Wildflower Ridge Page 9

  The creased pages of Annabel’s recipe book fluttered in front of her, and she wound the kitchen window shut. Little puffs of flour rose from the pages as Penny searched for a yellowed slip of paper with her grandmother’s precise cursive writing, sidenotes added in Annabel’s handwriting. As well as a treasure trove of recipes, the book held a wealth of memories. Just flicking through the pages was like travelling back in time. She traced her finger over the tiny stars and dates next to Annabel’s favourites, the mug-rings on the opposite pages where her mum had rested her cup of tea, mid-baking session. Penny smiled as she spotted her own imperfectly formed handwriting underneath Annabel’s. ‘Best choc cake recipe!!! Penny ’96.’ And then Angie’s scrawl beside a coconut rhubarb cake, highlighting it as a Bridgefield Show award winner a year later.

  Penny set the recipe book down gently and fossicked in the pantry for supplies. She had just started folding cream and egg into the dry mixture when Angus walked in.

  ‘You trying to get a jump on Tim for tomorrow’s baking class?’ Angus placed his Akubra upside down on the kitchen bench, the interior dark with sweat. He flicked the radio on, filling the room with banjo and guitar, and whistled along as he filled the kettle.

  Penny laughed and stirred the mixture until it came together into a ball. She pulled it onto the flour-sprinkled benchtop and began working the dough.

  ‘Hardly. It’s not a competition, Dad.’

  Angus watched his daughter kneading, his expression soft as if remembering the women who had stood before this same window in this very room: generations of McIntyres bringing the same scone recipe to life.

  ‘Whatever it is, it’s been good for you. You’re moving a lot freer, as if the pain is all but gone. Though I must say, Monday mornings have gone to the dogs without my right-hand man. An hour of volunteering at his brother’s school seems to have morphed into a half morning now that he’s caught up with this baking class.’

  He poured boiling water into two mugs and jiggled both teabags in unison.

  ‘I certainly didn’t choose to bake with him.’ Penny blew a lock of hair from her forehead, but it fluttered directly back into the same place. With a sigh she relinquished the dough and swiped the hair away with her hand, leaving a trail of flour across her cheek.

  Angus laughed. ‘Your mother always used to do that. Those short bits of hair would fall into her face time and time again, and her cheeks would end up dusted in flour just like yours.’ He smiled at the memory.

  Penny’s hand went to her face again, feeling for the flour, but she couldn’t detect anything except a light layer of make-up.

  ‘There, you’ve done it again.’ He chuckled softly and took a seat across from Penny, resting his weight on the wooden stool. Penny smelled the lanolin on his clothes and saw fibres of wool stuck to his shirt.

  ‘Did Mum always love cooking?’

  Angus stood up abruptly and went to rescue the teabags from the mugs by the sink. Leaning back against the counter, Angus lifted a mug to his lips, his gaze distant.

  ‘Baking? Yes. Not so much the everyday humdrum cooking. She made biscuits and cakes with you kids until the cows came home. I’d get back from a day on the tractor and you’d all have cake batter everywhere, hair stuck to your faces with smears of condensed milk, and oats scattered across the kitchen floor.’ He smiled at the memory as if watching the scene run across his mind like a film. ‘One of you would be licking a wooden spoon, another would be scraping your little fingers round and round the bowl to get the last bits of batter, and the older two would each get a beater to lick.’

  The radio changed to a Slim Dusty track and he leaned over to turn it up.

  ‘Barely a week would go by when I didn’t get home to this bench piled high with baking, each of you girls urging me to sample a different piece.’ Blinking, Angus looked out the window. ‘And didn’t I love it,’ he said quietly.

  Penny eased the scone cutter into the creamy mass. Old memories surfaced as she placed each round onto the floured baking tray. She pushed them into the hot oven, dusting off the nostalgia as she shook the flour from her hands.

  ‘So,’ she said brightly, hoping to lighten the mood. ‘I bet these scones will have Mr Right-Hand Man pleading for a truce.’

  ‘Thought you said it wasn’t a competition? I wish you two would build a bridge and get over whatever rift is between you. He’s a good man, Penny.’ Angus turned the radio down and watched her scrape flour from the benchtop.

  ‘I know you think that, but the apple never falls far from the tree, does it? I might be the only one to remember, but half the town turned against him when Roger’s shonky deals came to light. You didn’t see all the brawls he got into in the schoolyard, Dad. Then when he split his jaw, right before the deb ball—it was horrible.’

  Penny busied herself with the dishes, remembering how genuinely shocked she’d been at the time, and the confusion that had clouded her judgement, unable to separate the Tim she knew so well from his father who’d fleeced the town. Couldn’t Dad see how his own trust in Roger Patterson had been used against him? Was he really willing to take a gamble on Tim, after he lost so much money?

  ‘The bloke’s protective of his younger brother, loyal to a fault, ambitious and hard-working; can’t blame him for that. Doesn’t mean he’s got ulterior motives though, Pen. He’s got a dream of owning a farm and I’m mentoring him.’

  Penny crouched down and assessed the scones, distracted by the way their side seams split as they rose, almost ready to be prised apart and smothered with butter, jam and cream. She’d done the right thing, putting distance between herself and Tim, but it hurt to hear her father singing Tim’s praises, defending him. She picked up the recipe book and traced her mother’s name on the inside page. Annabel McIntyre. A kind woman who had lavished baked goods on neighbours and friends. A firm believer in second chances. She slipped the book back into the drawer.

  ‘Maybe I’ve been a bit hard on him,’ she said, reaching for the oven mitts. ‘Who knows, I might spare him a smile tomorrow.’

  Angus rolled his eyes at her droll tone, amusement tugging at his lips.

  Nineteen

  ‘Bugger,’ said Tim, thumping his hand on the kitchen bench. ‘That was supposed to be baking powder, not baking soda.’

  Penny turned away from her group, amused to see Tim’s big, callused hands daintily scooping the powder from his mixing bowl. His young charges giggled nervously among themselves. The creases in his brow deepened as he gave up sorting the fine white baking soda from the equally fine white triple-sifted flour and upended the whole bowlful into the garbage bin. His movements were jerky as he reached for a new bag of flour, ripping it open with more force than necessary.

  Wonder what’s got his goat? Penny had noticed his burned pinwheels and lopsided scones on the baking tray next to her well-risen and neatly rounded offerings, but the sight of Tim losing his cool three times in one lesson was losing its novelty.

  ‘I guess practice makes perfect,’ she said, leaving her students to stir their cupcake batter. She looked over his shoulder at the recipe, Pearl’s neatly linked script pressed into the page. ‘Want to use Mum’s recipe instead? It’s pretty much bullet-proof and has half as many ingredients as this one.’

  ‘Too late. Already told Nanna Pearl I’m making these.’ He checked the baking powder label before passing it to one of Eddie’s friends. ‘One teaspoon, mate.’

  Outside the wind rattled the loose window shutters, and the background conversation turned to the upcoming field days. Tim wiped his hands on his apron, slipping his thumbs through the denim belt loops, and sighed.

  ‘I’ve cocked this right up, today. Even Bones won’t want those burned ones.’ His voice was low, his tone curt as he waved a dismissive hand at the trays. Penny thought back to yesterday’s conversation with her dad.

  ‘If your kelpie won’t, then the chooks will. Or you can feed them to Sam—Lara said he took a dig at her cooking; maybe he should see what
properly burned food looks like. Everything okay?’

  Tim snorted, his mouth twisting.

  ‘Yeah, you could say that. Not only has Sam hijacked my house and reads my newspaper before me, he’s also quick to point out the bulldust about the old man in the Bridgefield Advertiser. You know, those crappy columns the newspapers print when there’s no real news. “On this day twenty years ago … ” So, guess what I got to read at brekky this morning? Still makes me wild rereading his charges, the dodgy bastard.’

  Penny remembered the way Tim had at first defended his father in the schoolyard when several farmers’ sons taunted him about the sheep rustling accusations. She remembered her shame at the time, embarrassment that he, and therefore she, would be forever tainted by association. Her cheeks coloured. She glanced up at Tim briefly, surprised to hear him talk so freely. He must be frustrated. It was the most he’d said in her presence the whole six weeks since she’d been home.

  ‘Do you still stay in touch?’

  Tim shook his head, clenching his jaw.

  ‘He doesn’t deserve it. He can rot in jail for all I care.’

  Penny saw the bitterness in Tim’s eyes, a hint of the angry teenager who had fought tooth and nail to keep Eddie out of the foster home system when his father’s crimes were confirmed. She wondered what would have happened to their budding relationship had it not been interrupted by his family turmoil and the subsequent fallout. Should I have tried to help him through it, all those years ago, instead of running away under the weight of peer pressure? Penny shook off the sudden prickle of guilt. How many times do I have to tell myself this? Breaking it off was absolutely, definitely the right decision.

  ‘You can pick your nose, but you can’t pick your family,’ she said, offering Angus’s favourite adage to lighten the heavy conversation. Tim’s distracted scowl intensified and she turned back to the restless bakers. Eddie and a primary school student wore mixing bowls as hats, and Tim’s group had ditched their bowls altogether to sample the least burned pinwheels.

  ‘Righto bakers, let’s get this show on the road. Greta, pull our cupcakes out of the oven, please. Eddie, you can pack up the best-looking scones and pinwheels—they’ll be afternoon tea at the nursing home today. No, not those burned ones. Our ones.’

  She shot a look at Tim, who was gazing out the window, oblivious to his group using spatulas like drumsticks against the side of the bench. Does his father’s imprisonment haunt him or does he block it out the same way I handled Mum’s accident? She shook her head. Not your problem, Penny, she told herself. Soon you’ll be back in the city, far away from small-town dramas.

  The scent of rosemary and garlic filled the kitchen as Tim pulled a roast lamb leg from the oven. He tugged the floral oven mitts from his large hands, switched on the heat under the saucepan of gravy he’d prepared earlier, and stirred it to a simmer. The kitchen was as comfortable as the threadbare flannelette shirt he wore, though he was usually on the opposite end of the bench.

  Pearl set down her crossword and ambled over to the stovetop, rugged up in two hand-spun cardigans despite the mild autumn day. Her hair was looking extra purple and even more tightly curled than usual, a sure sign she had spent the morning at the hairdresser’s. The flu seemed to have struck half the town, including his ordinarily spritely grandmother, but he knew she would have insisted on her weekly curl and set.

  ‘Smells lovely, dear. You’re such an angel, cooking for your old nanna.’ She slipped her hand on top of his.

  He looked down at her wrinkled hand, dwarfed by his own, and pulled her into a gentle hug.

  ‘You’re my number one girl. The roast should be okay, though I can’t make any promises about the dessert.’

  She squeezed him tightly. ‘Nonsense, I bet it will taste fabulous.’

  Tim laughed at her optimism, hoping tonight’s meal would turn out better than his efforts at the last two baking sessions.

  ‘Your mum would be so proud of you boys,’ she whispered, loud enough that only Tim could hear. He glanced into the lounge room; thankfully Eddie was immersed in a Where’s Wally? book.

  ‘Please don’t, Nanna. I know she’s your daughter, but she made her feelings pretty clear when she walked out on us all those years ago. You’re more of a mum to us than she’ll ever be.’

  ‘I know, I know. I just wish I’d looked after you and Eddie better when it all went pear-shaped. I should have packed my suitcase and come home straight away when your father went to jail. It keeps me awake at night, Tim. That and my cranky hip.’

  Tim laid his hand on hers. ‘I wasn’t going to interrupt your big overseas adventure, not in a million years. Old news now, Nanna. Eddie and I managed just fine.’ She didn’t need details about how hard it had been, the number of people who had stopped and stared at them, the way conversations at the post office had paused mid-sentence when he collected the mail. He’d been too proud, too determined to ask for help, but he was forever grateful for the way she’d smoothed their transition back into the social fabric of the town when she finally returned.

  She sighed, her breath coming out like a wheeze.

  ‘You’re right. Enough of that maudlin stuff. How are your baking classes? A bit of fun?’

  ‘I’m only doing it for Eddie’s sake,’ he said, casting a sidelong glance at the sunken sponge cake sitting on the green laminate benchtop. Although Mac hadn’t commented on the sponge that had imploded as soon as he opened the oven door, or the jam and coconut slice that had almost slipped out of its greasy tray earlier today, he knew baking wasn’t his forte. Nevertheless, Nanna Pearl had oohed and ahhed over the sponge as if it were fit for a queen.

  ‘Young Penny McIntyre would know her way around a kitchen, mark my words. Pretty girl, that one. She’s come along in leaps and bounds at yoga. You two have a lot in common, you know, both losing your mothers at a similar age.’

  Tim gripped the wooden spoon tightly at his grandmother’s comments, keeping his back turned so she couldn’t see his eyes lifting to the heavens. She’d shared this nugget of wisdom with him twice already since Penny had returned to Bridgefield, phrasing it slightly differently each time. He nudged the steamer full of beans and corn roughly, not wanting to cut her off again, but keen to halt the heavy-handed hinting.

  ‘Eddie. Set the table, mate. Dinner’s almost up.’

  Tim reached for the knife and started carving lamb from the bone as Pearl sneezed into her handkerchief.

  ‘Though that boyfriend of hers sounds a bit off. From what I hear, he hasn’t even met Angus or visited the farm yet. What type of new-age relationship is that?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know, Nanna. None of my business.’

  ‘But she’s such a lovely girl. Always takes the time to chat with me after yoga classes. And she’s even polite to Olive, though everyone knows Olive’s such a terrible gossip. Just like Mrs Beggs and that William Cleary. They were having a good old chinwag about Lara and Sam this morning. Should be a good garage sale, all those lovely things sold up because they couldn’t agree on who kept what.’

  Tim clenched his jaw as he served up the wholesome but straightforward fare. He’d heard more than he wanted to about the garage sale. In fact, he’d heard more than he wanted to about Sam and Lara’s financial affairs and marriage in general. The novelty of waking up each morning to find Sam passed out on his futon couch, half a slab of beer cans littering the lounge room floor, suitcases still stacked in the porch, was starting to wear thin. There’s only so far a friendship can stretch, right?

  Twenty

  Rain rushed through the tin downpipe with a roar, cascading over the edges of the gutter each time the pipe reached capacity. Penny sat back in the wicker chair, petting the lamb’s soft ears and enjoying the way the curtain of water intermittently drenched the lavender hedge below. Angie’s red hatchback splashed through the puddles and pulled up in the driveway.

  Angie dashed from the car, shielding her hair with a pile of newspapers. Her jacket was soaked
through in seconds as she crossed the gravel and clambered up the steps, grateful for the shelter of the vast verandah. She giggled, shaking like a wet dog. Raindrops flew across the porch and made their mark on Penny.

  ‘Erggh, you’re worse than Rusty,’ Penny groaned. Angus’s black and tan kelpie thumped his tail against the decking at the mention of his name. Penny threw her sister a dirty look before accepting the bundle of mail and soggy newspapers. Nestled among the Bridgefield Advertiser, Stock & Land and an assortment of window-fronted envelopes for Angus, she found a crisp envelope embossed with the Boutique Media logo.

  A shiver of anticipation rippled through her hands as she tore it open. When was the last time she’d looked at the calendar? Surely her ten weeks weren’t up yet? She gave a whistle of surprise as she read Georgie’s invitation back to work. Hercules skittered away at the sudden noise. Georgie outlined details, dates and schedules that would follow her return to work. Just reading it made Penny a teensy bit tired. Exhilarated too, but realistic that the seventy-five-hour weeks awaiting her would hurt as much as the fitness regime she and Jade had agreed on.

  ‘They’ve missed me, Angie, desperate to have me back. Apparently, all they need is my medical clearance and I’m good to return in just over a fortnight.’

  ‘It can’t be. Already? Sounds like they’re not the only one eager to have you back,’ Angie said, her voice teasing as she pulled a postcard from the back pocket of her jeans and waved it just out of Penny’s reach.

  ‘Don’t tell me you’ve been reading my mail?’

  Angie grinned and flipped over the glossy Sydney Opera House photograph. Her voice was loaded with drama as she read aloud: ‘Dear Penny, Sydney is great, but it’d be better with you. Sorry about the lack of contact, things are still flat chat. Missing you, babe. Can’t wait for our big trip. Love, Vince.’ Angie smooched several big air kisses before handing the card to Penny.

  ‘He may as well take out a full-page advertisement in the Briddy newspaper,’ laughed Angie. ‘Soppy bugger, isn’t he? Never calls, but instead pens declarations of undying love. Haven’t you told him postcards are prime fodder for the rural rumour mill?’