Sundown Crossing by Lynne Wilding Page B

Krugerhoff, a bunch of grapes and two wine glasses, one in front of the other. That had been Marta’s suggestion and he’d thought it a good one.
    One Friday, late in the afternoon, they were among the vines. He was showing her how to tie the vines and run the thin branches horizontally along the wires, fixing them every nine feet with strands of wire to keep them secure. Above, the sky was heavy with dark clouds. A storm was approaching from the south. The wind haddropped but it had a moist, earthy smell to it and an ominous stillness pervaded the vines and the bush. No birds were twittering to each other; there were no insect sounds.
    ‘We’d better head back,’ Rolfe decided, after glancing up at the sky. The clouds had turned a dark greenish-grey and were heavy with moisture. ‘If we run we probably won’t get wet.’
    ‘I will race you. Come on,’ Marta said and with a challenging laugh she took off.
    Rolfe pushed his secateurs and the wires into the back pocket of his trousers, and ran after her. There was just one warning clap of thunder followed by a slash of forked lightning and the storm was upon them. Droplets the size of two shilling pieces hit the earth in rapid succession and in seconds the shower became a deluge, soaking them to the skin before they could reach the cottage’s back door. Inside, and through the kitchen and down the hall, they left a rivulet of puddles all the way into the living room.
    ‘I’ll light a fire.’ He moved to the fireplace where logs and kindling were stacked beside the grate: the Barossa could get very cold in winter. He saw Marta hug herself, her lips quivering with cold. ‘In the bathroom you’ll find towels to dry yourself. Take your wet things off, and we’ll dry them by the fire. There’s a few blankets in the linen cupboard. You can wrap one around you till your clothes are dry.’
    He saw her indecision and that her shivering was getting worse. ‘Go on, you don’t want tocatch cold, do you? After I’ve lit the fire I’ll put the kettle on. A hot cup of coffee and a brandy will warm us up.’ At that she nodded in agreement and turned towards the hallway.
    Flicking wet hair back off his forehead, Rolfe knelt near the fireplace and reached for the box of matches that rested on top of the basket of firewood. In next to no time, the fire had struck. He stripped off his boots and sweater and dropped them on the floor, then padded out to the kitchen, lit the gas on the stove, filled the kettle with water and put it on to boil. He didn’t have a coffee percolator so instant coffee would have to do. Spooning the dark grains into two cups, he searched through the small pantry cupboard for the bottle of brandy he kept, strictly for emergencies. Half-filling two wine glasses with the brandy, he waited until the water boiled, made the coffee, found milk and a bowl of sugar and put it all on a wooden tray which he took into the living room where the fire was burning well, crackling and spitting.
    ‘Marta, are you okay?’
    ‘Ja.’ She stood in the living room doorway, the blanket clutched to her in American Indian style. ‘But I am freezing. The rain was so cold.’
    ‘Sit close to the hearth, you’ll soon warm up. I’ll bring your clothes out so they can dry.’ It was important to be doing something physical, he thought as he followed Marta’s wet footprints down the timber-floored hallway into the bathroom. He wrung as much moisture out ofher clothes as he could and carried them back to the fire. Moving and rearranging the dining-table chairs into makeshift clotheslines he draped the wet garments over them and moved the chairs closer to the fireplace.
    Outside the storm raged, pelting sheets of rain against the window panes and onto the roof, hitting with such force that Marta and Rolfe had to speak loudly to each other to be heard over the noise.
    ‘Does it rain like this very often?’ Marta asked. She ran her slate-coloured gaze over the room and her