DR ROBIN CRAIG

This is my kind of truckie. He picked me up on a lonely stretch of the highway, a raised eyebrow his only enquiry about what I was doing in the middle of nowhere. Nor did he offer any comment when I neglected to inform him or even inquire into his own destination.

Truckies must be used to the loneliness of the road, but for some the arrival of a pair of ears unties their tongues, and they feel a need for conversation. This one looked like he would welcome silence as much as speech. So, he communed with the road before him while I communed with the land it passed through, and our peace seemed as much a bond of companionship as tales and laughter.

But it was a melancholy peace, at least for me. There is something about passing through such empty country that makes me feel the loneliness of its inhabitants, scattered among the vast fields of grain and cattle, little islands of people in their remote farmhouses. I know of their existence, but not of their hearts or minds. As I pass by their brief domains, I know that, as intense as our lives are to ourselves, with all the passions and fears, loves and hates, ambitions or laziness that are the common heritage of our kind, nothing of us exists in the mind of the other.

Just like the truckie and me, I reflect. Lives briefly intersecting, never knowing more than that raw fact of simultaneous breath, never to meet again, never to learn each other’s fates. Perhaps never to think of each other again.

In the distance I see a derelict farmhouse, set a little back from the highway among some trees. Its beams show stark against the sky: a skeleton still half-dressed by walls that once protected the warm lives inside, but now are nothing but their slumped shrouds and silent memorial. Yet it must have been the heat haze, or maybe just a projection of my own mood, for as we come closer, I realise it is not derelict at all. The white walls look well maintained, its garden has flowers somehow defying the harsh sun, and a metal sign hangs by the roadside, tersely declaring: ‘Rooms’.

I had no plans other than a vague goal of reaching some town or other, but something about this place calls to me, as it shimmers ahead like some vision of the past. I ask the driver to let me off here. He offers me a sidewise glance. “Are you sure, mate? There’s nothing much around here. Happy to drop you off at the next town or so instead.”

I shake my head and he shrugs, as if leaving me to my fate. He drops me off at the roadside some distance past the homestead, then his rig rumbles off into the heat haze, until nothing is left to mark its existence but a haze of gritty red dust and a faint whiff of diesel.

I walk back toward the house, which continues to play with my eyes as the sun beats down on my head. It had looked derelict, then white and elegant, timeless; but now as I stand in the heat gazing at it from the roadside, it shows as faded and worn, the metal sign now tarnished, squeaking gently as it rocks in the soft breeze. Once the house must have been grand, a place full of wealth and the laughter of children, but the past glory which sang to me is long departed. I put my duffel down and stand there for a while looking at it, contemplating my prospects.

I gaze both ways down the empty highway. I shrug, running my finger through the sweaty dust under my collar, then pick up my duffel and stroll up the driveway to the house. I climb the stairs to the front door and, taking the mat’s proclaimed ‘Welcome’ at its word, let myself into an interior as cool as it is gloomy.

I expected to find its owner some matching relic, perhaps an old lady possessed of the same faded elegance as her hotel. So, I am surprised to encounter a young woman, slender and attractive, dressed in a simple white gown, glossy chestnut hair framing a face with grey eyes, startling in their intensity.

I ask her whether I can rent a room and she nods once. I ask her name but she only smiles, pointing to her lips and throat and shaking her head, as if indicating she cannot speak. She points to the register, pens and a folder of information.

I look around the hall, wondering what I am doing here. There are no brochures touting the local tourist attractions, but I guess that if this place is here, there must be something nearby. Maybe horses for riding, though I had seen none. Perhaps a river or a lake where a man can fish or swim. I glance at my hostess, and it is if she can feel my reluctance to stay, for her eyes contain a strange pleading, though she makes no effort to plead more directly. I smile at her and fill out the register, and she smiles back.

She leads me up the wooden staircase to the first storey, explaining with gestures which room is mine and where the amenities are. I ask about dinner, and she holds up six fingers. Then she lets me into my room and leaves me to my privacy.

My room has a high ceiling and a slowly moving fan dancing with even slower moving flies. There is no air conditioning, but I have the fan and the large window. I do not mind the heat.

Curious, I look through my lodgings. Some old clothes still hang in the cupboard, mouldering in the dark as they have done for years, perhaps more years than I have been alive. Among some ancient papers in a drawer, I find an envelope loosely tied with a black ribbon. Perhaps it is rude to open it, but if it was meant to be private, why would it be left here for any stranger to find? In any case, like the house itself it calls to me. Inside is nothing but a photograph. It is old, black and white faded to yellow, and shows a young woman. She is simply but well dressed and looks directly at the camera with a faint smile. Around her neck hangs a pendant with a stone, from its shade I guess a sapphire. The woman looks remarkably like my hostess, so I guess she is some ancestor, long dead now.

There is a knock at my door. When I open it, outside is a tray of hot food and a bottle of cold beer beaded with moisture, but my hostess did not stay to greet or join me.

I eat alone in my room. The food is simple, but tasty enough and filling. When I am finished, I place the tray outside and close my door. I gaze again at the old photo, and, looking into the girl’s face, I wonder what happened to her, whether she had a happy life; whether she married, had children, and perhaps my strange hostess yet carries part of her life within her. Though the black ribbon gives me unease, and I suspect a more tragic end greeted that wistful smile, so alive with uncertain hope. But whether she lived a long life or a short one, I know that, like her once home, only echoes now remain of her life and joys and sorrows. I feel a strange affinity with her, and sit at my window, contemplating her. She is like the people I passed in the distance, only more so: separated by not only miles but years.

I sit there a long time, absorbed in her face and the rhythm of the land. This is sorghum country, and the grain slowly ripples in the haze as the lowering sun beats down uncaring. An eagle circles lazily far above, perhaps hoping for an incautious rabbit. A police car hares along the road without stopping, as indifferent to my presence as the sky.

I close my eyes, and a young woman haunts dreams of long ago.

Then something awakens me from the dream, and I am startled to see my hostess in my room, looking so much like my dream that for a moment I do not know whether I am indeed awake or still sleeping. She gazes at me with an odd hunger in her eyes then smiles gently. I smile back, uncertain what else to do. Then she steps forward, shrugging her gown off her shoulders, watching me nervously. Whatever she sees in my face emboldens her, for she leans over and kisses me long and gently on the lips. When she lifts her head I look into her eyes, which show fear, excitement and a driving passion that will not be denied. My own desire awakes, unable to refuse her even if I wished, and I reach for her, pulling her down to me. She is soft in my arms, almost insubstantial, and I can tell that this is something she has never done. Then when we are finished, for the first time a sound escapes from her lips, a sigh speaking of a need long desired, long absent, now finally reached; but a breath so soft I cannot be sure it is her and not merely the rustling of the sorghum in the breeze.

When I look at her, she is already asleep, a soft smile on her lips, a smile of release, contentment and fulfilment. I feel an unaccounted tenderness for this girl, and I hold her in my arms as I too fall asleep.

I wake to the mournful sound of crows in the rafters. The rising sun casts shadows of the naked beams above my head across my naked body and the decaying mattress upon which I lie. I dress, looking around at the ruins of the house, then carefully descend the rotting staircase until I reach the outside. I look at the collapsing building, the dry sticks where flowers once bloomed, and down the driveway the remains of a rusty sign lying in the dust.

I lift my hand in farewell, though to whom, I do not know. Then I turn and walk away.

I wonder when the next truck will be along.

Robin Craig    ©    2024