The Farm at Peppertree Crossing

by Léonie Kelsall

  And, housed in a beautiful stone building with a high-peaked roof and elegant bow-fronted mullioned windows, the Settlers Bridge Regional Council Chambers. A small timber sign hung from the larger colourful board listing the council contact numbers and hours. Library—Open.

  Although she had not explored far, she knew that beyond the business centre the roads widened, radiating out like a geometric spiderweb to connect a surprising number of houses. It was clear there wouldn’t be enough employment in the town for the population—though, judging by the main street today, it seemed a large proportion of the residents were retired. Perhaps because it was pension day, as Tracey had mentioned, but whatever the reason, the town had come to life. There were about twenty people scattered along the shaded pavement between the cafes and the banks. Parking in front of the pubs at the far end of the street seemed to be a premium. Toting shopping bags or making a halting beeline toward Ploughs and Pies—no one seemed interested in Tractors and Tarts—the shoppers clustered in small groups to chat. One couple pored over the yellowed posters in the IGA window. Much pointing and nodding made it seem as though the discounts promised by the fly-spotted pages were the most exciting thing they’d seen in a fortnight.

  No Denise, though. Roni puffed out a disappointed breath and headed back to the car. Dare she swing past the library? It looked intimidatingly small, and Tracey had already warned her about the librarian. There would be no keeping her secret if she borrowed a book from there.

  Worrying at one of the many scratches her arms had accumulated over the past two weeks, she pondered her options. She wouldn’t go to the library yet; she would tell her mother first. Roo represented a new start for both of them.

  She was cleaning out the coops when the calf arrived the next day. Stan lifted the gangly-legged, rusty-brown beast over the orchard fence, where it mooed piteously. ‘This what yer after, then?’

  What she was after? God, yes. She fell instantly in love with the lustrous brown eyes beseeching her from behind ridiculously long lashes, as a rough and incredibly long tongue curled out to suckle on her fingers. She didn’t even care if Stan planned to fleece her on the price. ‘Perfect. How much?’

  ‘She’s right. Just fix me up with my share come autumn and we’ll call it square.’

  She quirked an eyebrow at his odd accounting system. ‘Sounds good. Okay, then. I’ll see you round.’ He needed to leave so she could try bottle-feeding the calf, because just the thought of it had all her maternal instincts kicked into overdrive.

  As Stan’s ute and trailer rattled across the cattle grid, Goat raced up, either drawn by the sad cries of the calf or, more likely, because he was insatiably nosy. He gently butted the calf’s side, and the calf staggered and snorted, licking at its wet nose.

  ‘Okay, Goat, play nice while I go make baby’s bottle.’ Baby. Like the dancer in the old eighties’ movie with Patrick Swayze, the name seemed to fit the long-legged calf. She felt a pang of concern; Baby, her first deliberate addition to her growing family, would be a damn sight harder to pack in a carry cage and move to a new home than Scritches. And Goat? Well, Goat wasn’t truly her problem, he belonged to the property. But she would have to make sure the new owners knew of his passion for cereal biscuits.

  Following the instructions on the bag of calf-raiser, she mixed the formula and tested the temperature on her wrist. Scritches rubbed around her legs, certain anything she devoted so much time to must be intended for him. She poured a little in a saucer and popped it on the floor.

  Scenting the warm milk before she had reached the orchard, Baby pushed so hard against the bottle, Roni had to brace herself on the gate. The milk disappeared within seconds, the calf butting her hip, trying to find more. ‘Sorry, Baby, but I’m not overfeeding you as well.’ The chickens had been lesson enough.

  Mid-afternoon, Tracey fluffed by to collect her for the CWA meeting, shopping bags hanging from her arms. She dumped them on the table and enfolded Roni in a hug. ‘Hello, love, it’s been forever. I thought we’d throw together some scones to take to the meeting.’

  Roni extricated herself from the embrace. ‘If my bread’s any measure, the CWA will be wiped out like the plague’s gone through.’ Actually, yesterday’s loaf had been the best yet. She chewed at her thumbnail, unable to shake the notion she owed Tracey an admission. ‘I saw Denise again the other day.’

  Tracey didn’t skip a beat, unpacking a Tupperware of lamingtons and several other containers from the bag. ‘Samantha mentioned it. A couple of casseroles and a soup for you, love. It must be exhausting trying to handle this place all by yourself, and we don’t want you getting run down.’

  Roni lurched back. No one had made her a home-cooked meal since … since her first foster parents. ‘I—’ She should refuse the food, because accepting intimated acceptance of so much more. And she couldn’t go there.

  Tracey stacked the meals and popped them into the freezer. ‘I cooked a lot of Marian’s meals. She could look after herself, but preparing something nice and tasty or taking the time to think about what she put in her mouth were well down her list of priorities. I’m willing to bet you’re much the same. I swear you’ve faded away in the last week. Too much running around, not enough sitting, and no decent meals, I daresay. I’ve mixed the veg in with the casserole, in case you don’t like them.’

  Her jeans had become so loose she’d dug out a belt to keep them up, which left her a little concerned. Shouldn’t she be starting to show by now? As soon as she’d told Denise the news, she would need to organise a GP. And now, for the first time, she’d be able to share her family medical history with a health professional. She smiled at Tracey. ‘That’s so nice of you.’

  ‘Nonsense. It’s what friends do. Now, you get out the mixing bowls and we’ll whip up these scones and shuffle off to the meeting.’

  Entering the clubroom, which was festooned with football and netball team banners, was no different from starting a new school. That initial moment of silence as everyone checked her out—making her wish she hadn’t worn her Best & Less yoga pants, though at least her T-shirt had a nicely scalloped neckline—then a flurry of whispered conversations, hands hiding mouths as eyes darted in her direction. Obviously, few of her secrets had escaped the rumour mill.

  Tracey ushered her in, introducing her to women she would immediately forget. She could never be more than an outsider among these people who had known each other for generations.

  Amid the predictable questions about how she liked the countryside and whether she was married—to which the women no doubt already knew the answers, courtesy of Samantha—Tracey guided her to one of the formica tables.

  Nodding as though fascinated by the tea-lubricated conversation regarding the merits of adding lemonade to scone dough, Roni thumbed her phone. One of the gardening books at home had her considering a plan for a potato patch, and she was eager to research the feasibility while she had internet access.

  ‘Is Matthew playing for Imperials this year, Veronica?’ A stout woman’s fingers dexterously wound a needle through a quilt large enough to cover a room.

  ‘Sorry. Is who what?’

  ‘Matthew Krueger is still farming Marian’s property, isn’t he?’ The flashing needle paused, the woman’s chest swelling as she drew a deep breath. She leaned forward, raising her voice to make eavesdropping easier for the elderly. ‘Well, it’s not like she’d ever let the poor man go elsewhere, is it? I just wondered, without dear Marian cracking the whip, if Matt would find time for the football club this year?’ She jabbed a finger at the gold and purple logo on the wall.

  ‘I’ve no idea.’ The snide remark about Marian shocked her. Everyone she’d spoken with so far seemed to hold her aunt in high regard.

  ‘We’ve missed him the last few seasons. Dean Squires does a fair job of captaining, but Regals won’t see another premiership until they get Matt back.’

  ‘He was the captain?’

  ‘Was, until that unfortunate business a cou
ple of years back. Between sorting that out and Marian running him ragged, he’s not had time.’

  Her ears pricked. ‘Unfortunate business?’ It seemed she wasn’t the only one with secrets in this town.

  ‘You must’ve heard about it, given that your mother contrived to be the centre of it.’

  Seated alongside Roni, Tracey tugged the woman’s quilt toward her, examining the stitching. ‘Now, Christine. That’s all rumour.’

  Christine snatched her fabric back. ‘If everyone knows about it, I’d say that makes it fact, not rumour.’

  ‘That makes it gossip, not fact.’ Tracey lowered her voice. ‘Even Fiona never confirmed anything, and you know as well as I do that if Fiona stays quiet, there’s a jolly good reason.’

  Heads snapped back and forth at the verbal ping-pong and Christine drew herself upright, playing to her audience. ‘Reason would be that Fiona’s quite happy with how things have turned out, thank you very much. Denise did her something of a favour, by my reckoning.’ She lifted her chin to include Roni. ‘You’d know the truth of it, though. Your mum’s not one to play her cards close.’

  Denise had hinted at something between herself and Matt, and it seemed that Christine—and therefore the rest of the town—were aware of it. Yet, no matter what she thought—had thought—of her mother, no one else had any right to judge her. Roni shoved her hands under her thighs. ‘Even if she’d shared, I’m not into gossip.’ Something of a lie, because she would kill to find out what the story was.

  Christine snorted. ‘Well, I’m sure we all have our secrets. Though your mum’s have clearly come back to haunt her.’

  The woman was really itching for a fight. In the space of minutes she’d managed to have a go at Marian, Denise, Matt and the unknown Fiona. ‘Not haunting. Just passing through.’

  Tracey flipped the quilt back, deliberately covering Christine’s needle. ‘So, are you brave enough to go up against Veronica in the lamington challenge, Christine? As I recall, you had issues with your chocolate sauce last year.’

  The needle jabbed at the fabric. ‘It was over forty degrees that day.’

  ‘Yes, I remember. Unseasonably hot. Of course, it was the same temperature for all the entries.’

  Christine ignored Tracey’s barb. ‘You bake, Veronica?’

  ‘I’m honing my skills.’

  ‘You said you were just passing through, though? You’ll be gone before the contest.’

  Roni folded her arms. No one got to tell her what to do. Not anymore. ‘No. I’ll still be here.’ Whenever the competition was.

  Christine’s grey helmet of hair barely shifted as she cocked her head. ‘No plans to get the farm on the market? I’m sure Matt would like to see a price on it.’

  The ten-year clause on the inheritance was one secret this woman didn’t know, then.

  Tracey snapped her glasses case shut. ‘Why on earth would he want that, Christine?’

  ‘That place is an albatross around his neck. Marian sure had her head screwed on right, had us all fooled into thinking she was doing right by him when really she was laying the groundwork to make sure she had years of labour lined up. Rest of us can’t find a decent worker for love nor money, but she’s had Matt at her beck and call for a decade.’

  Roni pushed herself from the table. ‘Matt seems to think fifty–fifty is a fair split.’

  Tracey also stood, patting at Roni’s forearm. ‘Anyone who knew Marian well’—she shot a venomous glance at Christine—‘would never dream of accusing her of being anything less than fair.’

  No matter how conflicted she felt at her aunt’s attempted manipulation of her own relationship with her mother, Marian didn’t deserve Christine’s nasty insinuations, but before Roni could formulate a reply, a flurry of conversation near the clubroom doors drew her attention.

  ‘Oh, look, Taylor’s here. I thought she might not make it in today.’ Tracey snatched her appliquéd bag from the table, thumping it against her hip. ‘She often only pops in at the end of the meeting. Of course, she doesn’t have time to waste on gossip. Christine.’ Her hair echoed her curt nod, and she fluttered across the room in a billow of purple chiffon to hug a woman with dark, braided hair.

  Tracey waved her over. ‘Taylor, this is Veronica, Marian’s niece.’

  ‘Roni,’ she corrected as she smiled at the woman who appeared to be about her age. Unlike most of the other women present, she wore neat black trousers and a white blouse, looking as though she’d come from an office.

  Taylor lifted a hand in greeting. ‘Hey, Roni. You look like you were dragged here against your will. First time my gran brought me I spent the meeting posting pictures of pubs as camouflage.’

  ‘Sounds entirely reasonable.’

  ‘Veronica’s having a go at the lamington drive,’ Tracey bubbled happily.

  ‘Lamingtons? You’re brave.’ Taylor made her eyes huge, but then relented with a grin. ‘Though if you have the guru helping, you’ll be okay. Do you remember my first attempt, Tracey?’

  ‘You’re saying that you’re better now?’ Tracey teased. ‘That reminds me, I’d better lodge our forms.’ She darted across the room, pausing to chat with different groups like a sparrow bobbing from one crumb to the next.

  A dimple appeared in Taylor’s cheek. ‘Ouch. But she’s right, mine never improved.’

  ‘I’m screwed then.’

  ‘No, don’t let me scare you off, I’m pretty useless at that kind of stuff. I’m more inclined to fundraise by buying everyone else’s produce. Plus, that way my husband doesn’t have to prove his undying devotion by pretending my cooking’s edible.’

  Taylor’s humour eased the acid of Christine’s malice, though Roni made sure to keep her back to the older woman. ‘Wish I had that option. I’ve been baking bread for the last fortnight, and I’m sure I’m going to kill Marian’s chickens by using them to hide my failures.’

  They had moved toward the small kitchen, separated from the main hall by a long, waist-high laminate counter. Taylor flicked on an electric jug. ‘Kudos to you for even trying. Luke’s given up on me learning the finer points of being a farmer’s wife.’

  ‘If you don’t find this stuff second nature, there’s no hope for me.’

  ‘Ha. I checked, but sadly, there’s no hereditary homemaker gene. When I moved here Gran tried to teach me the basic skills, but I can still burn water.’

  ‘Moved here? Aren’t you a local?’

  Taylor spooned coffee into mugs. ‘Don’t let this lot hear you call me that. I’ll be tarred and feathered and run out of town.’

  ‘I doubt it. Seems they all like you.’ Taylor’s entrance had garnered more interest than her own.

  ‘There’s a big difference between acceptance and being considered a local. Like, about a seventy-year difference, I’d say.’ Despite her words, Taylor acknowledged the waved greeting of another woman with a nod and a smile, a casual confidence that could only come from knowing that she belonged.

  Roni winced at her stab of envy. ‘So where are you from?’

  ‘Sydney. I came over to see my grands ten years ago and re-met my husband.’

  ‘Re-met? Is that like a B&S hook-up? Or a dating service?’

  Colour bloomed in Taylor’s cheeks and she concentrated on filling the mugs. ‘No. Long story. Speaking of long’—she indicated the women immersed in recipe swapping, sewing and gossiping—‘how many hours of this have you survived?’

  ‘Too many. Is it really on every month?’

  Taylor handed Roni a cup and pointed at a tray. ‘Milk and sugar. Hate to be the bearer of bad news, but it’s every three weeks. But I generally only come to the committee meeting, to make sure there’s a quorum.’

  Steam wafted a memory of Rafe’s shop, suddenly an immeasurable distance away, a lifetime ago. ‘Kill me now.’

  Taylor sipped at her coffee, slitting her unusual slate-grey eyes. ‘How long are you staying?’

  ‘At Peppertree Crossing?’ Roni stared into her
cup, realising she didn’t honestly know the answer anymore. ‘Not long. Short version is I have to prove to the farm manager that I’m capable of running the property.’

  ‘Matt Krueger? You’ll have no problem there. He’s easygoing.’

  ‘So I hear.’ She kept the sarcasm from her tone. So far, it seemed only she, Denise and Christine didn’t adore Matt. In fairness, though, Christine hadn’t a good word to say about anyone. But it was irrelevant; she wasn’t about to allow mainstream opinion to seduce her into liking the farmer.

  ‘He’s Luke’s cousin, so I know him pretty well.’

  Roni choked in surprise and tried to cover it by blowing on her coffee. ‘He’s probably mentioned this stuff, then. I mean, it’s out there, isn’t it?’’

  ‘Not said a word. But Matt keeps pretty much to himself nowadays.’

  Roni’s ears pricked up. So his often-taciturn nature wasn’t the norm?

  Taylor glanced over at a burst of laughter from a nearby table. ‘How does the CWA fit into the story?’

  ‘Some convoluted scheme Marian came up with. About making fr—contacts.’

  A grin flashed across Taylor’s face and she indicated the hall, echoing with women’s voices and the rattle of teacups. ‘You plan to spend all your downtime with this lot? Tell you what, before harvest season gets crazy, Luke and I usually throw a barbecue. Why don’t you come, meet a few people who are a little less’—she lowered her voice—‘vintage.’