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Neil didn’t need consideration, although maybe she was being a trifle unkind. There’d be some woman somewhere out there who’d love to know how many tons per acre a good mung bean crop should produce, he just wasn’t Emma’s cup of tea.
She drained the real cup of tea and sighed. She was fairly certain they’d done their winch practice on Shane’s property so Marty could engineer a meeting between her and Shane.
Shane who?
Had she ever heard his surname?
Not that it mattered, just thinking of their possible wedding photos—hers and Shane’s—with her looking like a midget beside him, was enough for her to know he wasn’t worth pursuing.
This was ridiculous. None of these men had shown the slightest interest in her, and even if one had, how fair would it be to use any one of them as a distraction from Marty?
Marty, whose smile warmed her heart, whose touch sent shivers down her spine, and who was definitely not available…
She sighed, stood up, and made her way to bed.
At least all those ‘man thoughts’ had helped her shut away the feelings of loss that had hit her so hard at the hospital.
And she didn’t really need a man. A housekeeper would be far better. The boys could kick footballs at kindy and school, and, anyway, she’d been quite good at soccer at school herself.
She’d kick footballs with them!
* * *
And just to prove she could, next morning saw her at the park down at the bottom of the hill, where children of all ages congregated to play—football kicking being only one of the activities.
She’d pushed the boys down in their stroller, although they’d both protested they were big enough to walk. Which they were, but she’d doubted they’d be happy walking back up the hill when they were tired from their play.
A cone-shaped, spider-web climbing frame soon became a favourite, and they were carefully negotiating their separate ways across the ropes when Marty turned up, sent on from the house by Ned.
‘I just called in to give you an update on Izzy and George,’ he said, smiling and waving at the two boys as he spoke.
‘George?’ echoed Emma.
Marty turned to grin at her.
‘Exactly what I said, but I’m assured old-fashioned names are coming back,’ Marty told her. ‘I suppose we should be glad it wasn’t Alfred.’
Emma laughed, although when she thought about it…
‘Actually, I don’t mind Alfie.’
‘You can’t be serious!’ Marty said, then he dived forward to scoop up Xavier as he fell towards the soft sand beneath the climbing frame.
Emma watched as he set a far from worried little boy back on the ropes, then stood back as another adult rushed towards his child.
An older child, a boy of about seven, was trying to push his sister off her perch above him, and as Emma watched the girl fell and the man hauled what was presumably his son off the ropes and smacked him, yelling at him for his actions at the same time.
Marty stepped forward, fists clenched, but Emma caught his arm.
He shook her off, but her touch must have calmed him down for he walked away, but not before Emma had seen his face, ashen with shock.
Or memories?
She gathered up her boys, who’d stopped climbing to look at the sobbing child, and followed Marty to where he’d dropped down onto a bench under a shady tree.
Should she say something?
Ask why it had upset him so badly?
Or did she need to ask?
He’d been a foster child, presumably taken from his family.
Because of an abusive father?
‘I should have stepped in,’ he said.
‘And done what? Punched the man in front of his children? Met violence with violence in front of a dozen children?’
She sat beside him and rested her hand on his knee.
‘I think he smacked the boy more out of shock than anger. He saw the girl fall and reacted. He was comforting both children when we left.’
Marty nodded, then moved his shoulders as if to shift a burden.
‘I know no one likes to see a child being smacked, but why did you react to it like that?’ she asked, though she doubted she’d get an answer. For all his outgoing, friendly manner, he was a very private man.
He didn’t answer for so long she thought he wouldn’t, but then he said, very quietly, ‘There was violence in my home—my birth home. My father had an uncontrollable temper and flew into rages at the slightest provocation.’
He’d been looking into the distance but now he turned to her.
‘It’s in me, too, Emma, that rage. It’s in me too.’
‘Nonsense,’ she said calmly, but he was already on his feet.
‘Who’s for ice cream?’ he called to the two little boys, who were back on the climbing frame.
