by Cathryn Hein
‘I suppose that’s some consolation. I was beginning to think you only went for blokes like Thom these days.’
‘Oh.’ Heat washed her neck and cheeks. ‘So you heard about that.’
‘Hard to miss. It was on your Facebook page.’
‘Not exactly. I made breakfast for two, that was all. Ceci was the one who made it obvious.’
‘You could have deleted her comment.’
‘I could have, but that’s not how I run my social media. Besides, I have nothing to be ashamed of.’
He said nothing for a while. ‘So you and him …’
‘Friends.’
He made a ‘huh’ noise. ‘Convenient kind of friendship for Thom.’
‘For both of us.’ She shifted straighter, annoyed at having to defend something that didn’t need defending, least of all to him. ‘Look, sleeping with him was an aberration. We were both feeling crappy over … stuff. A night of drowning our sorrows ended in bed. Big deal. Like we’re the first people to ever do that. The world didn’t stop spinning because of it, and neither did our friendship.’
‘So it won’t happen again?’
Annoyance flared. At what point had this conversation U-turned into being all about her? She wasn’t the one with a fiancée and a screwed-up heart.
‘Who knows what could happen next time I’m drunk and in need of a bit of comfort?’
Patrick regarded their still-tangled fingers. Slowly, he raised his eyes. Even in the poorly lit car there was no missing the question in them.
‘Oh, Patrick.’ Gently, she extracted her hand from his. ‘Please don’t mistake compassion for something else.’
For a breath he stared at the space where their hands had been, then suddenly he was out of the car.
Feeling awful, Tash followed. Patrick was standing at the edge of the garden with his fists in his pockets, staring at stars that seemed as infinite as his sorrow. Tash wished she could hold him to her and never let him go. She wasn’t handling this well, and worse, she’d lied. Suppressed below her compassion was desire, and it was yanking on its chains hard.
‘Would it be so bad?’ he asked, looking down to search her face. ‘Me, I mean.’
‘No, I’m sure it’d be wonderful. But I can’t.’
‘Why not?’
‘You know why. You still visit her every day. You slide your ring on her finger and you talk and you care. You still believe, Patrick. That’s why.’
‘And if it weren’t for Maddy?’
There was the impossible question. ‘I don’t know. I don’t know what the point would be, and I …’ Tash didn’t need the heartbreak. With Patrick there’d be no pretending it was all a meaningless fling, no jokey fun like with Thom. With a man like him it’d be real. For both of them. ‘This isn’t long-term. My future is elsewhere, yours is here.’
He breathed out and rocked back a little on his heels, his focus once more on the velvet sky. For a long time he didn’t speak. Tash’s skin began to goosepimple in the cooling air but she didn’t want to leave him.
He blinked several times as though clearing his eyes. Then he rubbed his mouth and dropped his arm heavily. ‘I miss my life.’
‘I know. And I feel for you, I really do. But you have to understand I am not, and never will be, your Maddy substitute.’ She placed her palm on his back. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Not as much as me, Tash. Not as much as me.’
And with a long defeated sigh, he headed for the house.
Chapter 20
It had been more than two weeks since the party. Two weeks since Tash had bundled a bleary Thom and Ceci into Thom’s car and sent them home to Melbourne with a blister pack of paracetamol, travel mugs filled with extra-strong coffee, and half a dozen banana muffins. And more than two weeks since she had seen or heard from Patrick.
It was understandable. March was skittering away towards April and an early Easter. Calving had begun, and with recent rain the landscape was rackety with the chug of tractors towing cultivators or seed drills busy fulfilling pasture renovation schedules. With only a couple of weeks to the start of the football season, training would be gearing up. Patrick was likely be too busy and too tired to visit, but that didn’t stop Tash worrying.
She’d been occupied too. Minh had held true to her promise to introduce Tash to her mum and Tash had spent a joyous afternoon learning Vietnamese cooking techniques and sampling Tuen Ly-Brooks’ ambrosial creations. With none of the local stores stocking many Asian herbs and vegetables, Tuen grew the majority herself and Tash picked up several tips on how to cultivate them in Emu Springs’ climate.
Tash’s visit to Tony Leonardis had also been wonderful. Unfortunately, some of her fans didn’t appreciate being shown cute little piggies, complete with footage of Tash cuddling one, only to soon after see one of those cute little piggies spinning on a spit over coals and being eaten with gusto. Tash let them argue it out among themselves. She wasn’t going to defend or apologise. The Urban Ranger wasn’t a vegetarian site, it wasn’t even an organic one, plus one of the goals of taking the show to the country was to remind her audience where good food came from. If people wanted to eat meat, they had to face the fact that it involved death. What mattered was giving the animals the best life possible until slaughter.
Reading the comments was both frustrating and funny. One contributor, who went by the pseudonym Farmer Fred and used a cartoon of a grinning, lantern-jawed man in a broad hat as his avatar, took great delight in shooting down the critics with an appealing combination of wit and fact. When Tash dug around to learn more about him, there was nothing. A shame, because he clearly knew what he was talking about and might have made an interesting interviewee.
‘I hear on the grapevine there’s been a bit of a ruckus over Tony’s roast,’ said Pa, a few days after the suckling-pig video went live. It was early morning and their breaths left dragon puffs in the cool air. Coco was curled up in a patch of sunshine with her nose almost touching her tail. Although it was fine the weather was scheduled to turn over the next few days and though Mondays weren’t Pa’s usual day, Tash wanted to make the most of the sun while it was out.
‘Who told you that?’ asked Tash, leaning on her rake.
‘I have birdies.’
‘Do you now? I don’t suppose these birdies have names?’
Pa tapped his nose and resumed writing labels for the crops they were about to plant. Old egg cartons filled with seedlings were spread in organised rows at his feet. Pa had used his own growing mix formula and the plants were vibrant with health. All they had to do was tear off each egg cup and bury it straight into the well-composted soil. An old ice-cream tub held packets of seeds they were direct sowing.
‘Been a few nasty comments,’ he said. ‘You right with that?’
‘I wouldn’t say I like it but I’m used to it. It’s an emotive topic. People are going to argue.’
‘Still. Sylvia said one of them called you a murderer.’
‘Probably a troll. The internet’s full of them.’ Tash was thankful Pa didn’t get on the sites himself; there had been a lot worse name-calling than murderer. She’d removed the more offensive comments but a few always slipped through. ‘Some people get a kick out of inflaming others and starting fights. Makes them feel big.’
‘Hmph. Idiots.’
She thought he’d let it slide but it was obviously still on Pa’s mind when they began to film.
‘Carrots,’ he said, ‘can be tricky to grow if you don’t have the right soil.’ He tilted his head to the side and gazed at the camera in his familiar direct manner. ‘It’s a bit like friendship in a way. You can’t grow carrots on stony ground and you sure can’t grow a relationship. All you’ll end up with is something warped. What you need is soil that yields a bit. Not too soft, but not too firm either.’ He used a trowel to form another narrow channel and sprinkled in the seeds. ‘It’s all right to stand up to your beliefs, but let others have theirs too. Unless they’re one of those stu
pid terrorist sorts. Those fools need their arses kicked.’ He looked up and grinned. ‘Pardon me. Probably shouldn’t say arse on telly.’
Tash muffled a laugh.
He waggled his trowel at the camera. ‘All you people there who’ve called my Flossie names ought to be ashamed.’
Amusement morphed into discomfort. ‘Pa …’
‘Shush, Floss, I’m talking. Tash is allowed to have her opinion, just as you’re allowed to have yours and I’m allowed to have mine. But being vicious isn’t on, you hear? Argue your point by all means. After all, we live in a free country where our forefathers fought wars so we could hold our ideals and freedom of speech precious, but be better than a name caller. Make your point with intelligence. Be compassionate and reasonable. Carry on like a pork chop and everyone will think you’re an idiot, regardless of what you’re trying to say. Be better than one of those cowardly troll people. You never know, you might even convert someone to your cause.’
All afternoon and into the evening Tash agonised over whether to cut her grandfather’s comments from the video. Yes, this kind of philosophising was part of Pa’s appeal but she couldn’t help thinking he’d made it too much about her, and Tash didn’t want him dragged into her controversy.
In the end she left it. Pa was an adult, who’d been warned of the consequences. She’d do her best to protect him but it was his call, and he’d assured her multiple times that he was happy for the video to go up. At 9 pm, she poured herself a glass of wine and posted it, then sat back nervously to await the results.
The first person to comment was Farmer Fred, ‘hear-hearing’ Pa’s sentiments. Trolls, he said, were weak men with small penises who were frustrated and jealous that gorgeous girls like Tash wouldn’t give them the time of day.
She couldn’t help but laugh and reply with a ‘thank you’, which earned her a winking emoticon in reply. More comments flooded in, most in support, but with a few complaints about Pa’s mention of kicking arses and its inferred condoning of violence. Tash rolled her eyes and, satisfied the fuss was minimal, shut down the page and returned to working on her cookbook.
She’d decided to structure it seasonally, incorporating her work in the garden and the cycle of agriculture in the district. What she couldn’t decide was whether to break it down further by ingredient or recipe. Her grandmother’s basic scone recipe already had four variations, as did her recipe for quiche, but if the book was seasonal, then sorting by ingredient seemed the more relevant option. For the moment she was doing both in the hope that the better path would become clearer as the year went on.
An hour and several yawns later, Tash backed up the files and re-opened her social media. A check revealed nothing had exploded and she was about to shut down and prepare for bed when her notification list caught her eye. Patrick had liked one of her posts. Unable to help herself, Tash clicked on his name and was disappointed to see that he hadn’t updated his profile in months. She supposed she shouldn’t be surprised. In her experience men didn’t do social media the way women did, but it still left her feeling flat. Although not as flat as reading ‘In a relationship with Madeline Handreck’ in his ‘about’ section.
His loyalty was as noble as it was tragic and it made Tash’s heart ache. Patrick needed to move on, and from his recent behaviour it seemed he wanted to, but she wasn’t the one he should be trying with.
Tash thought of him as she brushed her teeth, as she changed into her pyjamas, as she lay under her doona staring at the glow stickers on her ceiling. She couldn’t shed her concern, nor could she unravel her own tangled feelings. Patrick was the kind of man a girl could easily fall in love with. He was handsome, sexy, honest, loyal, smart, caring and good humoured, when he wasn’t weighted with sorrow or in one of his butthead moods. But falling in love wasn’t on Tash’s agenda. She had a career to think of and a friendship she didn’t want spoiled, plus she already had Maddy’s horse. Borrowing her fiancé as well would never sit right.
Finally she drifted into sleep, only for Patrick to float with her, slipping into her subconscious and disturbing her dreams.
And not a single one had anything to do with friendship.
Tash’s dream-disturbed sleep left her waking groggy and annoyed, but still thinking of Patrick. The sour note they’d parted on bothered her, as did his mention of missing his life. He was like a man forced to watch his potential-rich future never unravel, and that was awful for anyone.
She contemplated phoning and figured it would be too easy for him to dismiss the call. Turning up laden with goodies, however, would be impossible to ignore. Patrick’s parents wouldn’t tolerate such rudeness, and if she chose her time wisely, she’d catch the Lawsons together. She could call into Springbank on the way past too, drop brownies off for Maddy and assuage a little of her guilt over Khan and their broken friendship. Two birds with one baking session. Happy with the idea, Tash rushed through her chores and knuckled down to work.
First she made a batch of chocolate cheesecake brownies. While those were cooling, she set up for filming, tidying the kitchen and then herself, and laying out the ingredients for her special gingerbread.
Ready, Tash hit the record button, beamed at the camera and spread her arms. ‘Welcome to The Urban Ranger Goes Country!’
She took a couple of breaths, allowing edit time for the musical introduction and logo then continued, but instead of her usual cheer, Tash’s expression was serious.
‘Today I’m on a mission. A mission to bring a little bit of happiness to some friends who are experiencing tough times at the moment. There’s something very personal about cooking for people you care for, choosing a recipe you think they’d like, that might bring a touch of light to a dull heart. I’ve already made brownies for one friend because I know they’re her favourite, but the other is a person I’ve drifted out of touch with and we’ve only reconnected since I’ve been home.
‘Because of that I’ve had to think hard on what they might like. I’m still not sure I’ve got it right but I guess I’ll soon find out.’ She smiled and winked at the camera. ‘And there aren’t many people who don’t like sticky, spicy gingerbread, especially when it includes a good slug of my pa’s dark ale.’
Tash continued to explain the recipe, measuring out ingredients while she chatted. It was a simple recipe, old-fashioned, using basic pantry supplies and indulgent quantities of muscovado sugar and butter. The spin of adding Pa’s home brew would also make it perfect for her cookbook.
‘And now for the ale,’ she said, levering the lid off the bottle. The liquid foamed as she poured. Grinning, she lowered her nose to the bowl. ‘You should smell this. It’s amazing but that’s hardly a surprise. My pa knows how to make a good drop.’
She sobered and stirred. ‘He also knows a thing or two about life. I’ve been mulling over what he said in his last video, about relationships and how you can’t grow them on stony ground. I’m a farm girl, and I know how important it is to look after our soils, to keep them healthy and fertile. If we don’t, nothing flourishes, and Pa’s right—it’s the same with friendships, or any relationship. You need to keep them nurtured. So today I’m going to nurture mine with indulgent food. Although it’s not really the food, but the thought and effort that matters. I want to show my friends that I care and that I’m thinking of them.’
She poured the batter into the prepared tin, scraped the bowl and smoothed the cake top, and placed the tin into the oven. Pausing the video, Tash cleaned up while it baked and made a few notes for her cookbook, then filmed testing the cake’s done-ness and upending onto a rack. The gingerbread turned out perfect, kissing the air with its sweet spice. She left it to cool, and headed off for a shower. There’d be no ignoring her once Patrick caught that scent.
Three-quarters of an hour later, she was back in the kitchen with the cameras rolling.
‘There,’ she said, as she layered the cut gingerbread into a container ready for transport. The pieces were still slightly warm but she d
idn’t want to delay any longer. It was already after eleven and if she was to call into Springbank and still make Wiruna at lunchtime, she couldn’t afford to dally. ‘A little bit of spicy sunshine in a cake. Easy to make, tasty and filled with heart. If you have a friend who’s doing it tough, why not take a few moments to make something special for them? It doesn’t have to be food. It can be a simple card or something from your garden. What matters is that they know they’re not alone and that they’re cherished.’
Tash glanced up at the wall clock and made an ‘oops’ face. ‘Time for me to go. But first I’d better conduct a taste test.’ With a flourish, she picked up the remaining square of gingerbread, took a large bite and chewed. ‘Oh,’ she said, popping the remaining half into her mouth and licking her fingers. She chewed and swallowed and gave a contented sigh. ‘Now that’s what I call comfort food.’ She cast a sideways look at the container and pursed her lips. ‘A girl can’t really have too much comfort, can she? No. Of course not.’ With a sly look at the camera, she prised off the lid and pinched another piece. Holding it to her lips as though about to bite, she walked off screen with her box of sugary happiness tucked under her arm and a naughty giggle trailing behind.
There was an extra car at Springbank when Tash arrived. If it hadn’t affected her plans, Tash would have left her call until later, but it was still half an hour until midday and if Nicola and Grant were busy, Tash could kill time sitting with Maddy. Conversation might prove awkward, however. The only gossip Tash had was that Patrick had wanted to kiss her, and she wasn’t about to share that.
‘Oh, hello,’ said Tash, stopping in surprise at the Handrecks’ kitchen door. Patrick’s mum was seated at the table with her chair angled close to Nicola, half-drunk coffees pushed out in front of them. Tash’s cheerful demeanour faltered as Nicola began dabbing her swollen red eyes with a crumpled tissue. ‘Not interrupting, am I?’