The Fall Ch. 01

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Lydia arrives to take care of her dying Uncle.
8k words
4.45
9.6k
12

Part 1 of the 8 part series

Updated 06/08/2023
Created 09/20/2017
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ausfet
ausfet
384 Followers

Lydia arrived in the middle of nowhere on a hot summer's day. The sky was hazy and the air was dry. The sun beat down on fields that stretched as far as the eye could see, and the herds of cattle that occupied them barely looked up from their shelters to see who the newcomer was.

She stepped out of her Hyundai hatchback and lit a cigarette. Inhaled. It had been a long drive and she thanked Christ almighty she'd actually made it here. A kookaburra sounded and she cocked her head to listen to its cry. When had she last heard a kookaburra? It had to have been years.

There was an old weatherboard cottage perched on a circle of dry brown grass, and she made her way towards it. Cyril's house. Her father's bachelor brother. He was dying of cancer, and her Aunt, having lost patience with him after less than three weeks, had retreated to her home on the Sunshine Coast.

There was only one person in the family unencumbered by the responsibilities that came with having either a family or a standard job that could step in to care for Cyril. That person was Lydia. She'd promised to last two months. Cyril promised he wouldn't last more than one. They'd agreed to meet somewhere in the middle.

Lydia liked Cyril because he was a straight-talking, heavily-smoking misanthrope. He was her, in a fifty-six year old male body. And, she supposed, she was him, in a twenty-eight year old female body. From the moment she could talk on the phone, he'd called her the week before her birthday and asked what she wanted and, on the day, had delivered her requested gift. Her parents had been appalled. She'd been delighted.

Christmas bought extravagant amounts of money tucked inside cards he'd purchased from charities. They were good, solid cards. For years she'd kept a collection of them. She'd only binned them when she'd moved in with a man with an uncomfortably neat and clutter free house. She still regretted that - both the binning of the cards, and the cohabiting.

The door to the house opened and Cyril walked onto the front veranda. His two dogs stood by his side. They were good, working dogs. Friendly enough towards her, but not disobedient enough to run over for a pat.

'Lydia,' he greeted, a cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth. He looked tired and drawn, and his body was gaunt, but his blue eyes were as clear and inquisitive as ever.

'Hi Cyril.'

'Long drive? How'd that little midget car of yours do?'

Lydia grinned. 'It's very fuel efficient, I'll have you know.'

Until three months ago, Cyril had been a truck driver. He'd driven the big rigs; B doubles and grain tippers and road trains, and he retained a mistrust of anything small or automatic. Lydia, whose car qualified on both accounts, was well used to the argument. They also bantered over the number of tattoos she had - 17 and counting - and the colour of her hair. Today, though, it seemed he was giving her a free pass on her hair and body.

'Bloody greenie,' Cyril sniffed dismissively.

Cyril's cattle farming had been a secondary career. He used to live in Toowoomba, having purchased a property in a neighbourhood which was once fairly rural but had become heavily residential over the years. The newer neighbours hadn't enjoyed having him park a truck in their street, and Cyril, annoyed at being effectively ousted by people who couldn't drive a car with manual transmission, let alone a prime mover, reacted by moving out to the country.

He bought several hundred acres of grazing country where he could park his truck in peace. He'd originally leased most of the land to farmers, but, annoyed at the price of beef, he'd decided to try his hand at raising a few cattle for private consumption in the paddocks closest to the house. The enterprise had grown since then. He now ran a hundred Droughtmasters.

It was pointless to add that Cyril also didn't hold vegetarians in high regard. Lydia, who had actually attempted veganism for an entire eleven months, agreed with him on this subject. Meat was a necessity.

Cyril took Lydia inside and made her a cup of coffee. He seemed awkward now they were alone together, as if he wanted to say something but wasn't quite sure where to start.

'So, what's the deal with looking after you?' Lydia asked. 'What do you need me to do?'

'Not much at the moment. Maybe help me with the cattle. It's getting harder to take care of them by myself. I have a young bloke come by and help me a few times a week, but he's got a job in Oakey as a mechanic and his own herd to look after, so I don't like to rely on him too much.'

Lydia had heard about the young bloke. Her Aunt Sarah had been dismissive of him. She'd made a comment or five about Dylan being more interested in Cyril's prize bull than Cyril's wellbeing. Lydia had privately thought it was ironic that someone who was interested in Cyril's entire estate would get so worked up over a bovine, but she'd kept this to herself.

'When do you need to see your doctor?' she asked.

'I need to go to the hospital weekly. That's a big trip, and it takes the better part of a day. I might go in for a few nights if the pain's getting too much, or I get sick. Everything knocks me around these days.'

Lydia surveyed the house. There was half a tray of mangos sitting on the bench, slowly fermenting. Above them hovered a cloud of black bugs. There was several days' worth of dishes in the sink, and the stovetop looked none too clean. Mentally, she added 'clean the house' to her list of chores.

'I go down to the local for a meal and a drink a few nights a week,' Cyril added. 'You're more than welcome to join me. Or, because I know you like your own time, you're more than welcome to have the evening at home by yourself.'

'Can you still drive?'

'I can, so long as I'm not going too far. I expect that'll change in the next while, but for now I'm fine.'

Lydia nodded. 'Okay.'

Cyril leaned across the table. 'Now don't you go worrying about what happens when it all gets too far advanced. I'm not going to die in a hospital. I have a tree picked, and a rope measured. I'll show you the area tomorrow. When the time comes, I'll leave you a note so you don't go worrying, and so you know where to find me. Got it?'

Lydia nodded again. 'Got it.'

Cyril visibly relaxed. 'Good. Because I can't tell my bloody sister that sort of shit and damned if I'm letting this get to the stage where I can't wipe my own arse.'

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dylan's arrival at the O'Sullivan farm was multipurpose. Firstly, Kyle O'Sullivan, son of the patriarch, was a longstanding mate of his. Secondly, Kyle needed a particular air filter for one of their elderly tractors and Dylan had managed to source it for him via work. Thirdly, the O'Sullivan's put on Sunday lunch for anyone who interested, and as a single man, Dylan was always interested in eating a meal that he himself did not have to cook.

'Dylan,' Kyle greeted.

Dylan often felt Kyle was his complete physical antithesis. Short, slim, heavily tanned with well cut hair and eyes so dark they were almost black, Kyle was one of those men who never seemed to smell bad, and who always looked neat and tidy. Dylan, who was nearly six foot, thirty kilos overweight, and sweated like the proverbial pig, felt like a slob alongside him.

'Hey mate, how are you going?' Dylan asked, walking over. His border collie, Ben, trotted alongside him.

'Yeah, good mate, good. You got the filter?'

Dylan nodded and held up a plastic bag. 'Came in Friday arvo.'

They went to the big shed to fit it. Kyle knew what he was doing, so Dylan took a seat on the tractor and put his feet up. He yawned tiredly.

'Big week?' Kyle asked from the bowels of the machine.

'Kinda. Cyril had me over a few times to help out. I didn't have the time, but I couldn't say no,' he explained. Dylan could never say 'no'. He was a sucker and he, and everyone else in the community, knew it. 'Hopefully he won't need me much longer. He niece arrived in town yesterday. She's come to look after him.'

'Have you met her yet?'

'Nah, not yet. Poor woman. She has no idea what she's in for.'

The both laughed at the thought. Cyril would be a difficult man to care for.

'What about you?' Dylan asked. 'Been up to much?'

'I've started seeing someone,' Kyle replied. 'Cora. My Mum set me up with her.'

Kyle was roughly forty, and even Dylan had to admit he looked good for his age, but there was a reason he was single. Dylan knew it, as did everyone else.

It wasn't because Kyle had fathered three kids in his teens, and it wasn't because he was still living on the family farm. When Ed O'Sullivan died, Kyle would inherit the farm, and the money he'd be worth would more than compensate for a few adult stepsons and a decade or so of living with the in-laws. No, Kyle was single because he had the kind of sexual fetishes that made Dylan both want to laugh and flinch.

It made for a lot of good gossip, because irrespective of his dirty side, Kyle drew women like the proverbial flames drew moths, and the women always talked. Dylan was excruciatingly jealous, yet also quietly impressed. As someone who struggled to ask a woman if she'd like him to buy her a drink, it flummoxed him that his friend could ask them to... well, do some of the things he was rumoured to have requested of women.

There was a knock on the door. Alan, the Farm Manager, stuck his head in.

'Dylan,' he said.

'Alan,' Dylan replied, waving.

Alan wandered in and inspected Kyle's handiwork. Alan was the brain behind the O'Sullivan's success. The same age as Kyle - in fact, the two had gone to school together - he'd come to the farm the day after graduating high school. In the ensuing years, he'd worked his way up from labourer to Manager.

He was a fucking good farmer. He was one of those men with a sixth sense about him, but despite other farm owners offering him higher wages and better conditions, he continued to work for the O'Sullivan's. Nobody quite understood why, because his fights with Kyle were legendary. Maybe it was because leaving would be tantamount to admitting defeat, and Alan would seemingly rather burn in hell than do that.

'Is Kyle telling you about the woman his Mummy found for him?' Alan asked Dylan.

Dylan ignored the snideness in Alan's voice. Away from Kyle, Alan was a good bloke. Likewise, when Alan wasn't around, Kyle was one of his best mates. Put the two men together, though, and shit rapidly went downhill.

'He was,' Dylan agreed. 'What's she like, Kyle?'

'Great. She's great,' Kyle said. 'I was thinking about asking Mum to find Alan a girlfriend. Maybe if his balls were empty he'd be less of a miserable cunt.'

Dylan winced. 'Can you ask her to find me a woman while she's at it?' he asked, before Alan could respond. 'I wouldn't mind throwing a leg over something cute with nice tits.'

Kyle finished fitting the air filter. Both Alan and Dylan inspected his work. There were no complaints to be had. It was a simple task and Kyle had completed it faultlessly.

Kyle washed his hands they went up to the big house for lunch. The big house was the moniker given to Kyle's parent's rambling Queenslander. It stood imposingly at the front of the property, immaculately maintained and with views over the farm.

The O'Sullivan's had a lot of money, and Alan was in the process of making them a lot more, all of which Kyle would one day inherit. It was probably little wonder Alan and Kyle fought. One had the brains, one had the right parents. Farm workers, even Manager's, were poorly paid. Life wasn't fair.

'I saw Cyril's niece out jogging this morning,' Alan remarked as they walked up the veranda.

'What's she like?' Dylan asked curiously.

'Red hair, lots of tatts, great boobs,' Alan replied.

'Too good for Alan, then,' Kyle interjected.

Alan rolled his eyes. 'I've heard she's a drinker, so she's probably just right for you, Kyle.'

'I've already got a woman, mate,' Kyle corrected. 'The one who, as you put it, my Mummy found for me. Maybe you should ask your Mum to find you a woman. Only, wait, I forgot, your family moved down South and left you here the moment they legally could. Can't say I blame them.'

If ever you wanted to hear either Alan or Kyle's dirty little secrets, all you had to do was spend a little time in the company of the two men. They were both more than willing to use every snippet of information they had against one another. No wonder people talked.

Dylan saw one of his cousins arrive and made his way over. His cousin took one look at Alan and Kyle, and asked Dylan if they'd been arguing.

'What do you reckon?' Dylan asked darkly.

His cousin laughed. Some things never changed.

~~~~~~~

Romance novels would have had Lydia believe that there was a swathe of handsome thirty-something farmers waiting patiently for a sophisticated city woman to fall for the charms of country life.

This wasn't an accurate representation of country life. For starters, the farmers around here had an average age of fifty. Secondly, most were married. Thirdly, most of the locals, both male and female, did not view her as sophisticated, but as someone who was rather stupid and on the verge of inflicting serious injury upon herself.

They stopped her when she was jogging to let her know she was going to get heatstroke. In the past week she'd been questioned countless times about what she was doing. There hadn't been a single vehicle that had driven past her without pausing to inquire after her health.

The man at the feed store, after spending twenty minutes extracting her life story, had been appalled that she was wearing an old pair of running shoes when she went out to feed the cattle. He told horrifying stories about melanomas being cut out of farmer's faces, and feet being mangled by cantankerous livestock.

He'd worked his way into such a frenzied soliloquy that she'd promised to go to the local clothing store and purchase work boots and an akubra. She now wore her newly purchased boots almost twenty-four seven. They were proving more useful than she'd anticipated.

Dylan, the local mechanic who came in to help Cyril with the cattle, took one look at her bumping down the dirt road to Cyril's house in her hatchback, and told her she was going to kill the shocks in her car. He also made a comment about the sound the brakes were making. He suggested she start borrowing Cyril's ute when she made trips around town.

Lydia lit a cigarette and shrugged. 'The car's dying, anyway. It's not even close to being roadworthy.'

'Do you want me to have a look at it?' he asked.

Dylan was built like a bull and hadn't shaved in a week. He had a good, thick head of hair and nice hazel eyes, but that was the end of his attributes. He was overweight, he wore dirty blue shorts and a stained gray shirt, and the way he spoke to her suggested he thought she was a moron.

'No, it's fine,' she replied. 'I'll keep driving it until it dies.'

'Or until you write the damn thing off and kill yourself in the process.'

'That's a possibility,' she agreed. 'But I'm kind of hoping for a more glamorous death.'

He shook his head in disgust. 'It's your life.'

'Can't argue with women,' Cyril chimed in.

'Don't I know it,' Dylan agreed. 'But I keep trying.'

'You still arguing with the ex?' Cyril asked him.

'Hell hasn't frozen over yet, has it?'

The men laughed.

Lydia, on the other hand, mentally started re-writing the article she'd been sent for one of the journals she edited. It was a quality piece content-wise, but it was almost completely unreadable in it's current format. The problem was that the author was incredibly protective of his work. She couldn't let it go to print as it was, but on the other hand, she had to figure out how to communicate this to him without offending him.

'Lydia needs a husband,' Cyril offered. 'She's nearing thirty and she lives alone, works alone and has a cat. She wanted to bring the damn thing here, but I told her she'd have to leave it with her parents or the dogs'd end up tearing it apart. You two should go to the pub for dinner tonight. It's two-for-one schnitzel night.'

Dylan looked at her quizzically. 'What do you do for a living?'

'I'm an author and editor. Self-employed.'

'Is it true that authors use things from real life in their writing?' he asked curiously, his eyes quickly running over her figure.

She realised he was attracted to her. Christ. The first fucking person to have shown a whiff of interest in her in months and it just had to be him, didn't it? She decided to let him down gently.

She planted a smile on her face. 'Yeah, but don't worry, I don't write romance and even if I did, discount chicken schnitzels wouldn't be a feature.'

He grinned and blushed at the same time. Lydia found herself inexplicably amused by his response, and she grinned back, genuinely this time, and flicked her cigarette butt onto the ground.

'Stub that out. You'll start a bushfire,' Cyril barked.

'I thought you wanted me to organise schnitzels with your friend,' Lydia argued. She crushed it out, anyway. 'Seeing as, you know, you're the expert on long term relationships.'

Cyril's only long term relationship was a sex-for-money exchange with a local prostitute. She was forty years old and Thai. She'd come to the area fifteen years ago as the bride of a seventy year old geriatric, who'd died of a heart attack ten years into their union. She'd run through his money in record time and now supported herself by screwing lonely farmers. It seemed to be a reasonable trade, from what Lydia saw of it.

'I've told Dylan to give Suchada a call,' Cyril argued. 'But I don't think he likes the brown ones.'

'It's got nothing to do with skin colour.' Dylan pointed out. 'It's just that if I wanted to have sex with a woman who didn't want to have sex with me, I would've stayed married.'

Yeah, this was definitely no romance novel.

'So, are you going to be helping?' Cyril asked her.

'What are you doing?'

'Moving about thirty head of cattle.' Cyril explained. 'The creek in their paddock is running low. It's been a hot summer.'

Until a few days ago, Lydia had always thought of cattle as peaceful creatures. They always looked so serene when they were in the paddock, munching on grass or staring at her with their large, dark, eyes. With the benefit of experience, she realised just how large and powerful they were. She'd kept her interactions with the cattle as infrequent as possible, and had always fed them from the other side of the fence.

'I can't imagine I'd be much help,' she replied, a hint of anxiety in her voice.

'You'll be fine,' Cyril argued. He didn't eat much, and he didn't seem to have much energy. It had been a shock to realise just how downhill he'd gone. He'd always been an incredibly hard-working, active man. 'They're not going to hurt you.'

Lydia felt guilty. She'd come here to help him, hadn't she? Not make excuses. 'Maybe I can give it a go, I guess, as long as the cows don't come too close to me,' she offered.

'They're placid,' Dylan said. 'We'll probably be able to move them just by showing them a bit of feed. Come with me. We can leave your Uncle here. We can always go back for him if we need.'

So Dylan had noticed how tired Cyril looked, too. Or maybe he was going to take her uncle's advice and hit on her. Lydia hoped it was the former.

'Okay,' she agreed. 'Lead the way.'

Cyril looked relieved. Lydia wondered if it had been his plan all along to have her help Dylan. Maybe the suggestion of two for one schnitzels had simply been to get them talking. Who knew?

At any rate, Dylan opened the passenger door to his ute and gestured for her to get in. The vehicle was a twenty year old Hilux with spotlights and antennas, and there was a dog sitting in prime position on the front passenger bench seat. It vaguely resembled a border collie, in the same way that her uncle's dogs vaguely resembled kelpies. Out here, function and performance seemed to rate much more highly than good looks.

ausfet
ausfet
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