The Farm at Peppertree Crossing

by Léonie Kelsall

  Of course. She clutched at her armrest as Jim continued. ‘Looks like the bridge is taking a beating. I guess there’s no need for it to be maintained like it was before, there’ll only be the farm vehicles using it now.’

  ‘Bridge? Where I’m from, “bridge” means a kilometre of steel artwork, not a few rocks in a dried-up puddle.’

  Jim changed down a gear, easing the car up the creek bank. ‘Well, Ms Marian used to keep the bridge in good repair—or have it kept in good repair, I guess—so she could get into town.’

  They had not passed a town for kilometres, at least thirty, she reckoned. Not unless you counted a deli sporting a faded Peters Ice Cream logo and flanked by two houses and a cluster of rusted sheds clinging to the crumbled edge of a bitumen road. ‘That … town … we passed a while back, you mean?’

  ‘Bless, you really are a city slicker, aren’t you? No. Settlers Bridge is a good size. Farther east.’

  ‘Walking distance?’ She’d checked it out on the internet, but the distance shown on the maps seemed to have little relevance to the vastness of the space out here. Isolation wormed beneath Roni’s skin. She’d not expected the property to be like this. Blame too much TV, but it should have been like the pictures she’d seen of American estates: a huge, white-painted house surrounded by manicured gardens expanding in a green and gold collage to mowed paddocks bordered by centuries-old deciduous trees. The neighbours’ great white mansions should be discreetly secluded but safely reachable—and, most importantly, in distant view at all times.

  Lifting one hand from the wheel, Jim jerked a thumb to his left. ‘About twenty klicks.’

  ‘And the closest neighbour?’

  ‘Can’t say I know offhand. Though Matt Krueger’s place would be nearby, seeing as he farms the property for Ms Marian. Farmed, I mean.’ Jim nodded toward the undulating paddocks. ‘Though they still look like they’re being cropped. Now, the house is about a kilometre up here. Long driveway, even for this area.’

  ‘Does my—ah,’ her voice pitched high and she coughed to recalibrate it. She wasn’t ready to claim her relationship, and didn’t even know whether she was still a secret. ‘You mentioned you drive for the Nelson family. They live nearby, then?’ Though Prescott had said her mother lived in the district, she had no idea what kind of area that covered out here.

  Jim slowed the vehicle to navigate a series of potholes deep enough to lead to Middle Earth. ‘And for the Smythes. They’re over in Murray Bridge, but Ms Denise lives in Settlers. When she’s around, that is.’

  He knew her mother. She was an actual flesh-and-blood person. The realisation pounded at her temples. ‘When she’s around?’

  ‘She travels a lot. Makes my job nice and easy.’

  Roni nibbled her lips, gazing out of the dusty windshield. Was she ready to meet her mother—or whoever constituted her new family? She’d deliberately repressed any interest in them, refusing to lay herself open to rejection. But now, now they were so close …

  ‘Is she away at the moment?’

  ‘Not to my knowledge. But she doesn’t always use my services.’

  A sudden thought occurred to her and she hauled her bag onto her lap and dug out her phone. Derek Prescott had never actually answered her question about whether her mother knew of her inheritance. She dialled his number. Frowned. Disconnected and dialled again.

  Jim glanced at her as he guided the car around a sweeping bend, the left side of the driveway lined with vast stone buildings, the right open to rolling paddocks that climbed lazily to the skyline. He slowed the vehicle to a crawl across a second cattle grid. ‘No signal? My service hits a dead zone out here. Ms Marian had a landline, but I’m not sure if it’s still connected.’

  Roni pushed the heel of her hand against her forehead, forcing back the headache as she stared at her screen. Okay. She didn’t need Derek Prescott. In any case, with Sydney a half-hour ahead, it was after business hours. In her normal life she would have locked up the takeaway shop and been on the train, heading home to spend the weekend with Scritches. Sleep in on Saturday, followed by a trip to the laundromat. The afternoon spent with a book. Housework on Sunday, and more reading.

  A wave of nostalgia for the familiar, the mundane and safe jagged through her chest. Resolutely, she stiffened her spine. She would view the property per the terms of the will and then get the place on the market. Then she could get back to civilisation, using the money her aunt had left in Prescott’s trust to tide her over until the sale. ‘There’s wi-fi in town, though?’ She would rather stalk real-estate agents on the net than approach them directly.

  ‘Sure. I think one of the cafes even has a password they share around.’

  She nodded as they passed beneath a solitary, impossibly tall date palm. ‘I need to take a quick look around here. Can you wait, and take me into town after? Drop me at a motel or something.’

  ‘Your wish is my command.’ Jim made an embellished wave, then tilted his head toward the window as they passed a screen of peppertrees, the weeping fronds brushing the red earth so that it appeared as though it had been carefully swept clean. ‘Here’s the homestead. No cars, so I guess you’re on your own.’

  The concept of aloneness was familiar, which meant she should feel relief, not the twinge of disappointment that prickled in her chest, almost like tears. Not that she would know; she had done with crying long ago. But had she secretly been hoping for a family reunion, a welcoming party so that she wouldn’t be the one forced to make overtures to Denise?

  If she ever decided to meet her, that was. Could she forgive her mother for never making contact? Or for the fact that she’d continued to ignore Roni’s existence years after the stigma of her birth would have worn off?

  Roni blinked a couple of times and focused on the homestead. As in the photograph, the long building stood proud on a gentle rise. Spread like a tablecloth before it, a vast paddock of close-mown grass sloped to the row of gums her aunt had described. In perfect symmetry, whitewashed stone sheds bordered the other two sides of the compound, reflecting the late-afternoon shades of lilac and pink.

  ‘It’s beautiful.’ No. Wrong adjective. Among the fierce starkness of acres of rock and trees and hills, the man-made refuge evoked a defiant sense of security, testament to the labour and sacrifice that had gone into carving a living from the inhospitable landscape. More than beautiful: it was magnificent.

  And hers now, surely? She had viewed it, admired it. What other conditions could be attached to the inheritance? As they pulled beneath the shade of a pergola, where clusters of lilac flowers hung like bunches of grapes, Roni’s teeth worked around the edge of her thumb, tearing shreds of flesh when she couldn’t find any nail.

  Jim glanced in the rear-view mirror as Scritches mournfully announced he had woken. ‘Sounds like he’s eager for out. Mr Prescott directed I give you this upon arrival.’ He reached again into the console.

  Hopefully not for the box cutter. Despite his affability, their isolation still made Jim prime candidate for the role of serial killer.

  He handed her a thick envelope, the P&K logo now familiar. The deeds for the property!

  Roni tore the flap.

  Not the deeds. A letter.

  Dear Ms Gates,

  Congratulations on completing the first of the conditions of your inheritance, and upon your safe arrival at Peppertree Crossing.

  Lynn Lambert has been in to freshen the house today and stock it with provisions, as your aunt anticipates you taking up immediate residence.

  Mr Krueger will call on you tomorrow.

  The keys your aunt left you will unlock the house and those of the sheds that are padlocked. In one, you will find your aunt’s vehicle, which is at your disposal.

  Further correspondence from your aunt awaits you within the house.

  Best,

  Derek Prescott

  It seemed her aunt was intent on ruling her every move from beyond the grave. She crushed the letter in her hand. ‘Looks
like I won’t be needing that ride until tomorrow.’

  As Jim carried her cases to the rear of the house, she freed Scritches from his cage and followed, plopping him down in the walled garden sheltering the back door.

  After only one tentative scrape in the unfamiliar texture of a dirt patch, the cat stopped, paw held mid-air. Raised with lavender-scented kitty litter, it was clear that soil and prickles did not meet his expectations. ‘Join the club, Scritch.’ Being marooned out here waiting for some farmer to show up wasn’t exactly what she’d anticipated.

  She scooped Scritches up and he wriggled onto his back, sniffing the dust coating his paws. Then he gagged. His tongue hanging out, his sides heaved as he convulsed.

  Jim dropped the second load of cases. ‘He’s having a fit! Get him back in the car, I’ll run you in to the vet.’

  Roni wiped a finger over the cat’s lolling tongue. ‘He’s fine. Pulls this trick whenever he smells something bad. Loves my shoes.’ Especially after a long day at work. He would dash over, sniff, retch silently and glare at her accusingly. Then stick his nose back in the shoe. ‘It must be like catnip.’

  ‘First I’ve heard of a cat with a substance-abuse issue.’ Jim shook his head, turning a key in the solid wooden door. He stood back. ‘After you, love.’ It seemed the conversation during their journey now edged their relationship comfortably toward informality.

  ‘Which way?’

  ‘Ah, right you are. Follow me.’ Jim threw open the door, turned left and guided her through what appeared to be a sunroom and into the kitchen with a confidence that spoke of familiarity. Though it wasn’t yet dark, he flicked on the lights. ‘Would you like me to check through the house before I head off?’

  The tart, fresh fragrance of mandarins made her mouth water. A blue-and-white china bowl full of the fruit sat at the centre of a scrubbed wooden table, an envelope propped against it, the spidery handwriting instantly familiar. She reached for the envelope, glancing at Jim. ‘Uh, no, that’s fine, thanks.’

  ‘I’ll leave my number with you, just give me a call if you need anything. I’m only in town, so I can get out here pretty quick. As long as I’m not on a job.’

  She tore her attention from the envelope, dropping Scritches onto the yellow cushion of one of the half-dozen wooden chairs around the table. ‘That’s great, thanks.’ It was bizarre—and not altogether comfortable—to realise that a two-hour acquaintance with the driver was as close as she came to knowing anyone on this side of the country.

  ‘Maybe don’t let Scritches out of the house, he might do a runner. Butter on the paws is supposed to stop them,’ Jim advised.

  There was precisely zero risk of Scritches running away. He didn’t like to be even a room away from her, and had already turned several circles on the cushion and settled, as though his brief experience with real dirt had exhausted him. Head lowered onto crossed paws, he kept one eye slightly open, his purr an unusually low rumble. Clearly he had yet to forgive her for the indignity of his treatment. ‘Butter on the paws? So they slip, and can’t run away? I don’t think that’d work on dirt.’

  Jim snorted, apparently taking her seriously. ‘I think the idea is that they lick off the scent of their old place, so they settle more easily.’

  ‘Maybe it’s more that the butter’s a treat, so the cat falls in love with the butter-er, and doesn’t leave?’ She moved toward the kitchen door as she spoke, trying to edge him out.

  ‘Ah, well, as my paws have not been buttered, I’d say that’s my cue,’ Jim said.

  As he left, Roni nudged the door into the kitchen closed, then lunged for the letter that would hand her the future.

  Chapter Eight

  My dear Veronica,

  As we have previously spoken, I feel we can now be a little more familiar—though I suppose it is hard to be more familiar than sharing the story of your birth.

  I trust you had an uneventful trip from Sydney, and that Jim Smithton is still employed by the family, and conveyed you safely to Peppertree Crossing.

  Did you study Dorothea Mackellar at school? If you had attended the college I had chosen, you most certainly would have. Regardless, I’m sure you recognise her iconic poetry, particularly “My Country”. She describes perfectly the contrast of endless plains and looming mountains, their stark beauty ravaged by both droughts and storms.

  We have all of that right here at Peppertree Crossing—well, we do if you’re willing to employ a little imagination and consider a decent-sized hill a mountain range! Did you know Dorothea wrote that poem when she was in England, homesick and, I would deduce, heartsick? I can imagine how she felt, because this land evokes such strong feelings in me, longing and love and loss, even though I’m not yet parted from it.

  Tell me, what season greeted you? Are the paddocks filled with golden wheat, or do they lie exhausted and grey, waiting for the first rains of autumn? Are there tiny white lambs playing in the stubble of the fallow fields, where tips of green struggle to poke through the ground after the last frost? Is the air filled with bleating angst as the babes lose sight of their mothers for a moment, or are those lambs now fat-tailed teenagers, lying overfull in the sparse shade of the mallee scrub?

  Already it seems I miss all these things, though I sit on the verandah with the view spread before me, and when I lie down to sleep, a panorama of memories keeps me company. I suppose it would be more accurate to say “when I rest”, because I seldom sleep. It may be an effect of the drugs, or perhaps it’s that I achieve so little now, my brain knows I’ve earned no respite.

  I’m clearly feeling a tad maudlin, cataloguing every sight, every nuance of the life I love, as though I can create a memory that will outlast this fragile physical existence. I worry I’ll even miss the things I have loathed—because, despite my attempt at waxing poetic, not everything here is beautiful. Some things I should be happy to never again witness, such as the searing heat that has me scanning the sky for signs of bush-fires, praying the north wind doesn’t blow fierce and the ominous smudge on the horizon is nothing but dust. Or the droning attack of the blowflies that appear the second I start to prepare a meal that requires anything more fragrant than boiled water. I suggest, during summer, you wait until after dark to cook. Lord knows where the flies go, but you’ll never see them after dark, or during winter—much to Andrew’s disgust, because he liked to fish in the quieter months, and the lack of blowflies meant no maggots to bait his hook.

  That leads me to a horrible thought—do the blowflies migrate to warmer climes? As my imagination leaps to one particular place, reputed to be warmer, I wonder how my actions will be weighed in the balance of things, and hope that any afterlife is not a Hell of never-dormant blowflies.

  Not that I’m particularly religious, but as the music box of my life begins to play erratic and fragmented, and I lack the strength to wind the key, I begin to think on What Comes After. It is inconceivable that, so imperfectly alive right now, I shall simply cease to exist. Therefore, I prefer to believe that I shall move on—but whether that place will be better, worse, or simply parallel to this existence, who can know?

  Me, soon, I suspect.

  Anyway, enough of my meanderings. My mood is largely due to the sadness of knowing that as you read this you are, finally, where I have wanted you to be for almost three decades. I can’t help but wonder, had I reached out sooner, would you have come while I was alive? There are so many things I wish I could have shared with you.

  Of course, such rumination is pointless, because for many years I could not have contacted you. I had sworn an oath of absolute silence to protect one for whom I cared deeply. No, not Denise; any promise I made her was under duress, and in her usual narcissistic fashion she simply assumes I will be complicit in her deception.

  If I’m completely honest, there did eventually come a time when I could have initiated contact, when my vow was terminated by that great leveller, time. But to what end? You had your life to lead and at that stage I had nothing t
o offer you, other than the convoluted tale of a dysfunctional family.

  In any case, for better or for worse, those decisions are in the past, and we must move forward.

  Perhaps now you’re sitting in my chair on the verandah. A hint—the one with the embroidered cushion is mine. To be frank, the knots of embroidery thread in the flowers make it a little lumpy. But as my dearest friend, Tracey, stitched it for me, I always use it. She has talent in many of those areas in which I lack.

  All right, if you’re comfortable, let us rewind our story a tad.

  You’ve probably noticed that when I mention Andrew I use the past tense. He died when I was fifty-nine, shortly after your nineteenth birthday. Had you met Andrew, I’m certain you would feel his loss. I wonder, is it possible to mourn someone you never met? Perhaps so, as I grieve the absence of the niece I never knew.

  Andrew and I assumed Denise placed you for adoption, and I persuaded myself that it was for the best; you would have the security of a forever-family without the tarnish of our mistakes and secrets. However, a few months after she returned, Denise revealed she had placed you in the foster-care system, under an assumed name. Apparently, to surrender you for adoption she needed your father’s consent—which would, of course, reveal his identity. Knowing my concern at the impact such a revelation would have on our lives and livelihood, for years she blackmailed me; every argument and demand came with a threat to reveal your father’s identity.

  Of course, she could simply have claimed that she didn’t know who your father was, and placed you for adoption. But the truth was, she wasn’t prepared to entirely relinquish you, because that would limit her control over me—control that extended to forbidding Andrew and me to foster you.

  So, Andrew and I resolved to do what little we could for you, from a distance. I’m not going to pretend I spent every moment thinking of you. How could I—indeed, why would I, when I had never known you? In all honesty, entire years would pass before I would recall that I had meant to have Derek Prescott check on your wellbeing. So, you see, I would probably have been an appalling mother and perhaps Denise was right to give you up, rather than allow me to practise my ad hoc parenting. Not that I will, for one second, pretend she did so with your best interests at heart.