Riverstone Ridge

by Mandy Magro

  Bea hadn’t spoken of Logan much, but she had told Nina he was now the town copper. Staring at the building as she passed, her heart quivered – although she’d done a good job of shutting him out all these years, now she was so near him, she couldn’t help but wonder if he was in there and found it almost impossible to tear her eyes from the front façade as she approached a roundabout that hadn’t been there twenty years ago. Quickly indicating left, she let go of her held breath and headed out of town.

  The bustle of the hub of Huntingvale fading out, and the cars now becoming few and far between compared to the city roads she was used to, Nina offered a smile and a quick tip of her head to those she passed – it was the way of country. After a burst of four-wheel drives, a rust bucket of a red Corolla soon approached. Catching sight of the old guy behind the wheel, he locked his gaze with her as they drove past each other. For a moment time slowed as something familiar clutched at her, but for the life of her, she couldn’t remember where she might know him from. Their encounter too brief to make either head or tail of, she shrugged the sensation off – maybe he’d been one of Bea’s old friends that she’d met way back when.

  Crossing the rickety bridge that led into the heart of the farming district, she was mentally slapped with memories of the many weekends when she and her mates would ride their bikes here after a feed of fish and chips or a burger so juicy they’d have to lean forwards to eat it or risk being covered in beetroot juice and mayonnaise, to spend a good part of the afternoon plummeting from the bridge. They’d swim back to the shore before running on the tips of their toes across the scalding concrete only to leap from the bridge again, knees tucked to their chests and eyes squeezed shut in anticipation. Later, just as dusk settled, and absolutely exhausted, they’d pedal home with their ears still filled with water, their hair dripping wet, and with unbridled laughter as their company. So simple and free life had been way back then, she’d give anything to relive it for just one day, to be able to feel what it was like to not have a care in the world. Still to this day, she found it odd she could swim here, but not in any dam – but she’d given up trying to understand why. She’d learnt that some things just didn’t have an answer.

  Fifteen kilometres whizzed past and before she knew it the turn-off to Riverstone Ridge was suddenly upon her. She took it slightly faster than she should have, and sucked in a breath as the back tyres slipped then thankfully regained a grip on the loose gravel right before she ended up ploughing through Logan’s fence line and into one of his paddocks. She was sad to see the rows of fruit trees that used to line the border gone – Bea had explained how Logan’s dad had had to give it up or go bankrupt. Passing Willowbrook’s driveway, she slowed a little, recalling all the times she’d travelled down it, on foot, on a bike, or in Bea’s or Logan’s four-wheel drive. Many fun times had been had with Logan, here and at Riverstone.

  Regrouping her frazzled nerves, she bumped along the winding dirt road at a much slower pace than she normally would. The distinctive letterbox finally came into view – an old milk urn Bea had proudly claimed at a garage sale. Bea was always one to give life to things that were no longer loved, with and without a heartbeat. Nina drew in a shaky breath. She was here. Finally, after twenty long years, she was home.

  Slowing, she pulled to a stop outside the gate where a rustic timber slab hung with Riverstone Ridge burned into the dark grain. Leaving the Jeep running, she stepped out, stole a few moments to try and stretch her body to life, and then unhooked the chain. The gate swung open with a screech, over the top of a cattle grid, and banged against the fence. Like familiar arms welcoming her, the lush green acreage she knew every square inch of sprawled out before her. So acquainted was she with it, all the years faded away and, to her surprise, it was as if she’d never left.

  She stood for a few moments longer, hands on hips, readying herself for arriving at the homestead only to not see Bea step from the front door with her smile as warm as the sun. Even the thought of it split her already broken heart a little more, so much so that it took every single bit of her strength to climb back into the driver’s seat and continue on – this had to be done. She owed it to Bea. Not wanting to wallow even deeper, she focused on the seemingly endless land surrounding her. Bea had shown her loads of photos over the years and, apart from a few minor renovations here and there, the place still virtually looked the same as when she’d watched it fade away out the back window of Bea’s LandCruiser, en route to Bea’s friend’s place, and safe haven, in Brisbane all those years ago.

  Passing the shed with its new gleaming corrugated roof – replaced after a cyclone had ripped the old one from its rusty hinges last year – the homestead came into view. A sprawling two-storey Queenslander with sweeping timber decking hugging the entirety of the lower level, it was eye-catching in its stately simplicity. White latticework framed the length of the verandah, both up and down. Raised up on stilts and resting upon a rise, the elevation allowed an impressive view from every angle so at night the glow of the township could be seen. The warm and welcoming home lounged in its lush green surroundings – the magic of Bea’s green thumb was something to be envied. Bushes thrived, flowering vines crawled and trees flourished. Honeyeaters flittered through the fuchsia, nectar sipping with effortless grace, and a willy wagtail bounced across the front lawn, the swing of its tail one to make any twerker jealous. Nina sighed and closed her eyes, willing herself not to burst into tears. If it weren’t such a sad moment, arriving here without Bea to greet her, she could say it was almost whimsical.

  Climbing from the Jeep and taking long steps towards the side of the house with the cat cage in hand, she circumnavigated a large water tank that was surrounded by wildflowers and then made her way up the back steps, to where William said he would leave the key beneath the mat after she explained she would like to arrive here alone, to be on her own. And true to his word, there it was, along with a note saying he’d stocked the fridge with a few days of supplies and put a kitty litter tray and bed in the laundry for Tom. With a soft smile, she appreciated his thoughtfulness – she hadn’t even thought that far ahead. Bless him. A true country gesture, to make sure a person felt welcomed and was fed.

  Key in hand, she looked to where Bea’s mud-splattered gumboots were still neatly placed up against the wall, and her tattered hat hung from the hook above, as did her Driza-Bone. Biting her bottom lip to stop it trembling, she carefully placed the cage down, reached out, and ran her fingers over the weathered oilskin coat, choking back another sob when she spotted the rusty horseshoe, nailed above the door – a protective charm to keep bad spirits out of the house and to bless all who walked beneath it. As tough as Bea was, being the hard-as-nails country woman she’d been bred to be, she was also extremely superstitious and believed in the unseen – it had made for a very interesting upbringing for Nina. Spilt salt had always been a bad omen, the peacock feathers Nina had found lying about the property were never welcomed inside – Bea believing the eye of the feather was always watching you, and not in a good way – and she believed seeing a snake was a good omen, but Nina had to strongly disagree with Bea on that one. Snakes terrified the bejesus out of her.

  Nina looked at the closed door and sighed as though the weight of the world was upon her shoulders. Procrastination was getting her nowhere – she knew she needed to go in, but she wasn’t ready to face the loneliness. So, standing upon the rickety timber floorboards of the sweeping back verandah that hugged the homestead like a mother’s embrace, she recalled Bea, wielding a broom with elbow grease and dogged purpose. Never, ever, did Bea let the Bowen mango tree she so loved to hate – the one she swore every year she was going to get chopped down but never did because the birds sang so sweetly from the branches – drop its leaves all over the verandah. Every single morning, without fail, she would beat the leaves across the boards, down the steps, along the garden path that led through the sweetly scented lemon myrtle and vividly coloured bougainvillea, cursing the damn tree und
er her breath. Unlike the front verandah, which was only used by those unacquainted – Jehovah’s witnesses, the odd salesman, and occasional people who may have taken a wrong turn and broken down on the dusty stretch of deserted road which led to such a stunning oasis – the back verandah was where all the magic happened: the community Christmas get-togethers, the spontaneous barbeques, the rare lazy afternoon spent in one of the strung-up hammocks with heads buried in books. This spot was Bea’s frontier, and Nina’s haven – the views of the paddocks and surrounding mountains were jaw-dropping, and all without another house in sight. It was so beautiful, breathtakingly so, and yet, if not bush-savvy, it could gulp you up in the blink of an eye. Nina needed to get her country back on, after years of learning to survive in the city, and fast.

  Overcome with the poignant memories and a pounding heartache, she clutched the timber railing. The tears she’d so wanted to cry since driving through the front gate welled and slipped. Sinking down upon the steps where she and Bea used to sometimes eat their dinner with their plates balanced on their laps, her anguish for all the yesterdays she’d chosen to overlook so she could move on with her new life in the city, so she could keep her secret hidden, overcame her. The memories were just too tender to ignore now she was back here. Bea had not only provided her with a roof over her head and food on the table, she’d shown her unconditional love, taught her everything there was to know about country living, and was there for her, no matter what, even after she’d made a huge mistake, and left here with her tail between her legs, vowing never to return.

  Looking to the kitchen window, she could almost smell the mouth-watering scents that used to waft from it while the lace curtains flapped in the breeze – guava jelly, cumquat jam, lemon butter, apple pie, corned beef, lamb stew, scones and pineapple upside-down cakes. Bea had been an awesome home cook, and never a belly had gone hungry when a part of her household. And she ran her kitchen based on the basics – butter, eggs, sugar, flour, meat and potatoes, whatever was in season in her vegetable garden, the latest kill by one of her generous neighbours bagged and meticulously labelled in her deep freeze, and dripping – plenty of warm-the-cockles-of-your-heart dripping. As Bea used to say, animal fats were a friend, and for one to be healthy, you had to eat plenty of them.

  Wiping her tears from her cheeks, Nina sniffled as she dragged her gaze past the chook pen and dog kennel, beyond the backyard, past the paddocks with a few horses dotting the view, to where she couldn’t see, but knew like the back of her hand. She wondered if it had changed much over the years. Some of the deep gullies had been almost impenetrable, even on horseback, the scrub interwoven with diehard grass, gigantic trees, both standing and fallen, and the infamous stinging tree where she’d once learnt how much it really could sting. Thank god Cassie and Logan had been there to help get her home, where Bea had pulled each of the fine stinging hairs out with tweezers. It had been a lesson learnt – the hard way.

  Flitting her eyes over the wide expanse of land, her gaze snagged on the old thunderbox beside the two-bedder workers’ quarters. She’d hated the damn thing, with its never-ending drop – the week the homestead toilet had gone on the blink had been horrible. Many a night she’d run like the clappers, only to then sit in the darkness hardly daring to draw a breath, terrified something venomous was going to crawl up from the depths of the drop, or bite her when she used the toilet paper to wipe herself. The day she’d discovered a green tree snake curled up inside the toilet seat had been the day to confirm all her fears were justified. On the contrary, Bea had laughed it off, reminding her it was a good omen. For the next three days, Nina had peed while squatted atop the toilet seat – which had been a feat within itself.

  Tom’s mews grabbed her attention. Apologising for taking her own sweet time, she stood and slipped the key into the back door. Once inside, she placed the cage on the floor and flicked open its gate. An eager beaver, Tom didn’t need any coaxing to come out. She carried him to the laundry and showed him his toilet and bed. Wandering back down the hall to the sound of Tom digging his way to China in the kitty litter tray, she stared into a space that had once been filled with so much noise, so much love, so much Bea. The soft-blue walls and the high white ceilings still gave her the feeling she was floating in an infinite space. She’d always loved Bea’s artistic idea of the blue walls mirroring the sky, and the white of the ceilings the clouds – Bea had always had a rhyme for her reason, a story behind everything. And as always, everything was as neat as a pin. ‘Everything has a place, and deserves to be in it,’ Bea would quite often say. It was a trait Nina was proud to inherit.

  Enveloped by the coiling scent of the timeworn furniture, leather from the tack room, mothballs, Mr Sheen and potpourri, a groundswell of emotion overcame her, and thread by thread, she felt herself coming apart at the seams. Singlehandedly, she’d gone and split a tight bond that had meant the absolute world to her and had always shrugged off the need to tighten again, saying there was always tomorrow to come back to Riverstone Ridge, to maybe, somehow, right the wrong she felt she had made. But tomorrow never came. And it was too late to turn back time now. What she’d give to see Bea standing in the doorway of the kitchen, apron on and that warm smile spread across her freckled face. She would run to her, and take her into her arms, and tell her over and over just how grateful she was for her, and how much she loved her – forever, and always.

  The thought hit her – she needed to raise a drink, to toast Bea’s life and to help take the edge off. So, with a deep breath, she marched into the kitchen, swung the pantry door open, and felt behind the containers of sugar and flour for the bottle of brandy Bea had always kept there. And, Bea being a creature of absolute habit, there it was. Twisting the lid off, Nina raised it into the air and took a swig, and then another. The burn felt good, sliding down her throat – it fleetingly took the focus off the burn in her heart. Squeezing her eyes shut, she tried to ease the deep ache from her chest and the tightness from her throat, taking a few moments to feel the space around her and the void that Bea had left.

  Blinking her eyes open, with fresh tears falling, she looked to where the old radio was still perched on the windowsill, beside the fresh loaf of bread thoughtfully left by William – no longer was the ABC playing. Desperately needing the familiarity, she switched it on, and the staticky Eagles’ song helped to warm the place inside her that was aching and cold. She stared down at the mat beneath her feet that read Home is where the heart is, but with Bea gone, and with nothing but emptiness in her place, it was as if the house had lost its heart.

  Sniffling, she wandered over to the old fridge, tugged it open, and stared at the contents – fresh ham, a bowl of eggs, bacon, a block of cheese, butter, milk, a crisper drawer full of fruit and vegetables, and a nice piece of what looked like scotch fillet steak on a plate covered in cling wrap. There was also a small bowl, with what appeared to be fresh fish, the little note on top saying: For Tom. Good god, William had gone and thought of everything – what a wonderful man. He was so much like his sister, it was uncanny.

  Leaning against the sink, Nina turned and stared out the bay kitchen window with its jaw-dropping views. Gazing over the distant treetops, towards where Logan lived, she could still picture his sky-blue eyes as if it were only yesterday, could recall the way his lips used to curl at an odd but very alluring angle when he was being cheeky with her – which had been quite often. The very last time she’d seen him had been the day Bea had dropped him home after he’d helped clean up their stables, two weeks after the paddock party. Gloriously shirtless, she’d waved him off, his head halfway out the window and saying something about breathing in as much of the country as he could before he had to go back to university the following day. A month later, she’d fled to the city, never to see him again.

  So. Long. Ago.

  A whole lifetime, of sorts.

  As if on autopilot, she hesitantly wandered up the stairs, one by one, towards her old room. She looked to where Bea’s bed
room door was closed – there was no way she had the strength to go in there just yet. Reaching her old room, she gave the half-closed door a little push. It creaked open, and to her surprise, her room was still much the same, minus the posters and the single bed – a queen size sat in its place. Physically unable to go any further, she stared at the corner, where there was now a sewing table with an antique Singer atop it.

  Time always moved on.

  The floor swayed beneath her feet as the reality of it all came crashing back. Sobbing as hard as she had the day she’d had to make her choice, Nina slid her back down the wall and hugged her knees to her chest. How was she meant to survive amongst all these painful memories for four long weeks? She took a gulp from the brandy bottle, followed by another, while wishing her heartache away.

  CHAPTER

  5

  Nina woke with a start in the hammock, taking a few fleeting moments to recall where she was as she blinked sleep-heavy eyes to ward off the glorious sunshine flooding the back verandah. Easing onto her side, she grimaced when a bottle clattered to the timber floorboards. The last thing she recalled was flopping into it at some ungodly hour after drowning her sorrows with Bea’s brandy. She squeezed her eyes shut to ward off a headache as something scuffled near her. Her arm slung over the side, she was almost terrified to turn and see what was now damp against her palm. Cautiously craning her neck, she came eye to eye with a very excited border collie licking her hand, its pristine coat akin to that of a lion’s mane. With burs and dirt aplenty around these parts, this pooch was clearly looked after, maybe a little too much for the likes of the country it would surely crave to scamper through.