Where There Is Smoke

by Elisabeth Rose

  Eighteen-year-old Sandy Lyall worked there as a stablehand when needed and helped Oliver out with the animals he had staying over in the surgery. She didn’t say much about The Grange, other than that she liked the stable manager and his wife. He didn’t remember the man’s name and he wasn’t interested enough to ask questions. He was now.

  To compound their sins in the eyes of the locals, the owners of The Grange hardly ever came into Taylor’s Bend, and apart from visits to the supermarket by the stable manager’s wife, didn’t shop locally or drink at the pub. If she’d visited Dot and Laurie’s grocery store, everyone would know everything about The Grange, but she never did so real information was scarce.

  Worst of all, the new owner had fired Curly who’d been head of the stables for fifteen years for the previous owners, who, in their eighties with no interested children to take over, had had no choice but to sell and move to Brisbane, near their daughter.

  None of the few remaining staff had stayed on at The Grange. It was the end of an era, and one the older residents mourned. The newcomers had done nothing to foster good relations in the area, but if they were all like Krista Laatonen it was just as well they kept to themselves.

  Krista came back in with a face like an iceberg.

  ‘Could you give me a ride back to my car, please?’

  ‘What about the horse?’

  ‘You agreed I could leave her here.’

  ‘What’s her name?’

  ‘Arch Rival.’

  ‘Who does she belong to?’

  ‘She’s from The Grange.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  Her mouth tightened. ‘Yes, Rod said Angus must have loaded her this afternoon. She’s new. Calypso Secret is still there.’

  ‘Right. So where does that leave me?’ Rod was the name Sandy had mentioned, he remembered now—nice, ran the stables with his wife, she said. The one who shopped in the supermarket sometimes.

  ‘This is Angus’s responsibility.’

  ‘I don’t think so. I think this is your responsibility. Your brother is at the hospital and you brought the horse here.’

  If she thought she could walk away from this she had another think coming. And he wasn’t giving her a lift anywhere. She could walk.

  The full lips compressed into a thin line. Shards of ice flew from her eyes.

  ‘I suggest you get this sorted,’ Oliver said. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.’

  He gestured she should leave the building. She stalked out onto the gravel parking area between the yard and the surgery. He latched the stable door and started walking.

  ‘Aren’t you going to lock that door?’ Her voice made him grind his teeth. ‘She’s a valuable animal.’

  ‘Is she? The way she’s been treated today you wouldn’t think so.’

  ‘She wasn’t mistreated by me.’

  Oliver drew a breath and swallowed the rising anger. She was right. ‘Okay. I lock up securely at night. She’ll be safe here.’

  She gave a sharp nod. Oliver left her standing there and went into the surgery to dispose of the used swabs and bandages. If he spent another minute in the company of that woman he’d regret it. She was the most obnoxious, arrogant piece of work he’d ever come across and he’d met a few. Forget the perfectly moulded body and the beautiful face with flawless skin straight out of a fashion magazine, this one had privilege and a sense of entitlement written all over her before she opened her mouth, from the stylish hair down passed the ripped jeans, to those stupid, useless, high-heeled shoes. When she did open her mouth, it got worse. That moment of debilitating attraction earlier must have been a brain fart caused by the heat.

  He let the screen door slam in his wake. He’d look after Arch Rival until one of those Grange people came to collect her and he’d bill them for all the time he’d wasted on their behalf. Not to mention having to cancel surgery and postpone his visit to Harrop’s.

  He went to the office to look at the list of messages Margie had left.

  Krista heard the door bang as she turned away to ring her mother. As usual, Mama didn’t waste time with preliminaries.

  ‘Krista, where are you?’

  ‘I’m at the vet’s. I need someone to come and pick me up.’

  ‘I can’t spare the time.’ Of course she couldn’t, she had people to order around organising the anniversary do.

  ‘I’m not asking you to. Send one of the staff.’

  ‘They’re busy. Where’s your car?’

  ‘It’s where the accident was. I told you I had to leave it there and walk the horse here.’

  ‘Can’t someone from the vet’s drive you back?’

  ‘He’s here on his own and he has work to do.’

  ‘Pay him for his time.’

  ‘I can’t do that, he’s not a taxi driver.’

  ‘Well, I’m sorry, I can’t do anything about it.’

  ‘Surely there’s someone. Put me through to the stables. What about Rod or Amy?’

  ‘They’re all busy too. Everyone’s busy. Rod left to collect Angus from hospital a few minutes ago. I have to go. Don’t be late.’

  The line went dead. Krista thrust the phone into her bag. She had two choices. Walk or beg. She looked across at the low, white building, silent, with a closed sign on the door next to a list of opening hours. Begging held no appeal but she could ask to borrow the thongs again. She’d left them in the bathroom. On second thought she needn’t disturb him at all, the house was unlocked. She followed the path through the garden but stopped by the tomatoes. He’d accuse her of theft and trespassing if she didn’t ask and he’d be right.

  She stood for a moment, mentally debating the point. She wasn’t a thief and she wouldn’t give him any more reason to doubt her integrity. She retraced her steps.

  Oliver wasn’t happy to see her, that was apparent by the resigned expression.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’m sorry to bother you again but could I please borrow your thongs?’

  He closed his eyes briefly, opened them, said, ‘Wait there,’ and disappeared into the surgery. The door swung behind him but she wasn’t game to follow him in. He said wait, she’d wait rather than risk losing the thongs. After today she need never see him again, remember that. Her humiliation in his presence, his disdain, would remain private.

  Who was she kidding? The story would be all over town by this evening. Plenty of people knew he’d told her to walk her horse to his practice, knowing she wasn’t prepared, she had the wrong shoes, showing her up as an idiot from the city. Those two cops would be having a laugh, as would that ambulance woman and the old man who’d stopped to see if she needed help. Half the damn town.

  Oliver stepped outside and pulled the door to with a click of the latch. ‘I’ll drop you back at your car,’ he said and strode towards his own car parked by the house under a carport.

  ‘I can walk,’ she called. ‘If I can borrow the thongs.’

  He stopped. ‘Do you really want to walk or are you just being stubborn?’

  ‘I don’t want to put you out if you’re busy.’

  ‘I offered you a lift. Take it or leave it.’ He folded his arms, head tilted to one side, face expressionless.

  Krista took several deep, calming breaths as instructed by her yoga teacher for use in trying situations.

  ‘I could have dropped you and been back by now,’ he said.

  ‘I would like a lift. Thank you.’

  He strode across and opened the passenger door for her, a surprisingly gentlemanly gesture, waited for her to get in then banged the door shut. Was he making sure she was safely inside so he could get her off his property? Or was this an attempt to improve relations?

  The drive was silent. Krista stared out the side window through the covering of dust and a large messy bird dropping. His car had a distinctive smell—animals, something vaguely medicinal and an underlying hint of manure. She wanted to say something but had no idea what it could be. She wanted to make amends a
nd leave him with a better impression of her than the one he had at the moment. She didn’t know how to do any of that. Why? Men were usually falling over themselves to get to know her. Until they did get to know her and discovered she wasn’t interested. Or interesting. Something.

  He stopped opposite her car. The float and Range Rover had gone and the only sign of the accident was flattened grass and two deep grooves where the tyres had ripped into the dry earth of the ditch.

  ‘Thanks for the ride,’ she said stiffly, her hand on the door handle.

  ‘No worries.’

  She turned to face him. ‘I’m sorry …’ The words that weren’t there dried in her throat.

  ‘Okay.’ He waited, one hand resting on the steering wheel, the other on the gear lever.

  ‘Goodbye.’

  Nothing happened when she tried to open the door.

  ‘Push against the door at the same time,’ he said. ‘A roo ran into it and bent it.’

  She lifted the handle and shoved with her other hand. The door flew open. She scrambled to get out but couldn’t, restrained by the seatbelt.

  He pressed the release button. She made as dignified an exit as was possible and closed the door. It didn’t latch.

  ‘Slam it,’ he called. That’s why he’d opened and closed the door for her earlier, nothing to do with a belated attempt to charm her.

  She banged the door shut and stepped back as he drove off without a glance her way. She walked across to her car and got in, trembling with a mixture of relief, humiliation, frustration and anger, to sit with eyes closed for a few moments. What was she doing here? Taylor’s Bend was the last place she wanted to be. If it wasn’t for this bloody anniversary party she’d be curled up at home binge-watching Nordic noir crime, drinking red and eating chocolate. Unwanted. Unemployed.

  The roar of an engine popped her eyes open. His car was on its way back. He must have turned a little way along. The dirty white four-wheel drive went by, giving her a glimpse of his face in profile, eyes fixed on the road ahead, Krista Laatonen, the annoying, possibly criminal, nuisance from The Grange, already forgotten.

  She pressed Start and pulled onto the road in the same direction with hollowness in her stomach, which might be hunger but might equally be disappointment.

  ***

  Oliver finished his chores by six-thirty and headed into town for a meal at the pub before the Taylor’s Bend Music and Drama Society’s first orchestral rehearsal for Gilbert and Sullivan’s Patience. This whole venture was a first. Newcomers to the area, Bill and Gina Locke, were enthusiastic amateur theatrical types, having spent most of their lives acting and singing.

  They’d run an arts cafe in Queanbeyan and Bill directed many a local show there with Gina singing lead roles.

  They’d followed a son, Barnaby, and his family to Taylor’s Bend last November when Barnaby bought a block of land on the edge of town and started an organic vegetable business. It hadn’t taken long before flyers appeared about the place calling for local talent to come to a meeting to discuss the formation of what became the Taylor’s Bend Music and Drama Society—the ‘MaDS’ as the group quickly became known.

  Oliver had gone along, as had most people, to see what the Lockes had in mind, and come away with a promise to drag out his long-neglected cello and join the orchestra. Gina was a very persuasive musical director and the Lockes were a highly organised force to be reckoned with. Taylor’s Bend residents found themselves auditioning for parts in a work they knew nothing about but with the general attitude of ‘What the heck? It should be a laugh if nothing else’.

  The debut performance was in June. It was now mid-February. Oliver had snatched every spare minute to reacquaint himself with the cello he’d played through high school and university, and chip the rust off his technique. His fingers were frustratingly stiff and clumsy, hardened by the work he’d been doing, but the love of music was always there and as he persevered with the scales and studies he once used to fly through, the rich tone he’d produced so effortlessly in the past began to reappear. Tonight everyone would be sightreading through the music, which was nerve-racking in the extreme given the bouncy speed of most Gilbert and Sullivan pieces. Gina’s confidence in his ability was doomed to crash and burn.

  The pub was quiet with only a few people at the bar having a drink after work. He exchanged a few words, gave his order and took a bottle of water and a glass to his table.

  ‘Keeping a clear head for tonight, Oliver?’ Wally, rotund and red-faced manager of the feed and livestock store, paused on his way to the bar.

  ‘Yeah, are you coming?’ He had no idea who else’s arm was twisted into joining the orchestra but he knew Wally played trumpet in the Willoughby Concert Band.

  ‘Yeah, Gina got in touch with Les.’ Their octogenarian conductor.

  ‘Are they all coming along?’ He’d heard them at the church fete last year and at the local gymkhanas. They numbered about twenty-five drawn from surrounding areas, and weren’t bad.

  ‘A couple of brass, some wind players and a percussionist.’

  ‘That’s good. I thought I might be the only one there. Me and Gina.’ He grimaced. ‘I’m having dinner. Care to join me?’

  ‘Thanks. The wife and kids are out tonight so I’m on my own.’

  Over the grilled steak and a beer, which Wally reckoned would get his brain in gear for the trumpet but Oliver wasn’t risking, Wally said, ‘I heard about the accident. Horse okay?’

  ‘Yeah. She had a fright but calmed down when we got her out. Nice animal.’

  ‘Shannon reckons the daughter was as friendly as a shark.’

  ‘She wasn’t too bad when she calmed down. Like her horse.’ The other piece of information he’d keep to himself.

  ‘Bit of a looker, she reckoned.’ Wally sawed off a hunk of steak.

  ‘Yeah, if you like icebergs.’ He wasn’t rising to any baits Wally threw his way. Since the most eligible bachelor in town, Rupe, had married Abbie a year or so back, attention had shifted to him. Until then he’d flown under the matchmaker’s radar.

  ‘Hah. That whole family is crazy.’

  ‘Do you know the stepbrother Angus? The one who was driving the car?’

  ‘Seen him a couple of times.’

  ‘What’s he like?’

  Wally chewed and considered. ‘He gambles.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘According to the bloke who delivers feed to them.’

  ‘Do they buy from you?’ Surprising if they did.

  ‘Nah, one of my customers told me. His brother knows the truck driver.’

  ‘What does he gamble on?’

  Wally shrugged. ‘Dunno. But whatever he’s into, it’s for big money.’

  ‘How does the bloke know that?’

  ‘Dunno. Word gets round though, doesn’t it? People talk.’

  ‘Yeah. But that place is pretty tight lipped.’

  And whether the word was accurate or not was another thing. Did Krista know that about her stepbrother? Hard to say. He didn’t know how close they were. She disapproved of him, that was for sure, but that could be a general dislike rather than specific. Gambling in itself wasn’t something to make you dislike someone. What constituted big money?

  ‘So, what’s your instrument?’ asked Wally.

  ‘What?’ Lost as he was in speculation he floundered to pinpoint the question.

  ‘What do you play?’

  ‘Oh, cello. As soon as Gina heard that she wouldn’t take no for an answer.’

  ‘How long since you played?’

  ‘At least ten years. Sounded like a dog when I started practising.’

  Wally laughed. ‘Should be an interesting rehearsal. Old Nils has a violin he hasn’t played for twenty years.’

  ‘He has arthritis in his hands.’ And he’d thought his own fingers were stiff. Compared to Nils he’d be like Yo Yo Ma.

  ‘I know but he reckons he’ll be okay. Young Frankie Harris and her twin sister Bella both pl
ay violin quite well.’

  ‘I don’t know them.’

  ‘They’re from Bindubi, go to high school in Willoughby with my boy.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Reckon we’ll have a few youngsters along tonight.’

  ‘I hope some of them can play cello better than I can.’

  ‘Doubt it, mate. Gina was saying how pleased she was you signed up because there’s a cello solo in it that can’t be done on anything else.’

  ‘Why?’ Oliver’s hand froze on its way to the water glass.

  ‘Someone on stage mimes playing a cello.’

  ‘What? She never told me that.’ A solo? This was a disaster waiting to happen. Maybe he could pretend he had an emergency call out. The way Doc Jensen did at community meetings when everyone knew he wanted to go home, have a few shots of whisky and add some words to the sci-fi saga he’d been working on for twelve years.

  ‘She didn’t want to scare you off.’ Wally scraped up juices with a chunk of baked potato. ‘Don’t worry, you’ll be fine. You’ve got months to practise.’

  ***

  Krista drove straight down the long, tree-lined driveway to the stables when she arrived at The Grange. The usual mild sense of dread she experienced when exposed to the undiluted company of her mother was this time overridden by the fury and humiliation caused by Angus.

  Why they’d chosen to celebrate the anniversary out here in the heat of summer, God only knew. These parched, gasping paddocks were as foreign and unfamiliar to her as the deserts of Namibia or the plains of Outer Mongolia, and almost seemed to return the sentiment to a European bred interloper from the city. Mama hated it too.