I felt as if I’d just jumped into too-deep water. I had meant could I help him get the mixing bowl down, for example. I took the card slowly and read the ingredients, feeling stupid. Then I read the method, feeling a bit stupid for feeling stupid. It didn’t look especially hard. ‘Right-o,’ I said, faking confidence.
It turned out, I was gleeful to discover, that making scones wasn’t so hard. I followed the method on the card and soon I had melted the butter, measured out cups of flour, added pinches of salt and bicarb soda and splashes of milk. I pressed the dough out and Mr Cairn handed me a small glass to cut it into rounds.
After I patted their little tops with milk, slid the tray into the oven and set an alarm on my phone, I mechanically began filling the sink to wash the dishes.
‘Leave those,’ said Mr Cairn, holding one large brown hand out, stop. The skin on his palm was crossed with deep lines.
I pulled on the rubber gloves and plunged the mixing bowl into the water. ‘That’s okay,’ I said. ‘I like doing it. It’s like swimming.’ I splashed in the water a little for emphasis. I could never feel out of my depth when the water wasn’t even elbow-high.
He shook his head and smiled a little smile. ‘So why aren’t you at school? Or do you work? I can never gauge young people’s ages anymore.’
‘I’m finishing school by distance education.’
‘Ah!’ he said. ‘You’re Clive Longley’s granddaughter.’
I suppressed the urge to roll my eyes. Apparently I was infamous. ‘Yes.’
He nodded. ‘And after school?’
‘Ah, time will tell,’ I said, in an attempt to be vague but wise. ‘I’m volunteering at the historical society too,’ I offered, wanting to be more than the useless girl who ran away from her fancy scholarship. ‘It’s been really very interesting to see the museum and get a new perspective on Emyvale and its history.’
‘This house is a bit like a museum.’
A house is a museum. I loved that. It was especially true of an old house that’s seen generations and renovations. ‘How long have you lived here?’ I asked.
‘Eighty-eight years,’ he said, his voice a little heavy. ‘I was born here. My father built this house before he was married.’ The heavy voice had given way to pride.
I smiled. ‘That’s amazing. Do you have pictures from when it was first built?’
Just then Jarrod came through the kitchen door, in sock-feet. ‘I put everything away in the shed and stacked the good bits of that wood outside the back door,’ he said. ‘Should burn pretty well.’
‘Good lad.’ Mr Cairn creaked to standing and shuffled around, collecting three plates and three knives and putting them on the table. ‘Adelaide has made scones. Sit down.’
‘I feel like I should help Mr Cairn,’ I said to Jarrod when we left. I said that I should come by every morning to make sure he was okay.
‘Not much you can do about it.’
‘I know.’
‘These old fogies have been young. They’ve already done all the cool stuff they’re going to.’
‘I suppose. But what if they haven’t?’
‘Haven’t what?’
‘Done all the stuff they wanted?’
‘I thought you believed in fate.’
I thought about the lines on Mr Cairn’s old, leathery hand. Crossing and intersecting with life, love and health lines. Signs of a life much lived. ‘You know I’m not sure.’
Jarrod caught my arm, which was swinging as I walked, and pulled me to him.
We pressed ourselves into the hedge that ran along the footpath and were soon practically obscured by the foliage. My world had narrowed to green, to dappled early-springtime light and to Jarrod’s face and my arms around his neck.
As we kissed and kissed, I am ashamed to admit I forgot about Mr Cairn and scones and fate completely.
Things were so well-dusted in the historical society nowadays; the folders and books in the bookshelves stood straight and in order. The pink duster and I were intimate. My routine was ingrained. Everyday historical society life had got even more mundane.
Dusting.
Cup of tea.
Check website visitor stats. Disappointing.
Cup of tea plus chocolate biscuit for comfort after reading stats.
Squirt of Windex here, wipe with a paper towel there.
One morning, while making my lazy rounds, I stared at the shelves, let my eyes drift across their contents. Grandad was looking through some dusty archives, preparing for a meeting later that day. A man was researching his family and had happened upon some references to Emyvale, so he was coming down to look through anything we had.
‘There must be so many interesting stories from the people around here.’
Grandad tapped the spine of a book. ‘There are.’
A Settler’s Story of Emyvale, I read. ‘But what about more recent stuff?’
‘Well, there’s a lot of the information you need here, and we can apply to Births, Deaths and Marriages for more. We’ve got an archive of the local rag—’
‘Complete with accounts of sheep sales and Country Women’s Association successes.’
‘Don’t be like that. The National War Museum would be able to give you details of who served in the wars – but so could a trip down the avenue.’
I had walked Emyvale’s avenue of memorial pines before, but never read the plaques. ‘Maybe people aren’t interested in knowing the stories.’
‘I don’t know about that, Addie.’
‘Our family arrived in the area around the same time as Sam’s, didn’t they?’
Grandad looked up. ‘Aren’t you studying? Or are you writing the updated history of Emyvale?’
For a fraction of a second I had leaped forward into the future – me, the author of A Brief History of Emyvale. But my subconscious laughed at me so I let that ridiculous daydream go. ‘I’m beginning to prefer history.’
‘Well,’ he said, ‘it won’t help you understand your French Revolution textbook any better.’
I grinned. ‘Oh, let me eat cake!’
If it were a movie, my life, I would go out and rustle up support from the community and we would celebrate Emyvale’s past – someone would re-create the Victoria sponge that won their great-grandmother the blue ribbon at the Royal Melbourne Show, and they would bring along family heirlooms to show and potentially donate to the society.
I whacked thoughtfully at the row of lever arch folders with my duster and headed into the kitchen.
As I rinsed the teapot, I thought again about Mr Cairn. I scooped in the tea and waited for the kettle to boil, thinking all the while about him being all alone in his house, with his memories. I poured the water in, fitted the lid and slipped on the knobbly woollen tea cosy. Pulled down some cups and saucers, got the milk from the fridge.
And, just like that, the tea was made. No fuss, Charlie, as my gran would say.
‘What’s this?’ asked Mrs Dobbs, coming in and picking up the tin from the table in the kitchen.
I tried not to smile. ‘I made some bikkies.’
‘Adelaide Longley,’ Mrs Dobbs crooned. ‘You didn’t.’
‘Well, since I mastered scones I thought I should extend my repertoire.’
‘Anzacs. My favourite.’
I was fairly sure she was just saying that to be nice. But I could not measure the pride I felt when they all reached for a second biscuit. It was a little embarrassing.
The historical society website was looking pretty boring. ‘You’ve scanned photos, yeah?’ I called out to Bill.
His hand dropped quickly from his nose to his pocket. Gross. ‘Yes, yes, I have. I’ve done boxes of them.’
‘Where do you save them?’
‘Why?’ He looked nervous.
I gestured at the screen. ‘I th
ought I could put some up on the website.’
He slapped his hand on his leg. ‘You’re an innovator, young Longley. They’re on those disks over there. Go for your life.’ Turning back to his computer, leaning into the screen and squinting a little, he muttered, ‘Bright as a button.’
Apart from the fact they were USBs, not disks, Bill was right. There were heaps of files, and I scrolled through the thumbnails of black-and-white pictures, many others all sepia-toned – I had to google the word – (though maybe they had just browned with age) and I tapped the down arrow and watched the faces, the houses, the scenes, the lives all go past.
I took down the copy of A Settler’s Story of Emyvale, placed it on the polished wooden surface of my reception desk, and took a photo with my phone to use on the website’s homepage. I flipped through a few filters before just keeping it au naturale.
It didn’t take long to upload an antique photo for each page and to pop the Settler’s Story in as well as a featured post. Then I waited for a break in the weather. When would this rain end? Good for the farmers, I guessed. ‘Good for ducks!’ Mum would say.
Once the drizzle fizzled, I headed outside. I sploshed down the path and snapped a few photos of the façade of the historical society building. Out of the corner of my little eye, I spied a familiar someone approaching.
‘Hey, Picasso!’
I didn’t look around, just took another shot, artfully making the big tree in focus, and the building behind it blurry. ‘Picasso painted,’ I said, then spun around and winked to show I was just being funny.
‘Whatever.’ Jarrod looked momentarily embarrassed and I felt a jab of shame. ‘You done yet?’ he asked. ‘It’s five o’clock. The others are waiting.’
‘I’m working on the website – we’ve got all these old photos and I found one of this place from like 1912, so I’m going to add a couple of how the place looks today too, modern next to old. I’m kind of on a roll.’
‘You can do it tomorrow, yeah?’
‘But my career!’
He kind of smirked, though looked like he was trying to hide it, running his hand across his face quickly.
I jabbed his shoulder, right in the joint, and enjoyed it a little when he winced. ‘My brilliant career!’
He kicked at me gently. ‘The place isn’t going to fall apart without you.’
‘Might do.’ The space between us grew smaller.
‘But not today.’ He was close enough to take hold of the bottom of my jumper, pull me towards him just a little.
No, maybe not today.
One nondescript day in late September, Jarrod and I went out to the camping ground on the edge of town to use the inground trampoline. We dodged the gloopy mud potholes in the tracks between the patches of grass where tents go, and the permanent vans with their sad little curtains hanging limply in the windows. It didn’t seem like there were any campers.
‘Come on then,’ said Jarrod, bouncing slightly, just enough to move up and down but not enough for his feet to leave the mat. ‘Show us yer moves.’
‘Okay, get off. I don’t want to kick you in the head.’
He bounced off and landed on the grass to the side. He had footy socks on.
I jumped and jumped, getting some height and loving the feeling of my muscles kicking into gear. I really, really hadn’t been using them much of late. Except for running away from school work, Mum would say.
‘Prepare to be impressed. I did springboard diving for a whole term at school.’ I did a stomach drop, a back drop. A stomach-to-back. Then I jumped high and bent forwards to touch my toes. ‘That’s a pike,’ I said after I landed on my stomach. I was unsure about the next one, but I jumped high and threw myself into a somersault. I overshot it and ended up slipping inelegantly and slamming onto the tramp.
After I face-planted, I flipped over and looked towards the sky. My knees burned, and so did the heels of my hands (is that what they’re called? Hand-heels?). The sky was limp and coloured like the water in the sink after you’ve done the dishes. The clouds lingered low and pathetic across the sky.
Jarrod was laughing, but not in a terribly mean way. Just in the amused mocking way everyone laughs (even if it’s only on the inside) when people fall. You can’t stop it, so I didn’t take it to heart.
He jumped back on and I lay like a board while he jumped around me, and over me, and we laughed. I tried to stand up but he’d bounce me and I’d fall. It was hilarious and impossible.
We bounced together for a bit, just riffing back and forth, inconsequentially. I talked about being excited for strawberries in November.
‘I don’t really love fruit,’ he admitted.
‘Not even strawberries?’
‘Nuh.’
‘What about raspberries?’
‘I’ve never had a raspberry.’
This blew my mind. ‘Never?’
‘Nope. They look funny, kind of hairy.’
‘Have you ever had a mango?’
‘Nuh.’
‘Crêpes?’
‘What’s crêpes?’
‘Like pancakes, but French, and all thin and filled with Nutella.’
‘Posh pancakes?’
‘Yeah. They’re delicious. Have you ever had one?’
‘Nuh.’
‘Foie gras?’
‘What’s that?’
‘Like pâté. But grosser. Have you ever had that?’
‘Nuh.’
‘Me either.’
My coat flicked up at the bottom, rising and falling as I jumped. I didn’t have a thermal fleece like all the others did. It was like the town was sponsored to wear fleeces, except the older generation (and Jarrod), who wore big thick woollen jumpers. I had a nice duffle coat I’d gotten on Bridge Road for a bargain one day with Mum when she drove me back to school after the winter break the year before. I’d pretty much guilted her into it.
Whenever I wore my coat I felt like I could have been in a foreign film or even just a regular movie from Hollywood, but maybe a more indie one. I liked the way that it flapped when I ran with it unbuttoned.
I jumped off the trampoline and let Jarrod have a turn to show off. He flung himself into somersaults and flips without a care in the world, no precision but a lot of guts. I sat on the grass, Jarrod’s raincoat spread out underneath me. ‘You reading anything good?’
He did a few back drops before answering, ‘Nuh.’ A couple of front drops, his chin in his hands like an angelic child.
I didn’t want to push it, so I jumped back on the trampoline, chased him around doing giant steps. ‘Argh!’ I shouted. ‘It’s like I’m walking on the moon!’
It’s always easier to talk when you’re doing something else at the same time. That’s what Mia always says. That if you want to get something out of someone, like information or the truth, or to get right down to the problem, you get them busy and that’ll get them talking.
For me, my bullshit layer dropped away when I was distracted. When Jarrod kept his hands busy, it seemed like his brain just kicked in more. You couldn’t talk to him cold, you just got grunts. One syllable at a time, yep and nuh. But the times he’d got going, we’d had some brilliant conversation. He’d said things that had me thinking back over them for days.
He was surprisingly insightful about things sometimes and I felt embarrassed that I’d got it wrong. As we bounced we talked about this movie we’d watched about this guy who lopped the heads off parking meters and was thrown in gaol, and how he had no respect for the prison wardens and ate a buttload of eggs. Jarrod loved it.
‘He was crazy,’ I said offhandedly. ‘Why didn’t Luke just wait his sentence out?’
‘Sometimes you just can’t wait it out,’ Jarrod replied.
My stomach dropped. Here I was, waiting it out in Emyvale. I’d never be Cool Hand Adelaide. I woul
d be adventurous one day. For now I was taking life as it comes. Rolling with the punches instead of delivering them.
‘Hey!’ It was the caravan park manager. ‘What are you kids doing?’
‘We’re just bouncing.’ Jarrod leaped higher.
‘Jarrod Foreman. Quit playing funny buggers. Come on, you’re not meant to be here. We’re closed.’
Our bounces suddenly became synchronised and my knees shuddered and I was double-bounced wildly into the air. My arms windmilled and I flew off kilter and off the trampoline, where I landed rough and wrong in the long grass. My socks became instantly wet and my ankle ached where it had rolled with the thud.
But I leaped up and faked joviality. ‘Sorry,’ I called.
The guy shifted and crossed his arms across his chest. ‘Look, I don’t really care, but if you get hurt it’s on my arse. And I don’t want that on my watch.’
‘Okay. Sorry.’ We shoved our feet in our shoes and scurried away. I was so proud of us that it wasn’t until we were out on the street that Jarrod’s question burst from him: ‘He doesn’t want his arse on his watch?’
Okay, so it wasn’t that funny, but it had us in hysterics.
Taking life as it comes was easier than I thought it would be. I wasn’t being too serious or getting panicky because of crazy pressures. Just letting it happen.
For example, it was delightful to lie in a hot bubble bath on a chilly morning and let ideas paddle around. It was about living in the moment and being thoughtful.
I mindfully pulled on tracky daks, a jumper and shoved my feet into my uggs.
I wasn’t too serious about revising my legal studies paper and I didn’t let myself get distracted by Mum asking me to feed Ears.
When it was my turn to do the washing-up after lunch, I took it in my stride and let the dishes swish around in the sink.
‘So. Finishing up school by correspondence …’ Nick took up a clean tea towel and started drying the plates I had washed. He flicked some detergent bubbles from the plate back into the sink. I always used too much dishwashing liquid, every time. ‘How’s that going?’
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