Something to Talk About (Rose Hill, #2)

by Rachael Johns

  It would be much better to stick around, show him just how capable she was and have him eat his shitty words. It wasn’t like he was the first person to make a judgement about her because of her little arm. These days she barely even registered such comments, so she couldn’t believe she’d gone at him like that.

  It wasn’t that he didn’t deserve it, but she shouldn’t have yelled at him in front of the kids. Honestly, if it weren’t for them she might just have hit him. Tab was usually a much bigger person than that and the violent streak was definitely new, but something about the new teacher had gotten under her skin. She was surprised by her burning desire to show Fergus that he was not only an arsehole but completely wrong. His opinion shouldn’t matter—didn’t matter—but she owed it to all amputees to show him just how capable she was.

  So, when he instructed the kids to do a half-lap of the oval to warm up, she launched into a run after them, channelling all her angry energy into the activity.

  ‘Now,’ Fergus said, when they were back in a group. ‘We’re going to start with some skills practice—a little bowling and batting—and then we’ll split into two groups based on your ages and play a couple of friendly matches. How does that sound?’

  Usually at this stage the kids would groan about having to do anything like actual proper practice but they all nodded enthusiastically. They were obviously all as in love with him as Ned appeared to be.

  ‘Good.’ Ferg looked to her. ‘Tab? Do you want to take the bowlers or the batters? We’ll do about fifteen minutes each and then swap the groups over.’

  She glared back at him, not giving the bastard an inch. ‘Either’s fine with me.’

  ‘Okay then. I’ll take the batters.’ He divided the group into two, quicker than either she or Terry had ever managed, not that she’d ever admit that to him.

  ‘Come on, guys.’ Tab directed her group to one side of the oval where there were already some cones set up and the bag of balls. She picked one up. ‘Does everyone remember how we bowl in cricket?’

  There was a chant of ‘yes’ in reply, but Victoria Wellington shoved her hand up in the air. ‘This is my first season of cricket. Do you use two hands?’

  The others laughed at her and Tab quickly shushed them. ‘No, sweetheart. Here—I’ll show you and then you can have a go. Ned,’ she called and pointed to one of the yellow cones, ‘you stand over there and I’ll throw to you.’

  Eager as ever to help, he jogged across to the cone. ‘Ready, Aunty Tab.’

  ‘Okay. Come close, Victoria, and you can see how I hold the ball. First, you make sure your thumb is on the seam, like this, and then you line up your index finger on the seam opposite your thumb. Got it?’ Victoria nodded and Tab continued. ‘Once you’ve got a firm grip, you lift the ball close to your chin with your elbow bent. Bowling in cricket is a whole body experience, you’re not just throwing with your arm. Take a run up, plant your lead foot on the ground so it’s pointing towards the batter, and then shift all your weight to that leg as you thrust your bowling shoulder forward and swing your arm like a windmill. Snap your wrist forward just before you release the ball.’

  Tab enacted each step as she spoke, very aware that Fergus appeared to be watching her rather than getting his group started. So she had to bite down on a very bad word when the ball plummeted to the ground a few feet away, rather than hurling through the air to Ned as she’d intended.

  A few of the kids laughed.

  ‘Bad luck, Aunty Tab,’ Ned called, running to pick up the ball and throw it back to her. ‘Try again.’

  ‘Thanks.’ She shot her arm out to catch it but missed by a mile, heat sweeping across her cheeks as she went to pick it up. The next bowl was equally as bad, flying wide of Ned, so it would be impossible for him to catch it. Ned frowned and Tab felt her heart race.

  ‘How about we just get started,’ she said, flustered, as she ordered her group into pairs. ‘One of you start bowling and then swap over when I blow my whistle.’

  As she watched the kids, Tab focused on her breathing, trying to centre herself again, but her skills didn’t improve as they went on. Normally when the kids played the friendly game she’d join in, but today it was like someone else had taken over her body. She was a complete and utter klutz—dropping balls left, right and centre, bowling so badly the poor kids had no hope of hitting the ball, and missing entirely when she tried to bat herself.

  So much for showing Fergus what she was made of.

  About halfway through the game, Adeline arrived with her camera and began taking shots for the paper, which only made Tab worse, and that was saying something considering how bad she’d been so far.

  When the training session finally ended, she could have sung hallelujah to the heavens, but before she could escape, the kids expected ice-cream. With not so much as a backward glance at her co-coach, she strode towards her van. The kids flocked, but even scooping ice-cream, which she could usually do in her sleep, proved difficult. Her arm kept wobbling unsteadily and it took her longer to serve everyone than it normally did.

  ‘Are you okay?’ asked Tennille, leaning against the window when the kids were finally done.

  ‘Fine,’ she snapped. ‘Just tired.’

  ‘Pregnancy will do that to you.’ Tennille chuckled. ‘But I also couldn’t help but hear what Mr McWilliams said about your arm earlier. I’m sure he didn’t mean any harm.’

  ‘I know. But meaning harm and causing harm are two different things.’

  She pulled the service window shut and exhaled deeply in the quiet safety of her van. Tears rushed to her eyes and she swiped them away. She wasn’t sure whether she was angrier at Fergus or herself for letting him get to her.

  Chapter Nine

  On Saturday morning, Ferg was woken just before the crack of dawn by a loud scratching nose. Damn cat. Somewhere in the distance a rooster welcomed the day. He wanted to roll over and pull the sheet over his head, but knew that Mrs Norris wouldn’t stop until he got up and let her in. She’d been out pretty much every night since they arrived, preferring the insects and mice she caught, tortured and then devoured, than his company indoors.

  So much for cats being good companions. That was only the case if they liked you, whereas Mrs Norris hissed if he got too close, even when he was trying to feed her. He had scratch marks up both his arms and had told his students he’d been attacked by a tiger, which didn’t feel far from the truth. More than once he’d asked himself why he’d agreed to keep her.

  ‘Morning,’ he grumped as she sashayed into the laundry, her tail high in the air. He dished some disgusting looking fishy stuff into her bowl. ‘There you are, breakfast is served.’

  Mrs Norris didn’t even acknowledge him so he made himself some coffee and toast, which he took out onto the back verandah to eat. It really was peaceful here, nothing but blue skies and paddocks as far as the eye could see. So different to the city where there was always some kind of background noise—kids playing in the garden next door, planes flying overhead, rubbish trucks on their collection, folks mowing lawns. He’d welcomed the quiet initially, but it felt almost eerie this morning when he knew it was all he had to look forward to for the next two days.

  Why couldn’t school be seven days a week?

  He smiled wryly at the thought. While he guessed many parents would applaud this idea, he had to be the only teacher who would. But the kids made him laugh and teaching gave him a sense of meaning and purpose, which currently lacked in every other area of his life.

  At least from next weekend he’d have junior cricket on Saturday mornings and he supposed he could always go to church on Sundays. Yeah, right.

  Ferg shoved the last bit of toast into his mouth and went back inside, pausing when he saw the envelopes he’d dumped on the hall table. His mail was being forwarded to school, but he wasn’t expecting anything special, so hadn’t bothered with it last night, opting instead for a couple of beers and a night in front of the TV.

  He put the
windowed envelopes aside to deal with later and then frowned at the purple envelope on the bottom of the pile. There was no return address, but he’d recognise the scrawl on the front anywhere. It was Eider’s, and he couldn’t care less about what was inside. She must have discovered he’d had his old phone number changed so had resorted to an old-fashioned approach.

  Why couldn’t she and Jools just leave him the hell alone?

  Annoyed, he ripped the envelope into tiny pieces, dropped them into the bin and then went to take a shower. When he emerged, Mrs Norris was on the middle of his bed, sleeping off her night’s adventures. Ferg dressed, put on a load of washing and then sat down to work on some lesson plans. He paused only to hang out his clothes.

  After what felt like hours, he glanced at his watch thinking it must be time for lunch and was dismayed to discover it was barely past ten o’clock.

  How the hell was he going to get through the next twenty-four hours without going insane?

  Searching for another distraction, he went to check out his landlord’s bookshelf. Even without running a finger along the spines, the dust was obvious. Layers of the same were to be found on the old lady’s ornaments and he could only imagine how Mrs Lord herself would feel if she could see the state of her things, never mind what she’d think about a stranger living in her homely little cottage, having access to them all.

  He felt a gut-wrenching sadness for someone he didn’t even know, or maybe it was the realisation that this could be him one day. A sad old man with no family and a whole load of possessions left to rot.

  Now that was a sobering thought.

  Maybe if Mrs Norris was more of a companion he wouldn’t be feeling like this. Weren’t pets supposed to be good for the soul? Adeline Walsh and her dogs landed in his head—perhaps he should take her up on that offer of a puppy. Yet even as he contemplated the idea, he rejected it, not only because Mrs Norris would torment it, but because he also knew that any cute little white ball of fluff would come with very tight strings attached.

  His gaze drifted out the window towards the weeds sprouting in the rose garden. It wasn’t only the inside of Mrs Lord’s house that needed a little TLC. Ferg had never had the time nor interest in gardening before, but wasn’t it supposed to be therapeutic? Doing something physical and getting some fresh air had to be better than staying inside feeling sorry for himself.

  But the weeding only kept him occupied for so long before the darkness started to creep in again. Flashes of that awful day a few months ago when his world had been shattered kept barging into his head, filling him with a dangerous cocktail of anger, disappointment and bitter sadness. He wondered if it was too early for a beer?

  Would drinking alone before noon on a Saturday make him an alcoholic? Did he even care? He abandoned the weeds and trekked inside to the fridge, only to remember he’d finished his beers last night.

  ‘Dammit!’ As he slammed the fridge shut, he remembered Ned’s dad—what was his name? Lawson?—had given him an open invitation to drop around any time for a chat. Perhaps a short fix of conversation would drag him out of his funk and then he could get on with the weekend, do a bit more gardening, maybe watch a couple of movies.

  Ferg grabbed his keys and wallet and only hesitated a few moments at the front door—it still felt strange and against the grain not to lock it—then headed for his car. He was halfway down the long gravel drive when a thought struck.

  What if Tabitha was there?

  Ned said she lived in a haunted house, but it could quite easily be another house on the same farm. Or even if she lived in town, she might be visiting. Two out of the three times he’d seen her she’d been with family. The idea of another run-in with her didn’t appeal; he seemed to have a habit of putting his foot in it whenever she was around. He’d tried to apologise again at the end of cricket but she’d brushed him off, making it clear she didn’t want to talk about it and wasn’t in the mood for forgiveness.

  Ferg tossed his keys in his hand. Maybe he’d just go for a drive instead.

  Twenty minutes later after cruising through Walsh, where all the shops had been shutting down already at midday, Ferg found himself driving into an even smaller town not too far away. The sign on the outskirts said Rose Hill, but there was no population listed like on the ‘Welcome to Walsh’ sign, nor could he see any hill or roses. There was a petrol station, but that looked closed. If he’d blinked he’d have missed the only sign of a life—a few cars parked outside a small cluster of shops, which looked as if they were the only buildings here that had received any attention in decades.

  ‘Eliza’s Tea Rooms’ was painted in a fancy vintage font on a sign above the corrugated verandah, the bright white print standing out against the rustic red background. There were also window baskets overflowing with pink, white and purple everlasting flowers and a chalkboard sign by the entrance of the middle shop.

  He slowed a little and squinted to read the specials: ‘Sweet Potato and Pumpkin Frittata’, ‘Sausage Rolls & Meat Pies like Granny Made’ and ‘Classic High Tea’. Ferg’s stomach rumbled, reminding him he hadn’t eaten anything since his toast early that morning, so he pulled over.

  Even before he stepped inside the tea rooms, the smells that wafted at him were mouth-watering. They reminded him of one of his many foster homes, where his foster mum had been constantly baking. The few weeks he and Eider had spent in her care were some of the best weeks of their childhood. They’d both put on weight, devouring the home-cooked goodies at every opportunity because, like everything else in their lives, they’d known it wouldn’t last.

  Ferg pushed open the fly-screen door and then paused just inside as it clunked shut behind him. There were two big ceiling fans whirling above and everyone sitting at the tables appeared to be enjoying themselves, their cutlery clinking against their plates as they ate and chatted.

  Off to one side of the main café area, there was some kind of craft shop and gallery. It was the type of thing Jools would have adored. He pushed that thought aside and stepped up to the counter to order. He could hear chatter coming from the kitchen behind and was about to press the bell for service when his gaze fell upon a glass cabinet full of different flavours of ice-cream.

  ‘Tabitha’s Ice-Creamery’ he read on a little sign above the cabinet, the dots connecting in his head at the exact moment a figure appeared behind the counter. He looked up and came face to face with Tabitha herself.

  She exhaled loudly. ‘Oh, it’s you.’

  ‘Is that really the way to greet potential customers, Tab?’

  ‘It’s Tabitha to you.’ She held her chin high and Ferg suspected if she’d had two arms, she’d be crossing them right now. ‘Are you going to place an order or are you just going to stand there drooling over my counter?’

  He took a moment to consider his reply. She obviously hadn’t forgiven him for the cricket episode and although he felt a weird compulsion to attempt another apology, he had a feeling that wouldn’t go down well. ‘That looks good,’ he said, glancing at a nearby table, where a three-tiered plate thing was piled high with treats.

  ‘The high tea is usually for two people.’

  He contemplated suggesting she take a break and share it with him, but didn’t think that would go down too well either. ‘Lucky I’m hungry then,’ he said as he dug his wallet out of his pocket.

  She shook her head, but took his money before storming off out the back. Forgetting about Jools, he wandered into the gallery and admired some of the stunning landscape oil paintings hanging on the walls. They were obviously local settings—he even recognised the tea rooms in one but didn’t recognise the name of the artist, Archie Weaver. There were lots of knitted soft toys, along with some handmade candles and other things he had no desire for but imagined sold well to tourists.

  Even though Rose Hill was pretty much a ghost town, the tea rooms seemed to have a steady traffic. He heard the bell on the screen door go again and looked back into the café area to see a young coup
le come in. Tabitha was far more civil than she had been to him. He’d obviously really hurt her. Maybe if he hung around, he’d get the opportunity to try to make amends again—it would be good to do so before the next cricket training as the kids deserved better than coaches who could barely stand to look at each other.

  Although if he was honest with himself, he was quite happy looking at Tabitha. She was easy on the eye, even when she was glaring at him.

  He went back to the table, scooping an old copy of the Walsh Whisperer off the counter to read.

  ‘Here you are.’

  Ferg looked up as Ned’s mum delivered a china cup and a teapot in a knitted tea-cosy that looked like a hive with tiny woollen bees scattered over it. ‘Thank you.’

  Although she smiled it was clearly forced, which he guessed meant Tab had told her what a jerk he was.

  ‘Do you and Tabitha own this place?’ He wasn’t usually one for small talk, but perhaps the isolation had gone to his head.

  ‘I own the building, but Tab and I are partners in the business and she lives here now. Anyway, I’ll be back in a moment with your meal.’

  ‘Wow, this looks wonderful,’ he said when she returned with food enough for ten people. Perhaps he should have just ordered a pie, but he wasn’t about to let this beat him. ‘Do you guys make everything yourself?’

  ‘Yep.’ Meg nodded proudly. ‘Right down to Tab’s ice-cream. If you’ve still got space after all that, you really should try some. She won Champion Ice-Cream Award at the Perth Royal Show these past holidays.’

  ‘Impressive. And does she live here alone?’

  ‘Well, yes, but we’ve also got a B&B now, which means there are often others on the premises.’ Meg looked at him suspiciously as if she wasn’t sure he was trying to find out if Tabitha was single or if he was a serial killer looking for his next vulnerable victim. The truth was way off the mark—he was simply curious as to who the father of her baby was.