Blueberry

by Glenna Thomson

  About the Book

  Blueberry is a heart-warming debut novel about starting over, as a little blueberry orchard in the hills offers one woman the chance to change her life forever …

  Greer O’Reilly needs to start over. Her professional success belies private sadness and domestic overload. She’s torn between her career and motherhood. Her partner of twelve years has left her. And up ahead is her new home - a beautiful though neglected blueberry orchard in the hills of north-east Victoria.

  But when she and her six-year-old daughter Sophie arrive at the property to take possession, there’s an unforeseen complication – the former owner, 81-year-old artist and jazz lover Charlie Chandler, refuses to move out. Charlie is dying and desperate to spend his last days in his old home.

  With Greer at the beginning of her new life, and Charlie at the end of his, the unlikely pair soon form a close bond. One that will offer the strength and inspiration Greer needs – because the next twelve months will either make or break her …

  “Reading Blueberry made me think Glenna Thomson knows my secret dreams: starting over on my own farm surrounded by love, friendship and beauty. I wish I could crawl inside the pages and live there.” TONI JORDAN

  Contents

  Cover

  About the Book

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Copyright Notice

  To Alistair

  1

  WHEN I left the apartment it was early dusk, that perfect moment when the light appears mauve. I loved this time of day, although I was often indoors and missed it. Someone had dropped a pizza box on the ground near the Japanese maple, red leaves had fallen inside. I looked up to my window – the curtain was still open but the light was now on. But it was all right to leave, so I turned away.

  Along the footpath, a fit-looking man in his mid-fifties wearing a dark suit waved at me. He watched me approach and opened the back door of a car in sync with my arrival. Michael was waiting for me on the far side of the backseat, looking like he usually did – serious and slightly preoccupied. The radio was on and a football commentator was raving over the noise of the crowd.

  I slid in and the door closed.

  We kissed, a light touch, and when I buckled my seatbelt he felt far away, like we were anonymous travellers, strangers.

  ‘Which team do you follow?’ he said.

  ‘I don’t.’

  ‘Really? A Melbourne girl who doesn’t follow footy?’

  ‘That’s me.’

  The driver started the car.

  ‘This is Neil.’

  Neil’s eyes were in the rear-vision mirror. We nodded.

  ‘Do you drive much yourself?’ I asked.

  ‘Not at the moment.’

  The footy was distracting. And Michael was distracted by it, his ear half-turned, listening to the game while he was talking.

  ‘Why’s that?’

  He shook his head as if denying something. ‘Over the limit. It’ll right itself in a few months.’

  He reached for my hand and every now and again gently rubbed his thumb on my palm as if to reassure me I was not forgotten.

  Neil drove us down Birdwood Avenue, beside The Tan. Even at that hour on a Saturday night, joggers were out. Sunset was coming fast, the sky now streaked pink, silver and grey.

  Along St Kilda Road, we crossed the bridge and sat behind a tram. Passengers stepped off, others got on. Michael’s profile was backlit against the side window. There was a squint in his forward gaze as he concentrated on the game. His grey suit was fine wool, perhaps cashmere, worn with a black open-neck shirt. He was particular with his grooming, much more than the other corporate types I worked with. Michael was the new head of Wrens Asia, the global food giant with brands in almost every category – frozen and canned meals, cereals, bread, sauces and condiments, and infant foods. The account wasn’t exciting, but Michael somehow brought people to him. Perhaps his positional power was the attraction. He was always full of big and new ideas; his staff fawned over him. The food industry couldn’t get enough of him – his calendar was booked for months ahead with appearances and speeches.

  His popularity made me curious, and wary. I wasn’t sure about him. If anything, at times I found he could be overbearing and egotistical. Even so, the decision to accept his invitation to dinner was simple – his persistence was too hard to resist. And Jane, my best friend, was all over it, insisting I go.

  Michael turned and smiled. I looked at his pale skin and perfect teeth. He wasn’t unattractive.

  Into Little Collins Street and I guessed we were going to McKay & Co. I had been there only a fortnight earlier for lunch with my banking client to celebrate the launch of their new private equity brand. Neil opened my door and watched me shuffle out, wrestling with my skirt.

  Inside, the maître d’ hurried towards Michael with his hands out in front, calling us to follow. We were seated close to the front kitchen, a bar-height stainless-steel-and-glass bench where a dozen white-clad young male chefs worked furiously with their heads down. After the water was poured we were left alone to feel the pause, that awkward moment looking around and thinking what to say. I hadn’t been on a date for a long time – more than twelve years if being in a long-term relationship didn’t count.

  ‘We’re having the set menu,’ he said.

  I settled into my seat.

  From inside his jacket came the bleep of a message. He reached for his phone, read it and grinned. I was already smiling back at him, as if I knew the news, or cared.

  ‘Dockers are up nineteen points.’

  The first course was Tasmanian trout and cured eel with organic rocket, served on a hot stone slab. The sommelier poured a short glass of riesling.

  Michael ate thoughtfully, then dabbed his mouth with a napkin and told me that just last month he had been to Tasmania and MONA.

  ‘Have you been there?’

  ‘Hobart, yes. MONA, no.’

  He sat back and swirled and sipped his wine as he described a mechanical stomach that was fed each day. I was leaning towards him, taking it all in – his impressions and the sense he hadn’t been there alone. That bothered me, but I didn’t ask. I knew he’d been married and had a son named William.

  The next course was neatly served, pork with thyme noodles. He held up his fork, a wet yellow worm dangling from it, and turned it slowly, studying it. ‘You know, our R and D people in Singapore have come up with a healthy noodle. Air-dried, low fat. Nice biscuit taste.’

  I was about to ask a question when his pocket sounded with another incoming text. He pulled out his phone and read the message.

  He clenched his fist in victory.

  ‘It’s a good nigh
t. Dockers have won and I’m here with you.’

  We clinked glasses and tasted the wine.

  Another course was delivered: trout-and-mandarin soufflé in a bowl not much bigger than an eggcup. I told him my father had been a devoted trout fly-fisherman and that by the age of eight I’d mastered all the knots and could tie them faster than my brother.

  ‘… my favourite was the Albright, which is the hardest.’

  He listened with his eyebrows raised as if waiting for the punch line – and when he realised it was just a pointless story there was a pause, a subtle withdrawal. I picked up my glass and looked around. The restaurant was full, with hushed conversation at each table. Michael shifted in his chair and started talking about an online portal for packaging ideas from employees and the public. Someone had already sent in an idea for a resealable pouch and won a thousand dollars.

  ‘It’s a good idea, don’t you think?’ he asked.

  The way his mouth moved as he spoke, the line of his neck and shoulders. I was watching him talk, not quite listening, trying to decide if I liked him. Perhaps I could adapt to him? But love wasn’t about adapting. Or maybe it was. I didn’t know. He was staring at me.

  ‘You know, I like you very much,’ he said.

  ‘I’m glad.’

  ‘You seem shy. I wasn’t expecting that.’

  And there I was, smiling like a stupid girl with a crush.

  He reached across the table for my hand and I met him beside the salt, a dry, soft touch.

  Dessert arrived. The lavender ice-cream got him talking about a Wrens innovation in soft-serve vending machines. I felt a lag in my thinking, like I’d been in a meeting that was going on too long. My hand kept reaching for the wine of its own accord and not the water and when he finally ordered coffee, I felt relieved.

  Out on the street, I breathed in the chilly air.

  Neil was waiting on the pavement. The back door was already open.

  We drove back to my apartment in silence. People were on the streets. Fed Square was lit purple. Cabs queued at the station. Cars and trams choked St Kilda Road. Michael’s arm was stretched out, his hand was on my thigh.

  The old oaks along my street were shedding red, gold and brown leaves, some as big as dinner plates – an artist’s work on the footpath. Neil pulled into the apartment car park and Michael got out and opened my door. It was cold and I shrugged into my coat.

  ‘Can I tell Neil to come back for me in the morning?’ he asked, putting his arm firmly around me, like he belonged, like we were a couple.

  Beyond the dim car park was the black night, no stars or moon. Apart from the lovely feeling of being held, there was nothing romantic about where we were standing.

  He lifted my chin and kissed me tenderly.

  Of course, I knew I should send him away. But maybe it was time to let go, to move on. And there it was – a simple thought about being free, taking a risk and not caring so much.

  I nodded.

  Michael went to the driver window.

  Neil started the motor. He had turned onto Toorak Road before we’d taken our first carpeted step up to the second floor.

  With the streetlight outside my bedroom window, there was never complete darkness. Even with the curtain closed, the brightness was like the glow of a permanent full moon. There was no traffic noise, only a slight buzzing in my head and Michael’s slow breathing. I watched his chest rise and fall. And I stared into his face – the curve of his brown lashes, the slight quiver under his eyelids.

  ‘Wake up,’ I said.

  He smiled with half-open eyes.

  ‘Time to go.’

  His fingers were soft on my cheek. ‘Why?’

  ‘You know why.’

  ‘But it’s Sunday morning.’

  He pulled me close.

  ‘There’s no time.’

  ‘Just a kiss.’

  We kissed, and then I stepped into the cold, grabbing my dressing gown from behind the door.

  Michael heaved out of bed and stood carefully, as if getting his balance. He struggled with his jacket, looking for his phone in different pockets then, scratching his stomach, he pressed a number and spoke three words. Yes. Now. Okay.

  While we waited in the lounge room for Neil, Michael stood back and studied the faded Bangladeshi tapestry. A sidestep, and he stared into an Aboriginal dot artwork and beside it the thick oils of a Burmese market painting. Further along, he looked at a double row of Malian tribal masks.

  ‘Mum.’

  Sophie had woken early. I hurried to her, anxious she didn’t see a man in the apartment who wasn’t Nick, her father.

  In the moments I was gone – telling her to stay in bed a little longer, asking how it had been with the babysitter and if they’d enjoyed the Little Princess DVD and the chocolate – Michael continued on his gallery tour, studying years of homecoming gifts and souvenirs. By the time I returned he had worked his way to the desk in the alcove – the space between the arm of the couch and the bookcase. He picked up the old Nikon and held it as though gauging its weight. Then he put it to his eye. I tensed. Over the years, it had become more a trophy than a camera.

  ‘Who’s the photographer?’

  I reached forward and took it from him. ‘Never mind.’

  2

  I WAS in my office trying to remember how Nick and I felt when we took out the mortgage on our Prahran apartment. Scared. Euphoric. Grown up. Committed. CAP wanted some words for a new online campaign promoting low interest rates to first-home buyers. My notes had underlinings and asterisks that I was now struggling to make sense of. When I had met with the client she’d been vague yet intense, raising her hand to announce this critical thing that, in the end, she couldn’t name. The words would come, they always did. I gazed past the vase of pink roses on the corner of my desk and stared into the bookcase. How did it feel to take out a first home loan? I waited. Seconds passed. I started typing. Happiness is security … Then what? I closed my eyes. Security gives confidence … I tapped the keyboard, still just working it out.

  ‘So what’ve you done to deserve these?’

  It was Amelia. She walked in and inhaled the weak perfume in the long-stemmed roses I had pushed into a tall, narrow vase. She had that cheeky, game-for-anything expression the clients loved, and I distrusted. Her eyes roamed across my desk, glancing at my notepad.

  ‘Do you need anything?’ I asked.

  ‘What’s the big secret? Who sent the flowers?’

  I shook my head.

  When the roses had been delivered earlier that morning, for a moment I had hoped they were from Nick – that, for some reason, he had done what he’d never done before and had no cause to do now. And when I read the card and saw they were from Michael, Always thinking about you, a feeling of satisfaction came over me. Because for the first time I thought this thing I had going with him might be all right.

  ‘Are you working on CAP’s new home loan copy?’

  I closed my notebook. ‘I’m on deadline.’

  And there it was – her open-mouth red-lipped smile. She could have been in a pub flirting with a boy, except she was flirting with me as she sidled up to my desk and leaned forward.

  ‘Go away,’ I said, smiling. ‘I’m busy.’

  ‘Come on. Who’s the lucky fella?’

  Sensing movement, I looked up and Lena was standing at my door, bird-like in grey silk. Her face was wrinkle-free – we all knew she’d had work done but somehow she still looked her age.

  ‘Aren’t you lucky?’ she said, breathing in the roses. Then she looked up, her small dark eyes on me. ‘I need to see you in my office.’

  As I stood an expression set on Amelia’s face, an alertness and excitement that didn’t fit the occasion.

  Lena sat behind her timber desk, which was French-looking with small mother-of-pearl inlays. I closed her door and sat opposite.

  On every wall were dozens of framed photos, all younger versions of Lena with different identities – Rupert
Murdoch, Bob Hawke, Ita Buttrose, Kerry Packer. Lena at a podium holding an award. Lena in a group shot with the industry Who’s Who. Lena all glammed up with a bouffant and white gloves to her elbows.

  She put her reading glasses on, then took them off and lightly tapped them on the palm of her hand. Her eyes were dark dots and the pencil on her right eyebrow extended longer than on the left.

  ‘How are you coping at home?’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘How are you managing with Sophie?’

  ‘Why?’

  She scratched her neck with a long candy-orange fingernail.

  ‘I’ve had a call from CAP.’

  I sat up straighter. My clients only ever phoned me.

  ‘They’re unhappy you can’t attend the meeting in Sydney on Thursday with the advertising agency. That you’re insisting you can only do your bit via Skype.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Unhappy clients make me unhappy.’

  My voice was steady as I explained it was too difficult to drop Sophie off at school, fly to Sydney for a meeting and return in time to pick her up from after-school care. And even if all that were possible, I found it too stressful, the anxiety of watching the time and worrying about a flight being delayed.

  ‘Some of us have had a chat about the account.’

  ‘About my account?’

  She put her palms together, a Hindu prayer, and delivered the news in a clear voice.

  ‘I’m transferring CAP to Amelia.’

  ‘Why would you do that?’