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CHAPTER
22
That old photograph of a happily married couple on the paddock they’d chosen for their honeymoon venue played on Kirsty’s mind.
The woman in the beautiful dress; her smile; the burly young man beside her looking puffed up as a rooster.
That’s how Bluetts did relationships. For keeps.
Her mother picked up on the second ring.
‘Hi,’ she said, before Terri had a chance to say anything. ‘It’s me.’
‘Sugarplum!’ her mum said. ‘Don’t worry … your pot plants are all green and verdant.’
‘Thanks, Mum. Feel free to send me a photo of them every now and then.’
‘Don’t you trust me, sweet?’
That was a comment she knew better than to answer. Terri was a darling, but she was a reckless, irresponsible darling who definitely,definitely, could not be trusted.
‘So. Um … how is Clarence?’
‘It’s great. I love it here.’ Should she just come out with it?Why did you up stumps from here, Mum? What was so bad that you left town and took your unborn Fox-and-Bluett baby with you?
But real conversations were not things that she and Terri Fox were in the habit of having, and the words got stuck somewhere in her throat. ‘How are the tea cosies coming along?’ she said. Euphemism, of course, for how’s your mental health, Mum? Whydidthe two of them have a lifetime habit of avoiding the real words?
‘I knit myself dry, Kirsty, so I’ve switched to crochet. Today’s project has owl eyes that I’ve already had to unpick twice.’
‘Sounds fun,’ she lied.
‘So … um, any news on when you’re coming home?’
‘Not yet. You know that plane I told you about? I’m getting it ready to be a museum exhibit, and the details aren’t all worked out yet.’ Perhaps she should be getting a legal opinion of whether Alice’s bequest gave her any rights. Walter McDonald hadn’t inspired her with confidence, but he’d been cheap. And he’d had a big sign above his desk that seemed to be a real law degree.
Gus shifted on her knee. She heard the throb of a diesel engine pulling up out front and leaned across to look through the open door of the cowshed.
There was her farmer, striding across the unkempt grass. He was looking tanned and dusty, and mud spatters rode him from boot to elbow. His phone was clamped to his ear and whatever he was talking about didn’t seem to be pleasing him any. What was going on in Farmer Joe’s life to tick him off?
‘Mum,’ she said, ‘someone’s here, I have to go.’
‘Talk soon, sugarplum.’
She ended the call, then stared for a moment at the unread message from Mike that had pinged its way onto her screen while she had been nattering about tea cosies.
ATSB has given all clear. Rabbit infestation. Helen tells me she’s not heard from you yet??? Please explain.
Please explain. If that wasn’t a summary of all that was wrong in the Fox family, she didn’t know what was, but rabbits? An infestation? She closed her eyes and tried to feel a sense of relief, of closure. None came.
Farmer Joe had finished his call. His dark green plaid shirt (not floral or paisley for once) had a rip in one sleeve, and his eyes, when they met hers, gave her heart rate a jolt.
Gus surged to his feet with a delighted bark as Joe came in the doorway.
‘Hey,’ he said, and for once the smile he gave her didn’t reach his eyes.
‘Something up?’
‘Yes.’
