The House On Burra Burra Lane

by Jones, Jennie

  Mrs J had her tweed-trousered legs crossed at the ankle, her silky headscarf tied tight beneath her chin, and her neighbourhood-watch gaze on the newcomer.

  ‘Take your time, Ethan. Nice to see you two getting acquainted. What’s the cat’s name, Miss Walker?’

  ‘Duke. He’s a wanderer so I named him after John Wayne, the cowboy.’

  ‘I understand,’ Mrs J said, rattling Ruby’s lead, the tinkling bell on the harness telling the pig to come back to Mummy’s side. ‘I don’t have a cat but I like a cowboy sort of man. Someone big and strong, a little wild, a little hot.’

  Ethan led a surprised Miss Walker towards the door, practically hearing her thoughts, figuring out what Mrs J had meant by the analogy of wandering cat and wild, hot man, as though it was some country-speak code for the lonely in town who ought to get together.

  ‘How does she know my name?’ she whispered.

  He leaned closer. ‘Small town.’

  ‘Of course. I keep forgetting. It feels colossal right now.’ She stopped and looked up at him. ‘Do you take on building work for anyone, or just friends?’

  ‘Well, normally … ’ He concentrated on the freckles on her nose, three of them. ‘I don’t have a lot of free time.’

  ‘Would you take a look at my porch? I can’t find a builder closer than a hundred kilometres away and I’m sure they’re trying to charge extra because of the fuel costs. I thought I’d give it a go myself but I don’t know where to start. I’ve got a pickaxe though.’

  She was slight, not frail, but he couldn’t envisage her hefting a nail gun over her shoulder as she dragged stumps, joists and wooden decking behind her.

  He gripped the cat box hard. ‘How about three o’clock tomorrow afternoon?’

  ‘Really?’ A velvet sparkle lit her eyes. ‘You’ll take a look?’

  What was he doing? She lived a five minute drive from where he was standing, in a house he dreaded. ‘Well, I’ll … a look. We’ll see … ’

  ‘Thank you, Dr Granger, thank you.’ She held her hand out.

  He switched Duke’s box to his left hand. ‘Ethan,’ he said, trying not to squash the bones in her hand. ‘You can forget the doctor part. I won’t be bringing my … you know … my white coat.’ He smiled, hoping it covered his awkwardness.

  ‘I’m sorry about that,’ she said. ‘And about collapsing on you too. I’ve never come close to fainting before.’

  He didn’t have to look over his shoulder to see Mrs J’s internal antenna pop up. It all but crackled as she tuned in.

  ‘It was no trouble catching you. Just take things easy for the rest of the day.’

  ‘Samantha Walker,’ she said. ‘Sometimes I’m called Sammy.’

  He nodded. He had no idea what he’d call her except one hell of a shock.

  The pig oinked.

  He glanced over his shoulder. ‘I’ll be right with you, Mrs Johnson.’

  ‘No rush, Ethan.’ Mrs J waved him back to what he was doing.

  Ethan turned to Miss Walker.

  ‘How much do I owe you?’ she asked.

  ‘Nothing,’ he said, looking into her eyes.

  ‘Really?’

  Doe eyes; too soft, too engaging. There should be clarity in this somewhere. He’d been shocked into a simple case of unexpected desire that she’d started when … well, he wasn’t sure how this had begun. To hell with it. Get with it, for once. He caught her fingers in his before they slipped from his hand. ‘Miss Walker, are we going to do anything about this … attraction?’

  He waited.

  ‘No,’ she whispered.

  ‘Are we sure?’

  She pulled her hand from his. ‘I really didn’t mean to—’

  ‘I thought I’d ask the question, since we’ve both admitted … attraction.’

  ‘I was joking.’

  Joking? A shot of hurt punctured his chest. ‘Right … of course. So was I.’

  He walked past her.

  ‘Not joking exactly,’ she said as she followed him outside.

  ‘No, really, it’s fine.’ He stood next to her ancient canary-yellow SUV.

  She pulled keys from the back pocket of her track pants and beeped the remote.

  Ethan slid the cat box into the back of the vehicle, closed the door, moved to the driver’s door and opened it for her.

  She hesitated before getting in. ‘I’ve embarrassed us both. This is not the best time for me and I babbled on without thinking.’ She tilted her head. ‘I do that sometimes.’

  She gave him a little smile but her gaze was filled with concern.

  Ethan took a breath. She wasn’t the only one who’d messed up. It hadn’t been fair of him to make a play in the first place, knowing he wouldn’t take it far. Should have taken more note of that cautionary knot in his stomach. Thankfully he’d been dumped quickly, before idiocy completely took over.

  ‘We’ll start over,’ he said. ‘Tomorrow. Three o’clock.’ And they’d make it businesslike.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘No problem.’ He pressed his lips to a tight smile.

  She hooked her hip onto the seat, swivelled her legs in, and fired the engine. He closed the door for her and stepped back as she drove off.

  What the hell had just happened?

  ‘Where’s your assistant vet?’

  Ethan swung around to Mrs J. ‘Gone west. I’ve advertised for another. I don’t expect an influx of applicants in a hurry though.’

  ‘So you’re on your own again?’

  He nodded. It wasn’t as though he couldn’t cope. Wasn’t as if he didn’t usually have to. Plenty of vets with big business on their minds operated within a hundred and twenty kilometre radius, which was fine by him. He had enough to keep him occupied and didn’t need much for contentment. His major investment outside of the surgery was his brand new cobalt-blue utility truck.

  ‘Got your bet placed?’ Mrs J lowered her voice as though the sheep in the field behind the surgery might spread the rumour before she did.

  Ethan thrust his hands into his pockets. ‘I don’t usually bat the breeze, Mrs J.’

  ‘It’s not idle talk, Ethan. There’s a serious bet down. Haven’t figured out why it’s such a big deal though.’ She paused. ‘Been a long time since you set foot inside the gate on Burra Burra Lane, hasn’t it?’

  That damned house. He should have kept it … or burnt it to the ground twelve years ago.

  Two

  Sammy stepped onto the bottom bar of the gate at the end of her driveway, hauled herself up, and settled her bottom on the smooth, pale grey rail. She pulled the hem of her T-shirt over her track pants, and tried to rock the gate with a thrust of her hips. It hardly moved. Stuck in dense clumps of grass, well rooted in the ditch. Perhaps the gate hadn’t been closed for years.

  She looked up and inhaled the country. The scent of growth and earthy regeneration. Grass, scrubby patches of grevillea, gentle alyssum, scattered eucalypt leaves and fallen bark.

  The sound of peace. Hushed but not silent. Humming with unseen activity.

  She swept a hand through her hair and held it back from her face. The air had surely flown over a cold mountaintop and bumped into the sun to have such a freshly warmed tingle in it.

  She ran her gaze up the driveway. Oliver would split a seam on his handmade business suit if he saw this. Her mother wouldn’t hold back the derogatory comments either. But they weren’t here. She didn’t even have to think about them.

  She swung her legs. Everything around her was hers. The pleasure and the promise. This fantastic old gate with crossbars and rusty brackets—she slapped her hands on the rail. The mailbox across the ditch leaned at a drunken angle, but that was easy to fix. Quick-drying cement, probably. Dig a hole, straighten the post, hold the post until the cement dried.

  She wrinkled her nose. How long was quick?

  A flock of birds rose to the sky, squawking and screeching. She jerked, braced on the gate with her hands and feet. The branches of the g
narled gum tree in the field across Burra Burra Lane shook and rattled as gang-gang cockatoos flew off.

  She glanced at her watch. Almost three o’clock. ‘He might not come,’ she said aloud. Strange to speak and have no-one but the insects and the breeze listen. ‘Which is fine,’ she said to the sky. ‘Because I’m only sitting here to take a break.’

  Couldn’t blame him if he didn’t turn up anyway. He’d been kind and easygoing until she’d made that stupid remark about his doctor’s coat.

  ‘Oh.’ She slapped the gate. Too much deliberating. Samantha talking, not Sammy. She’d let a silly moment go haywire, that’s all. She was bound to make a few mistakes; she’d only been here eleven days.

  She took her gaze back to the homestead. She’d transform the house into a home. It sparkled even now, in her mind, in her heart. The sunlight cast dappled drops of happiness on its neglected trusses.

  The burgundy metal roof slanted sharply over three dormer windows jutting out of biscuit-coloured weatherboard on the top floor. The stone blocks of the ground floor, aged to a peppered honey colour, looked invincible beneath the deep colonial veranda running from corner to corner.

  The ramshackle porch extension on her kitchen wasn’t visible from here, but it was near to collapse. The old outhouse needed attention too.

  A truck’s engine thrummed in the distance.

  She turned to the lane. The driver of the big blue ute had to be Dr Ethan Granger. The vet. The carpenter.

  She’d never been shy before yesterday. Not silly shy; the kind that prickled and heated the skin. There wasn’t time for timidity now either. She was no longer the impatient little girl, pretending stillness for her mother, wanting to please and be pleased. The daredevil kid who’d snuck out behind Verity Walker’s stiffened back was up and running again. The grown woman had reclaimed some of the young tomboy’s courage. About time.

  She eased her shoulders down. This was her first shot at making a go of things her way. No-one was going to feel sorry for her, especially not this man. The man who’d possibly already drawn conclusions about her. Well; she wasn’t asking for help, she was hiring help. If he thought he’d be meeting the bashful, retiring type of woman this afternoon, he was wrong.

  Ethan slowed the ute half a kilometre from the driveway. There she was, sitting on the wooden crossbar of the gate, swinging her legs. He’d been six years old when the gate had first been hung. The grass had been kept short then.

  He turned the truck into the entrance of her driveway and swallowed the uneasiness thickening his throat. A five minute drive could sure unsettle a man. He didn’t look at the house. Let’s get this meeting over with first.

  ‘Hello,’ he called through the open window. ‘Is this a good time?’

  She smiled, raised a hand to shade her eyes. ‘Yes. I was taking a break.’

  ‘Want a lift up to the house?’

  ‘Could I hitch a ride on the running board?’

  Surprise stopped him from answering immediately, but she was waiting, her smile hovering. ‘Sure. Hop on.’

  She kicked her legs to push off the gate. ‘I’ve always wanted to do this.’ She stepped onto the silver plate at the base of the passenger door and caught hold of the window frame. ‘Go as fast as you like.’

  Was this a game? ‘Never had a damsel on my running board before.’

  She lowered her face to the window. ‘When I was young, I hung around with a gang of boys who never allowed me to join in their dangerous adventures. Now I want to be perilous. Believe me, it’s long overdue. Just floor it.’

  He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it. What had happened to yesterday? He’d expected wariness between them this afternoon but he was being pulled into something that felt like an old friendship.

  ‘All right then.’ He put the ute into gear and took off slowly. Into second gear, a slight pressure on the accelerator.

  ‘You’re disappointing me!’

  He gave it more thrust and struck the gear into third. If she wanted to fly, he’d oblige. ‘Hold on!’

  As the vehicle curved at speed at the bend in the driveway and her laugh rang in the air, something warm hit the pit of his stomach. A thirty second ride … it was like giving a present, although he wasn’t sure which of them had received the gift.

  She hopped down, flicking tendrils of hair from her face. ‘Where shall I start the tour?’

  His mind wasn’t quite in tune. He needed another few minutes for all this to register but she was moving them right along. Perhaps she’d been teasing him yesterday. He found that notion less frustrating than rejection, and he didn’t need a tour, he knew every inch of the place.

  He got out of the cab, his gaze wandering the property. The sandstone blocks of the house in need of re-pointing, the dulled white paint flaking on the veranda railing and posts.

  She glanced his way. He gave her his friendly-at-a-distance look, and almost saw the veil of relief lift from her shoulders. She was nervous. He eased down a notch or two. He hadn’t wanted to be the only hesitant one, as though yesterday had never happened.

  He stepped around her. ‘I’ll take a look at the porch then. Don’t want it collapsing on you.’ He hadn’t seen it since he’d sold the house six years ago when he’d moved back to town, and it was in a worse state now.

  She followed. ‘I haven’t used the porch.’

  He stamped his boot on the decking. It cracked. ‘These boards will need replacing.’

  ‘Let me show you the kitchen.’

  ‘I don’t need to see inside.’

  She didn’t hear, maybe. He made a move to grab her as she walked across the deck … and missed. At least she’d placed her feet carefully, where the boards joined and were stronger.

  ‘How’s Duke?’ he asked, walking into the kitchen with no choice in the matter. A smell of toast lingered in the air. A few pieces of white crockery waited to be washed at the sink. He didn’t look too hard at the old benchtops or the stove; at any of it.

  ‘Wandering happily and feeding madly. So you were right, he’s glad to be here and away from the city.’ She slapped her thighs. ‘Me too.’

  Somehow, this house always recovered from misfortune and reverted to the home it was built to be. Even now, in its disrepair, he was aware of the lightness in the air, as though the walls sucked up the bad and re-energised the good, giving whatever reprieve it could for the people who had lived in it. Including him.

  A window rattled. White sheets billowed on a ropey washing line outside.

  He checked the walls. The ceiling sagged in one corner, dark stains spreading where rain had seeped through from the bad joints of the porch outside. The whole kitchen would have to go eventually. An expense he wasn’t sure she’d be able to cover. Not that he had any intention of doing the work himself, but he could supply her with names of reputable firms in Canberra if she wanted them.

  ‘Would you like to take a look at the rest of the house?’

  He hadn’t expected to look at anything inside, and rearranged his thoughts quickly. The kitchen was enough. ‘I thought you wanted me to work on the outside.’

  ‘Just take a look.’ She passed him, a waft of fruity scent trailing behind her. ‘There are a few things to fix but they’ll be last on my list. This is a strong house.’

  He dragged his gaze from the window and followed her into the hall. He forced a glance at the staircase but couldn’t keep his eye on it for longer than a beat. He moved to the front door, making his steps even and steady. The door stuck, needing a quick, jerky pull. He took a breath of outside air. ‘This’ll have to be replaced.’

  ‘No thanks,’ she said behind him. ‘The squeak says hello every time I come home.’

  On her own. He didn’t intend to make why any of his business. He turned to her. She had an expectant smile on her face. One that said, ‘Follow me, look what I’ve got.’ He wouldn’t get out without good reason.

  He looked through the opened wooden door to the living room. The wa
lls in need of paint, the carpet worn, but the sense of serenity pulled him forwards.

  ‘This is my favourite room,’ she said, following him in.

  He should have known it would be. He’d spent the better times of his young life in this room, and had made some hard but necessary discoveries about himself in here too, years later.

  She’d placed fat, squashy cushions and striped blankets on the old furniture, most of which he didn’t recognise. Store bought logs sat in a wicker basket on the blackened slate. The hearth was swept, with kindling in the grate, ready to be lit for the cold evenings. This wasn’t the outback, sun drenched and barren. They were on the southern end of the Great Dividing Range. Undulating flat plains that dried out in the summer droughts like everything else in Australia, yet only an hour and a half drive from the ski slopes to the west, so they regularly felt the bite from the Snowies’ Mount Kosciuszko.

  He looked out of the big bay window to the acres of native, open farmland; the sunlight sparkling on the wild grass, making a man want to tramp it in hiking boots.

  He was dithering. He was thirty four years old, not eight. A house shouldn’t hold such fear. Silliness, for a grown man.

  He turned to her. ‘It looks good. You’ve got yourself organised.’

  ‘Thank you.’ She smiled broadly. ‘You should have seen it before.’

  The surprised delight caught him off-guard. Did she have no friends or family to visit her, give advice? And she obviously didn’t know this was the house he’d grown up in.

  He looked for something to distract him. There was no way he was going to bring that subject up. He’d have to explain and he couldn’t lie, but neither could he face all that shame again.

  ‘You sketch,’ he said as he walked to the dining table beneath the window.

  ‘I draw.’

  There was obviously a difference.

  A large artist’s case, pale grey leather, sat on the table next to artist’s tools. The few pieces of equipment were arranged with precision, exactly where her hands would need to reach. ‘Can I see?’

  ‘If you like.’ She slid the case towards her, unzipped it and opened it flat like a book. Many pieces sat neatly in pockets, or under elastic ties, bordered to protect.