Bottlebrush Creek Page 7

  Her phone rang as she pulled up at the Mechanics’ Institute hall. Rob’s photo sprang onto the screen.

  ‘Hey, Ange. Saw your message about the digger. Brett might know someone who doesn’t charge an arm and a leg?’

  ‘You should have gone into machinery hire, not building. Sounds like a goldmine. I’ll ask Tessa in a minute.’

  She parked next to Bobbi’s and Tessa’s cars. It was strange to think her two new friends hadn’t met before, considering they both had children of similar ages. They’d heard of one another but Angie was chuffed to think it had taken her, a complete newcomer, to bring them together. It was the closest thing she had to a mums’ group and although it was only their second catch-up, she had a good feeling about her burgeoning friendship circle.

  Music exploded out of the hall as she opened the door. Claudia ran to join the other kids, diving straight into the box of instruments.

  ‘Hey Angie, how are your legs? I was telling Tessa how well you’re doing. I’ve already noticed an improvement,’ said Bobbi, yelling to be heard above the ear-splitting racket of tooting recorders, maracas and tambourines.

  Angie waved a hand, not wanting to show how pleased she was by Bobbi’s compliment. ‘You flatterer.’

  Claudia leaped up from the circle of toddlers, opened the lid of the dusty piano in the corner of the hall and started pounding on the ivory keys.

  ‘I don’t know why they call it a Rhythm and Rhyme class. There’s not much of either, in my opinion. More like Death by Tunelessness,’ Angie said.

  ‘The kids seem to enjoy it though,’ added Tessa.

  Bobbi nodded towards the kitchenette. With a cheeky glance at the elderly music teacher, who was as patient as he was deaf, Angie, Tessa and Bobbi made their escape. Angie closed the door behind them, grateful for a sound barrier against the cacophony.

  Bobbi pulled out an earplug. ‘That’s enough to send anyone around the bend.’

  Tessa flicked the kettle on and started chopping fruit for the shared morning tea. She shot Angie a smile. ‘Here, have a cream puff, you’ll be fading away under Bobbi’s regime.’ Tessa pushed a container of choux pastry towards Angie. But just as she’d resisted Rosa’s recent delivery of biscuits and coconut cake, Angie reached for an apple instead with a small shrug and a smile.

  Tessa baulked in mock disbelief. ‘Not sure we can be friends, Angie. I’m yet to see any hint of this amazing baking Rob’s been bragging about, and now you’re declining my cream puffs!’

  ‘It’s easier to quit sweets and baking without an oven, and a few months of hard training is exactly what I need to shake this extra baby weight,’ said Angie. ‘Mind you, if Brett doesn’t have any contacts with discount diggers, I might be digging these trenches by hand. Have you guys heard how much a digger costs per day? Tell me you’ve got good contacts, Tessa.’

  Bobbi jumped in before Tessa could offer any suggestions. ‘Alex has a bobcat. He can drop it around on the weekend if you like. Send it home with a carton of boutique ale and he’ll be happy.’

  ‘You just happen to have a digger in your shed? Really? We can pay—I mean, I wasn’t looking for a free ride, only something a little cheaper so we don’t have to remortgage the house,’ she joked.

  But before Angie could protest any further, Bobbi airily waved off her objections and fired a quick text to her husband. Bobbi’s phone beeped and Angie watched in amazement as Bobbi gave her a thumbs up. ‘Sorted. Didn’t you know he had a machinery business? He’ll drop it off Saturday morning.’

  Angie’s eyes widened. She looked from Bobbi to Tessa incredulously. ‘That’s amazing!’ she said, feeling a rush of gratitude for her new friends. Bobbi sure knows how to get things happening, there’s no doubt about it. I bet she doesn’t let herself get roped into every committee in a fifty-kilometre radius. She eyed Bobbi with newfound admiration. Watch and learn, Angie, watch and learn.

  Tessa grabbed a cream puff, tucked her dark blonde hair behind her ears and walked back into the music class.

  The hardware store’s air conditioning wrapped itself around Rob’s body like a long-lost girlfriend. He strode through the familiar aisles. The smell of rubber and plastic wafted over from the summer window display of steel-capped workboots and garden hoses. Not much had changed by way of décor or stock since Rob had started his first after-school job in the store’s timber section. That job had paid for his first motorbike, bought his independence, and encouraged a love of woodworking.

  An elderly man smiled at Rob from behind the counter. ‘You’re a sight for sore eyes, lad. Heard you’d started up a new business in town. I’m telling everyone I taught you everything you know.’

  ‘Wally, nice to see you again,’ Rob said, setting his notepad down on the worn counter. ‘Real sorry to hear about Wanda. The place seems quiet without her.’

  Wally dipped his head, pulling a pen from behind his ear. ‘She was pushing seventy-five, Rob. And she didn’t have an evening nip of whisky like me, so she was bound to go first.’ His gruff voice, and the way he kept his eyes planted firmly on Rob’s itemised list, suggested he was still coming to terms with the sudden loss.

  ‘Those food baskets your mother brought around were much appreciated. And your father’s been very helpful since Wanda passed. He took over the store when I went away to scatter the ashes. Not many people would volunteer to manage a hardware store and still milk twice a day.’

  Rob frowned. He couldn’t imagine his father standing behind the counter, directing people to screws and spare irrigation fittings, and supervising after-school employees on the saw bench to ensure they retained all ten fingers. Wally had been everything John Jones was not: patient, relaxed and sharp with numbers but never with his tongue.

  ‘Mum didn’t mention that,’ he said, reaching for a plastic basket. ‘Is it okay if we start up a business account? I’ve got a few jobs already, and I don’t want to load up the debit card on business expenses.’

  ‘Course it is. I’ve known you since you were in nappies.’ Wally turned to the computer and began setting up a store account. ‘And I don’t see why your mum would make a fuss over it. There’s a lot to be said for acting humble in an age where everyone broadcasts their good deeds across social media, expecting an award. I know you and your father don’t always see eye to eye, but he’s a hardworking man. Apple never falls far from the tree, either.

  ‘We’ll mark your cottage materials separately to your business, all right? Tell me which job to put beside each item and we’ll keep it all straight,’ said Wally.

  Ange had been right—there was something inherently simple about setting up a small business in your hometown. Rob nodded, his eye landing on a hot-pink hammer and screwdriver set in the clearance bin. He placed the item on the counter. ‘Add this to the “home” tab too, please.’

  The older man smiled as he scanned the item. ‘I heard you’ve got a good woman by your side these days. And I’m pleased to see you’re having a crack at that cottage. I’m not blowing smoke up your bum, but you were always going to do a better job with it than your brother,’ he said, handing Rob the tool set.

  Rob fumbled with the package as the roar of the timber saw filled the store. Wally’s comment and the smell of sawdust took him straight back to the brawl that had severed his and Max’s bond. Did everyone in Port Fairview still compare him and Max?

  He felt Wally’s hand on his arm, gentler than the vice-like grip the old man had used to pull him off Max ten years ago. ‘But no sense dragging up the past. I know that, you know that. You’re a good man, Rob Jones, and mark my words, you’ll do well. Now off you go and see what she says about her new hammer. I’ve got purple hammers ordered for Christmas if pink’s not her cuppa tea. And don’t be a stranger. I expect to see you in here weekly.’

  Rob shrugged off sudden melancholy as he left the hardware store, pausing to drag the empty rubbish bins off the roadside and tuck them under the store verandah. Why does it feel like Max is right here in Port
Fairview, around every corner, when I know for a fact there are continents between us?

  Rob wiped the sweat from his forehead and took another sip of water. It hadn’t taken long to fill the large yellow skip bin with sheets of old plasterboard. Seeing the inside of the house stripped down to bare frames felt like progress.

  Angie squirmed as he slung an arm over her shoulder. ‘Ugh, you’re even sweatier than me. I’m dreaming of a swim,’ she said, shrugging him off.

  Rob laughed. The sight of her all mussed up, with dirt smeared across her face and a sheen of sweat on her décolletage, stirred something inside him. ‘I’m dreaming of helping my hot trade assistant out of those sweaty clothes and rewarding her for all this hard work,’ he said, pulling Angie towards him by a belt loop. ‘Skinny dipping sounds a lot more appealing than gutting the cottage bathroom.’

  ‘Not sure Port Fairview is quite ready for that type of action,’ grinned Angie, swatting his hand away. He hoisted the sledgehammer back over his shoulder and winked at her as he started towards the cottage.

  Claudia toddled over with the fresh water bottle he’d asked her to fetch. ‘Daddy?’

  He bent down and kissed her cheek, her little giggle making his heart melt. This was what it was all about—working as a family to get stuff done.

  A vehicle slowed on Enderby Lane and he looked up to see a ute and trailer pulling into their driveway. The bobcat on the trailer looked near new.

  ‘I thought you told them we’d already booked something else,’ he said quietly, studying the trailer and its contents. Borrowing machinery from a bloke he’d never even met didn’t sit well. Bobbi’s name had seemed to pop up every minute these last two weeks, but even so, Ange’s new friend and personal trainer lending them a digger seemed excessively generous. What was in it for them?

  ‘I tried, but Bobbi said she’d already sorted it,’ said Angie. Her eyebrows had furrowed and he noticed her automatically smoothing her hair and standing up a little straighter. Who was she making a good impression for? Her new friend? Her new friend’s husband? He tried to dislodge the stupid kernel of jealousy. This is Ange, remember?

  The black dual-cab ute pulled to a stop in the driveway, not a speck of dust or dirt on it. Gravel crunched underneath the woman’s sandals as she stepped out of the car. So that’s Bobbi, thought Rob, blinking at her bright white jeans. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected but she seemed more malnourished than the strong, determined woman Ange had made her out to be.

  Looks like she’d blow away in a gust of wind.

  A short man got out of the driver’s side and strode across the driveway. Rob couldn’t help getting a childish kick out of seeing his polished boat shoes immediately blanketed in dust and fresh lawn clippings.

  The bloke’s gold watch glinted as he stuck out a hand. His skin was cold, and soft for a man who apparently worked with heavy machinery. His darting eyes reminded Rob of a shifty salesman.

  ‘Rob Jones.’

  ‘Alex Richardson. Nice to meet you both. I’ve heard a lot about your girls in the last few weeks.’ Claudia ran in Alex’s direction, and Rob wondered what would happen if she coated his pale cream slacks with muddy handprints, but she continued to the ute’s back door, waving to the dark-haired child in a booster seat.

  ‘Nice to see Jayden’s got a good eye for the ladies,’ Alex said, smirking at the sight of Claudia and his son chatting away. Rob didn’t share his amusement and was glad when Ange and Bobbi joined them.

  Rob wiped his palms on his shirt before shaking Bobbi’s hand. Her grip was firmer than her husband’s, her gold bracelets jangling on skinny wrists.

  Angie lit up as she talked to her friend. ‘Sorry, we’re all filthy! Thanks so much for loaning us the bobcat.’

  Rob coughed uncomfortably as he turned back to Alex. Despite what Ange thought, he couldn’t stomach borrowing such an expensive machine. ‘What can we give you for the hire, mate?’

  Another smirk appeared on the man’s face. ‘Save your money, buddy. You’ll need it to repair that cottage. Swing me a box of beer when you return it, and we’ll call it square.’

  Rob fought the urge to defend the cottage.

  The proof’s in the pudding. Bobbi and Alex will be the first to get an invitation to our house-warming party when it’s restored to its former glory. Then they’ll see.

  Rob shoved his hands in his pockets. He’d dealt with guys like this before. The desire to tell this guy to keep his digger rubbed against the need to keep Angie happy.

  ‘Right … well … thanks. I’ll get it back to you tonight.’

  ‘Gotta help each other out, right? Port Fairview needs a new builder, and any friend of Bobbi’s is a friend of mine.’

  Alex pulled a wallet from his back pocket, holding it open long enough that they couldn’t help but notice the thick wad of green notes within. He slid a business card out. ‘Here’s our address. You won’t miss it—only place in Port Fairview with three storeys,’ he said.

  Three storeys? A house to suit his ego, Rob decided.

  The sausage roll from lunch sat heavy in Rob’s stomach as the Richardsons unhitched the trailer and left.

  ‘Who’s got the best contacts now, Rob Jones?’ Angie did a little victory jig.

  ‘Wouldn’t trust him as far as I could throw him. Is he always so generous?’

  Angie ran a hand over the bobcat tracks. ‘Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth. It’d take us days to clear all the shrubs around the house by hand.’

  Rob’s jaw clenched. He didn’t know why Alex bugged him so much, but he knew it would be the first and last time he’d be forced into accepting something for nothing.

  Thirteen

  Rob eased the tractor to a stop and stretched in his seat. He’d been working a digger yesterday and a hay mower today, and was pleased to find both vehicles had handled well under his control.

  He opened the cab door and admired his afternoon’s work. Unlike the dairy paddocks, where he knew each dip, low stump and soft spot, he’d been cautious working this one. Had Ivan, the previous owner, known his property would be sold before hay season? What had Ivan been planning to do with a shed full of hay from his retirement home, anyway? It didn’t make much sense, but Rob certainly wasn’t going to let it rot in the ground.

  Little pieces of straw settled on his skin as he climbed down from the tractor, each step bringing him closer to the sweet, ripe-smelling grass that would soon be turned into square bales. He whirled around at the sound of his father’s voice.

  ‘Just like riding a bike.’ John nodded towards the neat rows of mowed grass in Rob’s paddock. Rob raised an eyebrow, steeling himself for the inevitable follow-up—perhaps that he hadn’t mown right into the corners, or the mower’s cutting bar hadn’t been set at the optimal distance from the ground.

  He looked back at his father, surprised, when nothing followed. Had John Jones mellowed in his old age? ‘Not likely I’d forget after all those years of driving this thing. Still okay if I borrow the baler next week?’ asked Rob, watching his father assess a piece of cut grass. ‘I’ll only need a quarter of these bales, you’re welcome to the rest.’ The greenish stem splintered easily between John’s fingers—almost ready for baling.

  John nodded curtly. ‘Your mother’s invited you for dinner tonight. Got three kilos of pork defrosting on the sink already.’

  Rob wondered what it would take for his father to phrase it as if he wanted their company too. Hell to freeze over?

  John shot a look at the cottage. ‘Saw you had some sort of digger there yesterday. Brett lent you one, did he?’

  ‘Ange’s friend. You know the Richardsons?’

  John nodded slowly. ‘Bit different, that bloke. Heard a few people have had run-ins with him.’

  For the first time in ages, Rob agreed with his father. He scratched at the dirt with his boot, not liking the feeling one little bit. ‘Yeah, that’s the impression I got too. I’ll let Ange know about dinner. She’ll love a break f
rom cooking.’

  Angie unhooked her bra as soon as she walked into the shed. The mid-November heatwave had turned the cottage into a sauna, but at least the plaster was all out now. Shower, cider and early to bed, she thought, nudging Claudia towards the bathroom.

  Rob loped into the shed half an hour later, whistling with the good humour of someone who had spent the day in an air-conditioned tractor cab.

  ‘Good news, Mum’s cooked a roast.’

  Angie looked down at her nighty and cold cider. Small talk and a hot meal were the last thing on her mind. ‘We’re in a salad-and-PJs mood, aren’t we, Claud. Next weekend?’

  Rob shrugged, surprised. ‘This from a girl who drove 200 kilometres north last weekend for her nephew’s birthday? I thought you missed the Sunday roasts.’

  I miss my family’s Sunday roasts. As soon as the thought sprang into her head, Angie felt ashamed. She studied Rob’s face. It would be easier to go than explain how she missed her family, not just the meals. Just accept the hospitality.

  Claudia set upon the nibbles platter like a starved dog as soon as they arrived at the Jones’s farmhouse.

  ‘Aren’t they feeding you?’ said John, ruffling her curls.

  Rosa hugged them enthusiastically and turned the ceiling fan up a notch, spreading porky aromas throughout the house.

  Soft jazz played on the stereo and ice cubes clinked against glasses as Rosa set the table. She lifted the bottle of soft drink and beamed at Claudia. ‘Another fizzy drink, poppet?’

  Claudia nodded eagerly. Angie shot a look at Rob.

  ‘Just water will be fine, thanks, Rosa. A third creaming soda and she’ll be tearing the house down,’ said Angie, moving the photo album from her lap and reaching across for the water jug.

  ‘Fizzy, Granny!’

  ‘Mum’s right, two glasses is enough, Claud. You won’t eat your dinner,’ said Rob, picking up the plastic tumbler and holding it as Angie lifted the water jug.