and pass your clothes out to me, and I’ll see what I can do for the morning.” After the shower I fell naked into the bed and disappeared into some dreamless chasm. I was wakened from the dark hole I had descended into by a sharp knocking on the door. “Yes?” I called out. “Time to get up,” said a voice that sounded like Mavis’. “Right.” “Can I come in? I’ve got your clothes.” “Okay.” Sure enough, it was Mavis carrying my own clothes, but clean and ironed. “How did you manage that?” I asked, indicating the clothes. “I didn’t,” she replied, “Marge did it. Washed them, dried them in front of a fire then ironed them” “But…” “Don’t you worry young fella, you’ve earned a medal with us. Breakfast in five minutes.” With that speech she departed. I got up, dressed and washed, then made for the kitchen. Gordon and Marge, together with Mavis and another man, were seated round the table eating porridge. Marge, Gordon and the man bade me good morning and Mavis indicated for me to sit. “Porridge okay?” she asked. “Certainly,” I replied. “This is Stan,” said Gordon. Stan extended his hand across the table and we shook hands, or rather, he crushed my hand. “Pleased to meet yer,” he said. “Hear yer saved our girl. Good on yer.” With that he returned to his porridge. I briefly studied him. Even seated he gave the impression of being tall and powerful, and clearly indicated in his handsome features was an aboriginal background. As I was later to learn, he was married to Mavis, and the two of them were almost the backbone of the place. I came to the conclusion that out here they grew the men big and the women small, but the women seemed to be at no disadvantage for all their small stature, and when they told their men to jump, they jumped. There came into mind the somewhat imperious manner exhibited by Smithy, until her accident. There was some desultory conversation mainly focused on my “heroism” to which I was not inclined, nor was I given opportunity, to respond. Breakfast over, Stan looked at me and asked, “Right?” “Sure.” “Let’s go then.” I added to my previous assessment of the males, “They also breed them laconic.” Stan rose, nodded to the company, kissed Mavis rather like a little boy leaving for school, and strode outside with me following. We went out to a big shed inside which stood an array of vehicles. The one Smithy had used was there, but Stan said, “We’ll use the Land Rover.” We climbed in, Stan started the motor, and we shot out of the shed and up the track to the road. There now began what for me was a hair-raising drive that Stan seemed to think was normal. As we hurtled forward he made odd comments about the passing scene, like, how many head they had mustered “over there” last year, and how the feed was sparse this year. His one reference to the adventures of Smithy and Brent was to comment, “Bloody good job you done, son. Sweet kid. Known her from when she was a baby. Bloody awful what that bastard did.” I ventured to ask what the “bastard” had done, and got the reply, “Not for me to say. Up to Marge.” From then on conversation stayed in neutral, centring on head of cattle, feed and those “Bloody emus everywhere,” until in about half the time I had taken to traverse the countryside, we reached the camp site. We packed Smithy’s and my gear, and Stan, looking disparagingly at my vehicle commented, “Reckon she’ll make it?” “It’s all I’ve got.” “I’ll drive behind yer in case she falls ter bits.” Irked at his disparagement of my beloved station wagon, I thought it would be best not to respond because, truth to tell, she might “fall ter bits” on that track. With me leading our return to the house took considerably longer, but we arrived in time for lunch. This time only Marge and Gordon were present for the meal, Stan having gone for his lunch with Mavis in the house they occupied behind the main house. I noted that there were half a dozen other houses which I assumed correctly, were occupied by other people who worked on the station. We ate mainly in silence, but I could feel that something was impending. When we had finished Gordon excused himself, muttering something about going to the south paddock to “have a look.” I helped Marge clear up, and when finished she said, “Let’s go and sit on the porch.” Her invitation sounded a bit ominous and I wondered what was coming. We sat for a few minutes in silence, Marge clearly trying to work out what she wanted to say. I observed her more closely than I had previously. I could see the marked similarity between her and Smithy, even to the same manner of speaking. Marge must have been in her mid forties, but had retained her figure and attractive looks. “Promises well for Smithy,” I thought. When Marge began it was in a low voice. “We love Norma very much, Brent.” I could not think of a suitable response, so stayed silent, waiting for her to continue. “She’s the only child we have, and very precious. She’s had a bad time and…well…we feel we failed her. Gordon feels very guilty.” This time the statement that Smithy had suffered in some way was too much for my inquisitiveness and I asked, “What happened to her?” Marge seemed to ignore my question and went on, “I don’t need to repeat how grateful we are to you for what you did.” “No.” “You see, Brent, in a way it’s partly our fault again – Gordon and me.” “I don’t see how. It was just an accident.” “Yes, but we shouldn’t have let her go there.” “Could you have stopped her?” Marge shrugged, and then seemed to make up her mind. “You see, Brent, something terrible happened to her there…I mean before, when she was fourteen.” “What, did she injure herself like this last time?” “No, she was raped.” I felt a cold shiver run down my spine. I hardly knew how to respond, so I said, “I see.” “Look, Brent, she was the sweetest little thing, so loveable, then afterwards…well…” “How did it happen?” “She was on holiday from the private school she attended in the city. We only saw her during holidays in those years. Gordon was mustering prior to selling stock. He wanted to find if there was anything wandering about round those hills before he sent the men out to round them up. It would be a waste of time if there was nothing, so he sent one of the station hands, Ted, just to have a look around.” “Norma used to go out there with Gordon when she was quite little, and she always thought she would find dinosaur remains in the hills…you know how children are. At the time of that holiday she hadn’t been out there for several years, and she begged Gordon to let her go with Ted. We had no reason to think that Ted…well…you know, he’d been with us for years and we never noticed anything…I mean he lived in one of the houses and had a pretty wife…and well.” “Being our only one, I suppose we spoilt and indulged her, but she never became greedy or demanding, just the contrary. Gordon especially indulged her, and so he let her go with Ted.” “To cut a long story short, when they got out there he raped her. He told her if she said anything he’d kill her.” “When they came back we could see something was wrong. She was sullen and all the sparkle had gone out of her and she seemed to be in pain. Then I noticed bruises on her wrists and arms and she wouldn’t say how she got them. For a whole day she said nothing, and then in the evening she walked into the kitchen and leaned against the door frame and said, ‘Mummy’, and fell down in a faint.” “We called up the flying doctor, and when he came he examined her, and of course, the truth came out. He’d not only bruised her wrists and arms, but there were bruises and marks all over her body. Worse still, she was not one of those girls who mature early, and her poor body just wasn’t ready for male penetration, and he injured her badly.” “It was obvious who had done this to her, and Gordon went nearly mad. He went to Ted’s house and dragged him out into the yard and would have killed him if some of the men hadn’t dragged him off Ted.” “It was terrible, with Ted’s wife screaming and the men struggling to separate them. Thank God the doctor had taken Norma back to The Hill hospital so she didn’t see what happened.” “In some ways the rape wasn’t the worst that happened. The police came and took Ted away, but he claimed Norma had led him on and well…I suppose the police have to do their job. They questioned Norma over and over again, seeming to imply that she was a young slut who wanted Ted to do that to her. They never actually said that, but that’s how Norma felt.” “That Ted was guilty was really obvious in the end, and he got eight years jail. But there were people, and because of the media the whole business was out in the open, who said things like, ‘There’s no smoke without fire’. You know what people say.” “When Norma came out of hospital and the trial was over, everything looked all right at first. She’d had counselling, and although she was quieter than usual, she seemed okay. Then it started. It was bad dreams at first with her calling out for me night after night. Soon after that we noticed that she would not let Gordon touch her.” The Broken Ankle “Stan, the man who drove you this morning, he’s known Norma from the time she was born. He and Mavis haven’t got any children, and they really loved Norma, and she even turned on them. She called him a ‘white woman fucking nigger’, and Mavis a ‘nigger’s slut’. We nearly lost them over that…I mean…they’re not just employees, they’re very dear friends.” “It was as if Norma had undergone a total personality change. When she went back to school we thought she might settle down again, but within six week we were asked to take her away from the school because of her violent and disruptive behaviour. We tried two other private schools, but she never lasted longer than two months in either of them.” “Oh, they were very sympathetic and suggested that Norma should see a psychiatrist, but wrongly, we baulked at this.” “In the end we sent her to the high school at The Hill, and I went to live there during school terms, so she could come home to me every night. All that did was to put me closer to her behaviour, and I witnessed some of her violence. The physical violence was always against girls. She never physically attacked boys because by then she couldn’t bear any male to touch her, even her father.” “She lasted six months in that school, and they really did try to help her, but it was no good. We ended up taking her out of the school and bringing her home here.” “By that time things had really got to be terrible. We had nearly lost the friendship of Stan and Mavis; none of the men would come anywhere near Norma, and Gordon and I were always fighting, accusing each other, saying it was the other’s fault this had happened. In fact, our marriage was on the verge of breaking up.” “It was then we swallowed our pride and took Norma to see a psychiatrist. Of course, we had to go to the city, and the treatment called for regular sessions over a long period of time. So again Gordon and I were separated. I had to go and live in the city to take care of Norma and get her to the treatment sessions.” “This seemed to go on and on for ages, but then came the time when I was told that from then on Norma would only need to attend a session every couple of months. So we came home.” “She was calmer, more her old self, except the vitality seemed to have gone out of her. From a loving happy girl, she had become grim and cynical, and still couldn’t bear any male to touch her.” “And that, Brent, is where we had got to when this trip to the hills was brought up. Norma had read something about returning to the place or thing where a traumatic event had taken place in your life. She called it, ‘Facing your dragons’. Like flying again immediately after you’ve been in a plane crash. She said she wanted to go back to the hills and face her dragons, and she insisted she would go alone.” “We didn’t want her to go, but really we couldn’t stop her, except to refuse her a vehicle…well, as usual, Gordon gave in…I know he looks a great tough guy, but really he’s as soft as warm butter underneath, so we let her go. You know the rest.” She paused for a moment, the sighed and said, “I know it’s very sentimental. But you know Brent; I’ve always looked forward to there being grandchildren. But now…” We sat in silence for a long time, I trying to digest what I had been told, and Marge perhaps wondering if she had done the right thing telling me. “You know, of course,” I said, “she lay all night in my arms while I tried to keep her warm. Then I carried her for I don’t know how long.” “Yes, but it was different. She was injured and frightened.” I agreed, but added, “She’s been injured and frightened for a long time…I mean, before this last business…injured in her mind.” “Yes. I suppose I’d better tell you that she hasn’t gone to the Royal City Hospital just to get her ankle treated. She’s gone there to receive more psychiatric treatment. The doctor thinks that what happened to her this time might add just another trauma to the original one. Well, I’ve burdened you enough with our troubles, Brent. Thanks for being so sweet and listening.” She rose to leave me, but I took hold of her hand and asked, “Will it be all right if I visit her when I go back home? I mean, would seeing me just make it worse by reminding her of what happened?” “I don’t know, Brent. Can we leave that to the psychiatrist to decide? We can contact you and let you know.” “Right.” “I’m going to make some coffee. If you’d like some come to the kitchen in ten minutes.” I said a distracted, “Thanks,” and she left. I am not one of those people who in the face of a person’s pain suggest to them that there are other’s worse off than they. I understand the uselessness of such counsel. But after what Marge had just said, I did see that my crisis over Jackie had been a mere pinprick compared to theirs. As I had already realised, if the face of what I had been through with Smithy, the Jackie affair had almost faded completely from my mind. As I thought of her now, I saw her for the self-indulgent person she was when seen alongside these people. Apart from the initial male survey of Smithy as a desirable or otherwise, female, I had only viewed her as a person of that strange mixture of generosity and rejection. That saying that we should not judge another until we know the full story rang true for me now. But then, when do we ever know another’s full story? Here was a young woman, her life perhaps marred for ever. Unable to relate to men and thereby cut off from marriage and children, so who was I to complain if she could be a bit sharp and cynical? I mentally shrugged and retired to the kitchen for coffee. I thought I had wanted to stay around the Smith place for two or three days, yet found, despite my liking for Marge and Gordon, and a budding friendship with Stan and Mavis, I wanted to leave. I had achieved nothing towards my thesis at the hills, and knew I would have to return there some time in the future. Now I felt as if I had nothing to gain by staying and more importantly, nothing to contribute. The events at the hills, the aftermath, mainly Marge’s revelations concerning Smithy and her family, had left me feeling flat - drained. I told those white lies we are prone to use in such circumstances: “Very busy. “Must get back to work.” “Parents expecting me home.” I left amid a flurry of more thanks, hand shaking and kisses, leaving behind my promise to return some time when Norma was better. I left with all the relief and feelings of guilt such situations engender. I had left my address and telephone number so that, if it was appropriate, and her psychiatrist agreed, I might visit Smithy in hospital. In the following weeks and months no call or message came. I buried myself in my thesis work, seeking to distance myself from the emotional content of all that had happened, just as I had with Jackie. Incongruously, I realised I had fled to the hills to escape my emotions concerning Jackie. Now I had fled from the hills, or at least the Smith household, to escape any emotional tangle I might get into with them. About six months after leaving the Smith’s place, the memory began to not so much fade, but soften. I’d had a bit of drama in my life. For a moment I had been a hero, at least in the Smith’s eyes. Perhaps it is true that we are all destined for five minutes of glory in our lives. I had generally cut myself off from social contact, especially with women, and buried myself in my thesis, so it was a surprise to me when, coming home from university late one afternoon, my mother greeted me with a knowing look saying, “There’s a young lady waiting to see you. She’s in the lounge.” “Who is she?” I asked. “Says her name is Smith. Seems a nice girl. She’s the one you got out of that hole, isn’t she.” It was a statement not a question. I had told my parents only the bare details of what had happened at the hills, and nothing of what Marge had revealed to me, but I felt I could safely assume that mother and Smithy had been having a significant chat. Wondering what had brought Smithy to our house, and recalling the unpredictable moods Smithy could exhibit, I put on a neutral face and went into the lounge anticipating the worst. I almost didn’t recognise her. No longer clad in jeans and a top, her hair now worn longer, the girl I confronted wore a dark green dress that displayed the legs I had not been able to see before, and they looked good, very good. The veil of suspicion and apprehension she once displayed had given place to a very pretty open countenance. However, one feature remained. As I walked in Smithy rose like an avenging angel from the armchair where she was sitting, and with eyes blazing said, “You bastard. You lousy bloody man. Not once…not once did you come to see me. No note, no telephone call. I waited day after day, but nothing…” “But…” “Don’t you ‘but’ me, Brent Wilde. How a nice woman like your mother could produce someone like you I’ll never know.” She had come close to me and stretching up kissed me on the lips. I was astonished on two counts. First, what had happened to her revulsion over physical contact with men? Second, how did an outburst like the one just delivered warrant a kiss? “Oh, do sit down Brent, you make everything look so cluttered standing there.” To my amazement I obeyed. “I said once before, you’re a walking disaster area. If the prime minister ever sees you he’ll declared a state of national emergency. Why didn’t you come to see me?” My brain cells were working overtime trying to keep track of the flow, or rather, torrent that had poured out of her, so I stammered out, “Your mother said…” Oh, did she? And you took notice of her?” “Well, she said the psychiatrist would…” “Would he? Did anyone bother to ask me what I wanted? A pause, then, “Well, did they? No, they bloody well didn’t.” “I’m sorry, but they said you didn’t like men and…” “Ah, they did, did they? And you of course just accepted that, eh?” “Er, yes. After all I had noticed…” “Oh, you do notice some things then? I’ve told your mother I’m taking you out for dinner, so where would you like to go?” “Smithy, are you feeling okay, I mean, aren’t I supposed to ask you out to dinner?” “If I waited for you to ask I’d be an old woman before it happened.” “Please, Smithy, can we slow down a bit. I don’t know what all this is about, but can I just clear up a few things with you?” She gave that lovely smile I’d seen before, only this time it was truly radiant. “It’s all right Brent. I’m only playing with you…not about the dinner though. You say what you want to say or ask?” “Truly, Smithy, I didn’t come to see you because I was waiting for your mother to tell me it was all right to visit. I heard nothing, so assumed either you didn’t want to see me or the psychiatrist thought it not a good idea.” “Yes, I know Brent. In fact the psychiatrist was a bit ambivalent about your visiting, and my parents, knowing how I’d been behaving towards men, decided not to contact you. You see, it wasn’t that they didn’t want us to see each other. What they were doing was leaving it up to me to make contact if I wanted to.” “But you don’t really like men, do you Smithy.” “I’ve got a couple of things to say about that, my boy. First, I’ve had my head turned inside out for the last few months and have got a bit better perspective on men. I mean, they can’t all be rapists, can they? The other thing is, I spent a whole night cuddled up to a man, who after that proceeded to carry me on his back for I don’t know how far, so that has to say something in his favour, even if he is a muddle headed idiot.” She had been sitting in an armchair, but now she rose, came over to me and said very quietly, “Thank you, you wonderful man. I shall love you for ever for that.” She kissed me again. “And, you lousy male, you haven’t even asked me how I am. And don’t bother to say I haven’t given you the chance because it’s true, I haven’t.” I held her hand. “How are you, Smithy?” “I feel wonderful. I’ve got a bit of a limp, though. The doctor says with some therapy it might go away eventually. Now, about dinner, where do you want to go?” “Could we go somewhere quiet,” I asked, “Somewhere where you’re not allowed to bully me?” She suddenly became very serious. “Brent, do you think you could ever come to like me?” “Well, it’s rather difficult to dislike a woman you’ve spent the night with, then carried thousands of kilometres…at least, it felt like thousands. Of course I like you Smithy, you’re such a complicated woman, so how could I help but like you?” “That’s good, Brent. You see I’ve thought about you a lot in all these months, and although I shouldn’t say it to you, I think I love you.” “It’s just gratitude, Smithy.” “Perhaps, but I’m staying in town for some time. I’m still getting treatment for my ankle as well as my head, so I shall be pestering the life out of you until you tell me to clear off or until I find it is just gratitude. In the mean time, I’ll settle for loving you because it feels so nice. Is that okay with you?” “Suppose I say it isn’t okay?” “Can you tell me where the soap is kept?” We both broke up laughing. That night’s dinner was followed in the weeks and months after by many outings. At one time I would have been bedding the girl as soon as I could, not so with Smithy. I never sought to touch her, but always let her make the physical contact. She held my hand and leaned against me in theatres. Sometimes she would drape my arm round her shoulders. I wanted to do nothing that would make her recoil. One evening sitting in the car outside the house where she was staying, she snuggled up to me and said, “I’ve found out, Brent.” “Found out what?” “It is love, not gratitude. Is that all right?” “Well, yes, I suppose so.” “I finished all my therapy. The last session was this morning, and as you see, I hardly limp at all now. I’m okay, I mean, I’m in my right mind if that’s what your wondering.” “No, that’s not what I’m wondering.” “Brent, I would let you…I mean I want to but…but I’m still frightened…it hurt so badly.” “I know. Let’s not worry about that yet.” “Could you ever love me, Brent? Please tell me the truth. Don’t just say something to please me or keep me quiet. It’s too important to me for that.” She was leaning against me and I experienced that same fragility, the vulnerability, as the time I held her in the hills. If I had to hurt her, now and not later was the time. “I don’t know, Smithy. I don’t know if I ever want to love again.” “Ever love again? You’ve been hurt too, haven’t you?” “Not as badly as you, Smithy, but yes, I’ve been hurt.” “Could you tell me?” “I had never mentioned Jackie to her, but rather than make her feel rejected for no reason other than the thought that I found her unlovable, I told my story. When I finished she still leaned against me, and she said, “I understand, but there is just one thing I want you to know. If ever you loved me, I would never reject you, ever. There, I have no pride, have I?” “Love doesn’t need to bother with pride, Smithy, it’s sufficient to itself.” “Yes, I suppose so. My parents want me to go home.” “Are you going?” “I don’t know it depends on you. If you want me to go, I’ll go, or stay if you want me to stay.” “If you go, how soon will it be?” “Early next week, probably.” I felt the same sort of lurch in my stomach I had experienced with Jackie. I had come to cherish her companionship, the talk, the warmth of her presence. I had loved one who had used me, why could I not let go and love one who had declared her love for me? I was at war with myself again, and I think Smithy sensed this. “Look, Brent, don’t say any more now. Just let me love you without any strings. I know I haven’t given you what most other girls would have given long ago. I’ve still got that barrier of fear to overcome and I truly believe you’re the only man I could overcome it with, but you’d be taking a big chance with me, I know that…” “No, Smithy, it’s not like that, I promise you. I’m glad in a way that there’s been no sex. I’ve got to know you in so many other ways, and I’m grateful l have. But you’re right, let’s not say any more tonight.” She kissed me very tenderly and said, “Good night, love of my life.” Then she was gone. I saw a yawning void opening up before me, far more threatening that that declivity Smithy had fallen into. That was a situation that called for practical responses, however demanding physically. Now the call was for emotional responses, and they were to be responses to that most delicate of all our emotions, that of love. Love can be wonderful and uplifting. It can also be near annihilating when it goes wrong, as it did with Jackie. The yawning void was one which was before me. I was standing on its edge. Somewhere on the other side but for now invisible there might be a place to come to rest on. There was no guarantee. Should I leap out into the void trusting that all would be well? These were my thoughts and feelings and, as sometimes happens, something or someone steps across your path, and you find yourself moving in a new direction, either in retreat or advance. In my current dilemma it was at first my mother who focused me. It was the day after Smithy had told me she might go back to her parents. I was being miserable over a cup of coffee in the kitchen, while mother was preparing something. She made the chance comment, “Lovely girl, Norma.” I made some non-committal sound. She went on, “Have you ever thought you might like to marry her?” “She’s going back to her parents.” “That doesn’t stop you thinking about marrying her, does it?” “I suppose not.” I had never told my parents about Smithy’s rape and the devastating sexual after effects. Perhaps they thought Smithy and I were having a sexual relationship since we had seen so much of each other, and they could see there was no other girl in my life. My father had been sitting opposite me buried in a newspaper, but as always alert enough to pick up the trend of the conversation. “Bloody mug if you don’t snap her up. That’s if she’d have you. Bloody sight more human than that other one you wanted to marry.” “Still, if she’s going back home, you won’t be seeing much of her, if at all,” mother went on. I got that lurch in my stomach again. Mother managed to add a pain to the lurch. “Pity, she’s such an attractive girl.” “He’ll just have to look for another one to take out,” my father said. That did it. Without really considering what I said I burst out, “I don’t bloody well want to take anyone else out.” “No need to get upset son, it was only a passing comment.” I said nothing further but thought a lot. “No Smithy, no one to be with, no one to…” I stopped myself forming the word in my head, but it was there none the less. My father got up and muttered something about going down to the shed to do some work. Silence reigned for a while then mother asked, “Something wrong, love?” “Yes.” “What?” “Smithy.” “What about her?” Not only had I not told my parents about the rape, I had not said anything about Smithy having psychiatric treatment. As far as they knew she was just getting her ankle treated. Now I needed to talk to someone, preferably female. Who better than mother?” So I told her the story, including Smithy’s fear of sexual contact. Mother was quiet for a while, then stopping her work she came and sat down at the table. “I understand, Brent. She’s said she loves you, and you’re the only one she wants to have physical contact with, but she’s also said it’s a risk?” “Yes.” “If you don’t love her, Brent, then let her go, because it is going to take a lot of love to help her overcome her feelings. If you do love her, then she will need all your patience and tenderness to overcome the problem.” The Broken Ankle “You see, Brent, there are men, lots of men, who demand, insist and can get rough with a girl, even when it isn’t technically rape. Anything of that sort could bring her crashing down again. Only you know for sure whether you love her or not, but if you do, then be very, very gentle with her.” “I don’t know if I can love her as she needs to be loved, mum.” “You told your father you didn’t want anyone else.” Although I had spoken those words unthinkingly, my mother repeating them brought them into sharp focus. “Is it love, mum, when you feel like that…I mean…not just infatuation, not just wanting to bed a woman, but not wanting to be without her?” “If it isn’t love, Brent, it comes pretty damned close.” Peace seemed to settle on me. I felt as if the problems and doubts had dissipated. It was both as simple and at the same time, as profound as that. I didn’t want to be without Smithy in my life. I could have telephoned her, but knew that what I had to say must be face to face. I rose, gave mum a kiss and said “Thanks mum, I’ll be gone for a while.” She gave a little laugh and said, “Be very nice to her.” I grinned and responded, “I will, I promise you.” I drove to where Smithy was living while in town. It was an aunt’s place, and it was the aunt who opened the door to my bell ringing. “Brent, you’ll want Norma I suppose?” “Er…yes please.” “She’s not here at the moment, her mother’s come down here and they’ve gone out together to do some shopping. Do you want to come in and wait?” “Yes please.” I was led into the kitchen and offered tea or coffee. I settled for tea. “They’ve been gone about two hours,” the aunt said, “I don’t think they’ll be too long.” now.” We talked about the weather, the state of her garden, the price of lamb chops and the prime minister’s latest faux pas. No Smithy and mother arrived. The aunt told me she had to “get on,” without specifying what she had to get on with. She left me to do her getting on. Impatience took over. “Where the hell is Smithy? How dare she keep me waiting like this! Perhaps the aunt was lying and Smithy was off with a lover! All the business about not wanting to be touched could have been a fake, and right now she was in the arms…” “Brent, what are you doing here?” I had been so engaged tormenting myself with visions of Smithy in a passionate embrace with some vile seducer, I had failed to hear her arrive. “I…well…you see…Don’t bloody well go.” “Go where?” “Don’t be so obtuse. Don’t go home.” “Oh, I see. Why shouldn’t o go home?” “Damn it, Smithy, because I don’t want you to go.” “Why?” “Because I love you.” “Oh, good. The thing is Brent, I already knew that. It was you who didn’t know it.” “How did you…?” “Never mind about that now. Have you thought of a date for the wedding?” “Wedding?” “You haven’t, have you? Really Brent, it’s like dealing with a child. Never mind, I can see to things for us. By the way, mummy and I have been out looking at wedding dresses this afternoon. I think I’ll go for something simple.” Marge had entered the kitchen so she chimed in. “I think she’s right, Brent. She doesn’t really need anything elaborate or showy.” Smithy picked up the theme. “It’s all right, darling. We haven’t ordered anything yet, so if you want to you can have a say about the dress.” I was bowled over. I struggle to speak, trying to inject something into the flow of words, and finally came out with, “I haven’t asked you to…” “Oh, but you were going to, so I saved you the bother, but if you’d like to ask me you can.” “I er…” “Yes. There, that’s settled. I do love you, Brent, you’re so decisive.” Marge left us, assuming no doubt we were about to engage in romantic and embarrassing discourse. Smithy did one of her quick personality changes. “I love you very much, Brent. When we do, you will be gentle with me…you won’t hurt me?” “No I won’t hurt you, my love. It will only happen when you’re ready for it to.” She snuggled up against me, and I felt her fragility once again. She raised her face and said, “Kiss me, Brent.” It was not a passionate tongue lashing kiss, but very warm and loving. The protective feeling I had felt for her before came back to me. Yes, I loved her…loved her very much. I have no wish to expand on the intimate details of our sex lives. Let it be sufficient to say that after our third night of marriage, next morning we were both very happy. We have been very happy ever since. Five years down the track Marge has her grandchildren…well, two of them. There is a rather odd epilogue to my story. Our youngest child, Robin, had recently started school, and one day it was convenient for me to meet him after school. He came running out, but then stopped to say something to a group of children. As I waited for him a teacher came to the top of the steps at the school entrance. I idly glanced at her, and then looked back at her again. It was Jackie. She must have sensed my looking at her because she stared across at me for a moment, and then fled back into the school. I felt no pain, and merely wondered what had happened to her “better offer.”