He sits on the ground and leans against the fence. ‘There’s nothing else to do anyway. I can wait till Prima’s ready, you’ll see.’
‘All right.’ I bend down and offer him my hand. ‘You’ve got yourself a training position.’
He holds back a smile as we shake.
CHAPTER
11
When there’s a knock on my door on Tuesday evening, I lift Tumbleweed off my lap, settle him on the couch next to me and stack my lesson plans on the side table. I pull up my woolly socks and check my dressing gown is fastened so my short silk nightdress doesn’t show.
‘Who is it?’
‘Hugo.’
When I open the door he smiles broadly, and holds out a bottle of wine. ‘Didn’t you recognise my signature knock?’
Hugo Hallstead was brought up in the country, but his hair is streaky blond and scruffy like he lives at the beach. This year he’s wearing it long; he runs his hand through it, grinning infectiously.
‘I forgot what your signature knock sounded like, just like you always forget that I don’t drink.’
‘I don’t forget, but a true friend never gives up,’ he says, hugging me tightly.
‘There’s nothing wrong with not drinking.’
‘Trouble with you is, you’re afraid of a drinking problem you’ve never given yourself a chance to get. It’s grapes, Sapphie, good wholesome fruit.’
I wave him into the living room. ‘Where’ve you been for the past few weeks?’
‘Down in the mountains, saving lives.’
‘Tadpole lives?’
‘We’ve all got to start somewhere.’
When I came to Horseshoe, I was a city-girl foster kid who refused to talk about her past. I didn’t make friends easily. Hugo was a larrikin at high school, popular and confident, probably the last person I’d trust to even want to be my friend. But he’d track me down at lunchtime and ask if I wanted to swap lunches, as if we were six years old. He’d sit next to me in class and ask for my help, even though he didn’t need it. I refused to have anything to do with him for months, but then he decided he wanted to be a biologist and started spending as much time in the library as I did. Hugo became impossible not to like. We’d study late into the night at school, and spend days down by the river where he’d teach me about the things that lived in it. We went to the same university, four years for me and five for him. Now he works on conservation projects, specialising in critically endangered frogs.
I grew to care for him far too much to ever contemplate having sex with him.
I poke him in the chest. ‘Why are you here so late?’
‘Nine o’clock?’ He laughs as he skirts around me, a duffle bag slung over his shoulder. ‘I’m homeless, that’s why. Mum and Dad have Andy’s kids staying over, and the pub’s fully booked.’
‘On a Tuesday?’
‘A flock of grey nomads flew in this afternoon.’ When he throws his bag on the floor, Tumbleweed looks up and squints. ‘Why don’t they perch in their caravans?’
‘How long will you be here?’
‘I thought you’d never ask.’
I point to the couch. ‘It’s almost as wide as my bed if I take the cushions off, but you know how your feet hang over the end.’
Hugo looks at Tumbleweed and raises his middle finger. ‘I have to sleep with Killer again?’
I laugh, sitting next to my cat and covering his ears. ‘Don’t call him that. He’s a city cat that lives in the house. He likes steamed fish and slow-cooked lamb.’
‘Feral animals, Sapph, can’t trust them.’
‘When he was a kitten, he was feral. Now he’s domesticated.’
‘A bit like you I suppose.’
‘No!’
When Hugo crashes next to me on the couch, Tumbleweed jumps to the floor. We watch as he stalks towards the kitchen.
‘Sapphie? What’s up?’
I smooth my dressing gown over my legs. ‘It’s nothing.’
He bumps me with a shoulder. ‘Give.’
I blow out a breath. ‘My father’s been hassling me, and … other stuff. But now I know what’s happening, I’m fine.’
‘You know I liked you feral, don’t you?’
‘I’m not feral now.’
‘Nope.’ He shrugs. ‘You’re prickly and domesticated.’
When I spring to my feet and take the wine to the kitchen, he follows, rubbing his arms as he leans against the wall.
‘It’s freezing in here.’
‘That’s why I wear a dressing gown.’ I pour milk into a saucepan. ‘Would you like something to eat?’
‘I’m good.’ I’m straining to grasp a wine glass from the cupboard above the stove when he reaches above me and gets it himself. He lifts my collar to the side and plucks at the strap of my nightdress. ‘What’s that shiny stuff you’re hiding?’ He wiggles his eyebrows. ‘Expecting someone?’
‘It’s acceptable to wear silk at any time.’ I push him away and retie my dressing gown belt before filling his glass. ‘You didn’t say how long you’d be here.’
‘Once I’d committed to Thursday, thought I might as well visit my parents on the farm and catch up with friends. Five nights. That okay?’
‘Stay as long as you like.’ I turn my back as I spoon chocolate into a mug. ‘What’s happening on Thursday?’
‘You’re the chair, Sapph.’
‘Of the Environment Committee?’ I clear my throat, suddenly tight. ‘Yes.’
‘Dougie Chambers MP tracked me down. He reckons I’m a local boy made good, so I should give back. Told him I’d be happy to, so long as he remembers it next time I ask for funding.’
‘I thought the focus was the wetlands.’
‘And in the marshes you find …’ He opens his eyes wide and puts a finger either side of his mouth, stretching it out.
‘Frogs,’ I say, laughing. ‘I get it. But I don’t have you down as an agenda item.’
‘Chambers wants to impress some UN guy. I presume you’ve put him on your agenda?’
I stir my hot chocolate until there’s a fluffy, creamy layer on the top. ‘Matts Laaksonen? He was item three but I’ll move him down to four.’
Hugo picks up a small coronet, partially wrapped in sprays of wattle. He turns it carefully in his hands. ‘You made the flowers?’
‘It’s for Mary Honey; she’s in my class. I’m only halfway through.’
He frowns as he studies the tiny yellow spheres. ‘How long does it take to make one of these?’
‘Not long.’ I shrug. ‘Six or seven hours. Maybe eight.’
‘A working day. That’s a few thousand dollars for a banker, a couple of hundred for a teacher.’
‘As if I’d charge my time? It’s for Mary’s birthday.’
‘You are so freaking good to those kids.’
‘I like children.’ I smile. ‘That’s why I’m a teacher.’
‘Your little kids are okay. But the youth program kids you put up with? They’re as likely to spit in your face as thank you.’
‘They deserve a chance.’
‘Like the horses you rescue? Like that wreck of a farmhouse?’
‘I—they’ve been unlucky as well.’
‘You’re a bleeding heart, Sapphie, always have been. Why not mix things up a bit? Find someone who puts you first.’
‘You sound like Ma Hargreaves. Are you talking about settling down?’
He walks around the bench and wraps an arm around my shoulders, kissing me firmly on the top of my head. ‘Why not? You’ve already chosen where you’ll live.’
I force a smile. ‘I’m happy as I am.’
He squeezes so tightly that one of my feet lifts off the ground. ‘You’re still angry with me, aren’t you? I’m sorry about the feral comment.’
‘I overreacted. It’s just …’ I bend my knees, escaping his hold, and pick up my mug. ‘Don’t dare spill wine on my flowers.’
He counts the clusters of yellow, interspersed with grey-gr
een leaves. ‘What variety is this? Golden?’
‘My grandmother taught me how to make it.’
Acacia pycnantha. Golden wattle.
Kultainen kotka. Golden eagle.
Kissa. Cat.
Matts called me Kissa for a reason. He said that, just like a cat, the more he told me to go away, the more that I came back. But I knew he didn’t mean it. I knew he searched for me when I was out of sight. I can’t recall why I chose the name Kotka for him. Eagles are powerful and beautiful, rare and often solitary. I must have been only eight or nine when I named him. Did I see those qualities even then?
Last time I saw him, I told him I wasn’t afraid of him. But …
The touch of his hand.
His serious mouth.
The shades in his eyes.
I could be.
Matts,
I’d prefer not to have to explain to everyone how we know each other, particularly as Thursday’s meeting will be a one-off. Can we pretend we’ve just met?
Sapphie
Sapphire,
Forget you ever knew me.
Matts
CHAPTER
12
The wind finds its way through the gaps between the doors at the community centre, ruffling the papers on the long timber table set up at the back of the hall. I bunch my red coat securely around my legs and stamp my boots on the floor, wishing I’d worn thicker socks.
Almost everyone seated in the first few rows, probably fifty people, is wearing combinations of coat and scarf and gloves. The twice-yearly formal meetings are open to the public, but the same group of people usually turn up. It’s odd to see so many faces I don’t recognise.
Douglas Chambers, the state MP whose constituency takes in Dubbo and many other smaller towns like Horseshoe, strolls up and down the aisle between the rows, nodding and chatting. I’m filling water glasses for him and the other committee members when he walks to the table. He’s a middle-aged cyclist—short hair, super fit, whippet thin.
‘Aren’t you freezing?’ I ask.
He indicates the woollen vest under his suit jacket. ‘Not at all.’
I sit on my chair. ‘Where did all these people come from?’
‘Many have an interest in water management, so Dr Laaksonen was a drawcard.’ He smiles politely. ‘How widely do you advertise these meetings?’
‘I post the agenda on our website, and also the pub and general store noticeboards, and I email it to those who subscribe to our newsletter. That covers everyone in Horseshoe and quite a lot of others.’
He raises his brows. ‘We could do more to attract community engagement.’
‘The committee members notify people and groups they think could be interested. And we welcome anyone who would like to come along.’
‘Excellent,’ he says, before walking away.
Hugo, sitting next to me, kicks my boot. ‘All Chambers is interested in is attracting more votes. Does he want you to knock on doors like he does?’
The committee member on Hugo’s other side, Cassandra Lewis, is a lawyer in her forties. She lives and works in Dubbo, and is active in wildlife preservation. Her hair falls in smooth silver waves either side of her face.
‘Now, now, Hugo,’ she says, smiling. ‘Our local member means well. We’re fortunate he hasn’t delegated his committee role to one of his staff.’
‘You’re almost as bad as Sapphie, the way you stick up for everyone.’
Cassie taps his hand with her pen. ‘Sapphie keeps us all in check, which is why this committee celebrates what the members, and the interests they represent, have in common. Everyone, our local member included, recognises that Horseshoe pulls its weight—socially and environmentally.’
A fresh blast of wind blows in as Gus Mumford opens the doors. When he struggles to close them behind him, I run to help, shoving the doors shut and fixing one of them with the bolt on the floor.
‘They always stick on the threshold,’ I say. ‘How are you, Gus?’
‘Well, thanks, Sapphie,’ he says, lifting his tatty Akubra. When he lowers the hat again, his wild and wiry eyebrows almost disappear. ‘Sorry I’m late. I was shutting my orphaned lambs up for the night. Even for winter, it’s chilly.’
‘Thanks for coming out. Did Freddie pick you up on his way through?’
Gus is elderly, and his eyesight deteriorated years ago. He relies on his tractor to get around his property and on friends to get him into town.
‘He was running even later than me.’
‘Sorry I can’t be more help.’
‘What? After the shock you had last year? I should be the one chauffeuring you about the place.’
‘It’s lucky I live so close to everything.’
‘You’ll be back behind the wheel soon, Sapphie. Just you wait and see.’
I nod woodenly before walking to the table with Gus. Luke Martin, a town planner who works for the local council, has taken his seat and is sorting through the pages stacked in front of him. He has a wide boyish smile.
‘Evening, Gus.’
‘How’s your dad?’ Gus asks. ‘Heard he’s been crook.’
Luke is a little older than I am, and his father is a vet at Dubbo’s open plains zoo. ‘The virus knocked him around, but he’s hoping to be back at work next week.’
‘You give him my regards.’
‘Will do.’
I hold out a chair for Gus. ‘As you can see, we’re all here. Hugo as well.’
Gus rubs his hands together. ‘What about the Finnish bloke?’ He looks around. ‘Our MP will want to wait for his illustrious guest.’
As if on cue, the doors open and Matts appears, his hands deep in the pockets of his faded blue hoodie. When an elderly lady, rushing towards the bathroom, almost runs into him, he stands back politely. The stubble on his face is uniformly dark, but his hair changes colour depending on the light, from sable to far warmer tones.
Sometimes I use stains to get the colours I want for my paper. How would I replicate the colour of his hair? Strong coffee for the darker shades. Weak Darjeeling tea for the browns.
Most people have their eyes on Matts, some subtly and others not, as he walks towards the table. He looks neither left nor right, but his hands come out of his pockets. He yanks the hoodie lower, over his jeans at his hips. Compared to the others at the table he’s casually dressed, but I don’t think he’d care about that.
Mr Chambers holds out his hand. ‘Dr Laaksonen? I’m Douglas Chambers, member for Brindabilly. I’m delighted to meet you.’
‘Call me Matts.’
I’m sitting at the far end of the table. As Mr Chambers makes his way towards me, introducing Matts to the others, I look down as if considering the agenda. When Matts finally reaches my chair, I stand and smooth down my coat. All the buttons are fastened.
When I look up, it’s straight into his eyes. ‘Matts.’ The press of his palm does odd things to my heartbeat. ‘I’m Sapphie Brown.’
He nods stiffly. ‘Sapphie?’
‘It’s short for Sapphire.’
No friendship. No expectations. No how we used to be. It’s better this way. I watch him walk to the far end of the table to sit next to Mr Chambers.
Hugo bumps my leg under the table. ‘Agenda?’ he mutters under his breath. ‘They’re waiting.’
‘So …’ I clear my throat and pick up my pen, placing a tick next to the first item on the agenda. Introduction. ‘Welcome to the meeting, everyone. We’ll start with the committee member reports. After a tea break, our guests, Hugo Hallstead, a biologist working on an Armidale University project, and Dr Matts Laaksonen, an environmental engineer who works with the UN-sanctioned Ramsar Secretariat, will speak to us.’
Member reports. I tick again. ‘As usual, I’ve consulted with Leon Lee, the chair of the Horseshoe Chamber of Commerce, and he’s given me their report on how businesses in the town are limiting water usage already, and the plans they have to deal with projected water shortages …’
&
nbsp; Mr Chambers’s report is next. ‘Our local member of parliament will give an update on the state government’s current water trading and licensing policies, and the impacts of these on current reserves in the Brindabilly Dam. He’ll also comment on the availability of government funding for those already facing hardship.’
Mr Chambers walks up and down at the front of the hall when he delivers his report, arguing that efficient water use facilitates economic activity, and results in more water for environmental use. Most questions from the audience involve criticisms of government policy, but that doesn’t seem to worry him. When he’s finished, I bring Luke’s report to the top of my pile.
‘Luke Martin from the local council will talk about existing dam levels and rainfall projections, and will take us through council and state government negotiations regarding water sharing for agricultural, domestic, industrial, cultural and environmental needs.’
Luke stands behind his chair and looks around the room. ‘The state government,’ he says, glancing at Mr Chambers, ‘is responsible for the Brindabilly Dam. The council is concerned that water-sharing decisions made by the government in good times leaves insufficient reserves in dry times such as these. We had reasonable rainfall the year before last. Far more of this water should have been kept in reserve, not sold off to large-scale irrigators for projects unsustainable in climactic conditions that have become the new norm.’
Besides huffing from time to time, Mr Chambers keeps quiet while Luke speaks. But in response to a question from someone in the audience, with a deferential nod in Matts’s direction, he says he’ll have more to say on water later in the meeting.
Gus never does a written report, just briefs me over a pot of tea. I put the notes of our conversation on the top of the pile as Gus takes off his hat and places it on the table.
‘Gus Mumford will summarise how primary producers are dealing with the drier conditions,’ I say. ‘He’ll also speak about the decisions already being taken by farmers. Some have been forced to reduce livestock numbers already, to lessen the costs of the hard feeding that might be necessary in the summer months.’
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