A Place of Her Own

by Deborah O'Brien

  ‘Hi, Richard.’ For some reason she couldn’t look him in the eye.

  ‘I thought you might like some lamb.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Do you have any room in your freezer?’

  ‘Not for a whole side of lamb. I’ll have to cut it up.’

  ‘I can do that for you.’

  He took it through to the kitchen.

  A sacrificial lamb. Was it to atone for his perceived sins in the alpaca paddock yesterday?

  ‘While you’re carving, I’ll make you a cup of tea.’

  The awkwardness that had wrapped itself around them that night at Millerbrooke seemed to have returned, stronger than ever. She tried to make his tea but kept bumping into him as he carved the lamb.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said.

  ‘No, excuse me,’ he replied.

  It was as though they were being thrown together by some uncontrollable force. Angie placed the mugs of tea on the table with a plate of leftover profiteroles and took a seat on the opposite side to where Richard was packaging the last of the lamb in cling film. Then he put the portions in her freezer. Finally he sat down at the table.

  ‘I guess you’ll be expecting an invitation for roast lamb in the near future,’ she said in a teasing tone, which she immediately regretted when he replied:

  ‘I didn’t bring the lamb because I expected something in return.’

  A long silence followed as she tried to work out what to say next. Finally she blurted out a question she hadn’t intended to ask aloud. ‘What’s going on between us, Richard?’

  ‘I have no idea. Maybe you can tell me.’

  ‘We used to be able to talk about anything, but now there’s this . . . this chasm between us. There’s so much awkwardness and tension. Is it something I’ve said? Have I offended you in some way? If I have, I’m really sorry.’

  He reached across the table, took her face in his hands and kissed her. The second time in two days. She could feel his whiskers against her skin. Surprisingly, they were soft, not scratchy. Then he released her face and said, ‘The tension you’re talking about is of the unresolved sexual variety.’

  She was trembling like a foolish teenager. Pull yourself together, Angela Wallace, she told herself, you’re a mature woman, not an inexperienced adolescent.

  ‘So what do we do about it?’ she asked, as if she were consulting a doctor about the cure for a disease.

  ‘It’s up to you, Ange.’

  What the hell did that mean? He was the most cryptic man she had ever met. Why didn’t he say what he thought, instead of speaking in code?

  ‘Well, if that’s the case, I think it’s best if we remain friends – I wouldn’t want to jeopardise what we have.’

  As soon as the words formed themselves into a sentence, she wanted to take it back.

  ‘I thought so,’ he said. ‘Fair enough. I apologise if I’ve upset you in any way or embarrassed you by my behaviour and I won’t make any physical overtures again.’

  He was already standing up and heading for the door.

  ‘Richard, I didn’t mean . . .’

  But the front door was closing and he was gone.

  3 THE EMPORIUM

  Even though she was running a B&B, Angie continued her Wednesday painting classes in the purpose-built studio section of the vast barn. This year she’d lost an old student and gained a new one. Ros had found herself a full-time job at the pharmacy, a rare thing in Millbrooke, a town where most people seemed to have multiple part-time positions. Her replacement was a friend of Moira’s, Louise Brannigan, the wife of Millbrooke’s mayor. Strictly speaking, he was the shire president, but nobody ever used that term. When Moira had first mentioned Louise, Angie had been apprehensive. If there was one person in Millbrooke she had no time for, it was the mayor. But Moira assured her that Louise was a lovely person and would fit in well.

  During Louise’s first session with the group, Angie was unusually sensitive to the racy conversation in which the women indulged. What would a newcomer make of their sexual innuendo?

  ‘How’s Mark?’ asked Tanya of Jennie.

  ‘Gorgeous.’

  Jennie, who was usually effusive about her love affairs, had answered in a single word.

  ‘This sounds serious,’ said Angie.

  ‘It does, doesn’t it?’ said Narelle. ‘You can tell because she hasn’t told us any of the details of their sex life.’

  Angie glanced across at Louise. Her face remained neutral.

  ‘That’s because it’s none of your business,’ retorted Jennie.

  During the ensuing pause in the conversation, Angie handed out drawing paper and charcoal.

  ‘Do you realise, Angie,’ said Narelle, ‘your painting classes are the longest we’ve ever stuck at anything?’

  ‘We did quilting for a while,’ said Jennie. ‘But Narelle’s right. Maybe we’ve all found our artistic niche.’

  ‘Could we do some life drawing, Angie?’ asked Narelle.

  ‘That’s what we’ve been doing over these last few lessons, when I’ve asked each of you to pose in turn and then the others have five minutes to do a sketch.’

  ‘I was thinking of a nude model.’

  ‘I don’t imagine anyone here wants to pose nude, Narelle,’ replied Tanya.

  ‘I didn’t mean us. I was thinking of an outsider. A professional model.’

  ‘Of the male persuasion?’ asked Moira with a smile.

  ‘Of course. Why would we want to draw nude women?’

  ‘I suppose we could try to find someone in Granthurst,’ said Angie tentatively, ‘but we’d have to pay him. And you girls would need to behave yourselves. No snickering or jokes. Those models are professionals and they expect artists to behave like mature adults.’

  After the painting lesson, Angie asked Moira to stay for another cup of tea. She had set up a kitchenette in the barn with a sink, a jug and even a bar fridge for milk and juice. It meant her classes could run independently of the house. That was important when she had guests staying.

  ‘Moira, I think I’ve done something really stupid,’ said Angie as she handed Moira her mug of tea.

  ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘It’s Richard. I’ve messed things up.’

  Moira sat in silence, like a counsellor waiting for Angie to ­elucidate.

  ‘On Monday he brought me a side of lamb.’

  ‘That’s nice.’

  ‘Yes, it was. But then he kissed me.’

  ‘And you didn’t like it?’

  ‘Well, actually, I did. And it wasn’t the first time. He’d kissed me the day before in the alpaca paddock, but we were interrupted by Joan and Brian coming back in their four-by-four.’

  Moira laughed. ‘Like being caught by your parents, snogging on the couch.’

  ‘More or less. Well, after the second kiss, he said what happened next was up to me, or words to that effect.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I said something dumb.’

  ‘Surely not.’

  ‘I told him I didn’t want to jeopardise our friendship. But I didn’t mean it the way it came out. Why did I say it?’

  ‘You’re scared of being hurt, Angie. Because you really like Richard. You were never serious about Jack, were you?’

  ‘I didn’t love him.’

  ‘And you love Richard?’

  ‘I’m not sure, Moira. He’s wonderful in his own weird way. But I still love Phil.’

  ‘Look, Angie, you’ve only been a widow for what? Less than two years. You’re still raw.’

  ‘What’s Richard’s excuse then?’

  ‘He was hurt badly a long time ago. I told you about his wife leaving him, didn’t I? He’s protecting himself, throwing the ball into your court. He doesn’t want to be rejected. That’s the wor
st thing that could happen to him, Angie.’

  ‘I’m afraid that’s what he thinks I’ve done, Moira. Rejected him.’

  The next morning Angie bid farewell to Joan and Brian, who were heading further west. Diana was booked until Sunday and had hinted she might like to stay longer. And a new couple was arriving tomorrow, Americans on a driving tour. They were from San Francisco, like her former lodger, Jack Parker.

  The fridge was almost empty so she decided to drop into the supermarket on the corner of Miller and Nelson streets and stock up on groceries. Although it was only a couple of blocks away, Angie took the car because there would be heavy bags to carry. It crossed her mind that Richard, the person she’d been avoiding since Monday’s disaster, would have finished his cuppa at the café by now and be back at his house. That meant it would be safe to venture into the main street for her own cup of tea before doing the shopping. Even so, she chose a little milk bar at the east end of town. It was an unpretentious kind of place with a selection of old-fashioned sandwiches – no focaccia, no wraps, just bread and a battered chest freezer containing ice-creams on sticks. Angie ordered a lapsang souchong at the counter, only to be told they didn’t have any. Just ordinary tea.

  A mug was delivered to the table with a teabag swimming in it and a tiny metal pot containing milk. On the teaspoon was a chocolate freckle. Angie loved freckles. She was halfway through her tea, which wasn’t so bad after all, when a hunched figure with a sweating red face and snow-white hair appeared at the door.

  ‘I’ve been looking for you everywhere, Angie.’

  It was Bert Williams, the president of the Millbrooke Historical Society. Like the museum where he spent much of his time, Bert sometimes smelt musty, but it wasn’t a sickening odour, more like a comforting whiff of things past.

  ‘You could have phoned me, Bert.’

  ‘I did, but you were out.’

  ‘What about the mobile?’ she asked, pointing to the small silver device sitting on the table.

  He looked at her with an expression suggesting mobile phones were an invention of the devil, and it was an abomination either to own one or to call someone else on theirs.

  ‘Never touch the things. And those long mobile phone numbers – who could possibly remember them?’

  ‘You can store the numbers in your phone,’ replied Angie, trying not to smile.

  ‘That’s probably why people can’t remember facts and dates any more – everything is on their phone.’

  ‘You’ve got a point, Bert. That good old rote learning we used to do at school didn’t do us any harm, did it?’ Angie said, concealing a smile.

  ‘Nobody knows historical dates nowadays. My grandson thought the twenty-sixth of January was the anniversary of Captain Cook’s landing.’

  ‘I’m sure you put the facts right for him. Now, would you like me to order you a nice cup of tea?’ she asked.

  ‘No thanks, Angie. There’s something I need to tell you. About the emporium.’

  The two of them always referred to Millbrooke’s favourite café by its original name.

  ‘I was talking to Mary Allen, you know, the lady who runs the gift shop a couple of doors down from the emporium.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And she’s been talking to Andrew Wright, the owner.’

  It sounded as though Bert was about to reveal a snippet of ­Millbrooke gossip, only they didn’t call it that in the country. It was the community grapevine.

  ‘Mary said he’s submitted a DA to the council to alter the building.’

  Angie began to frown. ‘What kind of alterations, Bert?’

  ‘You’re not going to like this, Angie. He wants to paint the façade and replace the old awning and posts.’

  Angie’s mouth dropped open in horror.

  ‘That’s not the worst of it. He intends to build a second-storey addition.’

  ‘No!’ It was a shriek. A pair of tourists seated in the corner turned to look at her.

  ‘I knew you’d be upset.’

  ‘Why does he need to build another level? The café’s big enough as it is.’

  ‘That’s the other thing. It’s not going to be a café any more. He wants to turn it into a wedding reception place. Roman columns at the front and Tuscan stucco.’

  Angie exploded, ‘It can’t happen, Bert! We can’t let him do it!’

  ‘That’s what I thought.’

  ‘Are you sure about this DA?’

  ‘We could go up to the council chambers and check.’

  ‘Good idea. Maybe Mary’s got it wrong. If not, we should speak to Andrew Wright. Try to make him see sense.’

  ‘He’s wanted to do it for ages, Angie. To capitalise on all the city couples who come here to be married in one of the old churches.’

  ‘But surely there’s another building he could use instead?’

  ‘Not that I can think of.’

  Angie rubbed her temples. ‘What about the sandstone mill at the eastern entrance to town?’

  ‘The mill? It hasn’t been occupied in years, but it does have a colourful past. Eliza Miller turned the building into a maternity hospital in the 1880s and a generation of Millbrooke babies was born there.’

  ‘So what happened to the mill after that?’

  ‘It was used as a private school for a while. Most recently it was an antiques centre – until the owners went broke and the place fell into disrepair. A great pity. It’s such a beautiful Georgian building.’

  ‘And it would be perfect as a wedding reception place. Pretty setting and lots of parking.’

  ‘I suppose it would.’

  ‘How much would it be worth?’

  ‘Hard to say.’

  ‘I wonder if the owner of the mill would consider selling it.’

  ‘He might. There can’t be any return on it sitting there unoccupied. He’s just paying rates, year after year. I think you might be the best person to suss him out, Angie.’

  ‘Why? Who is it?’

  ‘Richard Scott.’

  It was yet another day of waiting for Richard. Diana had alternated between the Gold Rush Café and the pottery place – a coffee at each. But he hadn’t appeared. Where the hell was he? It looked as though she would have to rely on the open day instead.

  After her coffee, she visited the tourist information office located in a downstairs room in the council chambers. On a revolving wire rack she discovered a selection of postcards. There were several views of Millerbrooke. It was a different house altogether from the one she remembered. No more broken windows. No sagging verandah. No weeds as tall as humans in the front garden.

  She also found a thin book entitled Millerbrooke in Pictures. It was only six dollars so she bought it, together with the two postcards featuring the house.

  ‘Are you interested in Millerbrooke, dear?’ asked the elderly woman behind the counter. She looked like a volunteer.

  ‘Yes, I like old buildings.’

  ‘Well, there’s an open day this Saturday. Tours at eleven and two. Fifteen dollars for adults and ten for concessions. It’s worth the money. I did it a few months ago. You should allow at least an hour and a half. And you can wander around the garden afterwards.’

  ‘Do I need to book in advance?’

  ‘No, just turn up at the house.’ The woman produced a map of Millbrooke. ‘Go to the western end of town and turn right. It’s about two kilometres. There’s a parking area clearly marked. Oh, and watch out for potholes when you drive in.’

  That afternoon Angie and Bert visited the council chambers. The heritage officer was ‘out in the field’, but the woman at the desk told them the issue would be dealt with at the next council meeting. The last Tuesday of the month.

  ‘At least we have time to organise a protest,’ said Angie.

  Afterwards Angie and Bert paid
a visit to the Chen emporium, also known as Andrew Wright’s café. They made their way to the counter, where Ben, the waiter, fetched Andrew, who was in the kitchen.

  ‘What can I do to help you?’ he asked. He seemed friendly enough, as if he expected them to make a booking for a big group. Although Angie had invited him to her launch, he had gone to the other opening instead. He was one of the mayor’s mates.

  ‘I wondered if we might talk to you about your DA,’ Angie began.

  The frown forming on his face indicated he was already on the defensive.

  ‘As you know, Andrew,’ said Bert, ‘this is one of Millbrooke’s original buildings. The façade has remained intact for almost a hundred and fifty years.’

  ‘That’s why it needs modernising, Bert.’

  ‘Most of Millbrooke’s main street is heritage-listed for an important reason,’ said Bert. ‘To preserve those precious aspects of our past which still remain untouched.’

  ‘I’m not planning to demolish the building, Bert. Just bring it into line with the requirements of a twenty-first century business.’

  Angie and Bert exchanged glances. This bloke didn’t get it at all.

  ‘There’s also the matter of painting over the original façade,’ said Bert.

  ‘Bert, this is the shabbiest building in Millbrooke. It needs a fresh coat of paint. I’d be prepared to let you historical people have a say in the colour. I was thinking of a nice turquoise. Then it would stand out from the other businesses in Miller Street.’

  ‘Have you ever considered just moving to larger premises?’ asked Angie.

  ‘You find me a large enough building in Miller Street and I’d consider it.’

  Angie looked at Bert. She would need to overcome her pride and embarrassment and speak to Richard. His mill might be the only solution.

  Diana stayed in on Thursday night, watching television in the sitting room of the Manse. There was nothing to do in the evening. The main street was so empty you could shoot a cannon down it and not hit anyone. The pub at the top of the town was open, but who would want to go there? Certainly not a woman on her own.

  Only two days until their meeting. The problem was that he would know she had planned it. Unless she told him she’d come back to see the house for the sake of nostalgia, thinking he had moved back to Sydney years ago. That could work. She could appear to be as surprised to see him as he was to see her.