by Mandy Magro
Turning back to the cottage he opened the flyscreen and it squeaked wearily. WD-40 was in order – another mental note. The keys were where Larry said he’d left them, dangling from the lock of the hardwood door – Ronny gathered there were no worries about burglars here. Unlocking the door, he finally stepped inside. The familiar smell was the first thing that hit him – rose oil. It was Lottie all over. She wore rose oil as her perfume and used to sprinkle it throughout the house too. He hoped the scent lingered for as long as possible.
He took off his boots then stood still, arms folded. It was hard to make out the details of the room after the bright sunlight outside, but after a few moments his eyes adjusted as the filtered light from between the curtains lit up the room sufficiently. The lounge room was exactly as he remembered it – unpretentious and welcoming. The walls were a soft hue of blue, and the furniture uncluttered and simple, but definitely cosy looking with plenty of cushions on the couches and plush carpet that made him want to roll around on it. One entire wall was a bookcase with books crammed into every possible inch of space, Lottie having been a very avid reader of anything she could get her hands on. A fireplace held pride of place, and an antique coffee table separated the lounge chairs from a television that looked almost brand new. Ronny guessed Lottie’s old one must have blown up, Lottie not one to replace things unless they’d had their day. Over in the corner was an old-fashioned hutch-style timber desk and on top of it sat an out-of-date phone with the large dialing disk and curled cable hanging from the receiver with the Bluegrass Bend phone book beside it. Ronny smiled sadly. Lottie was certainly a woman from yesteryear.
Ronny turned and headed down the hallway from which the three bedrooms led off, stopping to admire the black and white photographs hanging on the walls and to peek into each room. He’d move into the room he’d always used, with its queen-sized bed and built-in cupboards. The third room was Lottie’s. Going to the old oak dressing table, Ronny picked up one of the framed sepia photographs, the look in Lottie’s and her husband’s eyes one of undeniable love for each other. They wouldn’t have been any older than thirty in the photo, their arms entwined as they’d beamed at the photographer – poor Lottie, losing her one true love at fifty-two to an aneurism. Lottie had loved Frank so much she’d remained on her own after his death, saying she could never love another when her heart was with Frank. At least now she would be with her beloved husband eternally. Ronny hoped to one day be lucky enough to feel a love as deep and everlasting as theirs.
He headed into the heart of the home – the kitchen. If Lottie wasn’t busy sewing, or caring for the farm and all the animals she adopted, she’d very often be found in the kitchen, whipping up some culinary delight, not only for herself and the many visitors who dropped in, or to help out a sick neighbour or friend, but also for the local meals on wheels. Nobody ever went hungry when in the company of Lottie Sinclair. And it was never a chore for her – she loved to cook, and she was good at it. Leaning on the kitchen bench, he sucked in a deep breath, wishing at the same time he could get a whiff of Lottie’s cooking once more when, out of the corner of his eye, he saw something lurch at him from behind the bin. He wasn’t fast enough to get out of the way so he now had a tiny cat wrapped tightly around his leg, her shiny black coat enhancing her big green eyes. He tried to pry her from his leg but Cindy Clawford meowed warningly. Larry was right – the little terror had caught him off guard and scared the shit out of him.
Although still a little shaken, he had to laugh at her audacity as his adrenaline levels returned to normal. Her tail was twitching playfully, giving him the impression she wasn’t taking things too seriously, even though she wanted him to believe otherwise. Warily, he leant down to pat her, and also to disengage her claws from his jeans. She meowed at him once more, but this time sounded a little friendlier, and pushed her head into his hand, her purring growing louder as he gave her a scratch behind the ears. Cindy allowed him to pick her up, and once in his arms she snuggled into his chest and almost disappeared inside his button-up shirt. That simple gesture gave Ronny hope that he could get past the fact he’d never been a fan of felines. He had a feeling they were going to become firm friends.
Glancing around the room with Cindy still nestled in his arms, the nostalgia that had subsided with the cat’s attack rose again to claw at Ronny’s heart. True to her word, and thanks to the ladies who had cleared the cottage with her passing, an odd assortment of cups still hung from hooks below the overhead cupboards that were full of Lottie’s kitchenware. The imitation-marble laminate benches were well worn but in an adding-character sort of way and the basics sat atop – a toaster, kettle and matching coffee, tea and sugar canisters, and then there was Lottie’s favourite biscuit tin from the nineteen-twenties – a hand-me-down from her mother. Ronny ran his fingers over it, appreciating the fact the CWA ladies had left it here. He’d had many a homemade biscuit from within it. Pots and pans hung from a wrought iron hanger above a concaved butcher’s block which took centre stage, and rightly so. At over a hundred years old and retrieved from a butcher’s shop that had shut its doors in the seventies, it added personality to the place. Ronny loved it as much as Lottie had. A six-seater dining table sat off to the side, with views out the windows of the horse paddocks. Last year’s calendar hung askew on a nail above the stove and Ronny reached out to straighten it. It felt a little grimy. It struck him then that this was the first time the cottage looked a little dusty, and he wasn’t walking in to the sound of ABC radio playing in the background. The thought squeezed his aching heart even tighter. Glancing at the windowsill above the sink, he spotted a photo of him and Lottie standing on the front verandah, smiling like they hadn’t a care in the world. He remembered the day like it was only yesterday – his sixteenth birthday. Lottie had cooked him and Grandma a feast fit for a king in celebration. It had been such a beautiful day, filled with the love of family.
A wave of grief washed over him, engulfing him and taking him by surprise. He was never again going to be surrounded by Lottie’s addictive laughter, or her warm spirit, or her unconditional love. Swallowing his emotions, he strode through a side door and into the laundry, where Cindy decided to leap from his arms and into her little basket sitting on top of the washing machine. He needed air. Now. He pushed through the screen door and out onto the back verandah. Breathing in deeply, he tried to keep himself under control. But it was here that reality finally hit him and his tears began to fall. Hard. Lottie was never coming back. She had given him all that mattered to her and he would never get the chance to thank her for all that she had done for him.
Leaning against the timber railings, he covered his face with his hands and allowed the sorrow he’d been suppressing to surface, his sobs coming from deep within as grief finally overcame him.
CHAPTER
4
The screen door squeaked in protest as Ivy walked outside with banana and crunchy peanut butter on toast along with her morning cuppa. Breathing in the scenery sprawling before her, she sat on the steps of the wrap-around verandah, the steam rising from her cup matching the fog hanging like a blanket over the distant mountains – the similarity somehow soothing her nerves about what lay ahead this morning. Their appointment with Gerald was first off the rank and she was relieved she didn’t have to sit and wait half the day to see him. Yawning, she tried to blink the tiredness from her eyes, her body weary and her heart heavy. She’d had a horrible night’s sleep again, her doona feeling the brunt of it as she pulled it up and tossed it off a million times. A midnight cup of chamomile tea with her equally sleepless aunts had done the trick for a few hours, but then she’d spent the wee hours of the morning cursing sleep and all it stood for.
The beauty of Healing Hills made her heart swell as she gazed out over the horses bathed by the morning sunlight now beginning to peek through the dispersing grey clouds – even after all these years the landscape never ceased to amaze her. Her gaze then travelled to the place way up on the hills
ide where she’d once lived with her mum and dad. They’d always intended to renovate the cottage to its former glory, but had never gotten the chance. The colonial-style house that had once been her home now lay as desolate as her heart could sometimes be – it was going to be a bittersweet moment when she sold it. With poignant memories of her early childhood stirring emotions deep within she moved her gaze hesitantly towards the high cliff face that dropped dangerously to a gorge one hundred metres below. The very place her mother had jumped to her death sixteen years ago – a place a piece of her heart would forever remain. Damn Ivy’s cheating father for breaking her mother’s heart. Bloody men! She sucked in a sharp breath and slowly blew it away, silently telling her mum how much she still loved her.
Off in the distance, just beyond the borderline of Healing Hills, a rainbow hovered, its arc of prismatic colours – red, orange, yellow, green, blue and purple – vivid, the vision hopeful and comforting, like a warm hug after tears. With the heavy downpour they’d had throughout all of last night she’d thought today was going to be as overcast as yesterday, but maybe it was going to be a nice summer’s day after all. Her mood lifted a little with the thought. Mother Nature always had a way of cheering her up.
Bo did a yoga-like stretch on the corner of the verandah, then came and lay down beside her, his head resting on his paws. He eyed her thoughtfully as he whined a little. She leant over and gave him a cuddle. Her mate always recognised when she was stressed or upset. She knew how she felt wasn’t helping but how could she feel anything else right now? Her aunts’ entire future – and her own – hinged on this meeting today, and she prayed with all her might that she wouldn’t somehow stuff it up, not now that May and Alice had finally agreed to selling her property and using part of the money to pay out Healing Hills’ debts. It had taken hours of pleading with them, but in the end they’d caved, with the proviso that, if they were ever in the position to, they would pay her back. She’d firmly reminded May and Alice they wouldn’t owe a penny after selflessly raising her as their own all these years. Yes, like her, they had wanted her to one day make the cottage her home again, but as she’d brought to their attention, there was no way she’d ever be able to live on the adjoining property if Healing Hills was no longer in the family – it would just be a constant, painful reminder of all they had lost.
She’d done all the research on renovating the cottage, including investigating an estimated sale price of the five-acre property with the local real estate agency and was impressed with the figure; the effort of renovating was certainly going to be worth it. Although, after obtaining three separate quotes from the only reputable builders in the area, Ivy had quickly realised she would have to do the majority of the work herself, along with the help of a carpenter, if she were lucky enough to find one willing to do the job at short notice. But she was getting ahead of herself – their bank manager first had to lend her the fifty thousand she’d need to achieve it. Her plan was risky, but they had to do something to save Healing Hills.
She couldn’t bear the thought of leaving – it was as if she’d grown roots into the land here and tearing herself away would be like an ancient tree being ripped from the ground. And where would all the beautiful healing horses go if the unthinkable happened? This was her home, her aunts’ home, their sanctuary, a place people came to save themselves, a safe haven for both young and old. Yes, she’d had dreams for the cottage, but she didn’t need to hold onto bricks and mortar to keep her mother’s memory alive – Jasmine Tucker would forever live in her heart.
***
The raucous sound of laughter dragged Ronny from his slumber. His instinct to shield himself from an inmate with a gripe wielding a handmade weapon sent him bounding from the comfort of his bed in seconds, fists at the ready. Who in the hell was laughing so damn loud and what was so damn funny and come to think of it, where in the hell was he? His head pounded like a freight train and he pressed his hands against his temples, groaning. Still half asleep as he tried to gain his bearings, he tripped over his boots then trod on a fork left on the floor from his midnight snack of two minute noodles which then sent him hopping on one leg as he nursed his stabbed foot. He was only saved from hitting the deck by clutching the open door of his empty cupboard. Thank God for small mercies.
Rubbing his knuckles against his eyes and then blinking himself to full awareness, Ronny adjusted his askew boxers and began to relax. He chuckled at himself as he heard the laughter outside once again, the lyrics from an old nursery rhyme coming to mind. Warmth filled him with the song.
Pulling back the blackout curtains, he peered into the backyard, straining to see through the golden sunlight now pouring in like a flowing river. It reflected off a few objects in the room, making him squint even more. He blinked a few times as his eyes took time to adjust, his pounding head becoming more of a steady thump now his heart rate had returned to normal. Damn his stupidity at drinking six beers with Larry last night. He should have known that he would have ended up with a massive hangover, having been sober for so long, but he’d been having too much fun catching up on the good old days to worry about it at the time. Copious amounts of water would be needed today, after a very strong cup of coffee, a greasy breakfast of bacon and eggs and a few painkillers. And of course no self-pity would be allowed, the headache was completely self-inflicted.
Resting up against the window frame Ronny inhaled the country scene sprawled out before him as he ran his hands over his recently shaved head, his dark hair barely a few millimetres in length now thanks to Faith’s trusty old pair of Wahl clippers. Dew glittered on the grass, making it appear as if it was adorned with diamonds and just over the back fence two kangaroos bounded past. He smiled in their direction, loving the fact he could witness this first thing rather than a concrete cell and steel bars. Beyond the large backyard were some horse paddocks and the stables, and then the bountiful countryside seemed to stretch on forever. The National Parklands at the back of Sundown Farm made the place feel like it was charmingly isolated, although Ronny knew his neighbours, the Mayberrys, were hidden just behind the long line of mountain blue gums that created the border between their place and Lottie’s, or should he now say, his place – the thought, as much as it was something he would be eternally grateful for, was still hard to swallow.
Bringing his attention back to the raucous laughter that had awoken him Ronny focused on the three kookaburras sitting on the clothesline, one of them staring fixedly at the ground below. It swooped down, seized its prey in its bill, and then flew back to its wire perch to eat it. Ronny wondered if it was the young bird he’d fed years ago, now an adult and still living here with its own little family. It was a comforting thought – and not a far-fetched one either. He knew for a fact that kookaburras mated for life, and the family unit usually consisted of a few generations with most of the young birds staying around to help raise their younger brothers or sisters. And it was all thanks to Lottie he knew all of this, including the Aboriginal legend that the kookaburra’s famous chorus of laughter every morning was a signal for the sky people to light the great fire that illuminates and warms the earth by day – the sun. He liked the legend, as had Lottie who’d always loved legends and folk tales, but Ronny also knew the bird’s laugh was actually used more as a territorial marker. Lottie had religiously fed the kookaburras every morning, which is why they would still be coming here, and he made a mental note to continue on with the ritual. He smiled to himself, the call of the kookaburra one of those unmistakable sounds of the Australian bush that will definitely give your ears a workout morning and afternoon, and it had awoken him on his very first morning at Sundown Farm. What a beautiful way to start his day.
A long, drawn-out meow drew his attention back to his bed. Cindy was stretched out on the pillow beside his – the little blighter must have snuck in through the night. Being susceptible to hay fever, the thought of cat hair all over his pillows made him cringe. He picked her up and placed her down on the floor, firmly
reprimanding the cunning feline while trying to hide his smile. ‘There’ll be no sleeping in my bed, missy, so you better get outta that habit real quick.’
Cindy meowed back at him while clawing the rug beside his bed. Turning to the door, she strutted away as if to say, ‘We’ll see about that.’ Her tail flicked as she disappeared around the doorframe and down the hallway.
Grabbing his T-shirt from the floor, he tugged it over his head and, spotting the letter that outlined Lottie’s final wishes on his bedside table, he popped it in his second drawer so it wouldn’t get lost. He glanced at his watch, shaking his head as he tapped the glass face a few times, thinking it must have stopped. But it hadn’t. Holy snapping duck shit, it was almost eight o’clock. He had to head off in less than an hour. Talk about wasting the better part of the morning. He hadn’t slept past six am in as long as he could remember – even while he was at Faith’s he still woke up at the crack of dawn.
Going out to the kitchen, he went in search of a stand-your-spoon-up-’cause-it’s-so-strong cup of coffee, making sure to let Jessie in before he started his breakfast. The dog leapt from her verandah bed like a rocket and tap-danced at his feet. He gave her head a loving ruffle. He needed sustenance, then he had a small load of washing to do thanks to the fact he’d spilt half his midnight snack of noodles into his suitcase last night while searching for his boxers. He’d do that whilst running through the dip (the shower) to save time.