by Cathryn Hein
Patrick’s timing couldn’t have been worse. A pair of aides were in Maddy’s room, preparing to bath her. The older aide—a woman he hadn’t come across before but who wore her seniority with arrogance—regarded him frostily and asked if perhaps he couldn’t come back later. He could, but Patrick resented the inference that he was some sort of pervert for wanting to stay. It wasn’t like he hadn’t done it before.
Rather than risk a fight, he spent a few moments with Maddy, apologising for the brevity of his visit, then left. He drove up Castlereagh Road with his fists tight around the wheel and his mood spoiled. The sight of Tash’s flat with its cheerily smoking chimney was like a siren call to his longing. If anyone could restore his humour, it’d be Tash.
She didn’t fail him. Patrick found her in her kitchen, dressed in a baggy pink-and-white rabbit onesie complete with floppy ears and paws. For an unsexy outfit, it was strangely arousing. Not that that was unusual. His hormones were so out of control these days Tash could have worn a hessian sack and he’d probably be turned on.
‘Interesting,’ he said.
She presented her bum and wiggled, showing off a large fluffy tail. ‘Like it?’
‘Very cute.’
‘I bought it for a party ages ago. I didn’t feel like writing so I thought I’d make Italian Easter bread and film it instead.’
‘In a rabbit onesie?’
‘Why not a rabbit onesie? It’s Easter Bunny time!’ Her grin faltered and she tilted her head, considering him. ‘What’s happened?’
‘Nothing. It doesn’t matter.’
‘Of course it does. What?’ Sympathy softened her face. ‘Didn’t last night go well?’
‘No, last night was great. It’s not that.’ He looked at his feet then up again. ‘I called in to see Maddy. They were about to bath her.’
‘And they didn’t want you around while they did it.’
He nodded.
‘I’m sorry. I guess they have to be careful.’
He ran a hand through his hair. ‘They know I’m her fiancé.’
‘That doesn’t mean they know about how involved you still are in her life.’
‘Maybe.’ He considered the bench with its ingredients and utensils and let out a breath. More bad timing. Besides, it was hard to think straight while she was wearing that costume. It was made of thick fleece and had to be hot, which meant she probably wasn’t wearing anything except underwear beneath. ‘I’d better get going and leave you to it.’
‘No, stay. Mum and Dad have gone to Caramut to see my aunt and probably won’t be back until late and I’ll need a food taster.’ She gave him one of her cute puppy looks. ‘Please? If you’re not here I’ll only scoff the lot myself.’ Clasping her hands and holding them up under her chin, she blinked slowly and deliberately. ‘I need you.’
How was a man meant to refuse her when she did that?
With coffee and a couple of Anzac biscuits for sustenance, Patrick positioned himself on the couch at right angles to the combustion fire and in line of sight to the kitchen. Despite the caffeine hit, the warmth soon made him drowsy after his big night and it wasn’t long before he nodded off, only to be immediately roused by Tash talking to the camera as she showed off coloured eggs and kneaded dough in her ridiculous outfit.
The more he watched, the more his sleepy brain fantasised about what it’d be like to have her as more than a friend. He could picture her in bed, rose-skinned and playful. Seductive too. Teasing. She’d make his life fun, give it hope. And in return he’d give whatever she wanted, whatever made her smile and laugh and love him the way he loved her.
Love.
The realisation shot Patrick out of his drowsy state and into a half-panic. As soon as she had a break in filming, he stood.
‘I have to go.’
Tash swept the rabbit-head hood off her head and frowned. ‘Why?’
He edged towards the door. ‘I just do.’
Quickly wiping her hands on a towel, she crossed to him, gaze skittering uncertainly over his face. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Don’t say nothing. What’s happened?’
Her, that’s what had happened. Her and her sweet big heart and prettiness and smiles. Things he couldn’t tell her because she’d only regard him with pity again and explain why it could never work.
‘I just remembered things I needed to do at home.’
‘You’re lying. Why?’ Biting her lip, she hugged herself. ‘Is it me? Did I say something wrong?’
He couldn’t help it, Patrick stretched his arms around her and held her, hating that he’d caused doubt in someone so strong and, worse, someone he cared about deeply. ‘It’s not you. You’re great.’ He held his cheek against her silky hair and savoured the sensation for a moment before drawing away. ‘I’ll see you Monday, okay?’
She nodded but he knew she was hurt.
Patrick returned as promised on Monday, determined to keep his emotions in check. He was quiet though, which earned him frequent worried glances from Tash. He was relieved when Baz arrived, fresh from a bowls victory and keen to check on progress. With the three of them at it, the supporting walls went up in no time.
With the last block laid, Tash declared it coffee and cake time and headed for the flat, Coco on her heels.
‘Thanks for lending a hand,’ said Baz. ‘I wasn’t keen on her doing the heavy lifting alone. Our Floss sometimes thinks she can do everything.’
‘She can.’
That earned a chuckle from Baz.
Patrick’s eye caught the lemonade tree he’d given her, healthy in its pot on the terrace. ‘It’ll be the orchard next.’
‘Wants an orchard too, does she?’ Baz stroked his chin. ‘Better watch yourself. Next thing she’ll be after a boyfriend.’
‘Don’t look at me.’
‘I am looking at you.’
‘I have Maddy,’ Patrick replied flatly.
Baz was unimpressed. ‘How long are you going to keep believing that? Maddy was a beautiful girl. So’s Tash. One can give you a future, the other can’t.’
Patrick did not want to be having this conversation. It only reminded him of the hole he was in. ‘I made a promise.’
‘That’s an excuse and you know it.’
Patrick said nothing.
Baz watched his granddaughter as she fussed in the kitchen. ‘She likes you, you know. I can tell by the way she looks at you. You look at her the same.’
‘We’re friends.’
‘More than that. That girl could be yours if you tried.’
Patrick didn’t think there was any point hiding from Baz. Like Ceci, he’d already noticed too much. ‘I did try.’
‘Did you now? Huh.’
He rolled a clod of dirt under his boot until it collapsed. ‘She said there was no point. She’s not planning to stay.’
‘So she says.’ Baz nodded to himself as he scanned the yard. ‘So she says.’ He smiled and turned his attention back to Patrick. ‘Look around you, lad. Garden, wood-fired oven, orchard in the planning. Looks permanent to me.’ He placed his hand on Patrick’s shoulder. ‘Take some advice from an old timer. Don’t listen so much to what she says. Pay more attention to what she does. You might find yourself surprised.’
Chapter 23
The blustery Easter weekend gave way to a fine and calm week. With Patrick busy at Wiruna, Tash attempted to finish the oven herself. Patrick and Pa had fitted the lintel and reinforcing into the besser blocks already, and the rest was a matter of grunt and following instructions.
With a great deal of creative cursing, sweat and grazed knuckles, Tash managed to hoist the almost-thirty-kilogram fibre-cement base into the cavity on top of the steel supports. Shovelfuls of insulating fill followed. After packing it down she spread a layer of builder’s sand, which she levelled using her trusty screed while lasering ‘I dare you’ glares at Coco.
She was returning from town in the ute with a brick cutter secured to its
back when her father wandered over with Missy, the farm’s working kelpie, on his heels.
‘What the hell’s that?’ he asked.
‘A brick cutter,’ said Tash, untying ropes.
His fists went to his hips. ‘Oh, no you don’t.’
‘Why not? I managed the rest.’ And she was damn proud of it too.
‘You don’t know how to use it.’
‘I do. Bryan at Ashton’s showed me.’
‘No. Where’s Patrick anyway?’ Peter hunted around as if expecting him to pop out from behind a tree. ‘I thought he was helping.’
‘He has a farm to run.’ Tash bugged her eyes at him. ‘Like you do.’
‘Don’t get smart with me. My farm, my rules.’ He pulled off his hat and scratched his head. ‘I’ll call Dad.’
Tash had to concede defeat, and only because the cutter was too heavy for her to lift down from the ute on her own. She poked her tongue at her dad’s back as he strode off. She’d been looking forward to using the cutter. It was loud and powerful and possessed an exhilarating degree of danger.
The challenge of the oven dome would also help keep her mind off Patrick and his peculiar behaviour. At least she understood him when he was upset about Maddy or in one of his butthead moods, but this new reticence bothered her. She thought they’d moved past that.
Monday he’d been quiet. Tuesday night even quieter. He kept his distance too—his stool moved a little further from hers while they ate, his body angled away as he helped dry those pots and pans she preferred to hand wash. Yet she could feel his eyes following her every move. In all likelihood he was simply stressed about Maddy being in care and feeling isolated from her, but Tash couldn’t escape the feeling it was more about her. She took to studying him when she thought he wasn’t looking, trying to figure it out, which made for even more awkward moments when their attempts at surreptitious gazing clashed.
By Friday the oven was complete and Tash couldn’t stop admiring her creation as it slowly warmed and came to true fulfilment under its first careful firing. Pa, at least, had let her use the brick cutter—under supervision and covered with every piece of protective gear he could find around the farm—which meant that not only had she shaped each brick, she’d laid them too, including the difficult arch. The satisfaction of it had Tash prancing about in glee.
‘I can’t wait to use it,’ she said, settling under Pa’s arm to marvel over it yet again.
‘You’ll have to have a party. Invite Patrick and a few others.’
‘I’ll do that. We could have a pizza night. Or slow-roast some lamb shoulder.’ She gave him a fond poke. ‘You could bring Sylvia.’
‘What makes you think I’d want to bring the good widow Ellison?’
‘Oh, no reason. She does drive a silver Hyundai though?’
His arm fell away. ‘You’ve been spying.’
‘I have not,’ said Tash, puffing up with feigned indignation. ‘I happened to be driving past yesterday morning and noticed you had company, that’s all. Very early company.’
Pa straightened his shoulders. ‘She likes my poached eggs.’
‘I bet she does.’ Tash squealed and ducked out of the way as Pa went to give her a swipe.
‘You’re just jealous.’
‘Not this little black duck.’
‘You should be. Young girl like you should be enjoying some romance.’
‘No time.’ She bent to inspect the mouth of the oven. The fire was burning quietly, fuelled by small splinters of kindling to keep the initial temperature low. Over the hours Tash would add more fuel until the entire floor was covered. She poked the coals and threw in a few more slivers of red gum.
Pa was watching her intently, mouth pursed. ‘Let an old man give you a bit of advice?’
‘Of course.’ She smiled. ‘You’re going to anyway.’
‘No one ever reaches their deathbed and says, damn, I wish I’d worked more. You know what they say? They say they wish they’d played more, explored more, discovered and seen more. But you know what they wish for the most? That they’d loved more. They say, I wish I’d spent more time with the people I care about. I wish I realised how precious they were to me and me to them.’
‘Pa—’
‘No, Floss, you listen. You don’t get to my age without regrets and the biggest of mine is that I didn’t spend more time with your nan.’ His voice hoarsened. ‘Now she’s gone and any chance of ever repairing that’s lost forever.’
Tash turned to fold her arms around him. ‘I’m sorry, Pa.’
‘Don’t be sorry for me. My life, my mistakes.’ He stroked her hair. ‘Just don’t go making the same ones.’
His words left Tash feeling chastised and glum. She did want love but this wasn’t the year for it. Or the place, given her plans. More importantly, the person she had feelings for was not only too messed up to know his own heart, he was engaged to her best friend. Tash was expert at analysing recipes, and that one would never work.
The oven took most of the day to cure. Tash tended it between playing fetch with Coco and bringing Khan in for a brush and a pick at the lawn. She should have been writing or editing or, more boringly, checking cash flows and financials, but it was too easy to brood inside. The chilly air kept her sharp, the animals kept her diverted.
But as the dark came in, sweeping even colder air with it, Tash was forced inside. Her mum and dad were off to a friend’s birthday dinner, leaving the main house empty of company, and for the first time since her arrival Tash felt the weight of her single status. Ceci was seeing a band with Brandon. Even Thom had a date tonight with a girl from work.
As for her Emu Springs friends, they had their own lives and routines. Other than the party, which was mostly business, Tash hadn’t made the effort to reconnect either. Perhaps deep down she’d been scared to. Although she’d eventually got over her homesickness when she’d first moved to Melbourne, Tash still remembered the painful wrench of leaving home. She might be older and tougher, but that wasn’t something she wanted to go through again, and how long would she have here anyway? How long before she ran out of people to interview, local produce to showcase? How long before her viewers became bored and moved on to some flashier, more exciting channel?
It would happen one day; she wasn’t a complete fool. The internet was fickle, but with careful management she could insulate herself against obsolescence. Producing a great cookbook that people used and talked about, that featured in magazines and on morning television, would go a long way to achieving that. High sales would mean another contract, more guest appearances, more sponsorship and advertising for her online channels. The income wheel would keep spinning.
If Tash lost that, what kind of future would she have?
Dinner was reheated casserole that Tash ate in front of her laptop and washed down with a glass of wine. Earlier, she’d posted the oven photos to her own sites and updated Pa’s and Coco’s Facebook pages with snaps of their activities. From the amount of comments, she wasn’t the only person whiling away their Friday night alone.
Farmer Fred had left an admiring comment below a photo of Tash striking a victory pose and grinning loonily in front of her oven. Cold had turned her nose and cheeks bright pink but that hadn’t detracted from her joy and pride. Tash jotted a note of thanks in return before scanning the others.
A few minutes later a flag appeared at the top of her page, indicating she had a private message. Recognising Farmer Fred’s lantern-jawed avatar, she read on.
‘Just wanted you to know how gorgeous you are.’
Tash nibbled at her thumbnail, contemplating how to answer. She didn’t know anything about him, so it was prudent to be wary. A simple ‘thanks’ seemed most appropriate—grateful but not encouraging—but she couldn’t help adding ‘I hope you’re having a more exciting night than me’.
His reply came back almost instantly. ‘I doubt that. Home. Alone.’
She typed ‘Me too’ then deleted it and typed, ‘You cou
ld always watch footy’.
‘Nah,’ he wrote. ‘Prefer your videos. More entertaining. Girls who use brick cutters are hot.’
Tash laughed. Pa had forced her to wear safety goggles, gloves and a leather apron—unflattering was an understatement. ‘You need to get out more.’
‘Tell me about it.’
There seemed nothing else to add. Tash hesitated then ended the conversation with ‘Enjoy your night. Bye.’
‘Sleep well, gorgeous girl.’
She looked at the words he’d typed, uncertain whether to be creeped out or not. Chances were he was old and lonely and looking for a friend, perhaps even more, but there were better places to fulfil that need than her Facebook page.
Saturday afternoon brought sunshine but a nasty southerly. Tash rugged up in her Saints beanie and scarf and joined her dad for an afternoon at the football. It was the first game of the season and the Saints were playing at home. Cars were parked nose-in around the oval in a colourful coronet. Near the clubhouse, 44-gallon drums filled with thick slabs of timber burned, and supporters huddled around clutching beers, soft drinks and coffees. The canteen was doing a brisk trade in pies and hot chips, while the barbecue to the side wafted the seductive smell of grilled onions, minute steaks and fatty sausages.
Tash ordered herself a steak sandwich and tightened her scarf as she scanned the crowd for people she knew. Plenty recognised her, passing with smiles and nods or curious glances. She’d never been much of a footy fan growing up, spending most of her weekends riding with Maddy and cooking with her nan when the weather was too foul for outside activities.
‘Tash!’ yelled Bec, bustling over and kissing her cheek. ‘Great to see you here. Oh,’ she said, looking wistfully at Tash’s steak sandwich, already dripping juice and sauce. ‘I’d kill for one of those.’
‘So have one.’ Tash took a bite and sucked on her greasy fingers. ‘They’re good.’
‘Can’t.’ She grimaced. ‘Wedding diet.’
‘Months away and one won’t hurt. Go on.’
Bec’s mouth twisted as she made a frustrated groaning kind of noise, before slumping her shoulders. ‘Oh, all right.’ She pointed a finger at Tash. ‘Your fault though.’