The IntruderA Story by Josh121A modern adaptation of the 1896 story "The Tramp" by one of Australias first great female writers, Barbara Baynton.It is 5.30pm on a warm and dusty
summers evening. In the middle of the Australian outback a woman stands on the
veranda of a small fibro shack, taking washing off the line with her baby boy
on her back in a harness. She takes off a pair of faded denim jeans and sees a
dust cloud slowly rising in the east. She can hear a roaring sound like that of
a motorbike, expecting it to be the son of Warren, the owner of the cattle in
the nearby yard, she returns to folding the jeans. Warren’s son, John, would
come to check on the cows every second day, even in the pouring rain, although
this part of the country hadn’t seen rain in a long time, riding in on his
fathers’ old postie. He would ride the old bike up to the rusty Iron Gate
heading into the large brown paddock and would ride around checking all the
cows. It had been a very dry season; her
husband had to sell all the cattle for a very low price the previous year. That
supported the family for about a month but rising bills and the steady increase
in petrol prices forced him to find work elsewhere. One day when he was
scanning the newspaper for any job openings he saw that a trawling company in
the city was looking for a new crew member, one that would work for any number
of hours, as little as one week or up to 6 months at sea. Grabbing the keys to
the rusting white Ute and rushing out the back door, he told his wife that he
was going into town to apply for a job and would be back later. The car started
up with a cough and sped off, kicking dust up as it pulled out onto the brown
corrugated road, travelling further and further east, 20kms to be precise, to
the next town, leaving only dust and a lonely woman on the veranda of a fibro
shack, cradling a small child in her arms. It has been nearly six months since she
saw the white Ute disappear in a cloud of dust, six months since she had any
contact from her husband, besides the occasional pay check she received in the
mail. Six months alone with only the baby and the old fibro shack for company
along with the continual routine of the cattle farmers’ son coming to check on
the stock. As the roaring grew louder she glanced
up again and spied a Harley and as the bike grew larger she realised it was not
John at all but rather a rough looking biker, clad in leather and a big black
helmet. As the biker rode by the helmet slowly turned towards the fibro shack.
Reflected in the visor was a tall, blue eyed woman with blonde hair standing on
a dilapidated veranda, pale white feet separating the veranda from a pair of
blue denim jeans she was wearing a white t-shirt stretched by the weight of the
baby sitting contently in a harness on mothers back came down to meet the jeans
at the woman’s small hips and the small fibro shack she was standing on
standing just behind her in the background with its rusting tin roof and a lone
gum tree looming over the shack like a watch tower. The helmet lingered on the
shack and its occupants for a moment before returning to the dusty road on
which the rider was travelling. Finally as the roaring dulled to a distant buzz
and the helmet, rider and bike disappeared down the road leaving the woman
alone once more. She stood on the veranda in the cloud the biker left behind,
trying to make sense of why anyone would be travelling down the dusty road. The
only thing west of the fibro shack is a dried up river bed and the rotting
skeleton of an old wooden bridge that was half destroyed by flood 20 years ago.
That river was once famed by local fishermen for its trout but now it is
nothing but rocks, starved of water by the thirst of the drought. Shrugging the woman hurriedly finished
her work and went inside thinking that would be the last she saw of the biker. Further down the dusty road, down by a
rotting bridge and a dry river bed a biker lays asleep underneath a gum tree.
His sleep is far from peaceful though because every time he sleeps he dreams of
what he did only a week ago. He dreams of a beautiful young woman with short
brown hair and hazel eyes set in a face that looked like it had been sculptured
by angels. He dreams of that eventful night, waiting outside her parent’s house
leaning against his Harley, waiting for her to climb out her window, over the
fence and shuffle stealthily across the front lawn. Fifteen minutes went by before her head
finally appeared above the fence. She shuffled towards him as usual, but he
knew something was different; she kept touching her neck and fiddling with her
hair, something she never did because it took her hours to do her hair. When
she reached the footpath she stopped, the biker moved over towards the footpath
and the woman, he took her hand. “What’s wrong, babe?” “Nothing… Can we just go?” she said
looking towards the house. They got on the Harley and the biker
sped off down the street around the corner and away from prying eyes. Finally
pulling up 5 minutes later at an old shack out of town that was hidden by dense
shrub, the Usual spot. The only way to get to the Usual spot was
down a nearly inconceivable dirt road that hid between two wattle trees on the
main road. The shack was like a second home for
the couple, a place for them to get away from family, friends and the judgement
of the world. The shack was in pretty good condition besides a few holes in the
wall, a cracked window and a small hole in the tin roof, which years of rust
had eaten away at. Inside it was all one room, a card table and some
fold up chairs in one corner, a small camp cooker underneath the cracked window
and a mattress lay along the opposite wall directly under the hole in the roof.
The biker and the young woman entered the shack together but only one would
leave in a hurry later that night. An hour later the couple were lying on
the mattress, gazing at the night sky through the hole in the roof. The woman’s
head resting gently on the biker’s chest and the biker taking an occasional
swig from a bottle in a brown paper bag while playing gently with the young
woman’s soft brown hair. They lay together gazing at the stars and thinking.
The biker " about what the guys at the pub would think if they knew that
he was involved with a 16 nearly 17 year old woman when he was 21 and why she
was acting so strange tonight. The woman - about what she had been meaning to
tell him all night. Questions were bubbling up in the
biker’s head but before he could ask anything the woman broke the silence and
burst those bubbles. She sat up clutching the blanket to her chest. “I’m
pregnant”. Shocked the biker sat up and almost spilt the contents of the
bottle. Her sudden announcement had shocked him to the core. “What? When? Is it ...?” “Yes, it’s yours, I’m six weeks.” The biker shook his head in disbelief. “But we were being careful. God… six
weeks. So now what?” “Well I want to get an abortion.” “But we did this together. You can’t
throw that away. You can’t let this intruder destroy our love.” “But I’m not ready for a child.” “We could raise it together. You could
get on my bike and we can run away together, tonight.” “But what about my parents?” “They’re adults, aren’t they? They will
get over it.” “I ….. I can’t. I’m only 16 years old.
I’m going to get that abortion.” She goes to get up but he pulls her
back down and he forcers her to look at him. “If you go to the doctor now your
parents will find out about you and me. They might report me to the cops.” “I know. But I’m not ready for a baby.
I haven’t even finished school.” She goes to get up again but he pulls
her down again. He is getting really scared now. “I can’t let you do that.” His grip tightens on her small wrist. “Ouch, you’re hurting me. Stop.” The biker is wild now, he can’t let her
go or she will tell the cops and they might send him to gaol. He is not ready
to go to gaol. “I can’t let you tell them. People
‘disappear’ in gaol.” His grip gets tighter despite the
woman’s protests. “Please stop. You’re scaring me.
Please. I won’t tell anyone. I promise.” The young woman cries. “Ha! You promise, just as you promised
you wouldn’t ever get pregnant because you were on the pill. Well look what
happened there. I don’t think so.” The woman tries biting, scratching and
kicking him but he doesn’t let her go. She punches him in the groin and he
loosens his grip just enough for her to get away. The biker is now blinded by
rage and chases her. She heads to the door but he gets there first. She runs
back to the bed and tries frantically to find her phone. She finds it and
starts to stand just as the biker tackles her. The phone flies out of her hand
and lands near the table as a scream escapes her mouth. Now she is pinned to
the mattress with the bikers hands clamped on her neck. She struggles for
breath and tries to push him off but she only manages to scratch his face, he
just tightens his grip and keeps mumbling, “I can’t let you tell them.” The
woman’s hands reach up in one last attempt at life, he hazel eyes silently
pleading with the biker through tears, her beautiful angelic face contorted by
the effort to stay alive. The biker stays firm through all of this, still
muttering the same words “I can’t let you tell them.” Eventually, the woman’s hands drop and
her eyes become set. The biker releases his grip on her and stands up, he
stares at the woman. Her soft brown hair a mess, her angelic face blue and her
hazel eyes locked on the stars shining through the hole in the roof. A single
constellation burning brightly in the middle The Southern Cross. Their unborn
baby still in her womb never to see those stars. The biker found his clothes and hurried
outside. He stood at the door for a second putting his helmet on, got on his
only hope, his Harley and sped off, thundering down the road. The biker sat up, no longer on the open
road but back at the dry river bed. He heard the sound of thunder in the
distance and specks of rain were now falling on the dry country around him.
Thinking that there was going to be a torrential down fall he mounted his
Harley and rode back along the dusty road, hoping to make civilisation before
the storm hit. “Shh” The woman said softly as she
gently laid her baby in his new, gleaming, white cot that she had brought after
receiving her husband’s first pay check. She remembers too well waking up to a
baby crying and screaming at the top of his lungs right next to her ear,
because the family had never been able to afford a cot the baby would sleep in
between them in their own bed. This didn’t go down well with the woman’s
husband. For the first few weeks he slept on the couch wrapped up in a blanket
but eventually the couch grew harder and colder to sleep on and one night he
crawled back into his own bed. The woman stood up and walked over to
the small square window making to close the curtains but stopped and looked
outside. The sun was setting and it was nearly dark. She could see big dark
clouds tumbling in over the brown paddocks. There was going to be a big storm
tonight. She shut the curtains, turned around and walked out of the room. The woman made her way to the living
room and sat down on the tattered and faded leather couch reaching for her IPod
that sat on the small wooden coffee table in front of her. Her IPod one of the
only things she kept from her old life in the city, her life of school, work
and minimal sleep. She remembers the first time she saw her now husband, she
was working at the supermarket as a “check out chick” when a tall, brown
haired, hazel eyed guy, wearing a flannelette shirt, an old pair of frayed
denim jeans and a dusty old Akubra hat, walked over to her wanting to know how
much it was for a can of baked beans. He gave her a smile that almost knocked
her out. The woman sat there on the faded
leather couch listening to her IPod, mistaking the sound of a motor bike for
thunder. She didn’t hear the kitchen door creak open and the same biker from
earlier that day walk in through that door. She just sat there listening to her
IPod, completely oblivious to what was going on around her. The biker walked over to the fridge and
rummaged through the contents looking for anything he could eat. Finding
nothing he moved on to the pantry, there he found a packet of Anzacs which he
quickly devoured. As he was looking for more food the woman walked into the
kitchen and froze, what she saw before her was appalling. All of the food in
the fridge was scattered across the kitchen table, eggs were smashed and a milk
carton was lying on its side spilling milk onto the floor like blood from a
murder victim. The pantry door was wide open and food was hurtling across the
room joining the contents of the fridge on the floor. Shocked, the woman dropped the baby
bottle she was holding and as it hit the kitchen floor the pantry door closed
to reveal a biker covered head to toe in crumbs and various other stains. The biker
turned towards the woman with a box of Weet-bix still in hand. “Please don’t
call the ……” He was cut off by the woman’s scream as
she ran from the room. Her motherly instincts took over and she ran frantically
to her baby boy’s room and locked the door behind her. The biker panicked and chased after
her, afraid she was going to find a phone and call the police. He ran into the
living room and looked around just in time to see the woman disappear into a
room and hear the door lock behind her. The woman stood staring at the door
until she heard the biker rattling the handle. Then she raced over to the baby,
taking him out of the cot and clutching him to her chest in the hope that it
would protect him. The biker was desperate to get in that
room and stop her from telling anyone about him, he doesn’t want to go to gaol,
he doesn't want to be reminded of what he has already done. Discovering that
the door was definitely locked he took a few steps back, braced himself then
charged at the door. Thud! The biker’s weight crashed against the
old wooden door. “Leave us alone. Please! Just go away.” The woman screamed at
him from the other side of the room as she tried desperately to open the
window. Thud! “I promise I won’t tell anyone. Please,
just leave us alone.” The biker stopped his siege on the door
and stood panting. “Us? Who else is in there with you?” He said in between pants, obviously
worried. The woman replied quickly, “It’s just me and my baby. Please, just
leave us alone.” Thud! The biker rams the door again, harder
this time. He is just about to ram the door again but is interrupted by the
sound of a car pulling up in the driveway. The car door slams and the kitchen door
creeks open. Standing in the doorway is a tired, sea weathered man trying to
make sense of the chaos in front of him. “Catherine?” the man shouted, fear and
confusion showing in his voice. “Paul? Paul, we’re in here.” She
replied just as confused. Crash! The door finally gave way and fell to
the floor making the woman jump in fright and the baby wail even louder than
before. The biker smiled triumphantly at the
door on the ground, then turned his gaze to Catherine and her baby boy his eyes
wild. Not seeing Paul walk into the room, the
biker takes a step towards Catherine and she screams thinking that this is the
end. The biker goes to take another step but before he can put his foot down,
Paul tackles him to the ground. They land together and immediately Paul starts
wrestling with the biker. They tumble around the room until the biker elbows
Paul in the eye making him let go of the biker. Seeing a chance to escape the
biker scrambles to his feet and runs out the kitchen door. Paul clambers to his feet
clutching his left eye and tries to follow the biker but stops when he hears
the Harley roar and speed off. Satisfied that the biker is gone for good, Paul
returns to the baby’s room to find Catherine crouching on the floor with her
baby clutched to her chest. He leans over and whispers in her ear: “It’s OK. The Intruder is gone.” © 2012 Josh121Author's Note
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1 Review Added on February 12, 2012 Last Updated on June 11, 2012 Tags: Barbara Baynton, The Intruder, Intruder, The Tramp, Baynton AuthorJosh121Fingal, Tasmania, AustraliaAboutHi, My name is josh. I am 16 years old. I live in a small town in Tasmania,Australia. I love reading and writing. I have written a few short stories and entered in one contest but mainly I woul.. more..Writing
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