The Farm at Peppertree Crossing

by Léonie Kelsall

  Like ripping off a bandaid, she tore open the envelope.

  My dear Veronica,

  If all has gone to plan—and I refuse to countenance that it may not have—you are now on your way to my beloved Peppertree Crossing.

  Which means it is time for me to lift my pen and continue your story, before others greedily embellish the fragments they know of secrets that have been kept for decades.

  Barely two years after I married, your mother, who was then sixteen, confided in me. She was pregnant. And she wanted to abort you.

  I shall try to keep this part of the story to the barest facts because, even now, the retelling causes me pain. The less I share about your mother, the better. You will form your own opinions, and I would hate to taint them.

  No, that’s not at all true; I would love to tell you exactly what I think of Denise, of how our relationship degenerated from an early sibling rivalry when she decided that I’d already had my turn at commanding our parents’ love and attention. Of how she was jealous of the place I’d earned in our father’s heart, and set out to alienate me from our mother. Of how she was determined from a very young age that anything I had should rightfully be hers. But if this letter is intended to be a grand gesture of my ‘last words’, I should probably maintain some sort of noble decorum. Take the high road, whatever that really means.

  Anyway, for all that she was a tramp—there, already I’ve broken my vow not to malign her—Denise was remarkably unworldly. I told her I would arrange an abortion and she had only to hide the pregnancy until then.

  Yet I had instantly, as though guided by something beyond myself, devised a plan, a scheme that would keep the property within my family, the genetics as close to mine as would ever be possible.

  Over the months, I secretly wore padding under my clothes, steadily adding to the layers so my belly matched Denise’s, and we could both blame the slight weight gain on Mum feeding us too well. Of course, I was paving the way to claim you as my own child, although I did not tell Denise this. At that stage, there was no need for anyone but Andrew and me to know the truth. Denise would ultimately have no choice but to agree with my plan.

  Eventually, I took her to the city, ostensibly to have a doctor perform the abortion. When he told her she was too far along for the procedure to be safe, I feigned shock and sympathy. Ever the supportive sister, I told Denise she needn’t worry; I would take the baby as my own, and nobody would ever know it was hers.

  I returned to tell our parents that Denise had found work in the city and I had arranged for her to stay with one of my close friends. Conveniently, where she would be safely sequestered from the insatiable curiosity of our neighbours.

  I don’t think Dad ever noticed she’d left, and Mum was thrilled at the opportunity to brag about her daughter’s big city job.

  With much joy, Andrew and I immediately announced our ‘pregnancy’. When Denise was due, we would contrive to be in the city, and would then proudly bring home our ‘slightly premature’ baby.

  As you see, my plan was perfect.

  Except I had miscalculated the depth of Denise’s animosity toward me. It seems her wits were somewhat sharper than I had anticipated and she was, perhaps, suspicious of my part in delivering her to the clinic too late. Of course, her dislike ran far deeper, for reasons I have not yet decided whether to divulge.

  Four months before you were born, we lost our parents—your grandparents—I imagine it feels odd to suddenly have these layers of family? Again, I’m sorry for my part in that. Anyway, your grandparents were killed in a road accident. You will find newspaper cuttings in the office drawer, if you have any interest in the gory details. It was a long time ago, and not something I need dwell on.

  Even with them gone, we couldn’t admit to Denise’s pregnancy. Me, because I would then be unable to go through with the pretence of the child being my own. And Denise because—well, put crudely, what man would ever marry the town bike? We also needed to keep the secret because Denise was underage according to South Australian law, so your father would have been criminally liable.

  This is where the story becomes even more tangled, if that were possible. Denise disappeared. A month after you were due, she returned to the farm. Alone.

  I removed the padding from beneath my clothes and pretended to be a bereaved mother. A horrible thing to do, stealing a tragedy too many women experience, to support my lies. But the tears weren’t hard to come by, all my dreams dashed by—well, being human, I want to say by Denise’s selfishness, but in truth, it was all my own fault, wasn’t it?

  Saddened by these memories of my own foolishness, I will end this letter and allow you to digest the information.

  With apologies,

  Marian

  Roni’s chest pounded, though she didn’t know whether from shock or due to the plane’s steep descent. Or from the odd feeling of elation that swept through her.

  She’d been right: her mother hadn’t wanted her. But her aunt had. Covering sheet after sheet of lined paper, the spidery longhand script bore testament to that fact, acknowledging the lengths to which her aunt had been prepared to go to claim her.

  She blew a pent breath between pursed lips, then smiled distractedly as the woman alongside patted at her hand, evidently trying to reassure her as the tyres touched down on the runway in a screeching welter of melting rubber.

  As the plane shuddered toward the gate, Roni faced the thoughts she had pushed aside since she first sat in the expansive confines of Derek Prescott’s office. Was the real reason she had agreed to come not because of the cash inducement her aunt offered but because the possibility that someone had actually cared about her had unleashed the dream she had never allowed?

  Maybe, now that she had a name and a history, she had a family.

  Despite Marian’s vitriol, Roni understood her mother. Being near thirty and pregnant was daunting; at sixteen, her mother would have been terrified. She’d been manipulated and used, and surrendering her baby must have seemed for the best. That didn’t necessarily mean she wouldn’t want to know Roni now, though.

  As she followed the other passengers up the ramp to the arrivals lounge, glad to have her feet on solid ground once more, a suited man leaned over the glass barrier, her name written bold in black marker across the board held to his chest.

  Relief lengthened her stride. ‘Hi, I’m Roni. That is, Veronica.’ She gestured at his placard. ‘That one. I just have to find my bags. Can you wait?’

  ‘Jim Smithton,’ the driver said. ‘No need to find your items, Ms Gates. Collection is part of the service. If you’d like to make your way to that cafe,’ he indicated an area across the concourse, ‘I’ll take care of the luggage and then show you to the vehicle.’

  Distrust prickled through her. Would this guy run off with her bags? Unlikely. With Scritches? Even less likely. ‘If you could get my cases, that’d be great. I’ll find out where the animals are unloaded. Meet you back here?’

  Jim lowered the sign. ‘Ms Nelson-Smythe always waited in the cafe while I took care of the luggage. Said their tea was almost acceptable. Actually, if I recall right, she said it was “dishwater with an interesting twist”, but I reckon the fact she regularly drank there proves it’s okay.’

  Roni had taken several steps toward the escalator but spun around. ‘Nelson-Smythe? Do you mean Marian Nelson? You knew her?’

  ‘Sure.’ Jim gestured at the insignia on his jacket, though it meant nothing to her. ‘I’ve driven her for years. Only in the city, though. She wasn’t keen on traffic, said it reminded her of a bull-ant nest filled with kerosene. I’ve done the airport run every few months for the last’—he squinted up at the arrivals sign as though that held the figure he sought— ‘twenty-odd years. Plus Christmas shopping trips and the Adelaide Cup. The Royal Adelaide Show.’

  ‘You’re her chauffeur?’

  Jim must have read the incredulity on her face because he held up one hand, spatulate fingers spread open. ‘Oh, I didn�
�t drive only for her. It was a shared arrangement.’

  Roni sagged in relief. Her sneakers-and-ripped-Kmart-jeans ensemble seemed a little less likely to define her as the impoverished relative. ‘Ah, okay. Like a regular-cab kind of thing.’

  ‘Not exactly.’ Jim ushered her toward the cafe and gestured at a corner table. ‘I drive exclusively for the Nelsons and the Smythes, but it works on a booking system between the family members. Ms Marian was always particular about reserving me well ahead.’

  Roni sank in an untidy heap on the chair Jim pulled out. The airline magazine slid from her nerveless hand and slithered across the floor.

  Jim retrieved it. ‘What would you like to drink?’

  ‘Cappuccino,’ she mumbled through lips thinner than year-old insoles.

  He didn’t disappear long enough for her to catch her scattered thoughts. ‘Coffee will be here in a moment. Now,’ he pulled a leather-bound notebook from a pocket inside his dark jacket. ‘Mr Prescott said four suitcases and one pet carrier, containing a cat, name of Scritches. Right? Great name.’

  She nodded. ‘Yes. That’s all.’ Oh. God. Her op-shop suitcases. Prescott said there were funds for her to purchase luggage, or even to move all of her belongings interstate, but she hadn’t wanted to tell him that, because her apartment came furnished, all she possessed were her clothes and Scritches. Nope, scratch that last one. Scritches definitely owned her.

  The coffee came and she stirred it distractedly, testing the crema on the back of her spoon. Jim drove for ‘the family’. She shook her head, blowing out a tense breath. The concept was weird. Surreal. There were people out there who were related to her, who had the same blood flowing through their veins. She glanced around the concourse, as though one of those ‘people’ would leap forth and identify themselves.

  She snorted at her fancifulness and snatched up her phone. She’d burned through her data plan stalking social media, searching both Denise and Marian Nelson, infuriatingly common names that gave her precisely no useful information. But would a farmer’s wife with a driver and a double-barrelled surname bring up more results?

  She keyed Marian Nelson-Smythe into the search engine, then fumbled her phone as links immediately flashed onto her screen. Three pages of results.

  Philanthropist.

  Supporter of the arts.

  Doyen of the South Australian horseracing community.

  Board member of the Rural Health Alliance.

  Board member of the Rural Women’s Coalition.

  Roni gulped the coffee like caffeine would be an antidote for the nervous fizz in her chest. Her aunt had not been some countrified nobody. Maybe that went some way to explaining the secrecy surrounding Denise’s pregnancy?

  Before she had worked through the first page of results, Jim Smithton returned, pushing a trolley that held her bags and a yowling pet carrier. She pressed her hand against the mesh. The sedative had worn off, and the distraught cat was less than impressed with his treatment. ‘Shush, Scritch, that’s enough now.’

  As other travellers glanced their way she stood, addressing Jim. ‘I guess we’d better get out of here. Unless you want a drink?’ Should she suggest that to an employee? Her hand tightened on her wallet. Maybe her family were some kind of nobs, but she was no one special, and Jim didn’t work for her. ‘Let me get you a drink, Jim.’

  Fingertips rasping invisible stubble, Jim scratched his cheek. ‘I, uh—well, thanks, that’d be nice. It’s something of a drive, why don’t you get a couple of takeaways?’

  ‘Sure thing.’ She shot him a smile. ‘Maybe you can fill me in on some details while we travel.’

  It would need to be a long trip.

  Chapter Seven

  Despite Scritches’ constant serenade, Jim proved a loquacious travelling companion, his demeanour unbuttoning along with the tie he asked permission to loosen. However, after ninety minutes Roni realised she’d learned little about her family other than that Jim, like Derek Prescott, seemed somewhat smitten with her aunt. She did discover a lot about Jim’s useless, underemployed sons, saintly wife and two ex-racing greyhounds, though she remained confused as to whether Ella was his wife or a dog. She also found that, with little demand from either the Nelsons or the Smythes for his chauffeuring service, he had a side job driving the community minibus for the district council, ferrying the elderly on shopping trips and to appointments.

  Jim lifted a finger from the steering wheel, indicating the road ahead. ‘Okay, from the corner here, all the land on the right side is Ms Marian’s.’

  Roni had refused to take the rear seat in the Land Rover he’d led her to outside the airport. The leather upholstery creaked as she leaned to gaze across him, though she could have looked out of her own window and been treated to the same view. Acres—she assumed—of undulating hills, covered in knee-high lime-coloured grass. The dusty road was bordered by low, sparse trees, the bushfire-blackened trunks stark against bursts of new leaves. Red blooms flared on the occasional eucalypt, and magpies patrolled the verges in gangs, swivelling with bold interest to watch the car.

  ‘You had a fire through here last summer?’ she asked.

  Jim shook his head. ‘Nope. This burned out three years ago. Takes a while to regenerate around here. Hold your breath.’ He leaned forward to flick the vent, cutting the flow of air from outside. ‘Always a lot of dead ’ roos in spring.’ She pinched her nose, trying not to look as they passed a lump of grey fur. Road kill was something she rarely saw in Sydney, only the odd feral cat, or low-flying bird that had lost a game of dare with a car.

  Jim glanced over at her. ‘I feel kind of guilty.’

  She arched a brow. ‘You didn’t hit it.’

  ‘Ms Marian always had me stop at any fresh road kill.’

  ‘To clear it off the road?’ Roni screwed up her face. ‘That one was well clear, anyway. And “fresh” is debatable, considering the smell.’

  The car slowed, pulling closer to the trees on the left side. ‘To check the pouch for joeys. Thing is, I know Ms Marian’s been gone a while, but would you mind if we turned back and I checked that one? It’ll only take a minute.’

  Roni flapped a hand, waving away the question, though she wasn’t as successful with the eye-watering odour. ‘Of course.’ She couldn’t shake the feeling Jim was doing her a favour by driving her out here, and she wasn’t about to go all Miss Daisy on him.

  Jim executed a three-point turn, the white dust of their passage hanging thick in the air and coating the black duco as he headed a few metres back up the dirt road. He passed the dead kangaroo, made another turn, and drew up just before it. ‘May I?’ He lifted his chin toward the console in front of Roni.

  She nodded uncertainly.

  He flipped open the console and drew out a pair of blue surgical gloves. ‘Maggots,’ he said in response to her unspoken question. ‘They love to get in the pouch. I don’t mind checking for joeys, but I only had to get maggots under my fingernails once to learn to always carry gloves. Though until the last few years, Ms Marian would jump out herself. She taught me how to detach the joey from the nipple.’

  ‘How to do what?’ The farther they travelled from the city, the less she understood. ‘Don’t you just, you know, take it out?’ She mimed scooping up a furry bundle and cradling it.

  ‘If the joey’s attached, you can’t go yanking it off. Their mouths are easily damaged.’

  ‘Then how do you get it out?’ She peered at the bedraggled grey mound, the only movement a swarm of blue-black blowflies that continually lifted and resettled, like waves on a beach. Filthy, disgusting waves, as bad as Barrenjoey Beach.

  Jim reached across her again, taking a box cutter from the console. He grimaced. ‘Cut the nipple out. Do you want to learn how?’

  She shook her head. ‘Uh. No. Not this time. Thanks.’ And she would make sure there was no opportunity for a next time. There was far too much … country … out here for her liking. They’d not sighted a house in forever, though the
occasional driveway, marked by white-painted tractor tyres standing upright alongside openings in the miles of fences, hinted that people lived out here, somewhere. The only other signs of civilisation were the road and the power poles marching over the hills like an army of triffids linked by wires. Despite the comfortable temperature inside the vehicle, Roni shivered and hugged her elbows.

  Jim climbed back in, sliding the gloves and knife into the console. ‘You’re right, that one was a bit ripe. A small boomer.’

  ‘As in baby boomer?’

  ‘Ha.’ The car crunched through the gravel verge and onto the road. ‘Oh, wait, you’re serious?’

  ‘Uh huh.’

  ‘Boomer. Male kangaroo.’

  ‘Well, that’s kind of good. Isn’t it?’

  ‘Not so much from his point of view. Now this,’ he slowed the car, indicated and turned right, ‘is the entrance to Ms Marian’s property. You’ll have to hold onto your hat as we cross the cattle grid.’

  The car crawled between two wooden wagon wheels, painted white to match the three-barred fence that framed the metal grid set in the dirt. Her stomach knotted as the Rover jounced over the bars. She was only moments from the house she was about to inherit. The first real thing she had ever owned.

  Parallel to the road they had turned off, a shallow, dry creek bed cut through the paddock, appearing to bisect the property from one distantly invisible boundary to the next. On the edge of the creek, two ten-metre-tall trees bordered the driveway. An umbrella of branches covered with fine, pointy leaves created a shady canopy around the massive gnarled trunks, and Roni almost breathed a sigh of relief. At last, something she recognised. ‘Willow trees, right?’ She’d seen them in the Chinese Garden in Darling Harbour.

  Jim shook his head, his jaw clenching and knuckles tightening on the wheel as the Rover bumped over a narrow crossing of tumbled boulders. ‘Peppertrees. See the pink berries? That’s what the farm’s named for. Peppertree Crossing.’