See What Develops

The camera was as much his companion as it was his tool. He might only take three or four pictures in an hour. Sometimes less. So, he used a tripod these days, one almost as tall as him, and also a long snap cable that enabled him to move about.

‘What do you reckon?’ he’d murmur, pacing slowly back and forth, hands clasped behind his back, clutching the snap. ‘Shall we wait a bit longer? Might the light change? Will a bird fly in do you think?’ Until eventually a calm silence descended, punctuated by a soft click when he squeezed the shutter release.

He’d driven for six hours to reach the plateau. Arriving just after dawn. In the summertime, the national park was thronged with sightseers to the falls. But in winter, especially this winter, with the years long drought unbroken and every tree, bush and piece of scrub parched, and the falls no more than a trickle, visitors were fewer. All around him the frenzied, grasping limbs of the eighty-foot snow gums looked like they would beat the rain from the pitiless hard blue sky, if only they could reach a little further.

He passed her on the fire trail heading back to his car. She carried a small vintage Leica around her neck, on a brown leather strap. His own camera was stowed away in his backpack. He felt a little pretentious with the tripod over his shoulder.

‘Morning,’ he nodded.

‘Afternoon,’ she replied.

Her cheeks were flushed from the cold. She had a pale complexion and wore no make-up as far as he could tell. Her hair was gathered underneath a grey knitted beanie, and when she smiled her teeth were a brilliant white, with a gap between the front two. She was rugged up on top, but her legs were long and lean under tight indigo denim. She conveyed the seemingly effortless well-preserved glamour of a French actress. None of that Californian Botox and starvation bollocks.

He stumbled on a rock, nearly rolling his ankle.

‘Christ. Mind you watch your step,’ he said.

Her laugh was carefree, but not unkind – ‘It’s okay. I’m wearing my most sensible shoes.’

When he turned around to look at her again, before she crested the hill, he could see that she was.

He stopped in at Keegan’s on the way home. An inspired marriage of the literary and the culinary that occupied a gorgeous sandstone and timber outbuilding on the Cordeaux Estate winery. It boasted vaulted ceilings, king-sized iron chandeliers and more than thirty thousand books, from rarities to remainders. He hadn’t made a reservation, but found an armchair near one of the fireplaces, where he nursed a single malt with three cubes of ice, before persuading a hesitant young waiter that, actually, he didn’t require a table in order to be served coffee and a toasted sandwich.

‘It’s a snack, not a meal,’ he explained.

Nonetheless, the snack revived him, although he could have done without the generic jazz accompaniment. He’d have preferred some country with properly good lyrics; Hank or Guy or Townes or Gillian. Afterwards, he browsed the stacks and turned up a couple of out-of-print Garry Disher novels for his library at home.

‘We read to know we are not alone’, he thought. Forgetful of the provenance but reassured as always by the wisdom of the quote, and the solace it promised.

The engine failed to start when he turned the key. He double-checked he hadn’t left the lights on, tried the ignition again, all to no avail. It was a good car. German. Old but reliable. He’d had to brake suddenly when he’d arrived; a little boy had bolted out from between the parked cars, trailing a red balloon behind him, and even on the gravel the car stopped short without difficulty. The boy’s mother didn’t acknowledge him, or the near calamity, just yanked the child back from where he’d come. Still, it had startled him, and he’d had to wipe his palms dry on his jeans before he exited the car.

He popped the bonnet release and went to check if there was an installation date marked upon the battery. He wondered how long the roadside assistance would take out here? He was on hold, waiting for the company to establish the nearest van, when a dusty cream Subaru wagon pulled up in front of him. It was the woman with the Leica. She lowered her window and motioned her chin toward the raised hood.

‘Car trouble?’

Before he could answer, the operator came back on the line. He raised a bear-with-me index finger to the woman.

‘Sorry to keep you waiting. The next available mobile mechanic will be approximately ninety minutes.’

He confirmed his location and contact details, ended the call and put the phone back into his pocket. By then the woman had reversed her car into the space next to his and was ferreting around with something on the passenger seat. Beyond the car park’s white three rail fence lay a denuded field, where a solitary chestnut mare grazed upon a spread of hay, her coat shining under the low winter sun. A pair of crows sat upon the edge of the rusting water trough, taking turns to dip their beaks and drink.

He lowered the bonnet back into place whereupon introductions were made. When he extended his hand, the woman took her time to remove a fawn kidskin glove finger by elegant finger. Her nails were neatly manicured, painted a deep crimson. They shook and he explained his predicament. Her hand was soft and warm, and he wondered if his own felt cold.

‘Stranded eh? Would you care to join me for a drink then?’ she asked.

He thought that he would like that very much. As she strode ahead of him a subtle scent that he could not place teased the air. Not a fragrance, something more essential. The sensible shoes had been replaced, by a pair of knee-high black leather boots, and the beanie discarded with them. Lustrous coal-black hair, threaded with silver, fell almost to her waist.

The lunchtime rush had passed, and a relaxed waitress allowed them their pick of the empty tables. She ordered an espresso and a glass of pinot noir. He ordered a Guinness.

‘So, what’s the matter with the Merc?’ she said.

‘A flat-battery, I suppose. Or maybe the alternator? That’s the typical cause.’

‘Do you restore old cars?’

‘Ha! God no, I’m mechanically inept. It’s just a habit of mine to never own a car manufactured after I was born,’ he said, before spreading his hands in mock bemusement. ‘I used to drive old cars; but now they’re vintage.’

Her laugh was like a piece of music that he never wanted to end.

They talked about photography, which was a pastime for each of them. They both preferred film to digital, where they differed was composition; he was into panoramas, she liked close-ups. They agreed, however, that it was often the smallest detail that made the biggest difference.

‘That’s definitely the thrill of it,’ she said.

He switched to the pinot when she ordered another glass.

‘Sure you wouldn’t just like a bottle instead?’ enquired their waitress, who was by now relaxed to the point of cheekiness.

‘We’re driving,’ he said. ‘Well, hopefully so in my case.’

It had been quite a while since he’d sat with a woman, let alone an unfamiliar one. He was reminded of the sense of immensity, of a whole great being to be explored. All the unknown terrain of the physical; pale skin, a blemish, a bruise. A dark thicket with delicate folds of flesh. A shiver. A twitch. The heat and the wet warmth. But all of these pleasures and wonders nothing compared to the limitless expanse of the interior.

‘You right there?’ she said, drawing him back with a husky lilt. Her eyes were hazel flecked with green and sparkled with mischief. ‘You’re a dreamer. Aren’t you?’

He gave her a wry smile, despite himself.

‘It’s been said so. A drifter, too.’

He excused himself when his phone vibrated, announcing the arrival of the mechanic. It was only when the man apologised for taking longer than expected that he realised how late it was.

It took the fellow less than a minute to work out the problem. He was mortified to be told that he’d left the car in drive, grateful that the man performed some additional perfunctory checks to ease his embarrassment, and quickly agreed when he suggested replacing the aged battery ‘while I’m here.’ He paid the bill with his credit card, waiting until the van had passed the last of the tall European evergreens that lined the long drive, before he went back inside.

‘All done,’ he said, clapping his hands together with an entirely false bravado. ‘New battery.’

‘I’ve got a proposition for you,’ she said, winding a thick strand of hair around one finger. ‘I’m only twenty minutes from here. Why don’t you come home with me? It’s madness for you to drive back to Sydney now. We can cook, I’ve plenty of wine and whiskey... Play your cards right, I might even show you my darkroom.’

He thought he’d have to be mad to refuse.

‘Lead the way,’ he said. ‘I’ll follow you.’

He woke up on the couch. Fully clothed, underneath a heavy woollen blanket that smelled of woodsmoke. Embers still glowed amidst the ash in the grate, so he added some paper and kindling from the bucket, and then, when the flame was roaring, one of the split logs from the neat stack alongside the bluestone fireplace.

By the time he’d finished a dull light seeped through a Cohenesque crack between the curtains, and the beginnings of a dawn chorus sounded outside. He stepped lightly down the hall to the bathroom. The door at the end of the passage, the doorway to her bedroom, was closed. He pissed quietly and splashed cold water onto his face. He’d not shaved yesterday, or the day before that, and the bristles rasped against his palms.

Back in the lounge he gathered his jacket, slipped his boots on, and patted his pockets for keys, wallet and phone. He had enjoyed the evening very much. There was an intimacy to it that had surprised him. She’d given him tasks, like peeling the potatoes, that settled him, put him at ease. There’d been a goodnight kiss as well. Gentle. Lingering. Erotic. His groin stirred at the memory.

The front door was locked with an old-fashioned key and had a separate brass doorknob. He pulled it closed behind him, holding the knob to release the latch softly. There was no way to lock it from the outside.

The car started first go. He put the heater on and waited for it to warm up. It took him a moment to realise what the noise was, when it came. A few taps on the roof to begin with, and then a hammering. Big heavy blotches on the glass, followed by dirty rivulets as the months and years of dust was washed away, the hard rain coming down in buckets until he could see nothing through the deluge.

He sat there, marooned, thinking about the warm fire burning in the hearth. The roll of film in his camera. The long and empty days ahead of him. Wondered whether he shouldn’t go back inside?

Burn the stupid note he’d left her and put the kettle on.

See what develops.