by Cathryn Hein
Tony’s BMW was pure luxury – leather seats, super efficient air-conditioning, and handing that made the Jumbuk feel like a go-kart – although Callie’s ride in it turned out disappointingly short. Glenmore didn’t have many improvements beyond the house, the machinery shed, aging timber cattle yards and a bore supplying water to the troughs. The country wasn’t rich enough for dairying, nor did it have an irrigation licence, however it was still good quality grazing land.
Despite having had little done to them, the pastures remained in reasonable condition, but the empty paddocks, devoid of bovine stares and lows, left Callie feeling increasingly hollow. The solicitor had advised that, over the last year, as Nanna became increasingly frail and unable to manage, the property had been destocked. Good for Callie, as it was one less thing she had to worry about, but productive properties like Glenmore were meant to be used, not left to rot. Worse, the unchecked pasture growth posed an enormous fire hazard.
‘You’ll want to get onto this,’ said Tony as he inspected a particularly overgrown paddock at the far eastern end of the farm.
‘Don’t worry, slashing’s at the top of my to-do list.’
It was, although actually doing the job remained another matter. Poppy had let Callie sit on his lap while he drove the tractor, but had never shown her how it all worked. Still, she’d give it a go. The tractor was old but didn’t appear too broken down, and she’d spied what looked like a mower in one of the machinery shed’s bays. As Tony pointed out, even a small grass fire could wipe thousands off Glenmore’s value. It was either learn or hire someone, and given Callie’s anorexic bank account, the latter was out of the question. Besides, how hard could it be?
They returned to the yard. Honk trumpeted his displeasure but to Callie’s relief remained out of harm’s way. She’d had enough of his snappy mouth, and the tour with Tony had left her feeling tense and fractious.
‘The house has been let go a bit,’ said Tony, studying the front.
‘I know. It would have been hard for Nanna to keep up maintenance on her own.’
‘Your parents never came to help?’
‘The Hope Foundation takes up a lot of their time.’
At her flat tone, he shot her a speculative glance but commented no further. He continued around the side of the house to the backyard and eyed Callie’s makeshift repair to the water tank’s pipe. ‘Do you plan to do any work on it before listing?’
‘Only the absolute minimum. I hadn’t planned on hanging around.’ She glanced across to where the newly renamed Morton stood, hanging over the fence, dozily watching them. ‘But I might have to stay on a bit.’
‘I know you’re keen to sell but the better the property looks the more you’ll get. It’s a cliché but first impressions count. Although I don’t suppose it matters in this case. Given the location, Glenmore will probably go to a developer who’ll knock the place down anyway.’
Callie focused hard on Tony. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean, you’re potentially sitting on a gold mine. You haven’t been here for a while but Dargate’s had a massive injection of wealth, and people are looking to spend it. The demand for small acreages is huge, and Glenmore’s in a prime location.’ He indicated south. ‘You’re, what, a kilometre from MacLeans Bay?’ His arm swept east. ‘And if that wasn’t enough, you have Becketts Landing and the river just over there, plus you’re barely seven kilometres from town. The only place with more potential than yours is Amberton, and Gramps refuses to sell even though it’s the best thing for him.’
A sick feeling lodged in Callie’s stomach. Glenmore broken up, the house flattened. The possibility had never occurred to her. ‘But this is prime grazing country.’
‘It is, but it’s also prime hobby farmer territory.’ Tony squinted across the paddocks, nodding. ‘This’ll sell fast, all right. I’d bet my reputation on it.’
A motorbike revved in the distance, causing both of them to swing toward the sound. Callie waited for it to come into view, but the bike remained hidden by forest.
‘I hope you’ll give the business to Graney’s,’ said Tony, turning back to her. ‘We’ve a reputation for taking good care of our clients. I’ll make sure you get the best price possible and seeing as you’re an old friend of the family, I can even cut a deal on the commission.’
Callie swallowed. She stared at Honk, at Morton, at the paddocks and machinery shed, at the land her family had loved so much. ‘I don’t know.’
Instead of fading, the motorbike noise increased, carried toward them on the light sea breeze. Callie shaded her eyes, frowning as, to the south, a helmetless rider appeared at the edge of the forest and turned up the firebreak that ran along Glenmore’s western boundary. Though the track was sandy and rough, the rider handled the terrain easily, standing in the saddle, legs and arms absorbing the bumps like springs, loose blue singlet billowing.
Tony glanced at the motorbike and when he spoke, an urgency tightened his tone. ‘I know you’re keen to get this moving. If you want I can have the sales authority drawn up today.’
Honk waddled under the clothesline and lowered his head to feed. What would happen to him if she sold? This was his territory, had been for over twenty years. She couldn’t just leave him. Callie’s gaze drifted back to Morton, still hanging his warty face over the fence, tail swishing at flies, eyes half closed as he snoozed in the heat. What if no one wanted to buy him? The only other place would be the knacker’s and that fate was too sickening to contemplate.
Overwhelmed, she raised her eyes skyward, thinking of Hope, her parents, Nanna and Poppy, trying to stay strong against the terrible ache that gripped her heart and tightened her throat.
‘Callie?’
But her attention didn’t return to Tony. The motorcyclist had turned off the bush track and onto the road. She recognised Matt Hawkins just as he disappeared behind the house. A few seconds later he was cruising past Tony’s car and pulling up behind the float. Rural quiet settled again as he kicked down the stand and switched off the ignition. With an easy throw of his leg, Matt dismounted, rubbing his hand over his head before approaching them.
He hadn’t dressed to impress. His boots were dusty and scuffed. His singlet had a hole in one side and a grease stain on the other. One knee of his heavily faded jeans was rubbed so far through only strings remained but for Callie the look was far more appealing than Tony’s pressed artifice.
Matt wasn’t quite as tall as his cousin, who towered over Callie, but he was built far better. He had the naturally well-proportioned physique of a man who was born athletic, rather than made that way, with wide shoulders and muscled arms, but not heavily so. The sort of body that came from work, sport and good health instead of gym sessions and protein supplements.
He flicked green eyes at Tony before settling them back on Callie. ‘Callie, how’s things?’
‘Good. You?’
‘Not bad.’ His gaze shifted. ‘Tony.’
Tony let out an irritated breath. ‘It’s Anthony.’
‘Sure. Sorry,’ Matt replied, although from the way his eyes glittered he didn’t seem sorry at all.
Callie couldn’t blame him. She liked Tony well enough but the car, clothes and attitude signalled a man in possession of a monumental ego. Plus his insistence on being called Anthony, especially by a cousin who’d known him since childhood, smacked of pretension. It deserved a tease.
Stony-faced, Tony deliberately turned his shoulder on Matt and addressed Callie. ‘About what we discussed, shall I go ahead?’
She glanced once more at Honk, now foraging in the shade of the liquidambar. As though sensing her attention, he raised his head and gave a trumpet. It was enough. The sale could wait until she had these animals sorted. Besides, if Tony was right and Glenmore would sell fast, a week or so delay wouldn’t matter.
She shook her head. ‘Not yet.’
Disappointment flickered on his face before it was covered with an understanding smile. ‘Of course. It�
��s a big decision.’ Tony dug into his shirt pocket for a business card and handed it to her. ‘Think of us though. Before you sign with anyone else. I meant it when I said Graney’s look after their clients.’
She took the card and stared at the bright blue and gold design, fingers loose around the thick stock as she fought the urge to frisbee it across the yard. Instead she addressed him with a polite smile.
‘You’ll be at the top of my list, I promise.’
With nothing left to discuss, Tony nodded his farewell and, throwing a last unfriendly glance at his cousin, headed for his car.
As the BMW crunched back onto the road, Matt turned to her.
‘Sorry to interrupt.’
Callie tucked the card into a pocket. ‘Doesn’t matter. We’d finished anyway.’ Her gaze flicked to his scar. In unmerciful daylight it appeared more severe than at the hospital, giving the impression of bad-boy danger. Yet his kindness then and his tease of Tony today made her wonder. ‘I thought you were supposed to come yesterday.’
‘I would have but . . . you know.’ He shrugged and looked away. ‘How’s Phantom?’
‘Morton.’
He blinked. ‘Morton?’
‘Yeah, Morton. It’s his new name. Like Tony with Anthony.’
Matt’s mouth twitched. ‘Not very glamorous.’
‘Ahh, but he’s not a very glamorous horse.’
‘No, he’s not.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Warty-Morty. I guess that kind of works.’ His expression turned serious as he watched Honk parade across the lawn. ‘So you’re going to list the place with Graney’s?’
‘Maybe. I haven’t decided yet. I still need to talk to the other agents.’
‘I suppose Tony told you it’d probably go to developers.’
‘Yes.’ She looked away and wrapped her arms around herself as stupid tears began to sting.
‘Hey.’ He moved closer but she held her hand up and stepped away.
Damn, she hated this feeling of wrongness. How could selling Glenmore be wrong? It was the right thing to do. For Hope and her parents. Besides, Callie was a barmaid, not a bloody farmer. And what the hell was she doing being such a sook in front of Matt Hawkins anyway? Callie didn’t cry in front of people. Ever.
‘So,’ she said, dropping her arms and plastering a rigid smile on her face. ‘Do you need help with the float?’
‘No. I’m fine. I’ll just load the bike into the back and tow the lot back to Amberton.’
She waited, expecting him to get the hint and leave, but he remained where he was, regarding her as though he wanted to say something but couldn’t figure out what. Callie swatted at a fly, suddenly aware of her stinging skin. It was nearing lunch time and there they were standing in the blazing sun like a couple of foreign tourists. And she had chores to complete. Lots of chores.
‘If there’s nothing else . . .’
‘Right. Sure. You’ve plenty on your plate and I need to get back.’ He nodded, the strange, intense expression disappearing. ‘I’ll see you later.’
Only too aware how much work she had waiting but strangely compelled to watch him, Callie slid into the shade of the back eaves as Matt headed to the rear of the float.
In a few minutes the bike was loaded. Sighting her in the shade, he waved before walking to the LandCruiser’s driver’s door and tugging it open. He stared at the interior for a moment, then back at her. ‘Come round for dinner. Tonight.’
Callie regarded him uncertainly. ‘You mean like a date?’
Matt leaned his back against the cabin and puffed out his cheeks. ‘How about calling it being a friendly neighbour?’
She thought on it for a moment then shook her head. ‘Thanks, but I have a lot to do here.’
‘You sure?’
‘Positive.’
He blew out a long breath and gave a ‘well, I tried’ shrug. ‘Your loss.’
‘If you say so,’ replied Callie, wondering if overinflated egos were a Graney family trait.
‘I do. I cook a pretty mean steak, you know. I’ve even been known to serve it with salad.’
‘I’m sure I’ll survive.’
A lazy smile hooked Matt’s mouth as he looked her up and down. ‘Of that I have no doubt.’
With a last disconcerting wink, he ducked into the car, started the engine and headed out of the yard, leaving Callie blinking into the drifting stone dust, wondering what the hell had just happened.
Six
After Matt left, Callie retreated to Glenmore’s cool kitchen for a cheese sandwich flavoured with some of Nanna’s home-made tomato chutney and a cold drink. Confusion over the morning lingered in the still air, not only over Glenmore’s fate, but also around Matt Hawkins.
She toyed with edges of her sandwich, pinching off tiny pieces of crust. On first meeting, she’d been too distressed over Wal to take Matt in. She noted his kindness, and wondered about that terrible scar, but little further. Then this morning he’d turned up looking at her in a way she couldn’t fathom, asking her over for dinner while throwing lazy smiles and winks that stuck in her mind like mental hangnails.
Maybe it was as Matt said, and he was simply being a friendly neighbour, but Callie didn’t think so. There’d been something too intense about his regard, an almost yearning quality to his gaze that even playfulness couldn’t disguise, and it made her wary – wary, intrigued and annoyed that she hadn’t pumped Wal for more information yesterday during her visit. She’d only brought Matt up because no one had come to fetch the LandCruiser and float.
Matt proved to be the only subject during their conversation that Wal didn’t grump over. Every other topic had left him lemon-faced and rumbling like a volcano. She’d registered vaguely that Matt had came to Wal after leaving the army and wondered if he was one of those traumatised veterans who sometimes featured in newspapers and magazines. People so scarred from their experience of war – inside and out – that they struggled to return to society and sought refuge in isolation. Except nothing about Matt’s behaviour during both their encounters indicated a damaged man. His face, perhaps, but not anything else.
Callie ceased picking at her sandwich. Speculation was pointless. She had jobs to attend to and a cantankerous old man to visit. Besides, what did Matt Hawkins matter? Even if she was intrigued – and if she was truthful with herself, a little attracted – Callie wasn’t about to start anything with him. She had troubles enough.
Despite the air-conditioning running flat out, the sun-broiled ute interior seemed to take forever to cool down. Callie made a mental note to clear a space in the machinery shed so she could park the Jumbuk in the shade. The shed would need sorting anyway, and she should probably run a clearance sale before listing Glenmore. There were always people on the look out for spare equipment and even out-dated machinery could be sold for scrap.
She let out a long sigh. Sorting Glenmore out was never going to be easy but Callie hadn’t expected it to be this time consuming. Besides Morton and Honk, she had over three hundred hectares of overgrown pasture to slash and a house to finish cleaning out. Nor would her conscience allow her to leave until Wal was back on his feet, or at least at home.
Back in Airlie it had all seemed so simple. Get in, clean up and get out, but what she’d calculated would take a few days now had the potential to take a month, which would bring even more problems. The Jumbuk’s purchase six months ago had wiped out most of her savings, and though she’d been careful, her bank account had remained unhealthily low. With her share of the rent still to pay on the Airlie apartment, and mobile phone, fuel and grocery bills, plus the potential of vet and farrier bills, Callie realised she would need to find a job. Fast.
Almost two kilometres of winding gravel road separated Glenmore from Amberton. Callie eased off the accelerator, noting the property’s well-maintained drive, the old but tightly strung fences, the neat white sign proclaiming ‘Amberton’. Details which made Glenmore’s slow decay seem even starker and sadder. But where scrub encased Gle
nmore on three sides, giving it a sense of isolation, forest bordered Amberton only on the eastern boundary.
The property welcomed visitors with two burgundy-painted timber wings placed either side of a front double gate. Tracks carved by countless entrances and exits led away from the wings, leaving a natural strip of grass in the centre that was home to the white-painted steel drum that served as Wal’s roadside mail drop. His house sat a hundred metres or so off Thiedeke Road, behind a thick cypress hedge that had been dense and old and full of shadowy secrets when Callie was a child. At some point the roof had been replaced, and now shiny burgundy Colorbond poked above the hedge instead of the dull grey of Callie’s memory.
The farm entrance drifted behind, the scene expanding into open land dotted with thick-trunked gums and Wal’s satin-coated Black Angus cattle. A needle of jealousy threaded through Callie’s heart and was gone. Glenmore wasn’t Amberton and even if it could be, she wasn’t the one who could make it so.
She put her foot back down, leaving Amberton and her silly ideas behind.
It wasn’t until she’d gone another kilometre that Callie became aware of the changed landscape. She frowned and leaned forward slightly, wondering how it had failed to register on previous journeys, if she’d become so urban and desensitised to country life that the sight of all those smallholdings failed to cause a tiny knot of concern. What was once open pasture populated with cattle and sheep now featured large, expensive-looking houses with immature but well-landscaped gardens and small paddocks containing the occasional pony, cow or sheep. One hobby farmer had two alpacas running in his high-fenced front paddock. As the ute passed, they looked up, brown eyes as huge and staring as Callie’s felt.
Glenmore was far from idyllic but here, behind the neat fences, agrarian decay tentacled across the paddocks like a melanoma. The soil was weed infested and eroded, and the edible plant species that did remain were stunted, rank or made sour through lack of nutrients. The horse paddocks were the worst. She passed one which was almost all mustard weed, its resident pony standing forlornly in the shade of a small iron shelter, dust clouding around its legs each time it stamped a foot against flies.
