‘I don’t know. It rattled, blew a lot of smoke, bunny hopped and then stopped.’
He did his brow-meets-the-rest-of-his-face trick. ‘Sounds like it could be a problem with the fuel. Did you fill it up back at the Gap? Maybe the last load of unleaded Ryan got was dirty. Or was it from the bottom of the tank?’
Jaime was still stuck back on the word ‘unleaded’. She could feel her toes curling in her Colorados. Her voice, when it came, was closer to a whisper. ‘Do you mean unleaded as in unleaded petrol?’
‘Yeah, the Suzuki takes unleaded.’ He stopped. ‘Oh, you didn’t? Tell me you didn’t put diesel in the ute.’
Jaime felt sick. ‘I put diesel in the ute.’
‘Shit!’
‘I’m so sorry, Stirling. I thought being a ute, and a farm one at that, it would take diesel. It just made sense! My dad’s ute did!’
‘Well, this isn’t your dad’s ute, Princess. This is Valerie’s.’
Oh yes, his precious Valerie. ‘Look, I said I’m sorry. What can we do? I’ll pay to get it fixed.’ She took in his foreboding frown. ‘It can be fixed, can’t it?’
She glanced up at the stars again and sent up a little prayer. Dad, help me here!
Stirling expelled such a long, drawn-out sigh she nearly felt sorry for him. Nearly, but not quite. She’d thought she was doing the right thing, damn it.
‘I’ll bring the tri-axle trailer down in the morning and load it up. It’ll have to go down to Lake Grace. The boys in the shop there will drain it.’
While he cast an assessing gaze over the ute, Jaime stood there mute. Man, he must really hate a city chick like her turning up to disrupt his nice comfortable life.
‘Go on, get on the bike,’ he said. ‘I’ll just lock the thing up.’
She walked over and stood by the V-Max, waiting for him. When he arrived back at her side, he silently handed her his helmet.
‘I can’t –’ The look on his face stopped her. ‘Okay, maybe I can.’
She pulled the helmet over her head and waited for a bare-headed Stirling to mount up, then got on behind him. She was surprised by how she was getting used to this whole bike-riding thing. It still wasn’t her favourite way to get around, but it was growing on her. A bit like the man she was now sitting hard up against …
She wasn’t going to think about that.
In no time, they were slowing down again. As the bike came to a halt, Jaime peered around Stirling’s broad back to see they were at the gateway to Polly’s Plains. And, my God, what a sight! The overarching metal sign proclaiming the name of the property was lit up with hundreds of tiny coloured bud lights, flicking, spinning, running and jumping in sequences, with POLLY’S PLAINS picked out in white.
It was stunning, but it was nothing compared to the house she could see lit up across the paddocks. Stirling’s place. The blow-up Santa he’d dragged from the shed now sat on the roof, looking like he was about to descend the chimney to leave his presents. A massive tower of lights to the right of house was topped by a brilliant yellow star. Red and white candy canes spun down the verandah posts, while waterfalls of white glittering stars cascaded from the fretwork.
It was incredible. And beautiful. And because the hundreds of acres of the mountain-ringed valley were otherwise in total darkness, the light show shone so much brighter. It beat every house she’d ever seen back in Ivanhoe.
Jaime shook herself. Well, that’s if you were into Christmas and all that kind of festive stuff.
‘Amazing, isn’t it?’ murmured Stirling. ‘I never tire of doing this. My mum and dad did it before me, and now Valerie helps me continue the tradition.’
Jaime frowned. ‘Your mum and dad did it here?’
‘Yep, I reckon. My sister and I are proof.’ Stirling tossed a grin over his shoulder. ‘And they put up the lights too.’
Good Lord, the man had cracked a joke! Jaime smiled faintly, but her mind was still tussling with the idea of his parents.
‘Did they work here?’ she asked.
‘Them and my grandparents. They used to own the place.’
Aha. That’s why he’d invested so much of himself in Polly’s Plains.
‘My grandmother was Polly,’ he said, his tone melancholic. ‘My grandfather loved her so much he called the place after her. She was the one who started Christmas in a big way at Burdekin’s Gap. Your house has lights too. They stay up all year round.’
Aw, shucks, what a sweet thing to do. But then his parents must have sold the property to Valerie? How tragic that Stirling was still working on the farm that by rights should be his. She didn’t get a chance to ask anymore, because Stirling started the bike.
Over the rumble of the motor, she heard him say, ‘But I forgot, you don’t do Christmas, do you?’
Chapter 9
‘Hello! Anybody home?’
Jaime heard a chorus of voices from beyond the screen door. It was Sunday morning and she was down on her hands and knees trying to coax The Cat out from under the chesterfield lounge. At least dogs came when you called. Eventually.
After flagrantly pulling most of her dry and folded clothes out of the laundry basket, the damn cat had dragged inside a morsel of bird – deceased probably last century – and had balefully stared at Jaime before disappearing. She really was in its bad books for feeding it dried food.
‘Coming,’ she shouted to the screen door, reversing out from behind the couch.
Three women stood outside the flywire, brightly dressed in all shades of red, green and gold, as redolent of Christmas as Rudolph’s bright red nose. One even had a flashing brooch.
Jaime considered slamming the glass door shut, then realised that by look of it the damn thing had probably never been shut. Not in this decade anyway. Plus they’d already seen her.
‘Hello. How are you?’ she said, hoping her grin was a smile rather than a grimace.
It seemed to pass muster, for in they came, trailing tinsel and baubles (one had balls hanging off her ears, for God’s sake!) and carrying china plates piled with sumptuous cakes. One of the women held a clipboard bristling with official-looking paper, and another stank of Lace perfume.
The Cat suddenly emerged from under the couch and streaked across the room, meowing loudly. The fossilised bird landed right at Miss Lace Perfume’s feet. She didn’t bat an eyelid, just swept the thing away with the side of her boot.
Jaime watched in admiration. If she’d been confronted with that disgusting sight, she would have screamed.
The women moved into the kitchen. One put the kettle on the stove, another placed the delicious-looking cakes on the bench, and the third – the one with the bauble earrings – sat down at the end of the table and shuffled the papers on her clipboard. She looked very important with her gold-rimmed glasses perched on the end of her nose and her Bob Hawke eyebrows creased into a frown. Even Jaime, a veteran of meetings with State Government ministers and their aides, was suitably impressed.
‘Um … I’m Jaime,’ she said, not sure what the protocol was here. These women acted like they owned the place and she was only a visitor. Which she was … a visitor that is. ‘What can I do for you?’
The three ladies stared at her.
Then the one sitting at the table beamed a wide smile. ‘We thought you might like to help us.’
Jaime didn’t like the sound of that. As far as she’d been told in Melbourne, she was here to house-sit, help out a little around the property and look after The Cat. Nothing more, nothing less. She pushed all her other extra curricular activities firmly to the back of her mind.
Miss Bauble Ears was talking again. ‘I’m Irene, and this here’s Susan and that’s Sharyn. Welcome to Burdekin’s Gap!’
‘That’s Sharyn with a “y” not an “o”,’ interjected Miss Lace Perfume from over near the sink.
‘We thought we’d call to say,’ and together they all chorused, ‘hi!’ Then the conversation baton was handed back to Irene. ‘We don’t get too many newbies up
in these parts, so we’re here to say hello, and invite you to take part in the Burdekin’s Gap Christmas Tree.’
‘Christmas Tree?’ repeated Jaime faintly. But she’d already helped Stirling with the Christmas trees. Hopefully they were now in Lake Grace, with the fire brigade doing a roaring trade.
‘It’s the Tuesday after next,’ said Sharyn with a ‘y’ not an ‘o’. ‘Santa Claus comes in the big red shiny fire truck, the kids get presents, and there’s a barbecue and everything! It’s very exciting.’
The woman looked so ecstatic, Jaime was sure she was on the verge of an orgasm.
‘We thought you might like to be involved?’ said Susan. She at least appeared to be approaching what Jaime called normal. Except for the flashing brooch. What was it? A snowman or something? ‘We’d love you to make something.’
Oh Lord. ‘Like what, exactly?’ Jaime asked.
‘You know, maybe some decorations? Paper chains, baubles or anything Christmassy?’ said Susan. ‘You have over a week to do them.’
‘I love making baubles,’ said Sharyn. ‘Sticking in all those glitzy pins one by one. It takes ages, but you kinda feel like you’ve accomplished something big when you finish each ball. And to fill in the time you can just pretend you’re a wicked witch doing voodoo.’ She mimed sticking in a needle. ‘Take that, you little sucker!’
Jaime gaped at her. The woman wasn’t serious, was she? One glance at her face and Jaime realised she was. Deadly serious. Making Christmas decorations really floated her boat. For crap’s sake! Why couldn’t she just go to Myer or David Jones? They had Christmas decorations. Classy ones, not paper chains and polystyrene balls!
‘I don’t think decorations interest Jaime,’ said Irene, who was frowning at her across the table.
Jaime tried to reconfigure her face so it looked pleasant rather than suicidal – or was that homicidal?
Irene’s attention was now on her clipboard and she was giving little gasps of approval interposed with moans of displeasure. She finally peered over her glasses at Jaime, her expression thoughtful. ‘We do need more cakes and slices.’
Jaime clung to the word ‘cake’ like a lifesaving buoy. She could buy one, drop it off at this Christmas Tree thingy and run. Plus, these women looked determined. The way Susan was making cups of tea without even asking her what she wanted indicated they were of the bulldozer variety too. A bit like her own mother.
‘Well, I once made a sponge,’ she started.
‘Great!’ cried Irene. ‘We haven’t had a good sponge since Nanny Burgess fell off the ironing board and tripped over the pig. Broke her hip and she was done for.’
All three women hung their heads for a moment.
‘Poor old Nanny,’ muttered Sharyn. ‘The pig didn’t last long either. Ryan butchered it for the Christmas Day shindig.’
Jaime didn’t know which expression was appropriate: sadness for Nanny Burgess, despair for the pig, or happiness that everyone obviously got a good feed out of it.
‘What was Nanny doing on the ironing board anyway?’ Susan asked the others.
Sharyn shook her head. ‘Seeing if she could surf. The University of the Third Age down in Lake Grace was doing a trip to the beach. Poor Nanny never made it past the store at the Gap.’
Jaime found her voice. ‘How old was she?’
‘About eighty or thereabouts – you never know with old ducks like her. She could still shear a sheep. A bit slow, but she was thorough.’
Jaime didn’t know what to say. Her own mother was fifty-one and she couldn’t imagine her looking at a sheep let alone shearing one.
‘So,’ Irene pushed her glasses firmly up her nose, obviously trying to get things back on track, ‘how many sponges can I put you down for?’
‘I’ve only tried –’
‘Five? Oh, terrific! That’ll do nicely.’ Irene beamed at her.
‘But –’
‘We are just so grateful. And you’ll attend too, of course? Everyone comes to the Christmas Tree, don’t they, girls?’
Sharyn made sounds of approval and clapped enthusiastically. Nauseating puffs of Lace wafted through the air.
Susan nodded in a self-satisfied way as she brought over the cups of tea. ‘Right! That’s settled. I’ll bring forth the cake now, shall I?’
Jaime nodded weakly. Done over by the Three Stooges. What a job this was turning out to be.
Susan placed the china plates in the centre of the table. Jelly cakes and lamingtons smothered in coconut flakes and spilling with cream beckoned to Jaime. A rich brown mudcake followed, drowned in tiny flakes of chocolate. Jaime’s hand was in the air, just about to dive in on a mouth-watering pink cake, when Susan pulled the plate out of her reach.
Jaime looked up to see the three women contemplating her with mute expectation.
Irene checked her clipboard again. ‘Would you also like to do a salad for the Christmas Day shindig?’ Her pen hovered expectantly above the page.
What did these women think she was – a charity?
‘We charge twenty dollars a head for the communal Christmas lunch,’ Irene said. ‘Everyone from Burdekin’s Gap comes. We all make and donate the food, and the proceeds go to the fire brigade. We’re in dire need of a new quick-fill pump, so it’s all hands on deck to raise some funds.’
That’d be right, Jaime thought. Just hit on her Achilles heel. Her father was a fire brigade volunteer in the outer suburbs for years.
‘Stirling McEvoy is donating a few legs of lamb,’ Irene continued.
Marble Man was involved? Good. He could deliver the cakes. She wouldn’t have to go near another Christmas tree ever again.
‘Of course I could put you down to make some more Christmas decorations. We need them down by the river for the Christmas lunch.’
‘Yes, I’ll do it,’ said Jaime, shuddering. She reached over again for the pink cake. Found Susan holding onto the other side of the plate. Would the woman ever give up? Judging by her determined expression, no.
‘You’ll do what exactly?’ interjected Irene.
The cake looked so scrumptious and Jaime’s tastebuds were crying out for some sweetness. ‘Put me down for a salad,’ she said through gritted teeth.
Susan let go of the dish with a feline smile. Jaime was pulling the other side so hard the plate slid across the table and nearly into her lap.
Whatever. She would buy cakes, tinned fruit and some jelly from the shop. That’d teach them.
Chapter 10
‘Take that, you bloody thing!’ yelled Jaime, throwing a flat, round projectile out the back door.
Striding up the path towards the house, Stirling ducked as the low-flying saucer shape flew through the air. Buster pounced on the object with the glee of dog meets rabbit. A flat and spongy rabbit.
Jaime turned away in disgust, ignoring her visitors. Why, oh why, hadn’t she listened to Mrs Legge who’d taught Home Economics at Jaime’s high school? Jaime had been too busy reading the latest Dolly magazine, jammed between the covers of her cooking textbook, to take any notice.
She stormed back to the kitchen and stared balefully at the two dozen eggs sitting in their cardboard. A couple of empty cartons sat in the bin, along with two dozen eggshells languishing in bits and pieces. Egg white dripped off the edges of the counter while flour dusted everything in sight. She was never going to be able to make a sponge. The Cat had tried to drag the last failed attempt back inside, as if determined to make her face up to her mistakes.
Jaime poured another glass of wine and glared at the now practically empty bottle.
‘You got a problem, Princess?’
Jaime spun around. She’d seen Stirling intermittently over the last couple of days, had helped him out with the odd little job or two, but this was the first time he’d come inside the house.
‘Nope. What makes you think there’s a problem?’
Stirling leant against the nearest bench, crossing his arms and legs in a pose of studied relaxation. A mild quirk
at the edge of his mouth added to Jaime’s displeasure.
‘Just thought you might be in need of a hand,’ he said, picking an egg out of its box and tossing it in the air.
Jaime leant forward to snatch it before it fell. She didn’t need him adding to the mess she was already in. Her fingers caught the shell. Crunch! Oh God, another one gone. At this rate she’d outstrip the farm’s own chooks’ supply and have to visit Ryan at the store. Then she remembered: no Suzuki. Plus she had an idea she might be a weensy bit drunk.
She dived down to mop up the runny egg from the floor, and found Stirling down there too. Two heads – one dark russet, the other blonde – bumped against each other. Hard.
‘Youch!’ cried Jaime, sitting back on her heels and rubbing at her forehead.
Stirling reared back too, but his hand came up to rub her head, then dropped just before it made contact. More’s the pity, Jaime found herself thinking.
‘Sorry about that,’ Stirling muttered, standing up. ‘You don’t need me adding to the mess.’
Jaime bristled. ‘What mess? This is an incredibly organised kitchen.’ Her hands fluttered through the air. ‘Oven over there, fridge over there …’ She looked around. ‘And ingredients everywhere!’ Her giggle turned into a wail. ‘I’m never going to be able to make a sponge. And Irene’s,’ she perfectly mimicked Irene’s voice, ‘“put me down for five”! I thought I could buy them from the store but when I rang Ryan he just laughed at me. Thank God I decided to make them now and freeze them. I’ve got twenty-four more eggs to get it right.’
She took another swig from the wine glass, swung her arms around and started singing ‘Tomorrow’ from Annie.
Stirling slammed his hands against his ears. ‘If you stop that infernal racket I might be able to help you!’
Jaime immediately stopped singing and put down the glass. ‘Really? But you’re …’ she grasped for a word, ‘you’re … well … you.’
‘And what’s that supposed to mean?’
‘A stockman. How the hell can you cook a featherlight sponge?’
Rose River Page 7
