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PROLOGUE
Tom, six weeks ago at Granny Lynn’s funeral
Ballydoon Community Group
Jade posted 9.32 a.m.:
The daughter of Granny Lynn asked me to pass this on to the Ballydoon community:
Thank you for coming to the memorial service yesterday to farewell Lynnette Hughes, known affectionately as Granny Lynn. Flowers were donated to the aged care facility in Stanmore. Your thoughts and prayers are appreciated at this time.
I quickly scrolled through emails while waiting in line for food made by the Ballandean Ladies Auxiliary at Granny Lynn’s wake. The fourth member of my university group assignment was due to send his section for our assessment, and … he still hadn’t. I sighed. But one email caught my eye.
Dear Mr Turner,
Your application on compassionate grounds to have your residential college fees refunded for last semester has been approved. Please see below for what—
I couldn’t help but grin at the news, even if I was at a funeral.Thank god, oh thank all of the gods.Thousands of dollars in college fees meant I could make the payment on a new farm dog with good lineage.
I glanced up, taking a step closer to a platter of mini quiches and the last mini sausage roll, slipping my phone into my pocket. As I reached for the pastry, my phone buzzed with an incoming call at the same time someone called my name.
“Tom Turner! Well, look at you!”
The call went to voicemail as Beryl Rasmussen perused me from head to toe with her eighty-two-year-old eyes. I looked back for the last sausage roll to find someone had taken it. Drat.
“G’day, Mrs Rasmussen. Haven’t seen you in ages.”
“Please, call me Beryl. Aren’t you a strapping lad? All grown up. Heard you were back on the farm full-time now.”
I’d known Beryl since birth. Her granddaughter, Flo, was now running their apple orchard on our boundary shared with the Zanetti Vineyard next door. These days, Beryl was retired and lived at the aged care home up the highway in Stanmore. And now, she was checking me out as if she was about to pick me up at a bar.
“I am. Doing the last semester of uni as a remote student.”
“Good to see you, Tom,” one of Beryl’s best friends, Caz, added. “You’re right, Beryl. He’s a strapping lad indeed. Spitting image of his dad.”
I managed a tight smile as my stomach flipped over. The only funeral I’d been to before today’s service was my father’s ten years ago.
“Thank you, ladies. Although everyone says Ryan takes after Dad.”
“Where is that brother of yours?”
“Sick, as is Mum. A stomach bug’s going around. Stacey’s been looking after them both.”
Stacey hung at the back of the room, worn out and pale, after insisting on helping Mum and Ryan by herself, an unspoken rule of hers to repay her family for the years of bedside care when she was recovering from severe burns.
Which was silly. While she nursed Ryan and Mum, I took care of the farm and animals. But now, she was looking thin. Hopefully, she’d have time to grab some food from the spread before it all disappeared.
“It’s your eyes, just like Rod Turner.” Beryl smiled softly as she held up the funeral’s Order of Service. “Very sad about Lynn. Granny Lynn.”
“Yes, very sad.” My voice was tight, desperate to change the conversation from funerals to anything else. “How’s Flo going?”
“Flo’s great. She’s up north visiting Zach while he’s on rotation in Mount Isa. She should be back next week. Keen to get her to go dancing with Stacey when she’s here.”
I slipped my phone into my pants pocket and nabbed the last three mini quiches to share with Stacey.
“Now, Doctor Harry. He’s a strapping lad, too.” Beryl looked around me. “Not bad at dancing either.”
I twisted around and found Harry surrounded by women my mum’s age, smiling and laughing at something he’d said. He flashed me a desperate look, and I shrugged, just as trapped as he was.
