Blind Spot – Chapter 15

Progress Report

‘Djerrinallum Dusk’ by Steve Fendt

January 2018 comes around, and things are moving fast.

I’ve engaged a project manager to oversee the construction of the Retreat. Nathan is young, sharp and keen to get started. He’ll stay at the homestead during the week, spending weekends in Melbourne with his young family.

We aim to open our doors in October, when the days grow longer and warmer, and spring starts in earnest on the volcanic plains of Victoria. We’re planning an inaugural festival, a long weekend of events.

No pressure, then.

The concept is a low-key Burning Man with fewer trustafarians. The reality will be … whatever it will be. Hopefully, it’ll be fun at least. Tel and Priya have promised to come: she’ll dance for us, and run a free workshop.

I swallowed my embarrassment and brought Ted, the leader of the local Landcare group, back to see what I’d allowed to happen with their plantings from three years ago. He received the news of my utter incompetence more positively than I could have imagined, and went off to talk with his volunteers. They’re planning some weeding and planting sessions for the winter.

Meanwhile there’s an ongoing programme of raptor-friendly pest reduction: ripping warrens, improving the rabbit-proof fencing – so that we only have rabbits on one side – and trapping foxes and feral cats.

Neighbour Tony and I had a chat. He was philosophical in the end, about only getting half the pasturage he wanted. A Saturday morning cuppa with him and his practical, clever Thai wife, Anong, is becoming a weekly fixture.

He’s hopeful that the biolink project can be resurrected.

‘But baby steps for now, mate, baby steps.’

Five years late, I’m starting to get a feel for how things work around here.

Looking at all these vast, sweeping grasslands, you’d think there was no community. This land seems empty of human beings, except for the occasional isolated farmstead, a shut-up community hall by the side of the road in the middle of nowhere, and a signpost to the sports oval, pointing up a dirt track into the bush.

You’d be dead wrong.

In fact, there’s a CFA, a footy club, a dirt-biking club, a local Rotary branch. There’s a bunch of nutters who re-enact medieval European battles, using foam swords and halberds. People band together and help out when their neighbour falls ill, fodder is scarce or the fire danger rating is nudging Catastrophic.

Consequently, when people are aloof, keep themselves to themselves, it’s noted. Talked about. Particularly when they’re blow-ins from the other side of the globe, and non-farmers to boot.

It’s put to me that I can achieve a lot more by being humble and getting involved than by preaching about ‘Conservation’ and ‘The Arts’ from my lofty pulpit.

‘Got to muck in, Jammin!’ in Tony’s words. His nickname for me. I like it, hope it sticks. Better than Eggs Benny, at any rate.

So, this soft-handed Pommie ‘tech bro lite’ (thanks for that, Jeannie) has let himself be talked into volunteering for the Country Fire Authority. I’ll make an arse of myself, no doubt, stuff up from time to time. Locals will laugh and take the piss – but that’s not a bad thing.

Mind you, they really don’t need to know that Jammin’s girlfriend thinks she’s an alien from another universe. Oh dear me, no. We’ll keep that one under wraps.

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It occurs to me that I haven’t had a migraine for a long time. Months. Not even after the infamous Chaise Longue Incident – which would have been exactly the sort of emotional upset to trigger one, in times past.

I tell Mercy.

‘Excellent! You see? You’re healing.’

Sharing my home with Mercy is very pleasant. We’re not in love, but it’s a cosy friends-with-benefits arrangement. She does her thing, I do mine; we get together, swap notes. I give her progress reports. She jumps my bones at random intervals and with scant warning. We drink litres of tea and coffee, more wine than is good for us.

She never initiates talking about Em, but if I want to, she’ll share the insights she claims to have. If I want advice, she’s willing to give it.

‘Just don’t shoot the messenger, Benjamin.’

It’s … nice. Weird, but nice.

Trouble is, I don’t think ‘nice’ is enough for someone with Mercy’s ferocious intelligence and appetite for life. As the weeks together turn into months, I often catch a faraway look in her eyes.

Wistful.

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Then, one day in autumn, I get home from a meeting to find the place empty.

She hasn’t just gone to the shops, or to see a client. As soon as I walk in the front door, I know I’ll find her dressing room empty, her shelf in the bathroom bare.

I don’t need to read the note on the kitchen table, but I open it anyway, of course.

Dear, dear Benjamin!

We knew this day was coming and now it’s here, I’m afraid.

Afraid? Actually, I’m delighted, and so should you be. You’re on the road to recovery, growing stronger by the day, and you don’t need me any more.

I have things I need to do, places I need to be, experiences I need to have. Lives I need to lead.

I know you never believed me, but cared for me anyway, even though you thought I was mad.

Know that your Mercy loves you, and your Em does too, more than she could ever say to her Widdle Benjy Wabbit in person.

Goodbye xx

Nathan’s been on site all day supervising the concrete pour, but he thinks he saw her car leave in the morning, a couple of hours after mine. I try her phone: it goes through to voicemail.

I leave a rambling, teary message that gets cut off.

The next day, her silver Saab Viggen convertible is impounded, illegally parked, at Tulla. Airport CCTV and passenger records show Mercy boarding a flight for Singapore.

When the plane lands, she isn’t on board.

As exits go, it takes some beating. Mischief and drama to the last.

Whoever or whatever you are, or imagine yourself to be, Mercy, I’m going to miss you. Thanks for that boot up the arse.

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THE END

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Thanks for reading!

Most of my photographs from this novella were taken in the area where the story unfolds: the volcanic plains of southwest Victoria.

Tall and Tiny Tales will be back on Tuesday 1 October 2024 with a new story.

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Acknowledgement of Country: This story is set on the lands of the Djargurd Wurrung, while the author lives on Wadawurrung country. I pay my respects to their Elders past, present and emerging.

Disclaimer: This story is a work of fiction. Characters, institutions and organisations mentioned herein are the product of the author’s imagination. The locations are based on real places.