The Farm at Peppertree Crossing

by Léonie Kelsall

  Forcing the decision aside, she wiped her phone against her jeans to remove a smear of dirt from the screen—she hoped it was dirt—and pulled up her job list. Feed chickens: big tick. She snorted. Wait ten years and one month to inherit, or complete her aunt’s tasks? She had this in the bag.

  As she sat, a tiny breeze stirred the floral curtain decorating the top third of the kitchen window. Along with not needing to lock the door each time she passed through, working windows were a novelty. Scritches took instant advantage of her position, settling as much of his bulk as he could fit on her lap, but untidily spilling over like a jellyfish stranded at low tide. ‘Okay, Scritch, T minus five minutes. Let’s watch this bread rise. More fun than slicing it for Rafe’s sandwiches, huh?’ Rafe was right, she would end up a crazy old cat lady. The cat lounged against her stomach and she grinned; soon enough her conversations wouldn’t be limited to Scritches, and there would be no room for him on her knee.

  No, not no room; she’d always make space for him. Just less room. Because both her lap and her life would be full. When her phone timer sounded, the dough still hadn’t transformed into a high-topped crusty loaf. Following Marian’s instructions, she inverted the bread and rapped the base with her knuckles to check that it sounded hollow. Then she took two small, flowered plates from the emu cupboard and a serrated knife from the drawer. She sliced a thick wedge from the end of the small cob, her stomach growling as fragrant steam rose from the bread.

  Scritches managed to get a searching paw on the plate. ‘Shoo, Scritch. That one’s for Aunt Marian.’ She sawed off another slice, spread both with instantly melted butter and smeared them thickly with jam labelled ‘Tracey’s Apricots 2018’. She carried them to the front verandah, nudging the screen door open with her backside, and placed one plate on the table in Marian’s spot, then sat opposite and lifted her bread in salute. ‘To you, Marian. Your whole task thing is crazy, but I admit, this is not all bad.’ She fanned the hot bread and bit into it.

  Then slapped a hand across her mouth.

  What the hell? Despite the nectar of the apricot jam, the dense bread lay rank on her tongue.

  She jumped up, spitting the bitter mouthful onto the dirt below the verandah. Krueger had assured her the starter was okay, but she’d known that nothing that looked like grey vomit could be healthy.

  She frisbee’d the slices of bread toward the farmyard. The chickens scurried up, the smallest—bantams, Krueger had said—like chubby little old ladies with their skirts hiked up around their knees, all a fluster as they bustled toward her.

  Toward the bread.

  The potentially lethal bread.

  Arms windmilling, she rushed down the steps and darted toward the birds. Forcing the bantams to retreat, she whirled about, only to find the peacock and his drab hens had circled in behind her and were tearing apart the bread like the law on a highwayman.

  ‘No!’ She lunged, and the birds fled in jewelled-blue, squawking disarray as a flash of candy-apple red from beyond the trees at the bottom of the yard caught her eye. A car. Crap. The last thing she needed was a visitor, not unless it was Derek Prescott come to tell her this whole thing was a joke. Well, not the whole thing, she still needed the inheritance. Just the ridiculous tasks, assessed by a guy who had a clear interest in her failure.

  She tightened her ponytail, ran her hands over her hair, and tugged her shirt straight as the car disappeared behind the sheds. As she watched the cattle-grid warily, waiting for it to reappear, the knot in her stomach grew.

  Her features obscured by a nimbus of curls, a woman peered over the steering wheel as the car cruised past to draw up beneath the vine-covered pergola on the far side of the house.

  Roni moved toward the vehicle, but her steps faltered and she stopped, rooted to the dirt.

  Mum?

  Chapter Fifteen

  As the woman scrambled from the car and dashed toward her, Roni couldn’t move. But she wasn’t prepared to analyse exactly why she suddenly felt her legs stiffen, her throat tighten, her stomach churn—because that would mean admitting to a chink in her armour, admitting the depth of her lie of the last twenty-nine years, when she’d repeatedly sworn that she had no interest in her parents.

  Her mother should be mid-forties, but the woman hurrying toward her had clearly had a hard life; she looked a good fifteen years older. Could regret do that to a person?

  ‘Veronica!’ Gossamer purple and pink webs of layered fabric floated around the woman, her blonde halo untamed by the bright pink ribbon threaded through the curls.

  A bubble of hysteria climbed Roni’s throat; add a few feathers and her mother would look like one of the matronly bantams. Soft and warm. Vastly different than Marian had depicted.

  ‘Yes?’ She scanned the woman’s face. No similarities. It would have been nice to find a little of herself, a sense of belonging, a notion of beginning and continuing.

  The diminutive woman flung her arms around Roni, no hint of reserve in the floral-scented embrace. But her desertion remained an unequivocal fact. One she would have to explain. Roni broke her mother’s grasp and retreated.

  The woman allowed her hands to slide down Roni’s forearms but snatched at her wrists. ‘I saw Matt at the clinic today and he told me you’d arrived. I couldn’t even wait long enough to bake you something, so I’m afraid these aren’t today’s, but Marian did always say they tasted better the next day, anyway.’ Rapid-fire dialogue thrown over her shoulder, she dashed to the car, then back to Roni, bearing a Tupperware container. ‘Lamingtons.’ She held the box toward Roni like a tribute.

  Roni stared from the container to the woman. Lamingtons? ‘Oh, you’re not … I mean, you’re …’ The name was on the tip of her tongue.

  ‘Oh, silly me,’ the woman fluttered. ‘Just because I feel I’ve known you forever, I forget that you don’t know me. Tracey.’ She nodded, as though the name would explain all Roni needed to know.

  ‘Tracey?’ Slowly the pieces slid into place in her mind. She angled one hand toward the verandah. ‘Tracey of the cushion?’

  Tracey clutched a fistful of the beads clattering around her neck, her voice tremulous. ‘Oh, my. Did Marian tell you about that? She loves—loved—that silly little cushion so much. Never let anyone else take that chair.’

  Roni looked down again at the Tupperware. The sponge squares, chocolate-iced and dusted with desiccated coconut, were probably a good enough reason to pretend cushion-love.

  Tracey caught her glance. ‘Shall we go in and pop the kettle on? We can have a nice cuppa and get to know each other better.’ Not waiting for agreement, she led the way beneath the arbour, toward the back door. ‘Oh, I do so love when the wisteria blooms.’ She brushed a hand over a grape-like bunch of the purple flowers hanging from the trellis. ‘I was afraid I’d miss seeing it this year if you didn’t arrive soon. And the fragrance! Reminds me of so many wonderful spring afternoons spent here.’

  Tracey deposited the lamingtons on the kitchen counter as Roni filled the kettle. ‘This is your first try?’ she asked as she poked the bread with a seashell-pink fingernail. ‘Well, it has to be, doesn’t it, since you’ve only just arrived.’ She sniffed at the misshapen lump. ‘Have you made bread before?’

  ‘No, and I don’t plan to try again.’ Except, she’d have to.

  Tracey picked a minute crumb from the loaf and popped it in her mouth. ‘Not a bad first go at all,’ she said, as though she’d not heard. ‘There’s quite a knack to breadmaking.’

  ‘I followed the instructions exactly. I can’t see how something can be less than perfect if the rules are followed.’ Another lie, because she’d always followed the rules, yet nothing in her life turned out perfect. She’d loved her first foster parents, yet they’d abandoned her. She’d worked hard at school, yet she didn’t have a career. She’d stayed quiet when ordered, had tried so hard not to cry, yet still it had hurt.

  ‘Did Marian leave you her recipe?’ Tracey’s blue eyes turned liquid as Ron
i pointed at the handwritten page still lying on the countertop. She ran a finger along the lines, as though she caressed the words. Or the memory of the writer. ‘I’ll bet she didn’t tell you the secret ingredient, did she?’

  ‘Secret? Seems there’s a few of those around this place.’

  ‘Oh, we’ll see what we can do about that. But first, the bread. The secret is … love.’

  Lucky Roni hadn’t swallowed the bread earlier or that predictable, hackneyed line would bring it right back up. She tried to conceal her eye roll. ‘Hard to be loving on that jar of grey muck.’

  Tracey’s trill of laughter sounded genuine. ‘No, not love of the bread. Love of what you’re doing. Marian never found the time to devote to “hobbies”, you won’t find any scrapbooks or photograph albums here, but she did love to bake bread. She said the kneading worked out some of her angst and anger, and she appreciated that she could produce something that would nurture her friends.’ Tracey cut a slice from the loaf. ‘Bread is the perfect representation of her. An indispensable, fundamental, strong foundation.’ She sounded like she was quoting something she’d been taught. ‘Nourishing and—oh.’ She’d bitten into the slice. ‘Well, I suppose looks can be a little deceiving.’

  ‘Right?’ Roni sighed. ‘I honestly thought I’d made a decent job of it. Well, other than the fact that it looks like a lump of clay. But I figured it had to taste better than it looks.’

  ‘Never mind. You’ll have to try your hand at another loaf. It can only get better, right?’

  ‘I’m not so sure about that. I could burn it next time.’

  ‘The trick is in the kneading. Marian used strong flour, and she said it had to be well kneaded to release the gluten. That way you’ll end up with something lighter than …’ Tracey dropped her slice with a resounding clunk. ‘This.’

  ‘It’s not only the weight. It tastes so bitter.’

  Tracey nibbled another crumb, her forehead creased. ‘Bitter? Like sourdough, you mean?’

  ‘Yes—no, wait. You mean it’s supposed to taste that way?’

  Tracey smiled. ‘There’s nothing wrong with the taste of your bread, love, only the texture. Yes, it’s supposed to be sour. That’s what makes it so perfect with jam. Come on, I’ll help you throw together another loaf. Then we’ll have our cuppa.’

  With Tracey guiding her technique, Roni stretched the far edge of the dough, folded it over the bulk, and pressed down with the heels of her hands, working in a circular fashion until the mix was thoroughly kneaded.

  Tracey dusted the flour off the breadboard into the sink. ‘There, we’ll see how that one turns out tomorrow. Marian and I always worked well as a team, too. I guess you could say she was the bread to my jam in many ways.’ As Roni picked up the jar of starter and headed toward the door, Tracey put out her hand. ‘Oh, that can stay in here now, love. Just top it up with flour and water like Marian’s recipe says, and it can feed on the airborne spores.’

  Roni stared. ‘Sounds like we’re growing fungus.’

  ‘That’s pretty much what the starter is. Wild yeast, picked up from the spores floating around us.’ Tracey spun in a circle, fingers trailing in the air like she could catch fairy dust. ‘Amazing thought, isn’t it? This enchantment in the air.’

  Roni had wondered whether Marian and Tracey had had a thing going on, but that hippie observation made it a decisive no. Though her aunt’s dry humour was evident on the page, Roni was pretty certain the woman had been the stern, forceful type, not given to flights of fancy.

  Or to the gathering of fairy-dust spores in her kitchen.

  Tracey rummaged in the emu cupboard as Roni poured boiling water into the teapot, determined to let it sit a while this time. ‘Ah, found my cup.’ The older woman retrieved a delicate teacup decorated with a border of small yellow roses intertwined with a blue ribbon. ‘Funny how we cling to familiar things, isn’t it?’

  That Roni understood. And Scritches was the only familiar thing in this alien existence. The cat lifted a sleepy head from his yellow cushion, as though she’d silently communicated her thoughts to him.

  Tracey took another cup from the shelf, her lips trembling as her finger traced a single bold burgundy rose on one side. ‘This was your aunt’s.’ Roni recognised the cup from the photograph of the house Prescott had shown her. She had examined the picture so closely she’d had to hold her breath to avoid dampening the paper. ‘And how about this one for you?’ Tracey held up a cup with a tracery of tiny blue flowers around the rim, scrollwork lettering beneath forming the words ‘Forget Me Not’. Evidently she didn’t recognise the irony.

  Tracey popped a lamington onto each saucer. ‘I don’t think anyone really uses saucers with their teacups anymore, do you? But they do look so elegant as a pair.’ Between them they carried the morning tea out to the verandah.

  They both stood, staring at the chairs.

  ‘I’m sure Marian would’ve wanted you to take her seat,’ Roni offered.

  ‘Do you think?’ Tracey’s eyes threatened to overflow.

  How the hell would she know? Still, no harm in trying to alleviate Tracey’s obvious pain. ‘I’m certain. She mentioned you very fondly in her letters.’

  Tracey sat carefully on the embroidered cushion. ‘That’s lovely to hear. It’s funny, you can know someone so intimately, yet still you don’t know how they portray you to others.’

  Intimately? Roni was back to wondering exactly what the two women had shared. Regardless, it seemed Tracey was her best source of family information.

  ‘You and my aunt were very close?’

  Tracey gently chased a bee from the table with the edge of her hand. ‘You know all the bees are dying? Terrible thing.’

  ‘Sure.’ But she had more important problems than that.

  Tracey seemed to remember the question. ‘Yes, Marian and I were closer than sisters. Though, given Marian’s relationship with her sister, that wouldn’t be too hard, would it?’ She flashed Roni a grin. ‘Go on, I know you’re dying to ask me all kinds of things. Go right ahead.’

  Roni flinched at her directness. ‘I, uh, to be honest, I have so many questions, I don’t know where to start.’

  ‘How about I start for you, then? I know you’ve met Matt. Isn’t he lovely?’

  Not at all where she wanted to go. ‘For a jailer, I guess.’

  ‘Jailer?’ Tracey frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

  Roni traced a finger around the rim of her teacup. ‘You know about the tasks Marian set?’

  Tracey nodded.

  ‘It seems my inheritance hangs on hoping Krueg—Matt—won’t fail me just because he’s pissed.’

  ‘Why would he be angry?’

  Roni kept her eyes on her cup. ‘He has no guarantee what I’ll do with the property when I inherit it, so it’s logical he has an agenda.’

  ‘Oh, you needn’t worry. Matt’s not that kind of person. He’ll give you a fair go, love. More than fair, if I know anything.’

  She swallowed her snort of disbelief; in her experience, that wasn’t the way life worked. Tracey’s simplistic view didn’t allow for either greed or necessity. ‘The way it’s set up, he gets an extra ten years’ income if I fail. Hardly incentive for him to play fair.’

  ‘Matt has other strings to his bow. In fact, I think he works the farm mostly as a favour to your aunt. They were very close.’

  ‘Yeah, I got that.’ She broke an edge off the rich brown- and-white-speckled cake to reveal a fluffy interior. ‘Oh, I’ve never seen a lamington that yellow.’

  ‘I use Marian’s duck eggs.’

  ‘They’re edible?’

  ‘Well, I wouldn’t fancy eating one straight up, but they’re perfect for baking. We’ll get stuck into some practice as soon as you’re settled.’

  ‘Practice?’

  ‘Oh,’ Tracey flapped a dismissive hand, ‘I’m such a scatterbrain. I’ve muddled everything in the wrong order.’ She broke off as the rooster decided the sun had just risen for th
e fourth time that day. ‘Your timing is perfect, though. You just missed the Royal Adelaide Show, so everyone tends to be a tad baked out, and many take a break until the Christmas fundraisers begin. You won’t have too much competition, just the diehards who like to make sure their name’s in the newsletter each month. But don’t worry, we’ll do some trial runs before then.’

  Roni raised her eyebrows questioningly. The roiling sensation deep in the pit of her belly suggested that whatever she had missed wasn’t going to be something good.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry, love,’ Tracey said. ‘Marian would lecture me on having my ducks in a row and being organised before I speak. Not that it ever did her any good.’ She took a sip of tea and tapped the table. ‘Now, let me see. First, back to Matt. He’s not the only one with tasks for you. Marian gave me a list as well.’

  ‘No.’ Roni’s heart plummeted into the black chaos of her stomach. Would she never escape this place? ‘More tasks?’

  ‘Don’t look so worried, love. I wouldn’t even really call these tasks. Marian was eager you get to know the community, and she decided either the CWA or the church would be the best avenue. You can get some funny old biddies at the church. Not that the association’s immune, mind. You’ll want to steer clear of Christine Albright. Anyway, Marian was of the impression you’ve not been brought up religious, so she thought baking might be a better fit.’

  She’d done enough pleading with God to decide he was non-existent. ‘I have to bake something for your club?’ God, don’t let it be bread. And how was the Country Women’s Association even still a thing?

  ‘Well, no, you don’t have to.’

  Okay, so maybe God did exist.

  ‘There are plenty of options, you don’t have to bake at all. Do you prefer knitting or sewing? There’s an ongoing quilting competition, and a group that knit beanies year-round for the premmies at the Women’s and Children’s. Or even a group sewing teddy bears for the Flying Docs to give their young patients. I thought the baking competition would be a great starting point because I’ll be able to help you with it, but it’s completely up to you what you do.’ Tracey slung her beads excitedly from side to side.