‘Sort of. Best friends, weren’t they?’
‘Well, rather more than that. At least my sister found love somewhere.’ Denise flinched as Scritches uncurled from his cushion and stretched. He eyed her, then sat again, as though he were a participant in the conversation. ‘I imagine there’s so much you want to know. What exactly did Marian tell you? Naturally, it’s bound to be somewhat biased, as will be my own account. But I have no doubt you’re intelligent enough to form your own opinions.’
Roni pinched at her lip. Would she betray her aunt by speaking with her mother? The woman was, despite Marian’s accusations and Tracey’s caution, apparently reasonable and balanced. But was there a risk she was allowing her perception to be moulded by her desire to know her mother? ‘She didn’t tell me much. Only that you were pregnant with me when you were very young and single.’ Her cheeks flamed, and she checked the instinctive move of her hand to her own belly. ‘And that she wanted to keep me but you placed me for fostering.’ Her sanitised synopsis laid no blame, didn’t evidence a trace of the desertion she had felt for so many years. But it invited her mother’s explanation.
Denise nodded, her painted lips twisting into an appreciative bow. ‘Somewhat lacking in detail, but the basics are true enough. Yet still, I imagine it was horribly hard for you to hear.’ She sighed and looked down at her hand for a moment, as though pondering what to share. ‘Of course, Marian’s reason for wanting to keep you was somewhat more convoluted than simply pretending she cared what became of you. In any case, I decided you’d have a better life elsewhere. This town is … inbred. Parochial and archaic, rife with rumours and secrets and lies. I was certain Sydney would provide you with far better opportunities.’
Denise sounded so hopeful, something shifted in Roni’s core; her mother had done what she felt was right. She couldn’t have predicted how that would turn out, couldn’t know Roni would be abused and unloved. Denise had made a decision with her baby’s best interests at heart, exactly as Roni would do. ‘It did,’ she lied to alleviate her mother’s concern.
Denise nodded, her shoulders easing. ‘Excellent. Now, what do you have planned while you’re here? I want us to spend a lot of time together. We have so much to talk about.’
The unusual sensation of tears thickened her throat. She never cried. But she was damn close. ‘Actually, I’ve a list of jobs to complete. But I’ll make time,’ she added hastily, in case Denise thought she was being rejected.
Denise arched a perfect eyebrow. ‘Aren’t you going to put this place on the market? To be honest, although I’m thrilled, I’m surprised to see you here. I was planning to find you in Sydney once all this had been settled.’
Why wait until then? The words hovered on Roni’s lips, but she dismissed them as petulant; Denise was here, now. Doing her best. ‘It’s complicated. The sharefarmer has a list of tasks I have to complete before the title passes to me.’
‘Matthew Krueger?’ Denise hesitated, drawing her fingertips across the tabletop, her tone reluctant. ‘I don’t want to interfere, Veronica, but a word of caution. Watch out for him. Your aunt was … unhealthily close to him.’
‘Close, like, how?’
Denise’s cheeks tinged pink, and she looked down at her lap shyly. ‘I’m probably the last person who should throw stones, particularly in that direction, but suffice to say I was surprised by his influence here. Given your aunt’s … tendencies … I expected her to be immune to his charm.’
Roni’s fist clenched. It was bizarre, but she realised she hadn’t wanted to be right about Matt being after the farm, by whatever means.
Before she could ask for details, the slim black fitness tracker on Denise’s wrist vibrated against the table and she glanced at it, sucking an annoyed breath between her teeth. ‘Oh, I have to go,’ Denise said. ‘I’m so sorry. To be honest, I hadn’t even intended to come tonight, I wanted to let you settle in before I descended on you. But then I was passing by and couldn’t resist. I’ll tell you what,’ she rummaged in her leather handbag. ‘I’ll leave you my number, and you call when you can make time to catch up with me.’ Roni nodded, following her to the door, trying to ignore the notion that her mother was being ripped from her life again. Ridiculous. She’d promised herself never to allow those kinds of emotions, that level of need.
Denise pressed a cool palm to Roni’s cheek. ‘I know I’m asking a lot, Veronica. I don’t deserve your time, that’s why I’ll leave it up to you to make contact. I hope you can forgive me for doing what I thought best for you.’
Roni locked the door and leaned her back against it. Held in the tears.
Chapter Seventeen
Dearest Veronica,
Have you found your feet in my little piece of paradise? I know you’ve now met the dearest of my friends (and, of course, baker of the most excellent lamingtons!). I’m also aware she has—or should have, depending on how scatterbrained she was—unveiled your most recent task.
Yes, I know. The CWA brings to mind a roomful of lavender-scented old biddies cackling over the deafening click of their knitting needles. And, truthfully, this is sometimes an apt description. However, there seems to be something of a trend of younger folk joining the association, so you shouldn’t be entirely at the mercy of the crones. In any case, age is irrelevant. I want you to get to know your neighbours but, more importantly, I want you to realise that, while independence is valuable, we all sometimes need to lean on other people.
Although I craved isolation and the lack of judgment that only seclusion can bring, my friends have become dear to me. Faithful despite my tantrums, regardless of my idiosyncrasies, and immune to my occasionally haughty demeanour—occasional being an entirely relative term—my friends, among whom I count your father, persevered. It was they who created true joy in my life.
But friendship, I have discovered, is something of a balancing act. The relationship must be rooted in equality; therefore, it is imperative to not only offer assistance but to accept help. Difficult, I know, when pride is both one’s greatest asset and greatest handicap.
I wish I’d recognised this double-edged sword earlier in my life. My pride insisted I keep secrets when, if I had replaced it with courage, perhaps things would have been different for both of us. Only with risk comes reward.
Still, I didn’t, and they’re not, so that brings us to now.
How is my lovely Goat faring? Though I bottle-raised many sheep, pasturing them into their old age, he is by far my favourite. Such a character. When you find your way to the town, he does love breakfast biscuits. Don’t let him eat too many, though. He’ll happily scoff the entire box, then lie around all day, belching and bloated.
Are the chickens laying? Every year I swear I’ll cull the numbers, but once the hens go broody I can’t bear to steal their eggs. There’s nothing quite like the sight of tiny yellow or black chicks following their mother all over the farmyard. And ducklings! They are the sweetest thing ever. Do keep watch for hawks, though. They float on thermals, so high you can barely spy them, then stoop and take a chick in the blink of an eye.
Has Matt shown you around the property? He knows everything you could possibly want to learn about the stock and the crop yields and will help you find your way through your tasks. Likewise, Tracey will take you under her wing. She has no children of her own—one of the many things over which we bonded—and is quite thrilled with the idea of teaching you to cook—assuming you chose that option, rather than quilting or sewing? She’s very much hoping you will though, as you can see, she’s as skilled with a sewing needle as she is with a wooden spoon. If you learn to bake with Tracey’s skill it’s as well I’m no longer there, or I would become a rather portly old lady.
As you see, when I put pen to paper to talk with you, I’m loathe to stop. Perhaps because I hope these conversations draw us closer, belatedly forging the connection I should have created so many years ago. Or maybe it’s because I procrastinate, avoiding sharing another secret. One I promised my
husband never to reveal—yet I must, because this secret truly belongs to you.
You may have noticed I mention my husband and your father frequently, almost interchangeably? That is because they are one and the same.
I’d not been married to Andrew for two years when he evidently decided that was too long for a man to go without sex. I could have lived with that. The town is not far away, I’m certain he could have procured a prostitute. Or even a girlfriend. A fine-looking man, Andrew was accustomed to female attention, and I imagine that made my own lack of interest harder to bear.
Remember I told you I regret the secrets I have kept? That was another of them: I should have been honest with Andrew before we married, told him I would have no issue with him seeking his physical pleasure elsewhere, as long as we maintained the property.
However, your mother saw no reason for him to look elsewhere. It’s important you understand that I don’t blame her for this: although she was, shall we say, experienced, still she was legally a minor, and Andrew an adult. He confessed to me immediately. For all his dalliance with Denise, he remained an intrinsically good man who paid for his mistake by spending the next nineteen years crippled by regret and fearing revelation. Which neither excuses nor absolves his behaviour, but it is what it is.
After admitting their affair, Andrew barely spoke to Denise. It seemed he couldn’t face her, couldn’t face what he had done. How he had betrayed me, his wife, but also betrayed her, a teenager in our house. Anyway, she was furious. Perhaps she truly thought he loved her. Whatever her reason, it was this anger that saw her spitefully place you in the foster system.
Suffocated by my own disappointment, I never once spared a thought for Andrew. Because of my inability to tell him my truth before we married, he had been robbed not once but twice of his chance to have a child of his own. Still, I truly believe that we could have brought you home if it weren’t for the depth of Andrew’s shame and his fear of retribution. Had he admitted his paternity we could perhaps have had you removed from the foster system. However I suspect not only was Andrew afraid he would be tried by both the legal system and our peers but, as the years passed, he simply could not face the thought of seeing you, the proof of his infidelity, each day. It would have been different if we had raised you since birth; our pretence would have grown alongside you until it became organic, the truth of your origins nothing more than a vague recollection clouded in the haze of a long-forgotten summer, the sharp edges softened by love and shared memories. But to bring a teenager into our house, a young woman who would have every right to question where she came from? That was not something Andrew could live with. Your heritage was, in fact, a secret he took to the grave; only I knew the truth of his remorse, and Denise knew of his guilt. A weapon she has wielded, as I told you, for many years.
But, while Andrew had his reasons, I had my own fears. Cowardice that prevented me from arguing my case. Your case. I was incapacitated by the suspicion that if I betrayed Andrew’s trust, or didn’t surrender to Denise’s continual petty blackmails, Andrew would leave me. Although I did not love him as a wife, I did love the man; yet it wasn’t any form of love that factored into my reasoning. I had no wish to lose the advantages being married brought, not least of which was the disguising of my own sexual identity. But, more importantly, I believed that if Andrew left, I would not be able to manage; I would be forced to sell my beloved Peppertree Crossing.
So you see, Veronica, while my husband and sister—your father and mother—bear their own guilt, the greatest shame is mine. I traded you for Peppertree Crossing.
Now I seek to make reparation.
With love,
Marian
Chapter Eighteen
Roni’s hands trembled as she put aside the letter. So briefly she’d had it all. A family history, a mother who cared, a property to inherit. Then, in the space of a few paragraphs, her existence had become the stuff of a sordid read featured on the lurid cover of a weekly magazine. ‘Man impregnates gay wife’s teenage sister.’
She felt empty, as though a prize had been snatched away right as she finally committed to reaching out to grasp it. But, as she tried to grapple with the fact that her uncle and father were the same person, that her mother had stolen her own brother-in-law, resentment crept in. Even if her parents had been in love, the inescapable truth was that neither of them had cared about her. And Marian, who now lectured her on the importance of taking risks, of being self-sufficient and emancipated, had done nothing but lie to obtain the security she craved.
Was that, though, the intent of her letter? Did Marian admit to her own failings as a lesson? Yet what could a woman, brought up with the wealth and privilege that allowed her to play with people like they were chess pieces, understand of real life?
Roni rubbed her temples, folded the letter and slid it with the others behind a breadboard on the kitchen counter. She wouldn’t cry, nor would she confuse desires with needs. Neither family nor friends were necessary.
Her back against the chicken coop, legs stretched along the ground, Roni encouraged the friendliest of the fowl to take feed from her outstretched palm, grinning as she managed to smooth a hand across the burnished feathers of the rooster. The sun rose between the gums, fundamentally the same sight every day, yet still it was fresh and new, a daily miracle that awakened a feeling of anticipation, as though life held promise. She took a deep breath, feeling the tension that had kept her rigid and miserable all night finally ease. She had survived far worse than this. So her family were all kinds of messed up: did that really change anything? With food, shelter and security for Roo and Scritches, life right now was better than she’d ever had it.
The magpies warbled their morning chorus, and from a distant scrub, a kookaburra joined in. Miss Fuzzypants, who appeared to be covered in white dandelion fluff rather than feathers, waddled into her lap, head cocked inquisitively to one side. Roni cracked a grain between her teeth, feeding the crumbs to the bantam. The serenity seemed to seep into her pores, imbuing her with a sense of hope. Perhaps taking the tasks a little slower, staying here a while longer, wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world. She’d wanted to rush back to the familiarity of Sydney, but realistically, she could never create a home there for Roo. She needed a new plan. But first, she must secure her inheritance.
As she’d not driven since high school, she took a couple of practice runs up and down the corrugated driveway before tackling the bridge, which seemed narrower than when Jim had driven across. If she stayed too long she would have to widen it for her own access.
She turned right at the end of the drive, praying that, with spotty reception on her phone, the town was either signposted or easy to find.
It turned out to be both. The road wound through straggling scrub, then dropped down a steep hill and opened without warning to river flats studded with fat black-and-white cows. The flats continued on her left, but the right side of the road became a town, the street bordered by large blocks hosting substantial stone houses. A grin curved her lip. On a whim, she’d flicked through Enid Blyton’s The Magic Faraway Tree in Marian’s library. The two very different views, suburban and country, with the road dividing them, reminded her of the tree, growing different fruit in layers, revealing a surprise every few feet.
She slowed as she passed the town-limit sign. Settlers Bridge. The gardens on the right sprouted a mix of spectacularly flowering rose bushes and recycled lounge chairs, positioned to gaze toward the distant glint of a grey river hedged by trees that she was quite certain, this time, were willows. Either that or folk round here really liked to watch cows. She buzzed down her window for a better view and her eyes watered. Wow. Maybe the residents didn’t use those lounges all that often. The aroma was … organic.
After three blocks, the arterial road came to a T-junction, the left turn leading to a bridge over the river, the right threading between two double-storey pubs that appeared to be gatekeepers to the main drag. The four lanes were bisected by a
brick-paved centre strip planted out with industrial-sized wine barrels of purple and orange bougainvillea, rocketing skyward like fireworks. Along the street, faded iron verandahs created lazy eyelids over dusty glass windows crowded with clothes or bric-a-brac that could have been stock from the fifties. Further down the street the two big banks, both low, ornate stone buildings, faced off with each other. It seemed the town planners had decreed each shop must be mirrored on the opposite side of the road.
Selecting a space that wouldn’t require her to exercise long-forgotten parallel-parking skills—though it seemed unlikely there would ever be a need to drive around the block to find the perfect spot—Roni pulled beneath a red-flowered gum on the kerb near the IGA. The small store directly opposite, almost invisible behind the ‘Australia Post Outlet’ sign that covered most of the grimy window, boasted a white-flowered gum. Mistake, or a rebellious council employee?
She followed the short cement ramp up to the door, batted through the orange plastic fly strips that hung there and took a trolley.
She shopped slowly, toting up the items in her head, making sure she would have enough cash when she reached the register. A woman strolled past, matching her pace to the curly-haired toddler grasping her hand. The child stared up at Roni with huge eyes.
Soon she would be that woman, her child’s tiny fingers firmly encased in her grip, a life forever meshed with her own. Dependent on her.
She couldn’t wait.
The bakery stand was loaded with bread. And lamingtons. A possible fallback for the CWA contest? She chewed at her thumbnail. No. Marian asked for relatively little in exchange for the property and, despite her aunt’s manipulations, she couldn’t cheat. Besides, Roo deserved a mum who knew how to cook—and, in any case, she needed the money for Goat’s Weet-Bix. In the next aisle she added a large bottle of multivitamins to her basket. Expensive, but they’d make up for any shortfall in her diet.
The Farm at Peppertree Crossing Page 14