by Maya Linnell
‘Why the long face? You look like we lost a calf.’
Toby flicked the camera’s power switch and looked at the display monitor. ‘Nah, nothing. You guys did a great job of delivering both the calves safely. There’ll be something I can use in the farming feature.’
‘Heard you’ve got a knack for photos. Penny said something about an exhibition last year?’
Toby gave a modest shrug as he freed up space on the camera’s memory card. The wind tugged at his shirt as Tim drove the ATV across the paddock. He held his camera equipment extra tight. ‘I throw my hat in the ring. The odd photo contest here and there. The exhibition was a favour for a friend. He needed something for his gallery and convinced me to get a few of my better pics framed. I’d love to set up a photography business one day, but for now, I’ve got my hands full with the paper and the odd photo shoot in my spare time.’ Toby thought about the photo he’d taken of Lara a month or so ago. It’d been a beauty, no doubt about it.
‘I’d hate to be landed with wedding photos. All those Bridezillas and cheesy smiles,’ said Tim.
Toby laughed. ‘It’s all in the people-wrangling. It’s kinda neat, being asked to capture someone’s special day.’ He looked back at the camera.
‘Why Bridgefield? You got family down here?’
‘No. The Bridgefield Addy couldn’t afford a photographer, so they needed an editor who knew his way around a keyboard and a camera. My family’s all in Ballarat. And if I play my cards right at this paper, I’ll snag the lead role at the Daily on my return.’
Tim’s whistle whipped away in the breeze. ‘The big cheese, eh? You’d get some pretty epic stories in a rag like that.’
Toby mulled over the stories that had advanced his career. He was proud of his writing. In a perfect world, he would have had time to verify every fact, respect all confidences and cross-check every quote, but a daily paper didn’t always allow that luxury. His press photography was the same, and while he’d relished the opportunities to keep readers informed, his work had taken him to some dark and undesirable corners of the city. ‘Plenty of the same issues as here really, just on a bigger scale to match the population,’ he said.
Toby thought about Mick’s phone call the previous week. Tim would be about the same age as that Samuel Kingsley guy.
‘There’s not as much emphasis on farming news, obviously,’ said Toby. ‘And you’d be hard-pressed to find the city residents rallying together to save the local milk bar, but the bigger issues, like domestic violence and drugs, seem to touch every town. Speaking of which, did you have anything to do with Samuel Kingsley?’
The look Toby received was enough of an answer. Tim’s relaxed smile vanished, and his voice was wary.
‘What about him?’
‘I’m wondering, that’s all. Small town, I figured you might have come across him. It was splashed across the media in Ballarat, but I haven’t heard a word about it since I got here.’ Toby was used to asking unpopular questions and broaching personal subjects in interviews, but here he felt like he was on especially unsteady ground.
‘I knew him,’ said Tim, his jaw tightly clenched. ‘We all knew him. But you’d want to think twice about asking those questions around here, mate.’ Tim gestured to the teenagers on the motorbikes ahead. ‘He doesn’t deserve a daughter like Evie, and Lara’s still getting over the whole shitstorm he brought into their lives.’
Toby felt his stomach twist. Evie’s father? Lara? That bastard …
‘I had no idea,’ said Toby. He shook his head as he tried to imagine the things Lara had dealt with at the hands of Samuel Kingsley. No wonder she was so guarded. There was no way he would touch the story with a ten-foot barge pole now. Not in a million years.
Lost in thought, Toby didn’t notice Tim pulling the side-by-side up in the middle of the paddock until the engine fell silent.
Tim twisted in his seat, his gaze hard and unflinching.
‘Tell me you’re not here to stir trouble, Toby. If this—’ Tim threw his arms in the air, gesturing to McIntyre Park, the farmhouse in the distance, the kids riding the bikes. ‘If this is all some ruse to get a big story for your city paper, then tell me right now, mate, and I’ll drive you straight back to Ballarat myself.’
Toby shook his head, choosing his words carefully. This was a side of Tim he hadn’t seen before.
‘Not at all. Even if I’d known that Lara was involved, which you’ve got my word I didn’t, that’s not my style of journalism, honestly.’ And as soon as he got back home, he’d be telling Mick so.
Tim was quiet as he drove and parked the ATV. Unconvinced? Toby felt his gaze as they walked to the farmhouse. He paused at the bottom of the deck steps and turned to Tim.
‘I’m not that type of bloke.’
‘I sure hope that’s true, mate,’ said Tim, shaking Toby’s outstretched hand. Toby felt the callouses rub against his smooth palms and the strength in Tim’s grip, and he saw the same steely message in his expression. Don’t you dare hurt Lara.
Toby shoved his hands in his pockets. He got it, loud and clear. Hell, if anyone even thought about doing something similar to Holly or his sister Belinda, he’d want their head on a stake too. He could only imagine the legacy that type of trauma left behind. His gaze went to Lara when he stepped inside, his respect for her growing ten-fold in light of Tim’s revelation.
Lara rifled through the laundry cupboards, pushing aside beach towels she’d once used at the high-school swimming carnival, the Holly Hobbie bed sheets that were so vintage they were probably back in vogue, and boxes of Fowlers preserving jars.
She found the sausage press hidden behind an array of last season’s plum jam, tomato sauce and chutney.
A diesel ute idled into the driveway, along with the motorbikes, and Lara paused to check her reflection in the laundry mirror. She smoothed her hair back into its tight bun, narrowing her eyes at the little grey frizzles multiplying in the hairline by her temples. Breeding like rabbits, which was one of the reasons she avoided mirrors. God, if I look any longer I’ll find chin hairs, she thought as she strode onto the deck to rustle up the next batch of helpers.
‘Lost your shirt, Cam?’ said Lara, arching an eyebrow at her nephew. Diana was right: he looked more like a man than ever. All those afternoons lugging bags of chaff and chook food at the farm had transformed Cameron’s large frame from lean to strong. Cam shot a quick smile to Evie and Holly as they crossed the deck. Holly sat taller in her chair. Evie muttered something that sounded like ‘oh boy’.
‘Get your skates on, folks. We need all hands on deck,’ Lara said.
Penny fished one of Tim’s green work shirts from a pile of folded laundry and threw it to Cameron.
Lara was elbow deep in minced beef, sausage binder and soft white globs of minced pork fat when Toby emerged from the laundry, drying his hands on his jeans. His camera dangled around his neck and he lifted it, gesturing to Lara.
‘Mind if I take a few more photos?’
‘Sure,’ said Penny, answering for them all.
Lara looked at her younger sister, vivacious as ever, the picture of good health. There had been a time when she’d resented Penny’s ability to glide through life, travelling wherever she liked, living the city high life and thriving in a career she loved. Lara wasn’t proud of the way she’d let the jealousy fester, almost ruining their relationship years earlier, but they had come a long way since.
‘So, what’s the scoop on you, Toby? Your folks nearby?’
‘Ballarat, and they’re soaking up the royal jewellery exhibition this weekend. Mum’s a staunch royalist,’ he said.
‘Blimey, your father’s a patient man. I’d fake gastro if Diana tried dragging me to one of those,’ said Pete, pausing to sharpen his knife. ‘Flowers are bad enough.’
‘Dad has dementia, so it doesn’t worry him,’ said Toby.
Lara heard the wry sadness in his voice.
‘Sorry, Toby,’ she said. ‘Feel free to tell m
y family to keep their noses out of your business.’ Her arms continued to work like pistons, pumping up and down to emulsify the fat and the meat.
‘It’s okay, but it’s tough, you know. Seeing my dad struggle, when he was always so vibrant and capable.’ Toby cleared his throat. It didn’t sound like a subject he spoke about often. The room went quiet for a moment, the scrape of knives against chopping boards and shuffling feet were the only sound.
Diana gave Lara a look across the bench. More in common, she seemed to be saying. Lara bit her lip, remembering Angus’s accident. The injuries had put an end to his full-time farming days. At least he recovered though. Dementia was a cruel illness.
Penny broke the silence. ‘So, tell me about this fun-run idea, Toby. How much money do you think it’ll raise for the general store?’
They listened as he outlined his idea, the way it would draw tourists from out of town so the store wouldn’t have to rely solely on local cash injections.
‘We could even have it the same weekend as the singles event,’ he said. The suggestion was met with wholehearted agreement from Lara’s sisters.
‘Come for the fun run, stay for the ball!’ said Penny.
‘Or vice versa,’ said Angie.
‘God, it sounds like a logistical nightmare,’ said Pete, shaking his head. ‘Do you really want to take on this amount of work?’
Diana shot her husband a look. ‘You’re worse than grouchy old McCluskey. What route are you thinking, Toby?’
‘We could use it to showcase the local highlights, like Bridgefield Lake …’ He trailed off and glanced at Lara. ‘Maybe Windmill Track,’ he said.
Windmill Track.
Feeling herself flush, Lara scraped the sausage meat off her forearms and hands, keeping an ear on the conversation as she ducked into the laundry. She needed warm soapy water—the best at shifting sticky meat—as much as she needed a bit of breathing space.
‘It’s the best track in town,’ she heard Toby say. ‘Surely McCluskey won’t mind a few folks running along his laneway for one morning? It’s for a great cause.’
‘Love your optimism, mate, but I’m not sure Clyde will see it that way,’ said Pete. ‘He’s the town’s one-man anti-progress committee.’
Lara was drying her hands when Diana joined her in the laundry.
‘Would it kill Pete to be positive for a change?’
Diana reached for the soap and scrubbed her hands so hard, Lara thought she would rupture the skin. She eyed her older sister.
‘What’s going on with you two today?’ Lara couldn’t imagine what Diana’s issue was with Pete, the easy-going bloke who traded in dad jokes and ferried his boys across the countryside for cricket carnivals, cricket matches and cricket training. The bloke who always had a kind word for his wife and a shoulder for all of his mates.
Diana groaned. ‘We’ve been arguing about the general store. I wanted to cash in our shares and invest in the shop. If we had a few major backers, we’d have a much better chance of raising the collateral. Pete still hasn’t recovered from hearing about my whole flower farm idea, he can’t even fathom adding the general store to the mix. I’ve even been giving him the cold shoulder, but that just makes him grouchier.’
Lara felt a stab of guilt, then a wave of self-doubt. She studied her socks. Pete and Diana were the golden couple of Bridgefield—she didn’t want the shop to be a bone of contention between the two of them.
‘Maybe Pete’s right. Maybe we should let the out-of-towners buy it and save ourselves the headaches and arguments,’ Lara said.
‘What?’ Diana nudged her gently with an elbow. ‘Christ, don’t let a couple of stick-in-the-muds talk you out of it. This is the best idea you’ve had since the all-abilities cooking program.’
Lara looked up to see her big sister’s broad smile. ‘If I know anything, I know you can do this, Lars. McCluskey’s got to have a weak spot somewhere, and Pete’s in one of his moods, that’s all. You wait until the bill comes for all the bare-rooted roses I’ve just ordered. That’ll shift his focus, quick-smart!’
Diana tapped the side of her nose, just like their Dad did when he had a secret, then shoved a hand into her pocket. She pulled out an envelope. ‘Almost forgot. This was at the general store this morning. Another shareholder hopefully?’
Diana handed it to Lara and strode back into the kitchen to shoo Leo and Harry away from the Anzac biscuits.
Lara opened the envelope. It was from Brody Pilkington, the young man who’d fetched the parcel for his obnoxious father.
Hi Lara, I can’t manage $5000 but can I pledge $500 for the shop? (Don’t tell Dad—he reckons it’s pie in the sky, but if you’re half as determined as Evie, I know you’ll make it happen.) And please let me know if there’s any volunteer shifts left. I’d love some experience for my resume. Cheers, Brody
The letter confirmed what Diana had said. Lara wasn’t the only one who wanted or needed this shop fundraiser to succeed. Pie in the sky, she scoffed. Watch us!
Toby looked over towards the laundry again. Nobody else seemed to notice that Lara had been in there for quite a while. He set his camera down and picked up his notebook, scribbling down snatches of conversation and snippets of meat-packing information before he forgot.
Between Tim’s revelation about Lara and Samuel Kingsley, and his mind hop-skip-jumping to conclusions about what she must have endured, he could barely remember the cuts of meat Angus showed him five minutes before, let alone the calving rates Tim and Rob had discussed earlier in the day.
Do I tell Lara I know?
He looked back towards the laundry. How the hell did he throw that in the conversation without sounding like he’d been digging into her private life? He felt even more wretched about the photos he’d taken of her and Mrs Beggs, relieved they were properly deleted now.
Nope. If Lara ever wants to mention her ex-husband, we can discuss it then.
He put down the notepad, skirted around the kitchen bench and paused at the laundry doorway.
Lara looked up from the letter she was reading and gave him a smile.
‘Having fun?’ She folded the letter and stuffed it into her back pocket.
Toby gestured to the blood splatters and scraps of meat decorating the muscle-man apron. ‘What’s not to love about meat-packing day?’
His deadpan tone made her laugh.
‘I’m learning lots, and there’s plenty of great stuff for my articles too,’ he continued. ‘I’m really grateful to your family for throwing the doors open.’ Even though Tim still looked a little wary of him, he couldn’t have asked for better hospitality.
A wail of laughter erupted outside the laundry window, where Holly, Evie and Cameron were scrubbing out the big plastic mince tubs. Evie had scooped up a handful of soap bubbles and tossed them at Cameron, and a bubble-war soon erupted on the back deck. Toby watched as Holly laughed and played. It was good, old-fashioned fun. Better for the soul than any clarinet recital.
‘Holly’s having a great time too. It’s nice for her to make friends in Bridgefield.’
‘So, you’re planning on sticking around a while?’ Lara asked quietly, her gaze still out the window. The younger children were running to join in the fun and before long they were all saturated.
‘Sure do. Two years at least, and then …’ Toby shrugged. ‘Then we’ll see.’
Fourteen
Lara opened the fridge and was rewarded with the rich smell of aniseed. She pulled the tray of beef and fennel sausages onto the bench, then drew one of the neatly linked bunches to her nose and took a deep sniff.
‘Blooming nicely?’
Lara started, almost dropping the sausages. She whirled around, covering her embarrassment with a cough. She’d expected Evie to sleep in after the big day on her feet yesterday, yet here she was, bright eyed and bushy tailed.
‘The snags are blooming marvellously. You should get a whiff of these beauties, Evie. Think we should take some to Mrs Beggs?’
/> Evie reached for the orange juice, groaning.
‘You’re bonkers, Mum. Most people take flowers and chocolates when they visit people in hospital, not sausages.’
‘She’s not in hospital, she’s been home for a few days now,’ said Lara, putting some into a bag.
‘Same, same,’ said Evie, poking out her tongue. Even when she was being a smarty-bum, or picking holes in her mother’s life, Lara loved having Evie back in Bridgefield. They moved around the kitchen, working in a familiar but comfortable silence before taking their breakfast to the dining table.
‘Making headway on that fundraising tally, Mum?’
‘Getting closer every day. Some people are making small donations, which we can roll into one share with the other small donations.’
‘Eddie’s been saving his money, and Brody Pilkington has too. He’s hoping for some work experience at the shop. Reckon he’d be any good?’
‘Yeah, I guess.’ Evie shrugged. ‘He always helped out at the footy club, though I think it was more because he was embarrassed his dad wrote himself off every Thursday night. You know his mum left, don’t you?’
Lara had patched up Brody’s mother more than once. Like everyone else at the centre, Lara had cheered when Eleanor finally left her husband, albeit without her son. Brody had hero-worshipped his father, were the rose-coloured glasses finally coming off?
She looped her arms around Evie’s shoulders, thankful she hadn’t been through a custody battle.
‘Yep. But Brody seems to have his head screwed on, finishing high school and looking for work already.’ She hugged Evie a little closer and hoped it was true.
Lara tested a hot sausage, savouring the unique flavours. Real meat, real seasonings, none of the saw-dust texture and synthetic additives like most of the shop-bought ones.
‘Sure you don’t want to try these? They’ll be better after they’ve bloomed for a few more days, but you’ll be gone by then. They won’t have sausages like this back in Ballarat.’
Having finished her eggs, Evie pulled out a Tupperware container and sliced off a sneaky wedge of fruit cake, taking a bite before Lara could object.
