Rocking Horse Hill

by Cathryn Hein

  He gazed towards the window, where the sky stretched clear and infinite. ‘I reckon she thinks I’m being used, like with Cait.’ Digby turned back to Em. ‘I’m not. Felicity’s nothing like Cait. She loves me. She had no idea who I was when we met. She’d never even heard of the Wallaces.’ He looked down at the game console, smiling to himself. ‘She was just this beautiful girl who wanted to talk to me.’ He looked up again, still smiling. ‘I’ve never met anyone like her, Em. Fragile but strong at the same time. I still can’t believe she loves me. Not the name.’ Voice cracking, he gestured towards Camrick. ‘Not all this. Just me.’

  To Em’s discomfort, his words didn’t fill her with pleasure in his happiness. Instead they brought envy of his joy, his fortune at finding someone. Digby’s heart was bloated with love, his emotions fierce and magnificent. Something Em hadn’t felt for a long time.

  She swallowed her spiky feelings. ‘It’s good to see you happy, Dig. Properly happy, I mean. It’s been too long.’

  ‘Yeah,’ he said, suddenly sheepish, looking away and blinking rapidly.

  Em let him recover for a moment while her own emotions settled. ‘Gran says Felicity’s keen to visit the farm. You’ll have to bring her out one afternoon so we can climb the hill.’

  ‘Maybe next weekend. We’ll see.’ A flush rose up his neck. ‘I kind of want to keep her to myself for a bit, you know? Anyway, you’ll only tell her things about me.’

  ‘That’s the plan.’ Grinning, she rose. ‘Come on. Let’s go and annoy Mum.’

  A delicious aroma swirled the moment they entered Camrick’s hall. Savoury, meaty scents that put Em’s tastebuds on alert. She smiled, wondering what her mother had made, knowing from the smell that it would be perfect for the cold day, and considered whether to hang around for lunch.

  ‘Something smells good,’ she called, heading for the kitchen, the hall’s floorboards creaking comfortingly underfoot. As a child she used to fantasise it was the house talking, welcoming her inside. Uncle James humoured the idea, telling her the house had secrets it wanted to reveal; all she had to do was interpret its language. Em never did, but the idea still filled her with warmth.

  In the kitchen, Adrienne’s trusty pasta machine was clipped to one end of the granite bench. Felicity stood at the head, feeding in a thick sheet of dough while Adrienne worked the crank handle with one hand and supported the emerging thin sheet of pasta with the other. They were smiling, happy.

  Like mother and daughter.

  ‘Hello, darling,’ said Adrienne. ‘I’m teaching Felicity how to make pappardelle.’

  ‘And duck ragù,’ said Felicity, all trace of Tuesday’s uncertainty gone. She glanced at Em, beautiful despite her flour-dusted cheeks. ‘Doesn’t it smell wonderful?’

  ‘It does,’ said Em, entering the kitchen on legs that felt like stilts.

  ‘It’s Digby’s favourite,’ continued Felicity in that same husky, almost smug voice. ‘I’ve never had duck before. Mrs Wallace —’

  Em’s mother interjected. ‘I’ve told you – it’s Adrienne. You make me sound old.’

  ‘Adrienne,’ said Felicity, throwing a thankful look at her, ‘used duck egg in the dough, too. I’ve never seen a yolk so yellow!’

  ‘Yes,’ said Em, lifting the lid on the pasta pot. A blast of steam heated her skin further. God, she was pathetic. So what if pasta making had always been their mother–daughter thing? That didn’t mean Felicity couldn’t enjoy it too. She was, after all, becoming a Wallace. There was nothing to be jealous of. Chastened, she turned back. Digby was already making a pest of himself, his arms around Felicity, nuzzling her neck. The look Adrienne gave the couple was more indulgent than remonstrative. ‘It’s because they’re richer than chicken eggs. You wait, this will be the best pasta you’ve ever tasted.’

  Felicity smiled and Em was struck by how delicate she was. Delicate bones, delicate hands – even her tiny nostrils flared delicately with each kiss Digby planted on her creamy skin. Her shoulders, though, were very straight, holding her simple white cotton shirt so it draped without wrinkles. The shirt was tucked into a faded pair of jeans that were several seasons old and did nothing to flatter her petite figure. They exposed a sliver of pale skin above the line of her white sport socks and cheap runners. Em wondered how long it would be before her mother took Felicity shopping. Perhaps they could do it together, a girls’ trip to Adelaide, lunch at that new city restaurant Adrienne wanted to try.

  ‘Adrienne said they came from your duck at Rocking Horse Hill.’

  Em nodded. ‘Her name’s Chelsea. You’ll have to come out to the farm and meet her.’

  ‘What a lovely idea,’ said Adrienne. ‘Perhaps Digby and Felicity could make an afternoon of it. Stop for dinner afterwards.’

  ‘Sure.’ Remembering her earlier thoughts about the family and outsiders, she held Felicity’s gaze, her tone sincere. ‘I’d love to have you out. You’re welcome any time.’

  They all looked down as an insistent meow caught their attention. Peaches had crept in to sit at Felicity’s feet, unnerving, pale Siamese eyes narrowed upwards, tail snaking.

  Adrienne made a moue of disapproval and pushed a toe into the cat’s side. ‘Out with you now.’ Peaches retaliated with an ankle swipe and one of those toothy hisses that again reinforced Em’s preference for sweet-natured, obedient dogs.

  ‘Oh, please don’t,’ said Felicity, scooping up Peaches. ‘I love cats. I love all animals.’ She lifted her face to Em’s. ‘Digby said you have all sorts at Rocking Horse Hill. Horses and donkeys and chickens. That must be wonderful.’

  ‘It is. Mostly.’

  Her mother raised her eyebrows.

  Em gave a resigned sigh. ‘Kicki keeps escaping. I can’t figure out how he’s doing it either.’ She turned back to Felicity. ‘Kicki’s one of my donkeys.’

  Mention of the donkeys triggered a lively discussion about Em’s menagerie and other animals from the hill’s history, including great-grandma Agnes’s filthy-tempered Jersey milking cow, and a mischievous goat herd that was great for weed control but caused no end of strife. The stories flooded the kitchen with merriment, and left Camrick alive with the sound of family enjoying one another.

  Finally liberating a loudly protesting Peaches from his fiancée, Digby dumped the cat outside while Felicity washed her hands and resumed her pasta duties. The jealousy Em felt on arrival faded as her mother demonstrated how to roll the dough to the right width, cut the pasta into rough but artful strips, and drape the golden threads over the multi-armed rotary drying rack that Em had bought Adrienne for Christmas several years before. Negativity was impossible to maintain while her brother perched on the stool alongside her, a dopey, lovesick expression on his face.

  ‘You’re staying for lunch?’ asked Adrienne, when all the dough was rolled and cut. ‘We’ll have it now, if you like, so you can get back home.’

  ‘Hard to pass up your ragù, Mum.’

  The kitchen was so cosy that Em didn’t want to leave, anyway. Her afternoon ride could wait a while longer. ‘I’ll call Gran down. What’s she doing, anyway?’

  ‘Smoking on her balcony, probably,’ said Adrienne, before glancing at Digby and Felicity and mouthing, ‘Sulking.’

  Em frowned. Granny B wasn’t the sort to sulk. Snap and snipe, yes, but not sulk. Em’s eyes slid to Felicity, hoping the young girl didn’t feel the snub, but she and Digby were too enraptured with one another to notice.

  ‘I think she’s a bit upset about the tree.’

  ‘I’m perfectly fine,’ interrupted a tetchy voice. ‘Your mother made it clear I was quite unwelcome, so I took the hint and left her to it.’

  Em hid a smile as Granny B sauntered in with a well-filled crystal tumbler, her eyes as glittery as the glass’s cut surface. She paused to survey the scene before taking a large slug of Scotch.

  ‘You were being disruptive.’

  ‘I was not!’

  Adrienne rolled her eyes. ‘She was, you know.’
/>   Em could imagine. Wallace women were all exceptional cooks who found leaving things be in the kitchen almost impossible.

  Granny B sat at her place by the bench while Adrienne began to tidy, shooing Felicity away when she attempted to help.

  ‘We might nick off for a shower,’ said Digby, his cheeks pink and his mind on more than showering.

  Adrienne checked the clock. ‘Make sure you’re back by one.’

  Three pairs of eyes watched them as Digby slung his arm around Felicity’s waist and urged her out. They’d barely turned into the hall before Felicity was giggling.

  Adrienne smiled. ‘I can’t recall the last time Digby was so happy.’

  ‘Must be all that sex,’ said Granny B.

  Em nudged her. ‘Jealous?’

  ‘I am, rather. It’s been quite some time.’ She sighed. ‘Sadly, all my male friends are past it and Levenham has a distinct shortage of suitable toy boys.’ She slipped her granddaughter a sly look. ‘Not for want of trying, mind.’

  ‘Oh, Mum,’ said Adrienne, turning her back and leaving Em and Granny B to grin at one another.

  On Digby’s and Felicity’s return, Adrienne sent them to Uncle James’s cellar for a bottle of Coonawarra cabernet to enjoy with lunch, an exercise that took far longer than it should have.

  ‘Rabbits,’ muttered Granny B in Em’s ear, and once again Em experienced a twinge of envy at her brother’s luck.

  The ragù, as always, was divine; the duck-egg pasta rich and silky. Conversation floated from how comfortable Felicity was finding the stables, to how hard it was for an unskilled person to find work, drifting on to the disadvantage and crime levels of the area in which she grew up.

  ‘You’ll find Levenham rather dull in comparison,’ said Granny B.

  ‘Oh,’ said Felicity, exchanging a secretive smile with Digby that caused his cheeks to redden, ‘I doubt that.’

  Digby cleared his throat and managed to drag his attention to his grandmother. ‘There’s plenty of crime here, Gran, if you look.’

  ‘With much of it secreted away in the Wallace family vault,’ said Adrienne before switching to address Felicity. ‘You’d be surprised how many of Digby’s ancestors were crooks.’

  ‘Only Gilbert,’ said Em. ‘And he was never convicted.’

  Bending closer to Felicity, Adrienne lowered her voice as though about to reveal a great conspiracy. ‘Gilbert scammed the land office.’

  ‘Manipulated the rules,’ corrected Em.

  ‘Cheated,’ said Digby.

  ‘Be careful with your criticism of Gilbert, Digby,’ said Granny B. ‘It’s thanks to him you possess the wealth you do.’

  Felicity reached out to grip Digby’s hand. ‘It must be wonderful to have such a rich family history.’

  Em thought on that as she took a sip of wine. ‘All families have a rich history. It’s just that some are more colourful than others. That doesn’t mean they’re not special.’

  ‘Mine sure isn’t.’

  Curious, Em cocked her head. ‘How do you mean?’

  Felicity shrugged. ‘I never knew my grandparents. Mum was a ward of the state and Dad’s parents died when he was young. He had a brother but he committed suicide when he was nineteen.’

  ‘How sad,’ said Adrienne.

  ‘It was normal where I was from. I was lucky in one way. At least I knew my dad was my dad. Most of the kids I went to school with had no clue.’

  Em was already aware of some of this from what Adrienne had told her, but to hear it from Felicity herself gave it a vividness she hadn’t expected. It made her consider her own privileged upbringing, the closeness of her family. Even with Henry and the divorce, she and Digby knew their roots. She was a Wallace, with a history that stretched back to the district’s settlement. She could trace it back further if she wanted – Uncle James loved genealogy and his records were stored in filing cabinets in one of the spare rooms on Granny B’s floor. Felicity appeared to have nothing but her immediate family, who, from her tone, didn’t appear to be close. How lonely that must feel.

  ‘That’s the past,’ said Digby, rising to curl his palm around the back of her neck and stroke his thumb tenderly under her ear as he kissed her. ‘Now you have us.’

  The caress was gentle and heartfelt, the moment intimate with promise, her brother and his fiancée lost in a world that registered no one but them. Em looked away, feeling like an intruder, while her own desire to experience a love that intense again rose in a hot wave.

  When she looked back, Felicity was smiling at her, the way a sister would, with understanding and sympathy. Em returned the smile. No, Felicity was nothing like Digby’s gold-digging ex, Cait. This girl wanted family.

  And Em would make sure she had it.

  Em sighed, carefully placed her pen down and recapped the ink bottle. Ruined parchment scattered PaperPassion’s counter. No matter how hard she concentrated her hand refused to remain steady. As they had often since the day before, her thoughts drifted towards Digby and Felicity. Em rarely felt sorry for herself but since Felicity’s arrival she’d become increasingly aware of the hollow that Trent’s lost love had left, and wished that she, too, had someone to share her life with, whose protective strong hold forged an armour against loneliness.

  Thanks to improved weather the street was busier than it had been in weeks, yet the space between customers felt infinite, and Mondays were commonly slow. She’d survived the morning, had even found it enjoyable. It had taken a good deal of experimentation but Em had finally managed to string PaperPassion’s new stock up with fishing line, transforming this season’s jewel-coloured notebooks into swooping birds and hovering butterflies. From the street, where the line couldn’t be seen, her new window display appeared a life-filled terrarium. She’d draped off-cuts of satin dress linings in varying shades of green behind it, creating a bower of lushness. More satin sheathed the floor, the surface scattered with silk orchids and fern fronds. But it was the notebooks that made the window spectacular, glowing with the promise of tropical pleasure, a tease for those seeking warmth from winter.

  Of everything she and her mother had in common, it was their artistic streak that dominated. Em channelled hers into her calligraphy, illuminations and gardening, Adrienne into cooking, fashion and home decorating. It was a good Wallace gene to inherit, and Em was proud of it.

  With another sigh, she tucked the parchment into piles and stared out through the shop’s glass door at the street. A woman halted to admire the display before glancing at her watch and moving on. Em checked her own watch. Hours remained, and caffeine would help her through the rest of the day. Giving the street a last scan for approaching customers, she headed into the storeroom.

  The bell over PaperPassion’s entrance door tinkled as she sugared her tea and added a drop of milk. Unconcerned, she took a sip. The stock was safe enough. It was probably someone she knew and PaperPassion wasn’t exactly a shoplifter’s paradise. Kids occasionally stole a fruit-scented eraser or coloured pencil but even that was rare, and the cost negligible. The worst shrinkage occurred from rough handling, when customers tossed notebooks back into racks without care, bending pages and denting covers.

  With a welcoming smile on her face, she rattled apart the bead curtain and stepped back into the shop. A man stood with his back to her at the front shelves, flicking through a sky-blue B5-sized hardcover notebook. His hair was light brown and slightly too long, curling over the edge of his collar. A navy fleece jumper fitted snugly across his wide shoulders, before tapering to hug narrow hips. He wore light khaki cotton-drill trousers, the sort favoured by tradies, and though loose they couldn’t hide the muscularity of his legs. His boots were brown suede and thick-soled. Framed against the artificially bright wall of stationary, he appeared earthy, solid and very, very familiar.

  She checked his left hand. Three fingers, from the little to the middle, were missing, severed at the second knuckle.

  Em placed her mug down behind the counter, her
nerves sizzling. She knew that agonising boyhood injury. She knew those legs, those shoulders, that hair. She knew everything about this man and more.

  Joshua Sinclair turned and smiled the same smile that had pierced her cool as a teenager. The smile that had made her first give him her heart, then her body, and let him preciously tend both until the day she’d snatched them back and broken two people in the process.

  His eyes hadn’t changed. The lids still tilted at the edges, giving him a thoughtful, almost sad, expression that Em had considered mysterious and deeply sexy back then. He had a way of holding her gaze with a toe-curling intensity, his molasses-coloured eyes not moving from hers. It was as if she possessed something he coveted but didn’t know how to take.

  For a heady moment, as his eyes widened in recognition, she felt that gaze again and her heart lifted with the hope that perhaps time had led to forgiveness or, at least, perspective. Then his smile died, and with it her dream.

  ‘Emily.’ He looked away, his mouth compressing, before staring straight back at her.

  And everything in his stony expression revealed that no matter what emotions the years had softened, bitterness wasn’t one of them.

  Four

  Karen had said PaperPassion was Em’s shop. What Josh’s youngest sister failed to reveal was that Em actually worked in it.

  Emily Wallace-Jones, working in a shop. He’d laugh if he wasn’t feeling like such a dick.

  She stepped closer, all legs and haughty beauty, her pale hazel eyes revealing nothing, and held out her hand as though he were some kind of tradesman instead of the man she’d lost her virginity with. The fact that he was a tradesman made no difference. It was the gesture that told him all he needed to know.

  ‘Josh, it’s good to see you.’

  Her voice held the same rich smoothness and articulation he’d once loved. Not affected, but every word given its proper due. He gave her hand a brief shake, resisting the urge to say, ‘Is it?’ Her grip was firm, her skin silky, and he was cursed with a flashing reminder of the first time she’d really touched him, lying face to face on one of Rocking Horse Hill’s sun-warmed crags, her shy exploration an exquisite torment he wanted to last forever.