by Dean Mayes
And there, on the floor, was the most incongruous pair of occupants of this tiny workshop. Seated at a miniature table, in a pair of matching wooden chairs, were Genevieve’s “friends.”
One was a ruddy teddy bear wearing a pale pink dress embroidered with hearts and sunflowers. A matching bow was sewn behind its right ear. Beady black eyes stared towards its companion, a colourful rag doll sporting a pink blouse with puffy sleeves and an orange floral overdress adorned with frilly buttons. A shock of Rastafarian-style dreadlocks cascaded down its back, tied with a large, pink bow. The doll sat before a cup and saucer, as though waiting for someone to serve her.
Hayden turned as Genevieve crept in behind him, and he pointed at the pair.
She bent down to gather them in her arms. When she turned away from the ornate, miniature furnishings, Hayden frowned. “Are they not yours, as well?”
She shook her head, bending her arms to sign a response around her dolls. “They were already here.”
Hayden blinked. Dropping to his knees, he examined the furniture setting. It was ornate, fashioned from what appeared to be red gum. He lifted one of the chairs and noted the turned legs and the engraved patterning in the backrest. The entire piece had been stained and lacquered.
The quality of the workmanship was unmistakable. It possessed all the hallmarks of his father’s work, but Hayden shook his head nonetheless.
Since when did Russell make children’s furniture?
As he held it closer, one of the little legs gave way and clattered to the floor. A jagged crack had been only temporarily fixed by jamming the leg into place in the hopes it would hold.
He turned to show it to the child, but she had already left.
Grumbling under his breath, Hayden set the chair down and exited the shed, closing the door behind him.
Genevieve was standing several feet away, clutching her dolls to her chest, watching as Hayden slipped the key from the lock and returned it to the little box on the veranda.
He turned to face her and felt awkward, almost unable to meet her gaze. “You’d better be on your way,” he signed. “I’m sure your mother wouldn’t want you talking to strangers.”
Adjusting her hold on her companions, Genevieve extended her hands. “Uncle Max says you’re not a stranger. He says you’re a doctor.”
Hayden’s face darkened as he shoved his hands in the pockets of his jeans, drawing them out just a moment later. “Oh, I am definitely a stranger,” he signed. “And I’m certainly not much of a doctor.”
Scowling, he extended a finger. “Go on. I have work to do and I don’t need a child underfoot.”
The child appeared hurt by his dismissal and her expression tightened. Much to his surprise, Hayden thought she was going to cry.
She whirled around and marched across the lawn. She rested her hand on the gate, hesitating, and looked back at him, but he turned away.
She opened the gate and fled.
~ Chapter 11 ~
A WALL-MOUNTED, ANTIQUE RAILWAY CLOCK GAVE A SINGLE CHIME. FROM HER CROUCHED POSITION IN FRONT OF THE glass-fronted refrigerator, Annette turned to look up at it.
5:30 a.m.
She took a final pair of milk cartons from a crate at her feet, placed them on the shelf inside, and took a moment to turn a couple of smaller cartons so their labels were facing front. Satisfied, she closed the door, took a cloth from her apron, and wiped down the glass. She gave a happy nod as the bell above the door tinkled.
Isabelle Sampi, rugged up in a thick jacket, brightly coloured scarf, and matching beanie, hefted a quaint little trolley up over the step. Annette went to help her.
Following Isabelle, still half asleep, was Genevieve. She gave a long yawn as Annette bent down to gather her in for a hug.
“Look at you two,” she enthused, plucking at the wool fibres of Genevieve’s beanie. “Two peas in a pod. I’m so pleased to see my knitting worn so handsomely.”
Isabelle reached behind her to close the door, peeled off her own beanie, and mussed her hair. Genevieve had already begun to remove her jacket and woollens. Isabelle helped, hanging them beside her own, then ushered her through to the dining room where a table had been set with a single bowl, a spoon, a jug of milk, and a glass of orange juice. Isabelle regarded the breakfast setting as Genevieve climbed into the chair. It was a little custom Annette had struck up to serve them both breakfast on delivery days.
The sound of paper rustling behind Isabelle prompted her to turn and she watched her friend sifting through the trolley. “Mm-mmm,” Annette enthused, lifting the first of several large loaves of bread from inside. Steam curled from its golden surface, which was speckled with tiny black seeds. “These smell absolutely gorgeous, Belle. This is that new pumpkin and poppy seed recipe you’re going with, isn’t it?”
Isabelle stepped forward to help Annette transfer the loaves to a rack behind the counter. “It’s turning out to be a real winner with the wood oven, though I’m certain I’ll be able to produce better loaves once I start using the electric.”
“What? You’re saying these aren’t your best?” Annette fixed Isabelle with a glare of mock incredulity.
Isabelle chuckled. “Not at all. I’m just saying it’s still a little tricky managing the fire. The heat can be unpredictable. I’m having to hold back a few loaves because they’re not up to par. But I’m close. Trust me, Nette, these loaves are hard-won.”
Annette grinned as Isabelle handed over the last two. “Well, one thing is for certain, they’re not going to last here long enough for anyone to complain. You know the stores over at Erica and Rawson are coming in expressly to get them now, don’t you?”
“That is encouraging,” Isabelle said, rolling the cart over beside the door. “Hopefully, I’ll be ready for my first big bake this weekend. And if I can get the van working, I’ll be making my first delivery run on Monday morning. I figure two delivery runs per week—Monday and Thursday—will be a good start. It’ll allow me to work on the shopfront and refine my recipes, not to mention make life a lot easier.” She raised her hands towards Annette. “Not that I don’t appreciate everything you and Max have done for me.”
Annette brushed her gratitude away with a wave. “We’re only too glad to help. We’re thrilled for you, Belle. Of course, we always knew you would do it.”
The doorbell chimed and both women turned as Max entered, trailing Sam on a leash. Upon seeing Isabelle, Max came over and planted a kiss on her cheek while Annette took the dog and ushered him through the rear of the store.
“What are we thrilled about?” Max queried as he took off his jacket. Circling behind Genevieve, he leaned over and kissed the top of her head.
“I was just telling Belle how happy we are that she’s getting things up and running down at the bakery,” Annette said.
Isabelle saw a glint in Max’s eyes as he glanced at the rack of loaves. Clapping his hands together and licking his lips, he shuffled past her and took one out, inhaling its fragrance.
His eyes fluttered and Isabelle smirked as he set it down on the counter. He took to it with a bread knife, cleaving off a thick slice.
“Max!” Annette gasped. “You can’t keep doing that!”
“I’m a paying customer,” he protested, blowing her a raspberry.
Spreading a generous helping of butter across the slice, he winked at Isabelle. He lifted it to his lips, taking an enthusiastic bite, and his shoulders sank blissfully. “Oh Lord, that’s good!”
The sound of giggling emanated from the dining room and Isabelle turned to see Genevieve’s head poking over the back of her chair.
“Nette is right, of course,” Max enthused as crumbs and poppy seeds fell from his lips. “Marvellous what you’re doing. I, for one, am tickled to see Elliot’s bakery up and running again.” Max’s expression was wistful. “When I was a lad, they had pies and cakes and all sorts of wonderful creations there. Made me sad when it closed down.”
“Well,” Isabelle nudged a spot on
the floor with the toe of her boot. “If I can ever get myself into gear and finish the renovations, the old girl will live again. I’m close.”
“Did you work out what’s going on with your van?” Max ventured.
Isabelle grimaced. “There’s another spot fire I’ve been trying to extinguish. I think so. I’ve narrowed it down to the distributor. Chas Kraetzer keeps promising to track down a replacement for me but—”
All three adults rolled their eyes simultaneously.
“Chas Kraetzer couldn’t organise a piss-up in a brewery,” Max groused. “I could make some enquiries down in Moe if you’d like.”
Isabelle shook her head and sighed. “No. I think I can get this one working. I’ve found the problem. The distributor’s in pieces at the moment, but all I have to do is put it back together.”
Genevieve clinked her spoon down into her empty bowl and twisted in her seat. Annette went over to her. “Wow! Who’s a horse one this evening?” she signed.
Genevieve erupted in a fit of giggles.
Raising her hands, she repeated Annette’s question, signing slowly as she exchanged ‘horse’ and ‘evening’ with ‘hungry’ and ‘morning.’
Annette blushed, then together, they signed her original question once more. This time, Annette got it right. “Fine teacher, this one,” Annette spoke out of the side of her mouth, knowing Genevieve could read lips. “I wish I’d never let myself get so out of practice.”
“She’s doing very well,” Isabelle replied, signing at the same time for Genevieve’s benefit. “She is coming along with her schooling and the materials we get sent to us are really helpful. They don’t take the place of interacting with people in the real world, though. I wish I had more time to take her down the mountain to the school itself.”
Annette held her hands up and faced Genevieve. “Max and I are only too sadden to learn sign speaker along with both of you,” she signed.
Genevieve slapped her hand to her mouth to stifle another salvo of giggling, attracting another disapproving glare from her mother.
“Genie,” Isabelle scolded. “Don’t make fun. You know better than that.”
Genevieve clamped her lips shut and her eyes darted from Annette to her mother.
“Sorry,” she mouthed with sincerity.
Annette scratched her behind her ear. “I think it’s time for a hot chocolate, miss.” To Isabelle, Annette winked. “Coffee?”
“I would love one.”
Still munching on his slice of bread, Max wandered over and sat down. “Well, I think my signing is getting better,” he beamed, manipulating his fingers. “I reckon I’ll be able to teach others soon. I know Ivan Rumph is keen to start practising.”
Taking up her own chair, Isabelle frowned at both Max and Genevieve. “Genie won’t be hanging about at the Walhalla Hotel any time soon. The place manages to attract the kind of riff-raff I’d rather not have her exposed to.”
“Oh, I agree,” he said. “But it is kind of Ivan to want to learn. I think he has designs on having the whole town proficient in Auslan.”
“The doctor can sign,” Genevieve interjected brightly.
There was a moment of pause between them, then Max gave a nod. “Hayden? Yes, he can. He’s very good, too. His mother was almost completely deaf, so he’s known how to sign for pretty much his whole life.”
Isabelle’s expression tightened as she glared at her daughter. “And how did you discover this?”
“When I was trying to rescue Rameeka and Lily,” Genevieve replied. “He signed to me. He’s even better than you, Mum.”
Isabelle levelled a gaze at her daughter and her hands worked furiously. “What have I told you about talking to strangers, Genie?”
“Uncle Max says he isn’t a stranger.”
At this, Isabelle turned her glare on Max, which caused him to squirm. “Oh, really?”
“W-well,” he stuttered. “He i-is, I mean, I did. I’ve known Doc Luschcombe his whole life. Surely you must remember him, Belle. Didn’t you kids play together when you used to visit your grandparents?”
Isabelle averted her eyes. “Not really. We didn’t run around with the same group of kids.”
Max’s brow creased as Annette emerged from the kitchen carrying a tray. Isabelle shuffled to one side so Annette could place coffee cups on the table and a mug of hot chocolate in front of Genevieve. The child’s face brightened, seeing a pink and white marshmallow floating on top.
“There were a lot of kids who came up here on school holidays in those days,” Annette commented. “Perhaps you’re thinking of someone else, love.”
Max spooned some sugar into his coffee, staring off as he searched through a voluminous catalogue of memories. He shrugged. “Maybe. I thought I was pretty good with remembering people.”
“Well, in any case,” Isabelle said, lowering her cup so she could sign for her daughter’s benefit. “I don’t want her hanging around strangers, regardless of who they are. You’re far too trusting, young lady.”
Genevieve cowered, holding her mug up to her lips to conceal her face from her mother while Max and Annette exchanged furtive glances.
ISABELLE OPENED THE FRONT DOOR to the bakery and allowed Genevieve to run in ahead of her. She chocked a brick under it with her foot as she reached into the trolley and hefted out a pair of bulging grocery bags. A four-wheel drive lumbered past and tooted, and she acknowledged it with an awkward nod as the driver called, “Morning, Belle,” before disappearing around the bend.
She paused to inspect the weatherboards on the exterior of the nineteenth-century building, which she had only completed painting this past week. She smiled. The old bakery stood crisp and fresh in the morning sun, looking prettier than it had in years.
She passed into the darkened interior and through to the kitchen, and deposited the bags onto a large table. She filled the kettle, set it on the stove, and lit the gas burner, then began ferrying items to the pantry.
Genevieve had settled in front of her laptop, and was now engrossed in a video. A woman presenter walked her through a signing activity, which Genevieve followed as she wielded her hands and fingers in intense concentration, pausing to write in a notebook beside her.
Isabelle padded on tiptoe over to Genevieve’s side, then dropped to her haunches and began signing with her.
Together, mother and daughter fell into concert as they followed the presenter. Isabelle paused to place her hands over Genevieve’s, adjusting them to correct her positioning. Genevieve’s concentration intensified, and she pushed her tongue between her lips as she continued to study the language of her hands.
Isabelle leaned across and planted a soft kiss on her daughter’s temple, then returned to the whistling kettle to make herself some tea. She took her cup, went through to the darkened room beyond the kitchen and flicked a light switch, causing a single globe to illuminate the interior. Isabelle leaned against the doorframe, sipping thoughtfully.
Canvas tarpaulins were spread out across the floor. Two portable scaffolds stood on either side of the room against the walls Isabelle had recently finished replastering, which now awaited a coat of paint. There was still some plastering to finish on the opposite wall. A pair of display cabinets stood dormant beside a refurbished serving counter, and behind that was a pair of racks for displaying bread.
It had taken three years to get to this point.
Isabelle had scrimped and saved, had worked her fingers to the bone in various odd jobs since purchasing the bakery building and coming to live in Walhalla. She had forgone everything but the bare essentials in pursuit of her dream of resurrecting this once-proud establishment to its former glory.
The incomplete shopfront was quiet now, but Isabelle hoped it would not be so for much longer.
On the wall above the rear counter, Isabelle had pinned an old black-and-white photograph. Taken in the early 1970s, the image was of this very building, except it was little more than a skeletal timber frame with an awkward lea
n and rotting weatherboards.
It was a miracle that anyone would have thought it salvageable, much less her grandparents.
Though the bakery had served as their home after they’d rescued it, it had been an age since the building had served the purpose for which it was originally built. Isabelle looked at that photo every day to remind herself what she had set out to achieve. She stood on the cusp now. There were just a few tasks left to complete before she would be in a position to open the doors to the public.
Isabelle switched off the light and wandered back into the kitchen, careful not to disturb Genevieve, and through to the back door.
Outside, a pergola abutted the house, draped in a wisteria that trailed over its upright beams. She sat at the patio table, sipping her tea and losing herself in the mental list of everything she still needed to do.
Next to the pergola stood a relatively new structure, an outbuilding fashioned from corrugated iron and timber over a stone base standing roughly four feet high. This was a new incarnation of the bakery’s original wood oven.
The iron, stone, and brick had been restored using much of the original materials, though Isabelle had had to take some creative license with its final design. On its first test, the oven had exceeded her expectations, producing artisan loaves of exceptional quality. Isabelle was now able to take orders from a small number of clients who were willing to take a chance on her.
This week would be the turning point. Isabelle planned to ramp up her output with this oven. She would prove she could do this—as much to herself as to anyone else.
She was jolted from her reverie by the squeak of the door hinges. Genevieve had appeared at the back door and, as Isabelle turned, she noticed a new arrival standing behind her.
“Gregor?”
The constable dipped his head and removed his hat. “Morning, Belle.”
Genevieve skipped over and squirmed herself in underneath her mother’s arm for a squeeze, then turned and placed herself in Isabelle’s field of vision. “Mum,” she signed hopefully. “I’ve finished my lessons. Can I go and play?”
