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CHAPTER
36
Painting the rest of the plane, pulling together the skeleton of an article with Carol, and installing the replacement tyres, which were not (sadly) original but did (thankfully) fit, took Kirsty six days. This might have held some obscure biblical meaning if she’d had a chance to rest on the seventh day, but alas.
Day seven was a Sunday, which meant she had to decide on an outfit for a nine-year-old’s birthday party. She’d half hoped she might slip off a ladder mid-week and sprain her ankle, rendering herself unable to drive out to Bangadoon, but where was the family curse when you needed it, right?
She hadn’t been obliterated by a piece of space junk crashing to earth, either, or been savaged by drop bears, so she ought to get the hotel-motel wardrobe door open already and get picking.
‘You’re a coward,’ she told her reflection in the mirror.
Of course she was. Weren’t all the Foxes? But the idea of having to see Farmer Joe at Amy’s party …
The mindless work in the shed all week, of sand-paint-repeat, had done its job and numbed the hurt of discovering he hadn’t been the sweetheart she’d thought he was. Daisy had helped soothe the blow a little, too, dropping in mid-week with a jar of honey and a cob of bread that had smelled better than sunshine, and staying to repaint the plane’s nose art. Instead of a saucy, come-hither smile, she’d painted a spanner into the female figure’s hand, and then shown Kirsty how to make a stencil so the lettering on the fuselage,CA-5 Wirraway, stood out as proudly as newly recruited soldiers.
But she’d not seen Joey. There’d been the occasional diesel throb from a tractor in the patchwork of fields above the cowshed, but he’d not visited the shed.
She’d nearly asked Daisy how he was … and how the first guests at the farmstay had enjoyed their visit … and whether Gus had been heard from again … or if the last of the avocado seedlings had been planted, or if the macadamia trees with the yellow leaves were recovering, or …
But no. All of that would have been displaying way too much involvement. She’d cut the personal tie, hadn’t she? All that connected her and the current owner of the once Bluett-owned farm was this plane that she was determined to claim.
Her reflection in the mirror was frowning. ‘Oh, get over yourself,’ she said. She pulled out a dress and held it up to the light. Was it too much? Maybe it was too little. Or too dressy or too summery or too pink.
She put it on, took it off and switched back to her usual jeans and boots, then stripped and started all over again.
Crap.
Stop overthinking every freaking thing, Kirsty Fox.
The dress was fine, and she already knew that, because she’d shown it to Carol when she bought it at the vintage store on the corner of Lillypilly Street and Nardi Lane. She’d shown it to Ken,who’d insisted she try it on and do a twirl down his green-painted concrete path, and who’d then tried to persuade her a little flower pinned to the flounce of the pink, silky neckline would be a nice touch. ‘Maybe an orchid, love. Pity it’s not the right season or I’d have just the one for you.’
‘I’m going to celebrate a little girl turning nine under a party tree,’ she’d said to him. ‘Not a wedding, Ken.’
‘Never hurts to practise,’ he’d said with a wink. ‘Lovely girl like you deserves a fine wedding, and we’ve a bachelor or two right here in Clarence that’d do the trick.’
‘I’m not looking for a wedding, or a bachelor, Ken.’ Especially a bachelor with an addiction.
Ken had gone all misty eyed. ‘My Thelma wore orchids in her hair on our special day. Takes me back, every time I see one of my dendrobiums in bloom.’
What an old softie. ‘How about you, Ken? An ixora in your buttonhole?’
‘Prince of Orange,’ he’d murmured, ‘an upright variety, one of the best.’ He’d wandered off with his secateurs, hummingHere Comes the Bride, lost down memory lane.
She looked in the mirror and pulled the skirt down an inch, pulled the neckline up an inch. It would have to do. She’d wasted so much time faffing about, lashing herself with self-doubt, she’d be late if she faffed any longer. She swiped on another coat of mascara, slipped her feet into heeled sandals, grabbed her denim jacket in case the spring weather turned cool, and headed out the door.
The drive out from Clarence to Bangadoon was a pretty one. By the time she passed the eighty kilometre an hour sign on the outskirtsof town the road had lost its kerb and footpaths, and green carpet grass and dandelions grew up to the ragged bitumen edge.
Potholes held muddy water, and the road dipped and weaved over rounded hilltops then sank into shallow valleys where some sturdy, tough-trunked tree variety turned the dips in the road into leafy green cathedrals.
Kirsty eased her way through the hairpin turns, hoping like heck she wasn’t about to be ploughed into by a cattle truck barrelling along in the opposite direction. She pulled into a culvert when she reached a milk urn welded up to look like a dairy cow hanging suspended by chains from a post. Bangadoon’s post office, Daisy had called it.
The bitumen gave way to loose gravel and her ute tray rattled like a cutlery canteen as she drove forward. An old weatherboard shopfront bore a chipped sign, Bangadoon General Store, and beside it, in a grassy garden, colourful umbrellas were stuck into old wooden picnic tables. A teardrop caravan was selling gelati from a hatch cut into the side. Trays of seedlings bore For Sale signs, and a little café was running out of a tiny old church, its outdoor seating demarked by a pumpkin vine growing rampantly over an old fence.
A mud-spattered old ute was tucked in between two massive swanky four-wheel drives. Byron Bay holidaymakers on a daytrip, perhaps … chewing up fifty bucks’ worth of fossil fuel to buy a sixpack of free-range eggs.
That’s a bit judgy, she could almost hear Amy whispering in her ear.
Fair call. Who was she to deny holidaymakers a drive through beautiful countryside, whatever the reason?
