Bottlebrush Creek Read online

  ‘You were the one who demanded control of the budget. I can’t even find the paperwork these days.’

  ‘I’ve got it covered, Ange, trust me. We just need to economise where we can.’

  Angie let out the breath she’d been holding. ‘Let me know next time you decide to change the plans. It’s my home too, Rob.’

  Rob tugged on the throttle, throwing the motorbike into the curve. A rush of adrenaline whisked the worries and guilt to the back of his mind. He clung to the white line and leaned into the corner.

  His old red Indian wasn’t built for speed, but it could still pack a punch on the tighter bends around the back roads of Koroit, the only hilly area on the mostly flat south-west coast. It had only been days but it felt like weeks since he’d been out on the open road, and the ride offered a much-needed release.

  His new client Lilah was one of Bobbi’s rich friends, whose endless pursuit of perfection was probably the driving factor behind her renovation. The bathroom she insisted on remodelling was structurally fine, but heck, who was he to turn away well-paying clients, even if he thought they were wasting their money?

  It was one of the things he loved about Ange, the way she avoided the game of one-upmanship many women played. He believed her when she said they’d have their new kitchen for the next twenty years, not five or whenever the trends changed.

  The visor on his full-face helmet steamed up as he let out a breath.

  Ange.

  He’d been a jerk on New Year’s. He knew it. She knew it. What type of caveman spoke about his fiancée like that? He pulled his attention back to the road seconds before his front wheel headed towards the gravel shoulder.

  Get off the road, Jones, before you drop this bike.

  Rob lifted a glove off the handlebars and stuck his arm out to compensate for the faulty left indicator before pulling off the road. There was nobody else at the Tower Hill lookout, and he left the engine idling as he lowered the kickstand and climbed off the bike.

  The dormant volcano was teaming with bird life. Birdsong rushed to his ears as he removed his helmet. Rob leaned against the tourist sign detailing the history of Koroit’s craters, trying to get his head straight. If Ange hadn’t jumped down his throat, he would have told her about the sinking feeling he got whenever he thought about their budget.

  Maybe I need to lighten up, like Brett said. He pulled the helmet over his head, and gave the Indian a few revs before he climbed onto the wide-sprung motorbike seat. He depressed the foot clutch, pulled the gear change lever back into first and rode off, concentrating hard not to mix up the bike’s unique left-hand controls. After basking in Ange’s sunshine for so long, it felt cold to be thrust into her shade. Only problem was, he didn’t exactly know how to fix things.

  Angie fossicked through the tiny caravan pantry, cursing when a tub of honey spilled. She mopped up the sticky mess, cursing the cramped conditions.

  On each trip from the cottage to the shed she passed the work ute Rob should have been driving instead of riding motorbikes, and it made her angrier and angrier. And why is he making major reno decisions without me?

  Angie’s elbow thumped against the kitchenette cabinet as she emptied a tin of baked beans into a saucepan and ignited the small gas cooktop. Sweat and dust were caked into the creases of her skin. She stirred the pot angrily.

  Angie sifted through mail as Claudia slurped at her dinner.

  ‘More mail today,’ she said, slitting open a large green envelope. The sight of their new address—77 Enderby Lane—on the front lifted her mood a little, until she got to Mrs Ellis’s copperplate writing. She groaned as she pulled out the handwritten minutes from the dahlia meeting she’d missed, setting it down beside her laptop, well out of the splatter range of Claudia’s beans. Another item for my evening to-do list. I’ll be up until 3 a.m. at this rate.

  She thought of Rob’s offer to fend off Mrs Ellis. Before New Year’s Eve, she might have laughed with him and accepted help to bail out of the committee, but instead it had felt like a personal affront.

  ‘Jayden coming, Mummy?’

  ‘Not tonight, Claudia, but Bobbi will drop the boys around tomorrow. Sound good?’

  Claudia nodded, chatting about her new friends all through her dinner.

  ‘Daddy home, Mummy?’

  Angie took the caravan steps two at a time.

  ‘Soon, Claudia,’ she said, gritting her teeth. ‘Let’s get you into the shower.’

  Angie glared at the cluster of motorbikes as they walked to the bathroom, resenting the space and time they took up when they had barely enough of either.

  Twenty-seven

  Claudia’s ears pricked up at the sound of a car coming up the driveway, and she threw down her spade, rushing towards the house.

  ‘Jayden’s here! Oscar’s here!’ she said, her gumboots splashing through the puddles left by last night’s downpour.

  Angie slipped off her gardening gloves and waved at Bobbi’s car. Despite the clouds overhead, she still wanted to give the new plants a good soak before she took the children inside for morning tea.

  ‘Come and check out the new garden,’ she called, tipping her straw hat back for a better view. Bobbi picked her way through the backyard in her sandals, pushing Oscar in a pram better suited to paved city footpaths than country roads and rural acreages.

  ‘Watch the boggy bit there, the gutters were overflowing last night. You’ll lose a foot in it if you’re not careful.’

  Bobbi grimaced, holding her arms straight so the pram wheels didn’t flick mud onto her pale-pink capri pants.

  ‘This is why I leave the garden to Alex,’ she said. ‘There’s not enough Napisan in my laundry cupboard to cope with all this mud. You’re a beautician, how can you bear seeing your nails like that?’

  Angie looked down at her short nails. The black line of dirt had become a regular feature despite her heavy-duty gardening gloves. She hadn’t had time to miss the beauty salon. After seven years of ripping hair out of people, massaging away their worries and applying make-up, she was enjoying the change.

  ‘Gotta be done. Landscaping certainly isn’t in the budget, and I want to get things established. The quicker I plant these out, the quicker we’ll have fresh flowers and veggies. Might even be enough for preserving.’

  Bobbi laughed. ‘I can picture you in the kitchen, bottling up chutneys and jams like a right Harriet Homemaker. Next thing you know, you’ll be a card-carrying CWA member with an organic baking school and a brood of free-range children. Ugh. I couldn’t think of anything worse.’

  Angie wiped her hands on the back of her jeans. What was with Bobbi today? She hadn’t heard that acerbic tone before—it was far from the usual encouragement and lighthearted banter that had urged her on for the last few months of their couch-to-5k program.

  ‘Well, I’m enjoying seeing the garden and the cottage evolving.’

  ‘Yes … all I’m saying is, don’t go into town with those fingernails. It’ll bite you in the bum when you try to set up your beauty salon next year. Alex always says you’ve got to be a walking advertisement for your own business. That’s why he goes all-out for his clients. If they want tickets to the Boxing Day test match, he gets them. If they want to catch tuna, he arranges a fishing charter in Portland. You’ve got to spend money to make money.’ She turned and watched Jayden playing tag with Claudia around a pile of old roofing tin.

  ‘Which reminds me, what’s up with Rob? I’ve left him messages about a building quote for my friend. I told her he’d give them a good deal,’ she said, glancing back at the house.

  Angie’s patience faltered. Rob had already quoted for two of Bobbi’s friends, and he was increasingly wary of mixing business with pleasure.

  ‘He’s under the pump but I’ll remind him. What time are you coming back this afternoon? I’ve got an appointment of my own to get to.’ It was a lie—she hadn’t seen the inside of a hairdresser or beauty salon since she moved to Port Fairview, and the mone
y she was about to spend on bathroom fittings would completely rule out luxuries like highlights and haircuts for a while to come. But Bobbi didn’t need to know that. Her assumption that Angie had nothing better to do than babysit two extra children was starting to wear thin.

  ‘I should be finished by two. I’d offer to have Claudia while you’re out, but now you and Rosa are back on speaking terms …’ As Bobbi trailed off, Angie realised her friend had never actually reciprocated babysitting. ‘Oh, and Alex said he’ll drop around the plaster-lifting thingamabob when you’re all ready for it.’

  Angie snapped out of her ungrateful funk. Bobbi and Alex had loaned them the bobcat to clear the yard in readiness for the restumping, Bobbi had sent business Rob’s way and now she was offering the free use of a panel-lifter.

  ‘I’m not sure, Bobbi. I’ll have a chat to Rob. He thinks we’ll hang the plaster without it,’ she said, picking the dirt from around her cuticles. ‘But thanks anyway.’

  ‘Nonsense. It’ll save you loads of time.’

  Angie looked back at the cottage. She wanted to accept it. Rob was making decisions without her, maybe she could call the shots occasionally. Bobbi smiled, sensing she was wavering.

  ‘Tell Rob I insist. The machine’s only rusting away in the back of our shed. Let me know what you decide,’ Bobbi said, passing the pram to Angie.

  Angie peered down at the sleeping baby. Little Oscar was no trouble, happy to sit in a pram and watch the clouds float by between bottles. And Claudia and Jayden got along well, especially now the biting had stopped. As long as they had food in their bellies, free access to the swing set and enough blocks of wood to stack, sort and throw, they were a happy pair. Angie walked Bobbi back to her dual-cab ute, cringing when she caught sight of her reflection in the metallic black duco. Her hair was a frizz of curls, protesting against the humid morning, and her nose looked sunburned already. The extra-wide angle of the reflection wasn’t particularly flattering either. She looked away quickly.

  Bobbi leaned out the window as she backed down the driveway. ‘And is there any chance you can have the boys next week too? My aunt is coming to town, and I promised to take her out for lunch. Jayden will help keep Claudia out of your hair while you play Earth Goddess.’

  ‘I can’t … I’m not …’ Angie’s attempts at an excuse fell flat as she thought of the panel-lifter. The least she could do was a little more babysitting.

  ‘I guess so.’

  I jinxed them, thought Angie, surveying the children’s trail of destruction. Matchbox cars were strewn across the lawn, plastic containers from the caravan cupboards had been carried to the sandpit and the calf’s milk buckets had needed to be rinsed twice to remove all traces of what Claudia called her ‘magic potion’ but smelled more like dog poo, mud, water and sawdust.

  The calves called from the gate as Angie followed Bobbi’s car out the driveway but she ignored their mooing. Right now she needed to be anywhere but here. The mess; the electricians’ stereo blaring endless advertisements and Justin Bieber; the shed full of bikes reminding her of Rob frittering away his spare time—it was all too much.

  Angie gave into her craving for takeaway food and then pulled into the beach carpark, far away from judging eyes such as Bobbi’s. She unbuckled Claudia from her chair, set her on the picnic rug with a handful of chips and pulled a cider from the esky. With one hand wrapped around the cold glass, trickles of sweat running over her fingers, she dialled the phone number she knew off by heart.

  Her father’s cheerful greeting almost sent her into tears straightaway. She took a long swig of cider and listened to Angus’s tale about a wayward ram. Half an hour on the phone with Dad is as close to therapy as I’m going to get, she thought, letting his words soothe her, one non-renovation, non-motorcycle, non-Rosa–related sentence at a time.

  ‘You know those rams, they can’t keep themselves to themselves. Some are so toey, they’d find a way through a brick wall.’ She could hear the amusement in her father’s voice as he spoke. ‘I’m sure Rob’s checked the fences for holes and whatnot, but perhaps you’ll want to run a hot wire around your boundaries when you’ve got the second bunch of calves in there? They’ll start pushing fences as they get older, especially if you’ve got a dozen calves or so, love. John got all those cows preg-tested yet?’

  Angie nodded and passed Claudia another handful of chips. ‘Yep.’ The artificial insemination had gone smoothly, according to the AI technician who had pumped a high proportion of John’s dairy cows full of premium bull semen. Most would be Friesian calves, but a handful would be Speckle Park crosses to boost their little herd.

  The line fell silent.

  ‘Everything okay down there, love?’

  Angie studied the yellow sand, the gentle waves lapping at the ocean’s edge. Even the sight of the seagulls lined up for the half-eaten chips that Claudia doled out, one at a time, didn’t prevent the tears welling.

  ‘Fine. New roof is on, Rob’s new business is going well, Claudia’s singing the alphabet as she works beside me on the house, though she’s picking up a few swear words from the tradies, and she and Bobbi’s son Jayden spent more time bickering today than playing.’

  Life is good, she tried telling herself. I’m making things happen. A small sob snuck through her tightly pursed lips. We’ll be in the house soon.

  ‘It doesn’t sound fine, love. It’s not the pup is it? You can send it back up here if you need.’

  ‘Violet’s fine, Dad.’

  ‘Tell me if I’m wrong, but it sounds like you’re sitting on a beautiful beach, crying into your potato cakes.’

  Angie’s nose started to tingle and she was grateful for the sunglasses that masked the emotion threatening to bubble over. Claudia clapped her hands, sending the seagulls flying. Violet ran off on a fruitless chase, barking.

  ‘It’s hard, Dad. Harder than I thought,’ she whispered. Slowly but surely, the building site was morphing into a battleground.

  ‘I know, love. But you’re doing great. All couples have their tiffs, working so closely. Your mother, rest her soul, went almost a month without speaking to me during our bathroom renovation. She wanted the most ridiculous pink fittings, and I couldn’t imagine morning ablutions on a darn Barbie doll toilet.’ He laughed, a scratching coming down the line as his whiskers rubbed against the phone.

  ‘But I love your pink ensuite, Dad.’

  ‘It’s grown on me over the last thirty years, but I swore black and blue I wouldn’t have it at the time. Just like your mum got used to the floorboards I chose, instead of the terracotta tiles she wanted. It’s give and take, love, and you’ll look back in a year’s time—or maybe ten, or maybe thirty—and wonder why you wasted your breath on little arguments. Chin up, love. Look at that snazzy ring and remind yourself that Rob loves you, and you love him, and it’ll all be worth it when you’ve moved in. And Penny’s baby will be here any day now. A few hours in the labour ward will be just the ticket to boost you out of this funk.’

  The labour ward.

  Angie did a mental facepalm. January, February and March had evaporated in a blur of renovations, babysitting and arguments, and she’d forgotten she’d soon be mopping Penny’s forehead and bringing her whatever birth-expediting snacks she wanted during the labour. Of course she wanted to be there, but could it have come at a worse time?

  Angie scooped out food for the calves, cursing as one of them nosed the bucket, sending a cascade of pellets down the leg of her jeans and into her boot. Rob hadn’t been the only one tossing and turning overnight. She emptied her boot and put it back on, and then stroked Pearly’s smooth ears, her mind drifting back to the argument about the panel-lifter that had kept them awake past midnight.

  Rob hadn’t wanted to accept Bobbi and Alex’s generous delivery, but before she could nix the idea, Bobbi was pulling into their driveway with the panel-lifter on the back of a trailer.

  The sun peeked out from behind the heavy clouds, casting golden sunshine acro
ss the yard, and she caught a glimpse of the panel-lifter through the cottage window. It had made plastering the ceilings so much quicker. Anything to help their budget was a good thing, surely? Borrowing a few machines doesn’t make us beholden to them, no matter what Rob says. And where the hell is the budget at, anyway?

  There wasn’t going to be a perfect time to drill Rob on the reno budget—she’d just have to demand an update. Last thing they needed was for the project to stall because they couldn’t afford to pay their tradies, or because she was too soft to challenge Rob’s budgeting skills.

  A small black van paused at the driveway, before turning towards the house. Angie smiled as she read the signwriting on the side of the vehicle. Top Notch Tiling. According to Rosa’s list, the tiler wasn’t the cheapest, but he was the best on the south-west coast. Three days of waterproofing, then they’d be right to finally start tiling the bathrooms.

  She left the calves to their breakfast, wiped her palms on her work jeans and stuck out a hand. ‘I’m Angie. Thanks for coming over, I’ll show you where you’ll be working.’

  The tiler hesitated, then returned her handshake with a limp clasp. ‘Your hubby here? I’ll need to discuss a few things with him before I kick off,’ said the man, his eyes scanning the property. ‘No offence, darl, but I need a few technical details. I’d love a cuppa though, if you’d put the kettle on? There’s a girl.’

  Angie’s face flamed with annoyance. What era did this guy live in, the 1950s? Ever since the frame inspection, she’d worked even harder to understand the ins and outs of the project and was confident she knew everything this tiler needed to know.

  ‘Rob’s getting our daughter breakfast. He’ll join us soon, but in the meantime I can fill you in.’ She strode ahead, shelving the offer to help him bring his tools inside. After Rob had kept her out of the loop with changes and budget overspends, the last thing she needed was a tiler treating her like chopped liver.

  ‘Steady on, darl, don’t get your knickers in a knot. Most of the women don’t bother their pretty heads with the nitty gritty of a build. I assumed …’