Gibson adjusted his hat, whistled ahead to Jack and Jill and grinned at this epiphany. He laboured harder, hurrying the dogs and the sheep. If he worked quickly, he could have the sheep safely in the new paddock and be in town in time to share lunch with his grandfather.
‘What the hell are you doing here?’ Charlie looked up from where he’d been weeding his measly front garden as Gibson stepped out of his ute.
‘Brought lunch,’ Gibson replied, holding up an esky. ‘And a very good morning to you too.’
Charlie heaved himself to his feet and glanced at his watch. ‘It’s almost afternoon.’
Despite the gruff words, Gibson knew his grandfather was happy about the unexpected visit. ‘So it is,’ he said, heading for the front door.
He went in ahead of Charlie and began to unload sausages, eggs, bacon and juice from the esky. He hoped there was a fresh loaf of bread lying around for the toast. He’d decided to cook up a typical big breakfast (despite it being well past that time) because Charlie loved that type of food.
‘What are you doing?’ Charlie asked when he finally entered the tiny kitchen. He frowned at the food laid out on the bench ready to be cooked.
‘I told you. I’m making lunch.’
The frown deepened. ‘I usually have a Cup-a-Soup and some crackers.’
Gibson feigned a look of disgust. ‘Then it’s good I’m here. That’s no lunch for a grown man.’
Charlie hesitated for a moment, then went to the pantry. He took out a sachet of instant tomato soup and went to boil the kettle.
‘You’re not going to have that instead of this feast?’ Gibson couldn’t keep the disbelief out of his voice as he gestured to all his ingredients.
Charlie ripped open the sachet. Gibson noticed his hand shaking as he emptied the powdered contents into an old Scouts mug. ‘I’ll have that as well,’ Charlie finally answered.
‘Okay.’ Gibson shrugged. Just another one of his grandfather’s quirks. While Charlie sat down at the table with his mug and started to blow on the steaming contents, Gibson began to cook.
‘What are you doing here, anyway?’ Charlie asked, between mouthfuls of soup.
‘I wasn’t very busy and I thought it’d be nice to have lunch with you.’ Gibson didn’t look at Charlie as he spoke, choosing to spear and turn the sausages instead. ‘Not a sin to spend time with my granddad, is it?’
‘No,’ Charlie answered tentatively, ‘but you’ll still be at the pub tonight, won’t you?’
Gibson shook his head. ‘There’s a movie I want to watch on telly.’
‘Which one?’
‘What?’
‘Which movie?’
Dammit, why hadn’t he planned this better? He hadn’t anticipated his grandfather giving him the third degree.
‘Can’t remember the title,’ he said as he popped some bread into the toaster. ‘It’s had lots of good write-ups though.’ He hoped there was a movie on at least one channel tonight. If he told Charlie the real reason he didn’t want to go to the pub, he’d never live it down.
Charlie sighed and focused again on his soup, taking tiny but quick spoonfuls until the mug was empty. He stood up, crossed the kitchen and put his mug in the fridge.
Gibson did a double take. ‘Do you want me to wash that?’ he asked, pointing to the fridge.
‘Why would I want you to wash the fridge?’ Charlie asked, scratching the side of his head.
‘I meant the mug. You just put the mug in the fridge.’
‘What?’ Charlie’s one word was more of a bark. Confusion crossed his face. He retraced his steps and opened the refrigerator.
Gibson’s eyes hadn’t been fooling him. The empty mug sat on the middle ledge between a tub of margarine and a bag of tomatoes.
‘Well, hell,’ said Charlie, snatching the mug and all but throwing it into the sink. ‘You’re flustering me.’
‘Sorry.’ Puzzled by this uncharacteristic behaviour, Gibson nodded towards a kitchen chair. ‘Sit down, Granddad, and let me feed you.’
‘I’m quite capable of feeding myself,’ he snapped.
‘I never said you weren’t.’ Gibson resisted the urge to throw his hands up in the air. He’d been the only family member to stick up for Charlie when debate raged over whether he should live alone or not. This lunch wasn’t going at all how he’d planned. He racked his brain for a safe topic of conversation but the only thing he could think about was Charlie’s work at the pub. Not wanting to bring Imogen up, he cast around for something else.
‘I spoke to Paris last night,’ he said eventually. ‘She said Bradley got a merit award at school. Apparently his was the first for this year’s kindy class, so she’s pretty stoked.’ Bradley was his sister’s oldest son. Rumoured (by Paris) to be a genius, neither Charlie nor Gibson had seen any evidence thus far. They usually joked about Paris’ tendency to talk up everything her kids did.
Today Charlie only nodded and uttered a barely audible, ‘That’s good.’
Gibson decided to concentrate on getting the meal on the table and work on the conversation after that. He hadn’t realised how hungry he was until his nose caught the tempting aroma of cooked sausages and bacon.
‘Okay, Granddad,’ he said, laying a full plate in front of the old man. ‘I hope you’re hungry.’
‘Sure am,’ Charlie replied, a slight smile lifting his lips. ‘I haven’t eaten anything since breakfast.’
Gibson opened his mouth to mention the soup but thought better of it and chomped down on a sausage instead. As he said earlier, packet soup couldn’t be classified as food.
‘This is good,’ Charlie said after a few mouthfuls, ‘but you’re still coming to the pub tonight, aren’t you?’
Gibson halted his fork and egg halfway to his mouth. ‘No, Granddad, I told you I was busy this evening.’
‘But you always come.’
‘I come to visit you, not the pub, and today I’m visiting you at home instead.’ He hadn’t noticed his granddad so hung up on routine before. ‘That okay?’
‘It’ll have to be, won’t it?’ Charlie replied gruffly. ‘But you’ll come tomorrow night, won’t you?’
‘We’ll see.’ Gibson glanced down at his plate so as not to meet Charlie’s eye and started back in on his lunch.
But when tomorrow came, Gibson found that he had to head into town mid-afternoon to buy some strainer posts for fencing. It’d be a waste of petrol to make the trip twice when he could quite easily visit Charlie now. This time he popped into the general store and picked up a packet of Tim Tams to take as an offering. Hopefully with the sweet taste of his favourite biscuit on his tongue, his granddad would be distracted from the fact Gibson had avoided the pub two days in a row.
Charlie was dozing in the rocker out the front when he arrived. Gibson plodded up the wooden steps onto the verandah and Charlie startled at the sound.
‘What time is it?’ Charlie all but leaped out of the chair. ‘Am I late for work?’
‘Nope.’ Gibson opened the screen door and held it for Charlie. ‘I had to come into town, so I thought I’d visit you as well.’ He held up the packet of biscuits.
Charlie narrowed his eyes at Gibson. ‘You’re not coming in for your drink tonight, are you?’ He glowered and stormed off down the hallway.
‘Not tonight,’ said Gibson, trying to keep his voice light as the door banged behind him.
‘Another good movie on the telly?’ asked Charlie, clearly not believing his excuse at all.
Gibson didn’t care. It wasn’t as though he was ditching his familial responsibilities – he was still visiting, wasn’t he? ‘Something like that.’
Charlie reached the kitchen table and sat down on one of the old chairs. ‘Never mind. Open that packet and I might forgive you for confusing an old man.’
Happy that Charlie wasn’t going to press the issue, Gibson ripped open the foil and shoved the tray across to his grandfather. Then he put the kettle on. Within five minutes they were nursing m
ugs of tea and discussing the finer points of AFL. Charlie was a Dockers supporter and Gibson barracked for the Eagles. The big West Australian derby was still a couple of months away, but that didn’t stop Charlie getting excited. Once that topic was exhausted, Gibson decided he’d better make a move.
As he stood to collect the mugs and ditch the now empty biscuit packet, Charlie spoke. ‘I told you about Imogen’s slab party, didn’t I? I was thinking you could bring your power sander and have a go at the verandah. Imogen reckons people will get splinters from it once she gets the outdoor area functioning better.’
Gibson froze at the sink. ‘Slab party?’
‘Yes.’ Charlie nodded enthusiastically. ‘When Imogen told me all the things she wanted to do to the pub, I realised a number of the tasks could be done relatively quickly with local volunteers. That’s when I suggested she provide the food and the alcohol and throw a party for anyone who helps her fix up the old girl. The whole town will benefit.’
Yeah, Gibson reckoned the blokes would be lining up for this scheme. ‘Um … when is it?’ he asked, trying to sound noncommittal.
‘First weekend in March. And I’m in charge of organising everyone.’
‘That’s great.’ He tried to sound like he meant it. ‘But I won’t be able to help. There’s a lot happening on the farm right now.’
Charlie raised his eyebrows. ‘That’s why you can take hours off in the middle of the day, two days in a row, to visit an old man and eat?’
Sometimes Gibson wished Charlie was completely off with the fairies like his mum and Paris believed. He had no witty or logical reply. So instead he rinsed the mugs and feigned deafness.
Unfortunately, when his granddad had a bee in his bonnet, he didn’t let up. ‘Sometimes you’re a mystery to me, Gibson Black. I know women haven’t been terribly kind to you, but have you got something against Imogen in particular?’ When Gibson said nothing, Charlie continued, his voice rising in annoyance. ‘You’re downright rude to her and now you blatantly refuse to help when everyone knows you’re usually the first to lend a hand round here.’
‘That’s just it,’ Gibson said, jumping on this excuse. ‘I already do my bit for the town, volunteering for the ambulance and chairing the Apex committee.’ Not to mention somehow being coerced into dressing up as Santa Claus at Christmas for the very few children left in the town. ‘I’m sorry Granddad, but I just can’t do it.’
Chapter Seven
Imogen watched as Charlie scribbled another name on the list of volunteers that now hung on the wall behind the bar, a list that grew longer by the day.
With only a few days to go until the big slab party, she was beginning to worry that they might have too much help. Thankfully, Amy – a project manager for a major event planning company – would be on hand to oversee things and direct where necessary. Imogen had emailed Amy the list of jobs and the latest list of volunteers, and Amy was going to work out teams and a roster. This task made her feel useful because this late in her pregnancy, she wouldn’t be much physical help. Jenna would no doubt prove a good distraction to any men left with nothing to do.
Imogen smiled – she couldn’t wait to see her girls.
Then she bit her lip and stared at the list of tasks she’d been working on, wondering whether she’d left anything off. Most of them were minor – moving furniture, hanging the vintage signs she’d sourced from eBay, a bit of gardening in the deserted window boxes out the front – and could be done in less than an hour with only one or two bodies. Then there were some painting jobs – the whole building could do with a new coat – and facelifting the verandah, which would involve some serious TLC. Initially, Charlie had volunteered Gibson to sand down all the rails and posts – apparently he’d renovated the farmhouse at Roseglen a few years back, and the verandah was one of the major improvements. But, of course, he’d declined.
She’d had to force herself not to roll her eyes and scoff when Charlie put in Gibson’s apology. He’d offered to lend his sander but was far too busy to lend himself. Well, that was fine with Imogen. She didn’t want to put him out.
But Charlie didn’t want to leave things there. He’d apologised a number of times on behalf of Gibson, who appeared to have ceased his daily visits to the pub. Mostly, Imogen was happy about this fact. The cranky glare he bestowed on her whenever he sat at the bar made her feel uncomfortable, as did the reactions his mere presence sparked deep down in her core.
She shivered simply thinking of them.
She didn’t need grouchy patrons and she certainly didn’t need to be distracted by unexplained and unwanted feelings when she was trying her damn best to be professional and make a go of this. But she felt sorry for Charlie, who clearly missed his grandson’s visits. Gibson’s absence unnerved him and he talked about him much more than before. Worst of all, he felt the need to explain, to justify and make excuses. She supposed it was sweet, but the last thing she needed was a reason to feel sympathy towards Gibson. Unfortunately, earlier that day, Charlie had provided one – touching that kind heart Imogen still needed to harden.
He’d caught her coming out of the office, and just by the gleam in his eyes, she knew he was about to launch into another conversation about his precious grandson.
‘I’m a bit busy, Charlie,’ she’d said, her arms laden with old account books she planned on storing in a back room. ‘Can it wait?’
‘Here, let me help.’ Charlie put his arms out to take some of her load.
Great, now it would take them twice as long to get to the storeroom and back again. ‘Thanks,’ she said, trying to keep the exasperation from her voice.
Sure enough, as they started down the corridor, Charlie launched into his favourite subject. ‘I know you and Gibson didn’t hit it off to start with, but he’s really not as awful as he makes out.’
‘I know he’s your grandson, Charlie, but to be honest, I don’t waste too much time dwelling on his standoffishness. I have bigger fish to fry.’
Blatant lie – she thought about him much more than she liked. There was no reason she should think about him at all. If she were going to start pondering being with a man other than Jamie – and she wasn’t – there were so many that should have been higher up the list than Gibson. Any of the other pub regulars, for a start. All of whom appeared to be kind-hearted, fun, hardworking and, although not quite as jolt-your-insides good-looking as Gibson, certainly smiled more. She liked smiling.
‘Good. I’m glad.’ Charlie entered the storeroom behind her and put his pile on a shelf. ‘But I still want to explain. He’s my family and I wouldn’t want you to think we raise them grumpy and rude in the Black clan.’
‘He hasn’t been rude, exactly,’ Imogen began. ‘More like quiet and reserved.’ Hah!
‘His wife left him a few years ago,’ Charlie announced. ‘He was a mess.’
‘Oh.’ Her chest tightened. Why hadn’t she expected something like this? No one got to be like Gibson without good reason. But what kind of woman would leave a man like him? Despite the rudeness, the sex would have to set your sheets on fire.
Argh! Here I am, pondering the horizontal mambo again. What’s wrong with me?
She laid her books next to Charlie’s and leaned against the wall. ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’
Charlie shrugged and adjusted his hat, as she noticed he did whenever he spoke about something close to his heart. ‘Serena was never cut out for country life. Gibson was too blinded by lust to see that.’
‘And love?’ She couldn’t help herself.
‘Oh, he loved her all right. Was absolutely gutted when she left.’ Charlie sighed sadly. ‘It changed him. Believe it or not, before marriage, Gibby was the life of the party round here. The local larrikin.’
She frowned. Could she believe that?
‘I’m telling you because I know you’ll understand,’ Charlie said, folding his arms across his chest.
‘How?’ She pushed herself off the wall, ready to get back to work. The no
ise in the bar was growing. Cal was out there but she’d need assistance.
‘He’s like us, isn’t he?’ Charlie explained. ‘We’ve each lost the person we loved more than anyone. He’s hurting just like you.’
His words felt like a slap in the face. However unfortunate, no way was Gibson’s situation anything like hers. She did feel a twinge of pity for him – having the love of your life walk out would definitely be harsh – but what was to say he hadn’t treated his wife with the same disregard he showed her?
‘I can’t believe you can compare us, Charlie. Divorce and death have nothing in common. His loss isn’t the same at all, and you of all people should understand that.’ She felt the fury building within, raising her temperature. ‘Did he ever try to win her back?’
Charlie hung his head. ‘Not that I know of.’
‘See? I’m sure his pride was hurt, but if he truly loved his wife he wouldn’t just let her go. He’d move heaven and earth to win her back. That country verses city stuff is crap. If a woman loves a man, she’ll move to Mars to be with him. I would have for Jamie.’
‘I’m sorry.’ The shock in Charlie’s eyes made Imogen realise she’d been overly defensive. ‘I just wanted you to know he’s got reasons for the way he acts.’
‘We’ve all got reasons, Charlie,’ she replied, trying to be a little softer this time. ‘And choices. But just because one woman wrongs you doesn’t mean you should treat every woman you subsequently meet with such disregard. He’ll never be able to move on if that’s the case.’
‘True,’ Charlie answered sadly. ‘I really don’t know what to do.’
Imogen sighed. This really bugged the old guy – it made her want to drive out to Gibson’s farm right away and have it out with him. ‘They say time heals everything. Maybe he needs a little more. Or maybe he just needs to meet the right woman.’
‘Know anyone?’ Charlie looked hopeful for a moment.
She pursed her lips while she thought. ‘Maybe.’
Cal was too young and Pauli too adamantly against relationships. The only candidate that came to mind was Jenna. Her friend would be more than happy to scratch any itch Gibson might be harbouring, but physical release was all she would have to offer. Deep down, Imogen imagined Jenna was exactly the same type of woman as Gibson’s ex-wife. She was no more likely to settle in the outback than a skyscraper. ‘Leave it with me,’ she said finally, hoping that promising to help would stop Gibson creeping into every sentence that came out Charlie’s mouth.
Man Drought Page 8