Bottlebrush Creek Page 21

  Her eyes watered again and she felt like stamping her foot. She wasn’t upset, dammit, she was mad enough to spit chips. And if the tiler didn’t wipe the smirk off his face, she’d whack him over the head with his toxic-smelling paint roller.

  With a curse, Angie used one hand to shield her nose and mouth and the other to search for her asthma puffer.

  ‘You’d better put that cigarette out, or …’ Angie broke off as her throat constricted. She whirled away from the door, striding out of the room as his tuneless whistling picked up again. She coughed her way to the kitchen, her anger increasing when she found the water flask was empty.

  Angie broke into a jog, darting down the hallway. Her anger turned to panic as she struggled for breath. She burst through the front door, and crouched by the garden tap, gulping in water and fresh air. The murky bore water felt like bliss to her overactive sinuses, easing the constriction inside her throat. What the hell was that? An asthma attack? A panic attack? A wave of light-headedness sent the weatherboards spinning violently in front of her eyes.

  Angie crumpled to the ground as nausea struck. It felt like she was on a topsy-turvy carnival ride, with something squeezing her throat and scratching at her eyes for good measure. She spewed all over the flowers.

  Angie averted her eyes from evidence of Rosa’s chocolate cake and the muesli bar slice meant for Claudia. Had she really eaten so much yesterday? A few pieces with her morning cuppa, another few squares of slice for morning tea, a little sliver of cake before lunch. Angie looked away, the high-school nicknames taunting her. She ran the tap again, rinsing the acrid taste from her mouth, then hosed the garden bed.

  What would Bobbi say? Running three times a week, only to gorge on the smorgasbord of baked goods Rosa insisted on delivering. Angie switched off the hose with a sharp twist of the wrist. Enough was enough. Her mother’s words floated back into her head again. You’re stronger than you think, Angie-bee.

  I can’t keep hiding under a pile of sweets and pastry, or I’ll never finish this cottage, let alone fit through the front doorway or a wedding dress. She pulled at the waistband of her jeans, finally admitting to herself she knew why the deep indent from the constrictive elastic was still visible hours after she’d thrown her work clothes into the washer and slipped into her trackpants.

  No more sneaking food instead of confronting issues. No more being walked over.

  Determination fuelled her as she hoisted herself up. Spinning’s stopped. Breathing’s better. And at least no one else saw me. She looked up at the cottage. As much as she wanted to march back into the bathroom and give the tiler a piece of her mind, she wasn’t going to risk reacting to the combination of cigarette smoke and waterproofing membrane again. Not without a puffer at least.

  She looked down at her watch. If the last two days were any indication, the tiler would break at midday precisely, and sit in his van to eat lunch and read the newspaper. Angie sucked in a deep breath of fresh coastal air, set her jaw and shoved her hands onto her hips.

  And when he does, I’ll be waiting for him.

  The tiler was on her mind all morning and the first thing she mentioned when Rob phoned.

  ‘Be calm, don’t barge in with guns blazing,’ Rob’s voice floated down the phone line, the sound cutting in and out over the roar of a drop saw.

  Angie shifted the phone to her other ear as she chopped carrots and cucumbers into lengths. Operation Healthy Eating would restart today, as well as Operation Toughen Up.

  ‘I’m not going to fly off the handle, Rob. I’m just going to be firm and remind him of the site rules.’

  ‘Wait until I’m home and I’ll have a word to him …’

  Angie sucked in a quick breath. ‘What … man to man? I’ve had enough of him. If he can’t talk to me, I’ll tell him to bugger off back to Timboon.’

  Rob groaned down the phone line. ‘You sound like Bobbi, not my Ange, that’s all.’

  ‘I’ve been a pushover. Maybe this is how I have to be, instead of always being the “yes” girl,’ she said, chomping on a celery stick.

  A strong cup of coffee and a salad went a long way to settling Angie’s stomach, but the nerves came in waves as she pushed Claudia on the swing and waited for midday.

  Angie reeled around at the sound of footsteps behind her, exhaling when she saw it was only Max. He held up a hand in greeting, his eyes scanning the yard.

  ‘Uncle Max!’ called Claudia.

  ‘Rob’s not here, if that’s who you’re looking for …’

  ‘Came to see if you needed a hand.’

  Angie pinched the bridge of her nose. ‘Not really, unless you want to watch me shout at Victoria’s most sexist tiler? He goes out of his way to give me the irrits.’

  Max slipped his hands into his back pockets, rocking on his heels like Rob.

  ‘The irrits, hey? Sounds serious. What did he do?’

  ‘What didn’t he do, more like it. Doesn’t know how to work with women, doesn’t follow orders unless they’re a testosterone-issued directive, and he smokes inside my house. I’m working to find a new tiler, but they’re all booked up months in advance. I’d finish the waterproofing myself, but the smell of it sends my sinuses and stomach into conniptions, especially when combined with cigarette smoke,’ she said.

  Angie twisted the lid on and off her water bottle as Max pushed Claudia. Is he going to laugh at me, tell me I’m overreacting, like Rob?

  ‘What a tool. Sounds like he’s taking the mickey.’

  Angie’s shoulders sagged with relief. Finally, somebody understood.

  ‘I’ve done a bit of tiling in my time, it’s not hard. Want me to have a word with your tiler?’

  ‘Higher, Uncle Max, higher! Jayden goes higher than this,’ called Claudia, her legs pumping to gain momentum. Angie smoothed down her fresh shirt and glared at the cottage. The sun was high overhead, throwing the verandah into shadow, but there was no mistaking the thin, reedy whistle as her watch struck midday and the front door opened.

  ‘I need to sort this guy out myself. You keep pushing the swing, I’ll be back in a second.’ Angie strode across the lawn, wringing her hands to stop them shaking as she approached the tiler’s work van.

  Thirty-one

  Rob had thought it was cold outside, but after half an hour in Mr Kent’s kitchen he had a new-found respect for polar bears. He picked a long strand of animal hair off the edge of his mug and stared at the clumpy milk floating in the coffee.

  A game show blared on the TV and Rob raised his voice to be heard.

  ‘As much as I appreciate the offer, Mr Kent, I’d prefer to be paid in cash. My fiancée will have my guts for garters if I bring any more animals home.’

  The old farmer squinted at him, and Rob tried not to stare at the John Howard-esque eyebrows. ‘It’s a good deal, young Jones. A dozen goats is worth twice as much. Whack ’em in the freezer if you’re not keen on pets. Goat stew, goat schnitzel, goat patties—endless possibilities. Only take you an hour to slaughter ’em, a day to bag ’em up and then you’ll have 200 kilos of grass-fed, organic goat meat. They charge a fortune for it in Melbourne, you know. I’m pretty much doing you a favour with this deal,’ Mr Kent said, hooking his fingers through his braces and rocking back in his chair.

  Rob looked out the dirty window to the trailer-load of goats in Mr Kent’s backyard, right next to the new stables he’d built two months before. The timber alone had added a sizeable sum to his already sky-high hardware store account. He couldn’t unscrew it and return it to the store, and there was no way Wally would accept a trailer full of goats when his account was due. Be firm, Jonesy. Contra deals will not pay the bills. You don’t have time to scratch yourself, let alone butcher a dozen goats.

  Rob’s phone trilled in his pocket and he stood up to leave.

  ‘The best I can offer is paying in instalments. A hundred dollars a week, if that’s all you can manage.’ He gave the man a business card. ‘My bank details are on the back, same as
on the bottom of the invoice.’ The now-overdue invoice. ‘I have a family to feed, Mr Kent.’

  The old man threw his hands in the air, his face creasing with delight.

  ‘Exactly, son! Now you’re getting my point! That’s why I’m trading these goats instead of cash. They’re all loaded up and ready to go. Tax Man can’t take his cut out of that, can he?’

  Rob’s shoulders sank. Why aren’t these conversations going to plan? Am I going to have to ask future clients to sign contracts about actually paying before I take on jobs?

  Knitting needles clacked and laughter rang out in the town hall as Rosa cast on a new row of stitches.

  ‘Rosa?’

  She turned to the lady beside her.

  ‘Did you hear about Dossie Thompson? They’ve packed her off to a nursing home. Got to the stage where she couldn’t find her way out of a paper bag,’ said Eileen.

  Rosa winced. News like that seemed to be coming in thick and fast. That, along with every new funeral listing in the paper, reminded her of the big ticking clock in the sky.

  ‘Poor Dossie. I’ve known her since primary school. Beats me how her children abandoned her,’ Rosa said. ‘You’ll know I’ve lost my marbles if I start missing craft group or putting the eggs in the freezer and the puff pastry in the pantry. Bring John’s rifle over and pretend it’s a hunting accident, okay? Save everyone the trouble.’

  Eileen’s embroidery needle darted in and out of the fabric as she answered. ‘Least you’ll have your sons and daughter-in-law to mind you when you start going soft in the head. With all those baby clothes you’ve been knitting, plus all those hot meals and sweets you make, you’ll be in the running for mother-of-the-year award,’ said Eileen.

  Rosa clutched the lemon-coloured blanket to her chest and let out a sigh. ‘I doubt it. Things seem to run hot and cold. No matter how hard I try, I can’t work out the best way to handle Angie. She’s a good mother, and she’ll make a good wife, but this cottage seems to be taking its toll. I might never get another grandchild at this rate.’

  Rosa resumed knitting. She had to come up with a better plan of attack to bridge this gap between her and Angie. Rosa chewed her lip as she cast on another row. The bridge between Rob and Angie is looking pretty rickety at the moment too. I need to think up something to help smooth that over as well. But what?

  ‘I also heard on the grapevine that your lovebirds had a visit from Ivan a few months back, before he really hit the skids.’

  Rosa’s eyebrows flew to her hairline. ‘Ivan at the cottage? Rob didn’t mention that.’

  Eileen nodded. ‘I took Dossie some sweets the other week. Had a good old chinwag with Ivan in the games room. Not that the games are anything special. Half of the residents were asleep and the other half needed a helper to stamp their bingo cards. If you ask me …’

  Ivan? Oh God, surely he wouldn’t say anything to Rob?

  Rosa’s needles clattered to the floor as she held up a hand. She’d sat through enough of her friend’s rambling stories to know obscure details often took precedence over the important ones. ‘Back up, Eileen. Did Ivan say anything else? About the’—she shrugged, adopting what she hoped was a casual tone—‘cottage? How did he even get there?’

  ‘His daughter took him when she was down for Chrissy. Probably the last outing he’ll ever have, judging from his stroke damage. Least it was a nice one.’

  Rosa picked up her needles again and resumed knitting. Ivan mustn’t have mentioned anything about my quiet contribution, or Rob would have said something by now. The thought eased her racing heart. I’ll tell them when they’re all settled into the cottage.

  Angie rapped on the tiler’s work van. The tiler slowly rolled down his window. A cloud of cigarette smoke escaped from the vehicle.

  Angie coughed. She stepped back, letting the air clear. The same old-fashioned music pumped out of his tinny car stereo, and his moustache bristled, a shred of cheese stuck to his top lip.

  ‘Can’t a bloke eat his sanga in peace?’ He gestured to the half-eaten sandwich on his lap.

  A cigarette smouldered in an ashtray. How anyone could eat in a fog of cigarette smoke was beyond her. No wonder he didn’t wear a wedding ring.

  Angie took a deep breath before stepping closer to the car window. She was glad he couldn’t see how her hands betrayed her, quivering in her pockets. She thrust them deeper, trying to remember the words she’d practised in her head as she’d pushed Claudia on the swing.

  ‘You’ve got to put that out. You might be happy enough to send yourself to an early grave, but not on this building site. Strictly no smoking. Not here. And especially not in the cottage, as I explained on the first day.’

  He reached for the cigarette.

  ‘Or what? You going to fire me?’ He blew a plume of smoke in her direction. Angie hoped her stomach wouldn’t fail her again. She held her ground and caught a glimpse of Claudia, waving at her from the swings. She owed it to Claudia, as well as herself, to stand up to this bloke.

  Angie turned back to him, standing up straight. ‘If you’re not willing to follow site rules, then yes.’

  He laughed again. ‘You’re not daft, are you girlie? You got another tiler lined up, have you? You fire me, and you’ll be waiting months to get that dump tiled.’

  Angie narrowed her eyes. One step too far, buddy.

  ‘Consider yourself fired.’ She watched his smug smile falter. A trail of ash dropped onto his shirt.

  ‘Pig’s bum. You owe me money for materials and … and labour!’

  ‘I’ll assess the bill when it comes through.’ Her hands still shook in her pockets as she strode back to the swing set and scooped Claudia up into her arms. She threw a look over her shoulder. Don’t do it, Angie. But she couldn’t resist.

  ‘And you know what? I wouldn’t have you work on my cottage if you were the last tiler in Australia. Get off my property.’

  When the sound of the car engine disappeared down Enderby Lane, she heard a slow clap. Angie turned to see Max applauding her.

  ‘Nicely done,’ he said.

  She gave a shaky smile and then a curtsey.

  ‘I’ve got good news and bad news, Rob,’ said Angie, her teeth gritted as she scrolled through the online trade directory.

  ‘Tell me you didn’t. Tell me you left well enough alone and you’ve gone and spent another bucketload of cash on flowers, instead of what I think you’re about to say.’

  Angie nodded into the phone. ‘Unfortunately, we have to find a new tiler and waterproofer. But on the plus side, it’ll give our waterproofing membrane longer to cure before we put the tiles down, and we don’t have to deal with a sexist pig.’

  She heard Rob swear under his breath. ‘Geez, Ange. We waited weeks to fit into his schedule, and now we’re back to square one.’

  ‘So what? He was an A-grade jerk. You weren’t going to say anything to upset him, so I dealt with it. You’re talking to the new, improved Angie McIntyre. Who wants to marry a pushover anyway?’

  Rob sighed into the phone. ‘Look, Ange. I’ll agree he was a knob, but tilers aren’t exactly thick on the ground around here. It’s Port Fairview, not Melbourne.’

  ‘I’m onto it, Rob.’

  Rob sighed. ‘Look, I gotta go. The delivery van is unloading my client’s new fridge and I want to make sure the blokes don’t scratch the floors or chip the marble bench on their way through. Last thing I need is another headache.’

  Angie hung up the phone and sagged against the bench, her earlier bravado fading as fast as the afternoon sun. Rob’s annoyance had taken the shine off her bold move. It felt good to take back the power, but now she wasn’t sure whether it had been a good move or a ridiculous mistake.

  Thirty-two

  Penny’s due date came and went with little fanfare and Angie still didn’t have a replacement tiler by the time the induction was scheduled. Angie filled a suitcase with grey and white T-shirts, jeans and a set of pyjamas. It was hard to know what to pack for
the labour ward when she was just a bystander.

  She stole a look at Rob, who was apparently immersed in his motorbike magazine, and wondered how long he planned to keep up the silent treatment. Suitcase packed, she slipped into bed and rolled towards the caravan wall. Rob closed his magazine, and the small space plunged into darkness as he turned off the side light.

  ‘Night.’ He rolled onto his side. A draught settled between them.

  ‘Night, Rob.’ She listened to his breathing, felt the caravan jiggle as he fidgeted into a comfortable position. Her body ached, not only from the gruelling week of renovations, but from nights stubbornly sleeping on her left side, her body angled away from Rob. One-word sentences and stilted instructions punctuated their afternoons. Days passed without the comfort of his touch, the intimacy that smoothed everything over. How long can we keep this up? At what stage will one of us say enough is enough?

  She spoke softly into the darkness. ‘I don’t have to go to the labour ward with Penny if you don’t want.’

  The caravan wobbled again as Rob flipped onto his back. ‘You changed your mind?’

  ‘She’ll have Tim there. And Diana and Lara too. I haven’t said anything to them yet. But now we need to find a new tiler, it feels like a bad time to leave.’

  He rolled towards the side again, then the light flicked back on abruptly.

  Angie threw an arm over her eyes, squinting in the sudden brightness. She felt, rather than saw, Rob sit up in bed. His voice was gruff.

  ‘Say if you want to call the trip off, Ange, but don’t make me the bad guy. Yes, I’ve got a million things I could be doing. The O’Connells’ overhead cabinets are going in this week—if she hasn’t called the supplier again and changed the order a third time—and I want to get the cottage sealed up before every possum, mouse and bird in the district moves in.’ He sighed heavily. ‘But it’s not my call.’