Emily shook her head.
‘Love mends broken hearts, you know. You’ll back a winner soon, I’m sure.’
‘Well, word’s out there’s a new fella round town,’ Barbara Peters chipped in. ‘He’s living in one of the government residentials. A park ranger. Looks great in uniform. As handsome as he is tall.’
‘She’s a mountain cattleman’s daughter!’ said Vera. ‘That’d be like dating the enemy.’
‘That’s the trouble,’ said Gillian. ‘I keep telling her the parkies aren’t the enemy, but still she goes up there baiting them. It’s something she’s just got to get used to. The law is the law. Just like her father – too proud for her own good.’
‘What would you know, Mum?’ said Emily. ‘You haven’t seen the government’s version of land management – it’s a mess!’
Vera put her large, creased hand on Emily’s arm and said gently, ‘Barb was just saying the new ranger seems nice. That’s all. We don’t have to go over that old ground today. It’s Cup Day – have some fun.’
‘Park ranger or not, he could be a real winner,’ said Barb, wiggling her bushy eyebrows suggestively.
‘It’s not important if he’s a winner or not,’ said Vera. ‘Emily wants a stayer. Don’t you, dear?’
The women all laughed and Emily flushed as she thought of the poor ranger, who had been anything but a stayer that morning when his four-wheel drive had come up against her horse on that kind of mountain terrain.
At that moment, Mavis returned from the pub and the women rushed to help her with her load of ‘ladies beverages’.
After pouring the frothing drinks into delicate hall teacups and toasting Cup Day, the women’s creativity was really unleashed. Like a runaway herd of cows, they became loud and unruly, crashing through the barriers of decorum, their fashion sense fleeing. They began gluing in a frenzy. Empty black and yellow rum cans became feature items for fascinators. Adorned with plumes and flowers, the cans became crowns.
An hour later Gillian shouted, ‘We’d better shake a tail feather if we’re to make it to the club for lunch!’
As they rushed for the bus, high on glue fumes and each other’s company, Gillian looked as if she wore a red-sailed junk on her head and the others resembled Moulin Rouge extras after a bottle-shop raid.
They’d only travelled twenty minutes along the dusty road when Emily heard the inevitable call from the ladies. ‘Wee stop! We need a wee stop!’ She looked in her rear-vision mirror to glimpse a sea of hopeful faces, their coiffed hairdos topped by outrageous feathered, sequinned and flowered headdresses. Emily pulled to a halt and the women tumbled out, tiptoeing in their high heels into a nature reserve of bristly shrubs and flowering yellow wattles, guarded by shiny government signage. She watched as bright-orange, luminous green, fire-engine red and hot-pink plumage bobbed up and down not so discreetly behind the bushes, the movements underscored by shrieks and giggles.
‘Hurry up!’ she yelled. ‘We’ll miss the Cup.’
But the women were chattering and screeching in the bushes like birds of paradise in a jungle. It was then that Emily saw with dread the park ranger’s white four-wheel drive coming around the corner and pulling up behind the bus.
In the mirror she watched as long, tanned, muscular legs ending in laced workboots landed solidly on the ground. Then the rest of the ranger uncurled himself from the cab. She saw that he was lithe and very tall, with dark curls beneath his sweat-stained hat.
As he walked towards her, Emily took in his sculpted features. His coffee-coloured eyes were framed with long black lashes and his skin had the rich warm sheen of polished wood. She felt a sudden jolt of attraction when he poked his head in the bus and stared at her. But his eyes didn’t remain on her face. Instead they travelled up above her head, following the towering plume of white that hovered above her like a cumulus cloud.
‘Excuse me, but is that a chicken on your head?’ he asked, distracted from his original intention of enquiring if they were damsels in distress. The women shrieked as they realised a male was in their presence, and Emily watched feathers wobble behind the bushes.
‘Ah, no. It’s the arse-end of my mum’s Silky bantam rooster,’ she said. ‘So, technically, I have a cock on my head.’
‘Right.’ He turned to glimpse the feathered heads. ‘You do realise that’s a nature reserve? Members of the public aren’t supposed to be in there.’
‘Well, but what can you do? When a girl’s gotta go she’s gotta go,’ Emily said, trying to seem haughty, even with a rooster on her head.
‘I’m sorry, but you’ll have to tell them they can’t wee in the reserve. It could upset the pH balance of the soil.’
Emily’s mouth dropped open. She was about to deliver her spiel on ‘government types and bureaucratic regulations’ when she noticed the twinkle in the ranger’s eye.
‘Lucky it’s not duck season. They could be in real trouble,’ he said, his face lighting up in a big, heart-melting grin. ‘What with the equine flu and bird flu getting about, it’s a wonder you’re allowed to transport them!’
They both burst out laughing.
‘I’m Andrew, by the way.’
‘Emily.’
‘You look familiar.’ The ranger’s eyes narrowed. ‘But maybe it’s just that I’ve met your rooster before.’
Emily swallowed, recalling her ride that morning in the national park.
‘I’m sure we’ve never met,’ she said quickly as she started the sluggish engine.
He tapped the side of the bus. ‘Well, enjoy the rest of the day.’
Just then, Vera staggered from the bushes, crowing, ‘Oooh! Emily’s found a fella! Hey, Em, remember a silky cock on the head is worth two in the bush.’ And the other women screeched with laughter.
As she drove on, Emily shut out the noisy women, thinking only of the gorgeous ranger. Guiltily she relived her morning ride with Snowgum. She’d aimed the mare at the park’s boom gate, clearing the orange metal bar easily. At a jog they had made their way along the track, Emily taking note of the overgrown tracks and tall rank grasses.
For generations her family had cared for this land. Now they’d been locked out – and look what the land had become in their absence. Her grandfather had taught her how fires that burnt too hot destroyed rather than rejuvenated, and how holistic grazing management and natural manuring helped the delicate soils and the rarer species find sunlight to compete with the more robust grasses.
At the top of the craggy bluff, she’d drawn up her horse to breathe in a spectacular view across their remaining cattle run on the foothills. The strong wind meant she hadn’t heard the vehicle approaching until it was only a few metres away. She and Snowgum had spun round, startled. Seeing the four-wheel drive with the formal logo on the door, Emily had panicked. Just like in the movies, she’d kicked Snowgum into a race-day leap, galloping off down the track. Glancing over her shoulder, she’d seen the ranger in hot pursuit. She heard his engine revving as he lumped his way over the rough track. Snowgum crashed through overgrown tussocks, scrambled over rocks, and, just when the ranger was gaining on them, leapt from a boulder down the mountainside. Skidding down over a scree slope, Emily found herself in the thick of twisted gums. Snowgum had weaved expertly through trees and scrub, finding the lower track, and then sailed over the boom gate that drew the line between park and private land. It was here Emily had pulled up her horse to turn and wave cheekily to the ranger, who was creeping his way down the steep rutted track above them. Then she had cantered away, her breath catching and her heart drumming.
Now Emily was feeling a different wave of nerves. Something was clunking loudly and the bus could barely drag itself along over sixty k’s. She changed down gears at the corners, every turn prompting a sway of feathers as the ladies gripped the seats. Then, like a thunder clap, there was a deafening bang. The bus sat down like a dog on the road. Backsides jarred against seats. Women screamed. Hands clutched for balance. Feathers flew. Dust billo
wed. And Emily watched as the two back wheels went spearing off into the roadside wattles. Startled, the women sat for a time, making sure everyone was all right. Then they filed out of the bus, fascinators askew, but handbags intact.
In her Audrey Hepburn-style dress on the red gravel road, Emily stooped to look under the bus. ‘Back axle’s snapped.’
The women stood about, debating what to do, but soon they heard a vehicle approaching. The ranger again. This time with a trailer and crate in tow.
‘Ah,’ he said cheerily. ‘Now my damsels really are in distress!’
He helped each one onto the trailer, taking their hands, warning them to step carefully over the brushcutter and chainsaw. Then he took a squat bottle of brandy from his glove box and handed it to Gillian.
‘For medicinal purposes,’ he said with a wink. ‘Enjoy.’ He turned to Emily. ‘Would you like to ride in the cab? I think your rooster would find it more comfortable.’
His request was met by a chorus of ‘Ooooh’s’ from the older ladies.
He opened the door and Emily tried to sit in a dignified way without bumping the tall plumage on her head.
Andrew set his sensual mouth in a determined line. ‘I bet I’ll remember where I’ve seen you before this race day’s done.’
‘I bet you won’t,’ said Emily. ‘You’ve never seen me before in your life.’
He cast her a cheeky look. ‘Do you like racing?’
‘Not particularly,’ she said.
‘Do you like horses?’
‘Can’t stand them. They terrify me.’
Andrew nodded and smiled.
‘A shame. I’m looking for someone to take me round the park on horseback to show me places I can’t get to with the four-wheel drive. I’m on a project to map weeds and water quality. We’re looking for a team of mountain cattlemen to help us reintroduce periodic grazing to the park as a management tool. I thought I’d found the right person this morning up on the mountain. But that little bird flew away too fast for me to talk to her.’
Emily’s mouth dropped open, speechless.
In the Community Club, Andrew handed Emily a beer and looked up at the TV to watch the glossy Melbourne Cup thoroughbreds so fizzed with excitement they were barely being contained in the barriers.
‘The nation has now stopped,’ Andrew said, chinking the edge of Emily’s glass with his.
‘And … racing!’ came the voice of the TV commentator. ‘First away was Law Breaker, followed by Little White Lies, Self-righteous Lass and Big Misunderstanding.’ As the horses gained momentum, Emily drew her eyes away from the race and saw that Andrew was looking right at her.
‘I’d love you to show me your mountain,’ he said, leaning to whisper the words in her ear.
The commentator’s voice became frenzied. ‘Swallowed Pride is making ground, then Meaningful Dialogue, Common Sense and Good Solution. But it’s Instant Attraction, Instant Attraction making a bolt to the lead.’
The women were clutching each other and screaming, their fascinators creating a sea of vivid colour and movement as the commentator roared out the final yards of the race.
‘It’s Love Conquers All! Love Conquers All is the winner of the Melbourne Cup!’
And in the flurry of race-day fever, Emily felt the arms of the ranger around her, and she was lifted into the air like a bird in flight.
Preserves
‘More slowly, Caroline! Slower!’ Hillary Beechworth stooped and peered through the jar. ‘See the bubbles? You must pour more slowly.’
Caroline sat down the sticky jug of syrup on a tea towel and wiped a curl of grey hair away from her eyes with the back of her hand. She glanced at Hillary and clenched her jaw, feeling her false teeth shift along her gums.
‘What would your mother say?’ said Hillary as she shuffled to the stovetop and squinted at the thermometer from behind her thin spectacles. ‘You’ll never win a show championship with your preserves if you pour like that, young lady.’
‘Hmmph,’ said Caroline to the ‘young lady’ bit. She was far from young any more. Hillary liked to preserve time. Back to the days when Caroline wore her hair in bows. The endless ritual of summer in the kitchen. The sugary smell of boiling fruit. Hillary and Caroline’s mother, teaching Caroline how to pack the jars, what mix of sugar, how to slice.
‘I’m sorry. I know the mention of your mother upsets you,’ said Hillary. Caroline pretended not to hear and lifted the jug to pour again. This time more slowly.
‘Ah. Your dear mother. She was such a good friend and neighbour to me,’ sighed Hillary as she held up a ripe peach and inspected it in the window’s light. ‘How we do all miss her.’
Piffle, thought Caroline.
‘It’s so unsettling,’ said Hillary, pursing her thin lips. ‘Not knowing. It’s hard to credit that this is our second summer without her. God rest her soul.’
Hillary shivered a little as she thought of Marjory here in this kitchen. She always looked so neat. So very neat. And in control – even when they’d both grown so old. Marjory wore navy skirts and stiffly ironed floral shirts. When they got together to do their preserves for the annual show, she wore a crisp white apron which never seemed to stain with anything, not even when they were doing beetroot. There were the pearls, too. A strand of them, each perfectly even. Marjory always wore pearls – even in the kitchen.
Hillary shivered again.
Warmth from the summer sun radiated through the window and swam with the heat from the stove. Two hotplates hissed blue beneath the giant Fowler steriliser pot. Inside, jars filled with perfect, even slices of pears rattled as they sat in the bubble and steam of boiling water.
At the kitchen table Hillary, with gnarled old hands, expertly looped the orange rubber sealing ring over the lip of a jar. She sat it back down in the neat row of glass jars. They stood like soldiers about to march in a parade.
‘I think we should do the apricots next,’ Hillary said. ‘Mr Hopkins left a case on the porch this morning. The season’s been splendid for them. They’ll certainly be fit for a blue ribbon once I’ve finished with them. You’re younger than me, Caroline. Pop out and grab them for me, would you? We’d better get to them before the wasps do.’
Get them yourself, you old bat, thought Caroline, then saw her own reflection in the French doors. She was short and plain. Her grey hair hung down over her craggy face. No wonder she had remained Miss Caroline. Miss Spinster Caroline. Old maid. Her mother had told her she was ugly. Nearly every day of her life. Ugly. When Caroline was sixteen, she had heard Hillary whispering over a pot of steaming tomatoes.
‘Is Caroline simple?’ Hillary had asked. And Caroline’s mother had said yes. On the back verandah Caroline looked at Hillary’s fruit hanging from the greengage tree. Bees and flies buzzed through leafy green. She stepped onto the gravel path and reached up to feel the fruit between her thumb and fingers. Gently, so as not to bruise.
Not long now, she thought. Perfect for preserves. She turned back towards the crate of apricots and lugged the wooden box inside.
‘Careful, dear!’ Hillary cleared a space on the bench top and waited for Caroline to put the box down. ‘God’s gift,’ Hillary said, running her fingers over the soft fuzz of rounded fruit.
As she began to halve the apricots and put the dark kernels into an enamel bowl, she hummed.
Caroline measured out the sugar. Three pounds.
‘Your mother holds the record, you know. Thirty-five years as the winner of the apricot conserve section. Thirty-five years. We shall enter together, Caroline, you and me. And we shall win. In honour of your mother.’
Caroline smiled dully and began to tip steaming water over a jangly collection of silver Fowler lids.
When she turned she looked across at Hillary’s glass cabinet through the doors of the sitting room. Inside hung an array of red ribbons. Not a single slash of blue hung there amongst the ribbons and rosettes.
Hillary always came second to Caroline’s mother.
Caroline smiled again.
‘Oh! The pears are done! Lift them out would you, Caroline?’ Caroline took the tongs and lifted the jars onto a breadboard.
‘Glorious,’ said Hillary from where she stood cutting apricots. ‘It brings me to tears that your mother isn’t here to see them. Oh my.’ She wiped the corner of her eye with her apron. ‘Fancy. Your mother missing. Still missing after nearly two years.’ Fancy, thought Caroline.
Hillary pictured the policemen on her doorstep. One in a sharp uniform, the other in a sagging fawn coat. In her living room as they sipped on tea, she imagined them eyeing her second-place ribbons with suspicion.
‘So you say she often went blackberrying this time of year?’
‘Yes,’ said Hillary, sitting with her back straight, ‘at the river.’
‘The river?’ said the second policeman.
‘Why, yes,’ she said. ‘It runs at the base of our gardens. She went down there every year. For jam. The berries. She was getting frail, you know. She could’ve slipped.’
‘Slipped?’ said the policeman who still wore his hat. She wished he’d taken it off inside. It was the polite thing to do. She raised a handkerchief to her mouth.
‘Yes. Slipped. And fallen in.’ That’s what the locals now believed. That Marjory had slipped and fallen in the river and the thunderstorm of torrential rain that had tumbled from the skies that night had carried her body away.
Today in the kitchen, Hillary removed her glasses and wiped her eyes. The constant sound of the gas stovetop and the rattling jars was making her tired. It had been a long day. Pears, peaches, apricots, tomatoes and, at last, the onions. The rhubarb could wait until tomorrow. She rubbed at her eyes again.
‘How’s that solution coming along for the onions, Caroline?’ Caroline stirred the vinegar, sugar and cloves, breathing in the rich smell. She dipped her finger in the solution without Hillary seeing and placed a drop on her tongue. Bittersweet.
Girl & the Ghost-Grey Mare Page 8
