‘Because they hold memories of people that are no longer around!’ He cleared his throat and mumbled, ‘I don’t want to be reminded of what I should or shouldn’t have done. The horse should have been fed. The gate should have been closed.’
‘I’m sorry. It was me. I left the gate open.’ Her throat was thick with emotion. She took a deep breath and turned away.
The stockmen looked down at their boots. Adam turned to them. ‘Pull them all out. Get rid of the things. I want them gone, every one of them.’
Adam strode away. Ivy stood looking at the roughly hedged azaleas, chewing at her fingernails.
How many things could she get wrong?
She stepped out of the way of Jack, who glanced at her but said nothing. He put a spade to the soil, stood on it with his full weight, and started digging the shrubs out. Earth fell from the roots and the smell of soil met her nostrils. Ivy looked at the ferns and flowers and remembered Adam’s sharp looks with a sense of shame. She pushed the baling twine in her pocket and sighed before heading back around the house.
Adam had bridled the animal and was encouraging the gelding to rise. As he clicked his tongue and rubbed the sweating chestnut’s back, Ivy silently begged the animal to stand.
‘Come on, mate. Come on, Dusty, get up.’ And then he turned to the men. ‘We’re going to have to help him up.’
‘Might need the winch, boss.’
‘Probably going to need a belly tap.’
‘Yeah, I know.’ Adam nodded at Jack. ‘Go and get the tubing ready from the stables. Grab the mineral oil, too.’
‘Is there a vet?’ Ivy didn’t think Adam would answer her. He’d probably never want to speak to her again.
‘Not within cooee, there’s not. Dusty’s in a pretty bad way and we don’t have time to wait.’ Then addressing the horse again, ‘Come on, mate. Come on, son. Giddy up.’
The animal struggled at his prompting and rose to its feet. Adam clipped the lead rope to the bridle and coaxed the gelding into a walk.
Adam showed Dusty the water bucket but the animal wasn’t interested. ‘Didn’t see any fresh manure near the garden, so I reckon there could be some impaction.’
One of the stockmen said, ‘Might need to tube him some water. Dehydration could have set in.’ Adam nodded and bent his head to put an ear to the animal’s flank. He looked up and shook his head. ‘Not a sound, not a single note.’
‘That’s a good thing though, isn’t it?’ Ivy asked.
‘No, it’s the worst,’ Adam snapped. ‘A horse’s stomach is always working and rumbling.’
Adam continued to walk the horse. The smell of equine sweat was sharp in the late sun, and Ivy ached to be of some help.
‘Is there something I can do?’
Adam looked at her for a long moment. ‘I don’t think so, Ivy.’
Guess I’ve done more than enough.
‘Maybe you’d be better off in the kitchen.’
Ivy blinked. Took a step back. But it was more than just his tone.
‘We’ve had no cook for over a year,’ the guy called RJ agreed, trying to lighten the words Adam had just thrown like an insult.
Jack walked past pushing a wheelbarrow loaded high with azaleas.
Adam said, ‘Hopefully you can cook better than you can ride a horse.’
Ivy stood alone in the harsh light. The men offered sidelong glances, mouths shut tight, but it was the look in Adam’s eyes that killed her. Rejected her. Reminded her that she was no jillaroo, and no use to anyone. Just when she had started to hope she could begin getting things right.
Chapter Eight
Adam watched her move around the kitchen. Did she have the slightest idea what she had done? How serious it could be when a horse got colic? That a pain in the belly and a bad case of wind could mean death?
Poison Ivy.
It was a name he wouldn’t say out loud. It didn’t suit her anyway, but he had a sour taste in his mouth. The blame didn’t lie with her, and he knew it. He should have got rid of those azaleas long ago, but had nostalgia stopped him? They were gone now. There was nothing of the past left.
Ivy went from the slow cooker to the frypan. She appeared totally at ease in there. The smell of beef frying reminded his complaining digestive system that he hadn’t eaten for hours, and as she poured liquid into the hot frypan, steam rose up. It smelled pretty good.
The previous cook had been no more nimble in the kitchen than Adam, and for everything else Ivy had done wrong, Adam really hoped she could cook. It was a simple fact that men worked better after meat and three veg and—heaven help them—he asked himself why he hadn’t advertised for a cook all along.
Adam saw a spoon on the bench and dipped it in the pan to take a little taste.
‘You seem to know what you’re doing.’
‘You’re surprised?’
He was.
Adam rubbed a hand over the tight muscles at the back of his neck. He looked around the kitchen as if he would find the right words written on canisters of flour, sugar and rice. ‘I wanted a jillaroo but perhaps you’ll be better suited as the cook.’
‘Better suited?’
He saw the sting of his suggestion in the pink of her cheeks, but he ploughed on. ‘Exactly, and I hope you don’t take that as an insult. It’s not meant as one. Heck, if Jack worked this well in an apron, I’d have him in here in an instant.’
Ivy rummaged around in the cupboards for what she was looking for. She stood with hands on hips looking at the shelves overhead.
‘Do you need something? What do you want me to get down?’
‘Thanks. I’m after one of those cans of cola.’
Adam reached up to oblige her. She was close enough that he could smell the shampoo she had washed her hair with. He wasn’t sure if he was altogether comfortable. All he knew was that he wanted to stay right where he was.
Dangerous, because runaway emotions could get him into trouble. He didn’t want any more of that. He’d had his fair share. He stood there with the can for a moment, then remembered why he’d got it down and handed it to her.
‘Would you like ice with that? They aren’t real cold, you know.’
‘That’s all right. It doesn’t need to be.’
‘Can I get you a glass?’
Ivy looked up at him as she opened the can. ‘No thanks.’
Then, as he watched in dismay, she tipped the contents of the whole can into the skillet, which until then had been bubbling with delicious beef juices. Now it was frothing with cola as well.
‘What did you do that for?’ Adam stood there, openmouthed. Ivy gave him a smile that seemed altogether too self-satisfied.
‘I’m making gravy.’
‘Since when did anyone ever pour Coke in the gravy drippings?’
Adam pointed at what he was sure was going to end up a black disaster in the frypan. ‘You’ve gone and wasted a perfectly good pan of baking juices! What on earth are you cooking anyway?’
Ivy just stirred the pot. Did she know what she was about? Adam was vaguely horrified.
And irritated.
‘Now listen, I know it was you that left the latch untied. It was an accident. I realise that.’
Ivy’s brows rose.
‘You’re sorry. I realise that too, and I know I should have dug those azaleas out before now, so it’s my fault as well, but if you’re trying to gee me up …’
‘Hold on a minute.’ Ivy held up her hand. ‘Wait right there. You think I would go and ruin tea just because you gave me a dirty look about your horse having a tummy ache?’
‘Colic, it’s colic. It’s not just your usual pain in the belly,’ Adam snapped. ‘I’m going back out to check on him now. I didn’t hear any noise coming from his gut and if I can’t get him to drink or defecate, then he could die.’
Adam clenched his teeth and counted to three. ‘Fair enough, but what’s with the Coke? We’ve got Gravox around here somewhere.’
‘I’m making slow-cooked beef with Coca Cola gravy. It’s a recipe I Googled.’
‘Sounds like it, too.’ Adam was dubious. His eyes went from the chunks resting in the slow cooker to the bubbling pan of Uncle Sam’s poison of choice.
‘Taste it before you judge my cooking.’
‘What are you going to serve it with?’
Ivy sighed theatrically. ‘Mashed potatoes.’
Adam nodded. Now that didn’t sound too bad. His mouth watered almost against his will. In all honesty, she’d had him at ‘gravy’. Even if black medicine was added to the mix. It would make a change to the usual grub they knocked up between them.
The early evening was balmy. It hadn’t rained in months. He hadn’t had to check the water gauge to know that not many millilitres had fallen all season. It was time to go mustering and Adam had no intentions that Ivy should go with them. Not now he’d seen between the lines of her CV that the words were invention and nothing more.
She’d have to stay at the station. Hopefully she’d stay put, stay out of mischief, too. He didn’t like her chances with that. Right now he should be putting her on the next plane to Sydney because she was totally ill-suited for the job. But he was saddled with a sick gelding that meant the world to him, and he didn’t have time to take her into town. It was the only reason why he wasn’t packing her up right now.
The smell of cooking escaped the big old kitchen. It wafted from the windows and tried to draw him back in. He was hungry, like Dusty had been. In the station kitchen behind him was a girl with more spirit than he had first given her credit for. There had been other applicants; competent young blokes. He had thought that Jack had been a good choice and had fitted in well from the start, but if Ivy was to blame for the current predicament, then so was Jack. Maybe Jack had other things on his mind and that was why he had slipped up with feeding and stabling Dusty. Jack was like a love-struck kelpie with his tongue hanging out for a good pat.
They needed a cook, that much was true, but with what Ivy was about to dish up, he wasn’t sure if she was the kind of cook they were after, either.
Next time he went into town he’d visit Mum and Dad. He wondered what his mum would think of Ivy. Then Adam took stock, glad that no one could have heard that last thought but himself. What did Mum’s opinion matter when Ivy would be gone in next to no time? He shook his head at himself.
Don’t let down your guard.
He reined his thoughts in. He didn’t need to remind himself to steer clear of trouble, now did he? He knew how to look after himself.
Yet Ivy had a knack of making him feel kind of dreamy, whenever she was standing near. Like a stupor induced by hops had closed down his thinking gear. He was certain that she had no idea of her allure—crikey, he hoped not. But if he kept his wits about him, if Ivy was a half-way decent cook, everyone benefited, including Ivy. He didn’t expect some top chef—he was basic when it came to that—but didn’t every bloke like a good meal served up? He caught himself with a punch-drunk grin, until the faulty switch inside his head gave off the warning alarm to distance himself once again.
Adam strode into the stable. Jack had the horse on the lead rope and was about to coax the animal to walk again. Dusty was pawing the ground.
It wasn’t the first time since Adam had taken over the reins as station manager that he wished his dad was just a shout out away. The stockman in him cautioned against being sentimental over his horse. Love of his gelding, however, stilled his hand, made him wait until the day played out. But it wasn’t good.
‘Has he had anything to drink?’
‘No, boss, not yet, he hasn’t. Played in the water and made a bit of a show, but then turned his nose up.’
It wasn’t what Adam wanted to hear. He was afraid the horse had twisted internals.
‘Do you want me to keep walking him?’
‘Absolutely, Jack, keep him up. Now the sun’s gone down you can take him out into the fresh air. Might just buck him up. I’m going to go and make a phone call. If anyone can help, it’s my dad.’
Capricorn Station had been his dad’s. Granddad had worked the land before him and there wasn’t much Adam’s father didn’t know about cattle or horses, and it was always to him that Adam had gone for advice. Dad had almost always had the answers Adam needed, except the time he’d asked about the birds and the bees. The old man had only said, ‘Go and ask your mother, son.’ Everything else, Adam reckoned, Dad knew the lot. He could hear Ivy humming in the kitchen, and he smiled briefly as he went into the front room. Adam doubled back and closed the door behind him, just in case she broke into song.
Not much had changed inside the place since it had been built. Oval photos in age-spotted frames still hung staunchly, the faces of his grandparents and uncles on rugged stock horses staring out at him. The wallpaper flocking from somewhere back in the seventies was the colour of blood and dirty sweat—a backdrop for the snaps of generations. Family that had shared the hard work, making the station they had left behind their legacy.
The rug on the wide tallowwood floorboards was a cottage garden of colour. The only compromise to modern taste was the leather two-seater and chairs in soft brown. This was where Adam often spent his evenings, sitting beside the warm light of an antiquated lamp that dipped its shade tipsily in his direction.
Adam loved this room. It was big and dark—a combination of tastes, displaying the spoils of impulsive moments of shopping on a hay day flush. So many loved ones snapped in sepia; extended family, many now gone. The images were as comfortable as his old boots.
He picked up the phone from the cradle and dialled the number. The phone was fire-engine red, glossy and heavy in his hand. It was old school, gauche vintage stuff that almost came off as cool. He gave a lop-sided smile as he realised that he was just about as behind the times, since he didn’t even have a mobile phone. There was no reception out here anyway.
He waited for his dad’s voice. Just like the room around him, it brought a certain comfort, and with it, a touch of sadness. Last time Adam had visited, his dad had forgotten who Adam was. Time before, too.
Mum had just looked at Adam without words. How could she fully explain the sorrow and loss of a husband in the heartless hands of Alzheimer’s? Sometimes he seemed to be so present, other times he lingered in the past.
When Adam had looked in his mother’s eyes they both shared the memory of what Dad had once been, which still smiled brightly from the picture frame on the wall.
‘How’s Dad, Mum?’ Adam was hopeful. He needed his father, even now as a grown man.
‘He’s good, Adam love.’
‘Could I talk to him for a minute?’
‘Of course. Trevor, it’s Adam. Adam’s on the phone, he wants to talk to you.’
There was shuffling and what sounded like happy exclamations, then his dad was on the other end. ‘Adam? Adam, it’s your dad.’ Relief at being known—remembered—flooded Adam with comforting warmth.
‘Dad, I’ve got a problem with Dusty, my gelding. Remember Dusty, Dad?’
‘’Course I do. Bought him for you. Best cattle horse around.’
‘He’s gone in and eaten some azaleas. Now he’s got colic, and he’s suffering pretty bad.’
‘He’s eaten what?’
‘Azaleas, hydrangeas, bracken fern, you name it.’
‘Azaleas?’
Like he’d never heard of them. As though Adam was wasting his time. Dad sounded irrit
ated now. Adam put a hand through his hair. He had curls just like his dad’s and about as much patience too.
‘They’re poisonous, and he got into the garden and had a good feed. Think he thought he was at the smorgasbord. Now he won’t drink. Hasn’t eaten, either. His stomach isn’t working up a bubble. Not sure what to do. My vet’s out for who knows how long and to bring another one out will take ages. What do you reckon I should do?’
‘Tube him.’
‘Did it.’
‘Mineral oil?’
‘Tried that, too.’
‘Shoot him. Have to shoot him.’
‘Dad, I can’t. I can’t do that.’
‘Who is this? Who is this, anyway?’ Dad was agitated again. It was a fractious voice Adam was coming to know.
‘It’s Adam, Dad.’
‘Oh, I’ve got a son called Adam.’
Adam listened to his dad talk about his son. Leaned back against the headrest and wiped his eyes.
‘Best stockman around. Woman he was with didn’t know what a catch she had. Some women just aren’t made for country life, and she was one.’
‘Dad, what can I do about Dusty? What can I do for my horse?’
‘Shoot it. Can’t shoot a woman, but sometimes you have to shoot a horse.’
Chapter Nine
Ivy rang the big brass bell to call the men in for dinner. Adam had pointed out that it was the same one they’d used way back in the day to call workers in for a meal at the end of work.
She liked feeling a part of some long-lost tradition, but when it rang clear and more than a little loud, Ivy looked around her and took a step back, hand over her mouth. The first person there was Adam and he didn’t look happy. Was it because she had rung the bell?
‘Hardly heard that bell in donkey’s years.’
‘Hope you didn’t mind me ringing it?’
He looked upset. She saw his eyes were red.
‘Not at all; made me smile. I was inside already. Is there anything you need me to do? Anything you want help with?’
Central to Nowhere Page 4
