Shortlisted
Remotely NQR
Jenny Macauley
Elongated fingers of early morning sun crept across the field, illuminating the tops of the circular hay bales that lay haphazardly across the gently sloped paddock. Each bale cast its own shadow, still laced with beads of heavy dawn dew. The barren tops of distant hills emerged above dark rows of radiata pine where neat patches had been felled and hauled away to a saw-mill.
Vivien drove past the scene to the end of the narrow country road, which ended abruptly at an imposing iron fence. Two ornate gates lead into a driveway lined with mature poplars, indicating the entrance to a formidable homestead. Next to the open gates was a clear sign, Private Property.
She swung her red Mazda around the tight turning circle and drove the 250 metres back to the chosen location. She parked as close to the small embankment as she could, got out and inhaled the country smell of damp hay. A railway line ran from east to west, crossing an old stone bridge on the floodplain below. She had been hanging out for a morning like this and an opportunity to return to this very spot where her artist friend, Robyn, had pointed out the ‘vista’ the day they were happily lost on a country drive. It had been winter then. The fields were soft and green with areas of shadow from the grey clouds that hovered above the valley. But this was perfect. She’d left home at 4 am in order to reach this spot in time to catch the glorious colours of sunrise.
Vivien opened her car boot. She wiped away a tear before lifting out the easel – once Robyn’s – and a thermos. She carried them down the embankment and placed them on the other side of the fence before pushing down on the middle wire and easing her right leg through. Doubled over, she squeezed her large breasts and rear end between the wires, losing a button from her floral, cotton blouse. Twenty metres into the paddock, she lined up the view to include some foreground bales, the bridge in the mid-ground and the hills as the backdrop.
Setting up the easel, though, was more difficult than expected. She undid the leather strap and realised she faced a mathematical puzzle of wooden slats and wingnuts. It looked like a giant daddy-long-legs about to pounce from a crouched position into a fully-fledged monster. After many tries, she ended up with a three-legged structure that would hopefully support the canvas. She celebrated by pouring a steaming hot coffee into the plastic lid of her thermos. The coffee tasted like the plastic lid of her thermos. It was half an hour since driving through the nearest town, where she knew no one would be serving coffee at that time of the morning.
The shadows would shorten soon, and the morning hues would bleach out as the sun rose. She needed to get her phone from the front seat and take some resource photos, then grab the canvas and paints and begin sketching out her landscape.
She was halfway back to the fence when the morning’s serenity was destroyed by a high-pitched buzzing sound. She looked up, eventually catching sight of a small speck moving slowly above the fence line from the far end of the road. The sound of the drone was soon drowned out by the crunching of tyres upon the road’s thick gravel. A grey Toyota HiLux with dark tinted windows appeared from around the bend, its massive bull-bars stopping just centimetres from the open boot of Vivien’s car. She stopped, uneasy, and waited. The drone hovered above the vehicle, its whirring audible again over the idling of the vehicle.
Vivien took a couple of strides forward, and the ute’s engine suddenly revved loudly. It reversed, then leapt forward into the back of Vivien’s car, knocking it to the very edge of the embankment.
‘Stop!’ she yelled. ‘What the fuck do you think you’re doing?’
The ute reversed and pushed forward again. This time her car tipped over the edge and slid sideways into the fence. The drone shot off beyond sight, and Vivien stood still, gripped with both anger and fear. Having had both a hip and knee replacement within the past three years, fleeing was not an option. And there was really nowhere to run, even if she was able to. She clenched her fists and strode towards the ute, trying to see through its menacing windows. She clamoured through the fence, painfully scraping her nipples, and stormed up the embankment, lunging for the passenger door. The cabin was empty. She peered both up and down the road. No one had got out of the driver’s side.
‘You bastard.’ She gazed in the direction of the retreating drone. She then eased herself down through the long dry grass to her own car and reached across the driver’s seat for her phone. It wasn’t there. She sat behind the steering wheel and leant across, running her hand between the seat and the passenger door, found it and turned it on. ‘Please be a signal, please be a signal,’ she said out loud, continually searching the road behind for any movement. She locked her car doors and dialled 000.
Once Vivien had her breath under control and her hands ceased shaking, she got out of the car to inspect the damage. It was on a fairly steep tilt resting against a fencepost. The back panel had a dent in it, and the lights on the right side were shattered. She tried to pull the boot top down, but it was out of whack and wouldn’t close.
She got back in and pressed the start button. The engine purred. She released the brake and put the car into drive. It moved forward. The scraping of the fencepost against the shiny red paint was excruciating. She turned the wheels towards the embankment, fought the feeling of tipping over, gripped tightly on the steering wheel and accelerated. Her car bounced its way back up onto the road, the boot top springing up and down wildly.
She felt a little more at ease knowing she could drive away in a hurry if she needed to. But what was the mental state of an individual who would do this? What else might he have in mind? Vivien tried not to let her imagination take over. The police knew where she was, she hoped, and that she was being threatened. They’d arrive soon. She scoured the patch of sky through her windscreen for a helicopter, but there was only the glare of the rising sun and a few strips of puffy cloud. She watched the shadows of the hay bales diminish in intensity and the strong yellows and oranges pale to various shades of honey. She ventured out of the car to take a few photos of the landscape, as well as her damaged car, and had just locked herself back in when a police car approached from the town end of the road at the same time as a maroon Jaguar arrived from the other. The latter pulled up closely behind the ute. Her Mazda was hemmed in.
The middle-aged police officer, wearing a jacket covered in pockets and attachments supporting all sorts of paraphernalia, extricated himself from the police car as if he was at the end of a long shift or about to start one that was just a bit too early for him. He approached and signalled for Vivien to stay put. Through the side mirror, she watched a man of similar age get out of the Jag. His excess weight was enhanced by the rolled-up tracksuit pants, the top of which did not meet up with his tight, pale-blue sleeveless jumper, leaving a protruding ring of white, bouncy flab. The grey sheepskin moccasins complemented the curly clumps of hair on either side of his shiny scalp. From behind him emerged a small boy, aged around nine or ten, who leant against the ute with his head slightly bowed but his eyes peering between the wavy strands of a long blonde fringe. He was wearing pyjama shorts almost hidden beneath an oversized white singlet.
The two men shook hands. They talked, turning from time to time to look at Vivien’s car and inside the cabin of the ute. The officer said something to the boy, who disappeared for a moment, then came back and handed over the drone and a box of technical equipment. The man and boy got into the Jag and slowly reversed out of sight around the bend.
Vivien got out of her car while the officer tried to close her boot. ‘It’s too bent,’ she said.
He nodded. ‘Bloody kids,’ he said. ‘I’m Senior Sergeant Huntly. I just need to verify your details,’ he stared at the gap in her blouse where the button had pulled away, ‘then I’d like you to tell me exactly what happened.’
Vivien held the front of her blouse together across her chest. ‘Bloody kids, did you say? Do you mean to tell me that this was done by that boy? You’re kidding me!’
‘I’m afraid young Lane Wilson has a rather exceptional but over-exuberant brain when it comes to technology. He takes after his father. Unfortunately, his well-meaning parents have failed to set appropriate boundaries for the boy. Up until now, though, he’s never done anything to damage someone else’s property.’
‘Not to mention scaring me half to death, the little shit. I bloody-well hope this is going to be properly dealt with and not just swept under the carpet because his father’s some community bigwig or something.’
‘I’m not sure I like what you’re insinuating Mrs…er…Vivien. I am assuming that you had permission from the property owner to be on his land?’ Officer Huntly took out his notebook and began writing the details of the incident. Vivien decided to stick with the facts and refrain from offering further opinions. After the short discussion, he collected her easel and thermos from the paddock and roped down the boot of her car so that it was drivable.
‘I’d like you to follow behind me very slowly back into town. Frank Wilson, Lane’s father, is going to meet us there at 10:30 to discuss the matter and the appropriate compensation. He is very apologetic, and I think you’ll find you’ll be well looked after.
Senior Sergeant Huntly did not exceed 30kph until they left the gravel road. For the remaining 20 km his speed rose to 50. Vivien felt that her car could have easily handled a greater speed, but she was not inclined to overtake the police officer, nor did she think it a good idea to toot at him. Instead, she analysed her morals and came to the conclusion that if there was any form of corruption in the handling of the incident, making a noble stand would not change the dismal direction our world is heading, and all she really wanted was to have her car fixed with the least amount of fuss. The Wilsons may be creating a monster, and they can deal with the consequences.
The police station was a tiny brick building on the far side of the small town, almost hidden behind a massive eucalypt with bark like a purpose-made tapestry of soft mauves and pinks. Vivien stood near the edge of the road and took a photo.
‘Another artwork in the making?’ asked a tall man in a smart tailored suit and a stunning aqua tie. It wasn’t until Vivien saw the maroon Jag that she realised who he was.
‘Ah, yes, possibly,’ she replied. The officer unlocked the front door to the station, and the three of them entered a tiny space with two chairs against the front wall facing a bench that ran the opposite length of the room, apart from an opening that led into a narrow corridor. They were ushered into a room to the left of the corridor. The only other door, Vivien hoped, was a bathroom. It was. Both men were seated when she returned. Squeezed into the room was a table, six chairs and a row of metal filing cabinets.
‘Have a seat,’ said the Senior Sergeant.
There was a soft knock and in came a baker in a white apron and cap, with a tray of warm, savoury-filled croissants and three coffee cups.
‘I hope youse all like flat whites eh,’ he said with a thick Kiwi accent. Vivien inhaled deeply and sank more comfortably into the padded chair as he handed round the paper cups and left with a thumbs up. ‘Enjoy.’
Frank Wilson stood and leant across the corner of the table with his hand extended. ‘Sorry to be meeting under these circumstances, but anyway, the name’s Frank and I’m responsible for what happened to your car today.’ Vivien shook his hand. ‘I’m sure we can sort this out quickly and have you up and running without leaving you with any nasty taste in your mouth.’
Vivien smiled. ‘Well, yes, I hope so.’
‘I’ve already been on to Hertz and they’ll have a car here for you by lunchtime. I’ll arrange to have your car fixed as good as new asap and have it delivered to your address when we pick up the rental. I know that doesn’t compensate for the inconvenience I’ve put you through, let alone have you miss out on a glorious morning of painting. I’m terribly sorry about that. Was it something special you were doing?’
She gave a little cough. ‘Well, actually, I’m disappointed as it was my last opportunity to get a painting done for the Robyn Francis Memorial Art Prize. The work is due in next week. I haven’t a hope now.’ The words flowed fluently.
Frank looked genuinely sorry. ‘Look,’ he said. ‘What’s the prize worth, monetary wise? How about I give you that amount as payment for the painting? I’d like to purchase it. I know the status is probably worth far more to you, but at least I can compensate in this small way. Would that be acceptable to you? My wife and I would love to have a painting of that beautiful view.’
Vivien hoped her eyes hadn’t bulged noticeably. She kept as cool as possible. ‘That’s very generous of you, and yes, it is acceptable, thank you.’
***
Vivien parked the light green Lexus in her driveway and, before getting out, checked her bank account details on her phone. True to his word, Frank had transferred $5000 into her account.
She carried the paints and brushes into the spare bedroom and wrestled with the easel, with less difficulty this time as the officer had only tucked in its legs. Lying on the quilt of the single bed was a book, Painting the Australian Landscape by Robyn Francis. Vivien browsed through the pages, then left the book open on the bed at ‘Chapter One’ before heading off to the kitchen to find some much-needed sustenance.
Jenny Macauley is a retired teacher who loves living on the Bellarine Peninsula through both the summers and winters with her partner, dog, friends, and painting. She enjoys the camaraderie of various writing groups and most recently, has taken up pickleball.
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