Read Online Through a Camel's Eye by Dorothy Johnston - Free Book Online
Authors: Dorothy Johnston
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âWould you like to see Rizaâs saddle?â
Anthea nodded, surprised at the question.
Sitting on some sheets of newspaper, on a dusty floor, in an empty room, the saddle looked like a throne. Anthea understood that Julie had put it in an unused room because she couldnât bear to look at it. Then why the invitation?
She bent down and ran her fingers gently over the tassels and the mirrors. In each one was a view.
Behind her, Julie was speaking softly, describing how sheâd loved to turn from her training sessions and see her face reflected in them, to bring Riza up close and see his reflection too.
She talked about the Afghan women sitting in their camp circle outside Alice Springs, camels hobbled a little way behind them, her childhood in the Territory and how it returned to her in nightmares whose precise details she could not, awake, recall, but whose mood she always could.
Anthea stood up and breathed in deeply. âYou said no when I showed you that photograph of Margaret Benton, but you recognised her, didnât you?â
A woman had been standing at the gates of Wallington stud, back in December last year, when Julie had driven out with Riza, full of unbelieving joy that he was really hers. The womanâs fearful attitude, when she slowed down and pulled over, had pierced Julieâs happiness. When Julie had asked if she needed a lift anywhere, the woman had stared at her and shaken her head. Then a Landcruiser had come tearing down the driveway, kicking up the gravel. The door had swung open, and the woman had stood absolutely frozen for a few seconds before getting in.
Had she noticed who was driving the vehicle?
It had been a man, thatâs all Julie could say.
Without intending to, Anthea parked in the main street and went into the supermarket. She chose the most expensive coffee, ingredients for a tasty sauce to serve with fresh pasta, a bottle of chardonnay. Then she had to drop them at her flat before she could return to work, all the while mulling over Julieâs story.
Pulling up outside the white fence, the lavender and rose bushes, Anthea surprised herself by feeling what amounted to a physical longing for the hard anonymity of a metropolitan police station, where hierarchies were clear. Perhaps she should have stayed on and done her detective training. But sheâd wanted to work; sheâd wanted to be out there doing something.
If sheâd stayed in Melbourne, Anthea told herself, the breach with Graeme would not have occurred. But she couldnât go back now. She couldnât go back to the way things had been. And she knew she was simplifying matters too. It had been partly as a result of Graemeâs teasing that she hadnât continued with her training. Her marks had been borderline, certainly not brilliant. Sheâd spent every free minute with Graeme, and the limits had been mostly ones heâd fixed - limits set by his work and what he liked to call his âother commitmentsâ.
Anthea asked herself what career would have found favour with her boyfriend. A profession? Not architecture, since that was his field. A lesser profession then - teaching, perhaps, or accountancy. She admitted something else about her departure from Melbourne; she had wanted financial independence.
But she hadnât realised that living in a small community would feel like drinking water that was always tepid, never hot or cold.
What was it she really wanted? Drama she could fling herself into, as others flung themselves into the surf? Was that what Julie wanted too? Was that what she sometimes saw in Julieâs eyes?
Anthea got out, locked her car and stood staring at the park and park bench, and, beyond them, the bay and shipping channel.
At least she could wish for some absolute division between work and recreation, and that each should have a taste that was distinct. Anthea felt she would have preferred harshness or censure, rather than
âWould you like to see Rizaâs saddle?â
Anthea nodded, surprised at the question.
Sitting on some sheets of newspaper, on a dusty floor, in an empty room, the saddle looked like a throne. Anthea understood that Julie had put it in an unused room because she couldnât bear to look at it. Then why the invitation?
She bent down and ran her fingers gently over the tassels and the mirrors. In each one was a view.
Behind her, Julie was speaking softly, describing how sheâd loved to turn from her training sessions and see her face reflected in them, to bring Riza up close and see his reflection too.
She talked about the Afghan women sitting in their camp circle outside Alice Springs, camels hobbled a little way behind them, her childhood in the Territory and how it returned to her in nightmares whose precise details she could not, awake, recall, but whose mood she always could.
Anthea stood up and breathed in deeply. âYou said no when I showed you that photograph of Margaret Benton, but you recognised her, didnât you?â
A woman had been standing at the gates of Wallington stud, back in December last year, when Julie had driven out with Riza, full of unbelieving joy that he was really hers. The womanâs fearful attitude, when she slowed down and pulled over, had pierced Julieâs happiness. When Julie had asked if she needed a lift anywhere, the woman had stared at her and shaken her head. Then a Landcruiser had come tearing down the driveway, kicking up the gravel. The door had swung open, and the woman had stood absolutely frozen for a few seconds before getting in.
Had she noticed who was driving the vehicle?
It had been a man, thatâs all Julie could say.
Without intending to, Anthea parked in the main street and went into the supermarket. She chose the most expensive coffee, ingredients for a tasty sauce to serve with fresh pasta, a bottle of chardonnay. Then she had to drop them at her flat before she could return to work, all the while mulling over Julieâs story.
Pulling up outside the white fence, the lavender and rose bushes, Anthea surprised herself by feeling what amounted to a physical longing for the hard anonymity of a metropolitan police station, where hierarchies were clear. Perhaps she should have stayed on and done her detective training. But sheâd wanted to work; sheâd wanted to be out there doing something.
If sheâd stayed in Melbourne, Anthea told herself, the breach with Graeme would not have occurred. But she couldnât go back now. She couldnât go back to the way things had been. And she knew she was simplifying matters too. It had been partly as a result of Graemeâs teasing that she hadnât continued with her training. Her marks had been borderline, certainly not brilliant. Sheâd spent every free minute with Graeme, and the limits had been mostly ones heâd fixed - limits set by his work and what he liked to call his âother commitmentsâ.
Anthea asked herself what career would have found favour with her boyfriend. A profession? Not architecture, since that was his field. A lesser profession then - teaching, perhaps, or accountancy. She admitted something else about her departure from Melbourne; she had wanted financial independence.
But she hadnât realised that living in a small community would feel like drinking water that was always tepid, never hot or cold.
What was it she really wanted? Drama she could fling herself into, as others flung themselves into the surf? Was that what Julie wanted too? Was that what she sometimes saw in Julieâs eyes?
Anthea got out, locked her car and stood staring at the park and park bench, and, beyond them, the bay and shipping channel.
At least she could wish for some absolute division between work and recreation, and that each should have a taste that was distinct. Anthea felt she would have preferred harshness or censure, rather than
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