The Farm at Peppertree Crossing

by Léonie Kelsall

  ‘Try not to take it personally, love,’ Tracey tutted. ‘If it makes you feel any better, Jim Smithton tells me he took her to the airport yesterday. She’s off to Brissy.’

  Despite her nonchalant façade, perfected over so many years, Roni had lain awake at night, second-guessing her actions. Was it possible that, hypersensitive to being manipulated—thanks to Marian—she had misjudged her mother? Her gut instinct screamed no, but her brain desperately wanted to make excuses. Her mother had been raised with certain expectations and privileges, so was it possible she saw nothing wrong in asking to borrow money? Maybe she truly intended to pay it back?

  Yet Denise had said she would be in touch, and this new desertion was final proof of her mother’s indifference. ‘Kind of hard not to take it personally when your own mother can’t bear to be within several hundred kilometres of you.’

  ‘Like Marian said,’ Tracey paused, one floury hand in the air, gaze on the ceiling as she searched for the exact memory. ‘“Blood isn’t thicker than water. It just stains worse.” You don’t need someone simply because they share your genetics, Veronica. You choose who you let into your life.’ She tapped the top of the yellow sponge resting on a cooling rack. ‘I’ll pop around early next week, and you can do a couple of practice runs at making your own cake before the meeting.’

  ‘Couldn’t we do scones? I’ve got them down pat.’

  ‘Dipped in chocolate sauce and coconut? Maybe not. Here, have a cuppa first. Lady Grey helps everything. Did I tell you it was Marian who got me onto tea drinking?’

  Roni smiled; only like a dozen times. And tea was something else she’d need to ask a doctor about.

  Tracey patted her lap as she sat and Bear put his front paws up, leaning his head on her shoulder and gazing adoringly at her as she spoke. ‘After China, we swapped to green tea for a while. But the green tea here is nothing like the blend they use overseas.’

  ‘You went to China?’

  ‘Oh, yes. We travelled all over the world. Andrew never minded. I think, deep down, he knew how Marian was. And, really, he wanted to see her happy. I guess he owed her that much.’

  ‘After the inconvenience of my birth, you mean.’ Roni kept her gaze on the pot of chocolate sauce simmering on the stove.

  ‘Well, I wouldn’t have put it quite like that. And now it seems your birth may have been quite convenient. It certainly provided Marian with somewhere to settle her assets, and an opportunity to stick it right up Denise.’ Tracey flushed and stood. ‘Sorry. You started me off thinking about her again, and that always makes me snappy. It’s just that she’s never improved. After what she did to Marian and Andrew, you’d think she’d have learned her lesson. But then the Kruegers … The woman has no limits.’

  The spoon Roni had picked up clattered into the pot of chocolate. ‘Kruegers? You mean Matt?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Matt. Well, not really Matt. But never you mind about that.’ Tracey flapped a hand at her own face. ‘My, it is warm, isn’t it? Let’s get these cakes done before they go stale. Now, first you need to shave off a thin sliver, all the way around the sponge. A lot of people cheat on this step, don’t want to waste the cake, but how would you feel if you got the lamington with a crust? Plus, the sponge won’t soak up the sauce properly unless you open it up. In any case, I freeze all the offcuts to use in rum balls or trifle. I have some rum balls in the freezer somewhere, remind me to send them home with you.’

  No matter how Roni tried to steer the conversation back to Matt and Denise, Tracey resisted her attempts. Three hours later she left with a tub of rum balls, a Tupperware of lamingtons, sticky arms, a chocolate and coconut covered shirt, Tracey’s foolproof recipe for sponge cake—and more questions than when she arrived.

  Despite her fridge full of treats, Matt didn’t show up on the weekend. Roni tried making the no-fail sponge cake, then fed it to the chickens.

  Monday, when Tracey hadn’t turned up by mid-afternoon, she had another go. Slightly better, but still not fluffy and light. Her mind distracted, she tried to calm it by cleaning out the mixing bowl, then separating the duck eggs, beating the yolks until thick and creamy before adding sugar and flour. She whipped the whites and folded them through the mixture, all the time wondering where Tracey could be. It was new, this feeling of expectation, of having someone to wonder about.

  She climbed the hill a couple of times, checking for messages. Nothing. Which was reasonable, because Tracey owed her nothing, neither friendship nor explanation. Though she had said she would come, she had every right to change her mind. She could disappear. Just like Denise.

  She scrubbed a fist across her chest, scowling. Why did the thought of Tracey deserting her hurt more than Denise’s actual desertion? Must be pregnancy hormones.

  As the second cake sat cooling, she glanced at the clock, chewing on her thumbnail. Night had fallen, Tracey wouldn’t come now. But what if, with miles of dirt road between town and the farm, she’d had a flat? Or hit a roo? Or run off the dirt verge, where the dust lay thick and slippery?

  She grabbed her phone, nudging Scritches away from the back door. ‘No night hikes for you, buddy. Not safe.’

  For the fourth time that day, she moved quickly beneath the soughing branches of the ancient pine trees lining the track up the hill. She wouldn’t call Tracey, but would it be intruding to send her a message, just checking that she was okay? A low, mournful hoot close by speared through her, and the cicadas and small creatures rustling through the undergrowth instantly stilled at the warning.

  Her footsteps pattered against the shale, speeding up to match her heartbeat as she kept her gaze confined to the miserable puddle of light from her torch. She tripped, but caught herself before she fell. Sucked in a deep breath. Told herself to get a grip, that no one out here dogged her footsteps, no threat lurked around a corner.

  It had never been darkness that caused her pain.

  She switched off her torch and tipped her head back, waiting for her eyes to adjust and her heart rate to slow, gazing at an infinite sea of sparkling diamonds appliquéd onto the dark velvet cloak of night.

  Her phone found range, blipping twice. Two messages. Seeing they were from Tracey, she didn’t pause to read them but pressed call back. The phone rang out. The second time she dialled, Tracey answered, her hoarse, exhausted voice almost unrecognisable. ‘Veronica, love, did you get my messages?’

  ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘Just a touch of flu. Thought it best I don’t give it to you.’ Tracey coughed fitfully.

  Roni blew out a long breath, relief easing her chest. ‘You sound awful.’

  ‘Feel it, too. Slept right through today. I’ll let you know when I’m up to scratch. I have to kick this bug so we can get onto the lamingtons.’

  ‘Don’t worry about that. I’ve got it all under control.’

  ‘Ah, I knew you’d—’ Tracey broke off, coughing. ‘Sorry, love, can’t really talk. I’ll call you later in the week.’

  Roni made her way back to the house, her mind buzzing. For the sake of her baby she should stay away from someone with flu, but Tracey needed her.

  In the kitchen, she pulled open a recalcitrant drawer, over-stuffed with pamphlets and handwritten notes. Despite Tracey’s bottomless freezer, perhaps she’d like something fresh. She scoured recipes, comparing ingredients with what she had on hand. Intending to try her hand at Flo Bjelke-Petersen’s scones, she’d bought a large pumpkin the previous week.

  Soup it would be, then.

  She worked methodically, roasting the pumpkin first, because the recipe promised that would enhance the flavour, carefully softening the onions without allowing them to colour, tasting the stock before adding salt.

  Three hours later, she stirred boiled rice through to thicken the soup.

  Done.

  She stretched, cracking her neck from side to side and rolling her shoulders, then pushed the pot into the fridge. It was past midnight, the latest she had been to bed for weeks. Tomorrow she woul
d pick up lemonade and something nice at the shop, in case the soup didn’t taste as good as it smelled.

  It was odd but rewarding to have someone other than Scritches to care for.

  By Friday, Tracey was still ill. Her own memories of having been coddled non-existent, Roni had hauled the television from the lounge into the bedroom and spent each afternoon fussing around Tracey, making cups of tea and nagging her to stay hydrated, wincing at every throat-raking cough. In the twilight she would head home, then stay up late to make a fresh soup or casserole, though Tracey had little appetite.

  Her hair sweat-straggled to her head, Tracey feebly tried to push herself up in the bed.

  Roni dashed forward to place a pillow behind her. ‘Please let me take you to the doctor. You don’t seem to be getting any better.’

  Tracey’s chest rattled as the breath scraped through her throat. ‘No, it’s just a touch of the flu. Takes a while longer to get over it each year, that’s all.’ Dark circles ringed her eyes and she gasped like she couldn’t find the energy to inhale. ‘I do have something to ask you, though, love.’

  Roni sat on the edge of the bed. ‘Shoot.’

  ‘I worry about Bear. You know, in the future. He’s too old to start over with a family he doesn’t know. And I can’t bear to think of him closed up in kennels.’

  The dog pushed his greying muzzle into Roni’s hand, as though adding his own plea. ‘Bear will always have a home with me.’ The words were out of her mouth before she’d thought. But no amount of consideration would change her intention, anyway. ‘But you’re going to be just fine. At least, you will be if you’d eat something.’

  ‘No need to eat when I’m just lying around, love. And it’s not like I can’t stand to lose a few pounds off these batwings.’ Tracey lifted one arm, the floral nightie hanging loose at the shoulders, her dehydrated skin crepey and pale, like a long-dead flower petal. ‘Now, we need to make plans for our world domination of the CWA this afternoon.’

  ‘You’re not well enough to cook.’ Roni swirled Scrabble tiles around the purple box balanced on the lap-table.

  ‘No, but I am well enough to direct you to take a tray of sponge cake out of my freezer. I feel terrible I didn’t have time to run through making the lamingtons again, but between us we’ll still be able to pull off this year’s title.’

  ‘Are we allowed to do that?’

  Tracey huffed, then broke into a coughing fit, her shoulders bowed and arms clenched across her ribs, as though to stop her bones from shaking loose. ‘Of course we are. There’s nothing in the rules to say we can’t enter as a team. I baked the sponge, you’re in charge of the dipping and rolling.’

  ‘Not just the competition. The tasks. It was important to Marian I learn to bake the lamingtons. I swear I’ve tried every day this week, but the chooks are about to explode. They’re laying fairy cakes instead of eggs. Though I’m a little concerned about what they’re using as icing.’

  As Tracey wheezed with laughter, Roni held a straw to her lips. ‘Here, the lemonade’s flat, the way you like it.’

  Tracey’s fingers clawed at her hand, clinging with surprising strength. ‘Love, Marian wanted to test your willingness, not your ability. If she’d seen the way you’ve tootled in here every day looking after me, I know she’d be more than sold. And don’t think I don’t appreciate it, either. But now we have to make sure you get to that meeting. You remember where the clubroom is?’

  Nobody had ever said they appreciated her. She rushed to fill the silence with unnecessary words. ‘Sure. Cocoa, icing sugar and coconut in the pantry? It won’t take the sponge long to defrost in this heat.’

  She would make this work.

  She painstakingly trimmed the sponge and cut it into squares, then dipped each in chocolate sauce and rolled them in coconut, resisting the urge to lick her fingers as she placed them on a wire rack to dry. By the time she finished, sweat trickled between her shoulder blades, though roller blinds blocked the sun that beat mercilessly against the window.

  After tidying the kitchen, the dishes washed and returned to their cupboards and coconut and crumbs swept from the floor to deter the marauding sugar ants, she tiptoed into Tracey’s room and sat alongside the bed for a few minutes, listening to her stentorian breathing.

  Tracey looked older, frailer than she had little more than a month ago. Bear lay alongside the bed, head on his paws. He wouldn’t move until she came to let him out tomorrow. Roni turned the ceiling fan low, packed away the Scrabble board, replaced the flat lemonade and added a glass of water, then quietly left the house.

  The reflection from a dozen silver-foil windscreen protectors blinded her as she pulled into the carpark bordered by purple-flowered jacaranda trees.

  Like the previous meeting, the clubroom was filled with women bent over crafts, their grey heads nodding as gossip travelled. A younger woman in tight blue jeans and a black button-through shirt leaned against the canteen counter, raking her up and down with an intense stare. Then she spoke to her neighbour, her chin nudging in Roni’s direction.

  Roni squared her shoulders. Tupperware wedged on her hip, she marched toward the counter, but pulled to a halt as a chair squealed and Christine Albright rose like a behemoth in front of her. ‘Veronica, we were beginning to think you’d decided not to enter.’ Her eyes narrowed on Roni’s container. ‘Are those yours? They’re very evenly sized.’

  ‘Mine and Tracey’s. We’re entering as a team.’

  ‘A team? I’m not sure that’s allowed.’

  The IGA cashier, Lynn, circled in behind Christine. ‘Of course it’s allowed. Specially if Tracey says so. Who’d know the rules better than her?’

  ‘Well, as she and Marian were always in cahoots making them …’ Christine ran a thumb under the narrow belt valiantly trying to cinch the waist of her floral print dress. ‘Never known a pair thicker than those two. It’s a wonder poor Andrew even considered himself married.’ She flicked a fingernail against her buckle. ‘Though I don’t suppose he did for much of the time, did he?’

  Definitely no secrets left in this community.

  ‘Hush, Christine. You’ll frighten poor Veronica off. We need new blood, remember?’ Lynn made it sound as though she might be sacrificed to a cult. The cashier leaned closer, an eye-watering waft of sweet perfume failing to overpower nicotine. ‘Tracey not with you, Veronica?’

  ‘She’s ill.’

  ‘Not again! She’s never really picked up since your aunt died, the poor thing. And she does tend to overdo things. She needs to remember she’s not so young anymore.’ Lynn seemed sublimely unaware of her own liver-spotted hands.

  ‘It’s just the flu.’

  Christine nodded sagely. ‘That’s how Marian’s started. Months of feeling ill with “just a flu”, wasn’t it, Lynn? Then all of a sudden, the diagnosis comes out of nowhere.’

  Roni clutched the container as fear squeezed her heart. ‘She said it’s a bug.’

  She startled as Taylor stepped up alongside her, tapping the Tupperware. ‘If you don’t hurry and lodge these, I’m going to steal them and enter them under my name. They look divine.’

  ‘Do you think you’d fool us?’ Lynn waggled a finger.

  ‘Can only hope,’ Taylor grinned. ‘Paperwork’s on the canteen bench, Roni.’

  ‘Lucky for Luke your gran stays fit enough to keep your pantry full.’ Christine’s lips pursed tighter than a cat’s bum as Taylor steered Roni from the group.

  ‘Absolutely,’ Taylor called back, then lowered her voice. ‘I dropped past Tracey’s to check on her and she asked me to rescue you. Some of this lot can be a bit full-on once the baking gauntlet is thrown down.’

  ‘Christine sure is.’

  ‘Oh, she doesn’t even need to get a whiff of competition.’ Taylor directed her toward the women who’d whispered at her entry. ‘Fiona, Nancy, this is Marian Nelson’s niece, Roni.’

  Always Marian’s niece, not Denise’s daughter.

  The attractive
blonde bared perfect teeth. ‘Roni. So, you’re the city slicker everyone’s talking about.’

  ‘I don’t know that there’s much to talk about.’

  ‘Don’t you bet on it. Small town, we’re desperate for goss.’

  The other woman, Nancy, shot a quick grin at Fiona. ‘You do a fair job of providing that, Fi.’

  Eyes locked onto Roni in unblinking, reptilian assessment, Fiona ignored her companion. ‘You won’t be hanging around long, though? No one in their right mind stays here if they don’t have to.’

  So much for country welcome. These women were worse than cliquey high school seniors. Roni thumped the tub of cakes down on the counter, then sent up a quick prayer that she hadn’t damaged the perfect cubes. ‘Actually, the longer I’m here, the more I like it.’

  ‘But you’ll head back home soon?’

  She stared at Fiona for a few tense seconds. ‘I haven’t decided where home is.’

  Fiona turned away, belatedly including Nancy in the conversation. ‘That’d be the genetic factor. Some people don’t make choices. They simply take everything, with no regard who it rightfully belongs to.’

  ‘What—’ Roni’s protest squeaked out on a surprised breath.

  ‘Fix up the entry forms, Roni,’ Taylor interrupted. ‘And we’ll go down to the pub for that drink.’

  As they exited the building into the soul-sucking heat minutes later, Taylor fanned herself with one hand. ‘Sorry. You might’ve been better off if I’d left you to Christine. I forgot Fiona has a history with your mum.’

  ‘Her and half the town, it seems. What’s her gripe?’

  A purple blanket of petals muffled their footsteps as they crossed to the vehicles in the shade of a jacaranda. Taylor searched her bag, eventually producing car keys. ‘I can’t really share that. Hey, remember I mentioned a barbecue at my place? Harvest will start early, on account of the heat, so we’re doing it tomorrow evening. BYO drinks, I’ll lay on everything else. And I promise, no Christine or Fiona.’ She beeped the lock on a dove-grey Pajero. ‘Though maybe I should brave them to go back in and pinch your lamingtons.’