When it all went to cust.., p.18
When It All Went to Custard, page 18
‘She’ll live,’ said Dave shortly.
‘Why not ask Andrew to take you home? It’s on his way,’ Dad said.
Andrew had retreated several metres and taken his phone out again. I hesitated for a moment – his back looked forbidding, somehow – and then saw the look on Dave’s face. It would be silly not to ask Andrew to drop us off. He was passing our mailbox. And the chance to piss Dave off was in no way a deciding factor. It was merely a – a happy accident.
‘Andrew?’ I said. ‘Would you mind giving Lily and me a lift home after prize giving?’
He gave me exactly the same look he’d given Amy Wallace. ‘What? No, sorry, I’m leaving now,’ he said. And, cake in one hand and phone in the other, he turned and strode off across the field.
I suppose it was poetic justice, of a sort. It’s not very noble to take pleasure in annoying your ex-husband. But the amused satisfaction on Dave’s face when I turned back towards him was almost unbearable.
Chapter 21
We weren’t going to break even this year. I’d done a budget, after a lengthy struggle with my accounting software – a struggle made even less enjoyable by the sick, guilty feeling that I shouldn’t have been struggling at all. Preparing a budget should have been a familiar, routine task, part of that strategic planning which is so fundamental to success in business but which I tended so often to put off until some nebulous future date.
Anyway, the budget was done, and no matter how optimistic I was about lamb prices, and how much I shaved off repairs and maintenance, we couldn’t afford to put on fertiliser. Which would have been alright, perhaps, if it was a one-off – but we hadn’t put on fertiliser last year either. And even I knew that saving money at the expense of growing grass really, really wasn’t the road to profitability.
Dad and I had an appointment with the bank manager at one o’clock on Monday of the week after Pet Day. Not Ange, who had spent Friday producing baby number three. I was relieved, on the whole – it was always a pleasure to see her, but I preferred to ask someone other than a good friend for money.
Ange’s stand-in was young and hearty, with very red cheeks. He shook hands so firmly that it hurt, and we sat down around the table in a glass-walled meeting room. He read my budget, drumming his fingertips on the pale wooden tabletop, looked up and said, ‘Are you drawing any income from the farm, Jenny?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘Well, that’s not entirely true. I don’t pay any rent, and the farm pays my power bill.’
‘And you and Lorraine are drawing three thousand dollars a month, Brian?’
‘We could get by with less,’ Dad said.
He dismissed this with a shake of his head. ‘So you’d like to extend your loan by one hundred and twenty thousand dollars.’
‘Yes, please,’ I said. ‘Fifty thousand for fertiliser, and another fifty thousand for cattle. Friesian bulls, probably – they’ll be the cheapest. It would just make the system a bit more flexible. With the dairy grazers you’re locked in; you can’t sell some in January if there’s a drought. And then the other twenty thousand is just to give us a bit more of a buffer, so we’re not right at the edge of the overdraft.’
He drummed his fingers a little more. It was quite hypnotic. ‘I can’t see why that would be a problem.’
‘Thank you.’
He looked up and smiled. ‘This is standard stuff. Your loan’s well secured. But I see that you’ve budgeted to end this financial year thirty thousand further in debt than you were at the start.’
‘We’ve done a lot of things wrong this year,’ I said. ‘We haven’t got as many lambs, and we’ve had to send some calves home because we were short on feed, so income from grazing is down – but we plan to manage better next year. We’ve got a farm adviser helping us out.’
‘You’ll still be paying a manager to run the farm?’
‘At this stage.’
‘So the bulk of your income goes towards his salary.’
Neither Dad nor I replied.
‘Have you considered how sustainable that is, long term?’
There was a pause, then Dad said slowly, ‘In other words, have we considered how long we want to keep farming as a hobby rather than a source of income?’
The bank manager said nothing, the better to let Dad’s words sink in. Irritation at this technique mingled in my breast with admiration of its effectiveness.
‘We should be able to do a lot better than we’re doing at the moment,’ I said finally, when the silence became unbearable. ‘We need to grow our lambs better, and we could look at intensive bull-beef . . . Perhaps I should think about leaving my job and doing a lot more on the farm.’
‘Do you really want to do that, Jenny?’ Dad asked. ‘Or do you feel you should?’
‘Both . . .’ I said.
* * *
Mum was ironing when we got home. She routinely ironed every bit of clean washing as she folded it, down to knickers and fitted sheets. I could only assume it did for her what weeding clover did for me.
‘Where’s Nathan?’ I asked, kicking off my shoes at the patio door and going inside. The kitchen smelt of clean, hot cotton and sweet peas from a jug on the counter.
‘Asleep, bless him,’ she said. ‘How was your meeting?’
‘Fine,’ said Dad heavily, dropping the car keys into the wooden bowl beside the phone. ‘They’ve extended the overdraft.’
Mum finished a pillowcase, laid it aside and reached for another one. ‘Brian, what is it?’ she asked.
‘Oh, nothing we didn’t already know,’ Dad said. ‘The farm pays a manager’s salary and bugger-all else, and the bank manager just wondered how soon we were going to get sick of doing it for nothing.’
I leant against the edge of the dining room table. ‘Do you want to sell up?’ I asked.
Mum and Dad both looked at me. ‘Jenny, love . . .’ said Mum.
‘I do realise that something has to change. And if I lease the farm again – even if I can figure out how to actually run it at a profit, which is anything but certain – that won’t give you guys enough money to travel, or Bex enough for her dream home.’
‘We’ve never expected to sell the farm to fund our retirement,’ Dad said. ‘And we don’t need to. We can afford the odd overseas trip, and we don’t have any desire to retire to a mansion at the beach.’
Mum spread one of Dad’s work shirts on the ironing board, a strange little smile on her face.
‘Mum, what do you want?’ I asked suddenly.
The iron stilled. ‘I’d like a new house one day,’ she said. ‘Something smaller, that we could actually keep warm in winter. This house has never felt like mine.’
‘It hasn’t?’ Dad said blankly.
‘It’s like a shrine to your mother, Brian. “Mum planted that rhodo; you can’t cut it down.”’
‘What rhodo?’
‘That hideous red thing outside our bedroom window.’
There was a slightly puzzled silence before Dad said, ‘The one you cut down twenty years ago?’
‘And you’re still holding it against me!’
‘I am not!’
‘Anyway, that’s beside the point,’ Mum said, as indeed it was. ‘What really matters is that you and Rebecca are happy.’
‘Well, whatever decision you make only pleases one of us,’ I said. ‘So you might as well take our happiness out of the equation.’
‘Do you want to run the farm, Jenny?’ Dad asked.
All that responsibility. All those big, expensive decisions that make the difference between sinking and swimming, and that just aren’t as obvious as you’d think. Fertiliser, crops, when and what to buy and sell. Having, finally, to pull myself together and learn how to work the bale feeder. Nutrient budgeting, Healthy Rivers, OSH and ACC and NAIT and many, many other depressing acronyms, each of them with their attendant costs and soul-eroding paperwork . . .
‘I don’t know,’ I said, looking down at my hands. ‘It’s a pretty intimidating thought. I suppose what I really want is to be married to a farmer, so he can have the responsibility while I get the lifestyle. But I’ve already had my chance at that and stuffed it up.’
‘You didn’t stuff it up,’ said Mum, with a most refreshing change of perspective.
‘You could do it,’ Dad said. ‘You’re highly intelligent – much cleverer than your old man.’
‘Rubbish,’ I said, smiling at him.
‘The question isn’t whether you’re competent. It’s whether you want to do it. It’s a full-time, physical job with pretty bloody mediocre returns. And it’s lonely, working by yourself all day.’
I didn’t really want to. I wished I did; I greatly admired those women who could fence and shear and back large trailers. I should have been one of them already; I shouldn’t have just left the practical farming to Dave. Well, there was no point wasting time and energy in self-reproach. It wasn’t too late to learn; I was reasonably smart and fairly fit, and I should at least try to step up, rather than just gazing misty-eyed over the ancestral acres and wishing things would magically sort themselves out. (Misty-eyed hope is, of course, a very tempting approach to problem solving – it’s so much easier than action. The only real drawback is that it doesn’t work.)
‘Could you give me another year?’ I asked. ‘To – to have a decent crack at it, rather than just drifting along like we are now? I know Bex’ll be disappointed . . .’
‘She’ll live,’ said Dad. ‘There’s no need to rush into any major decisions now. Arnold Keller’s coming next week, isn’t he? Perhaps he’ll have some suggestions.’
‘Rebecca’s coming up next week as well,’ Mum said. ‘She’s not been feeling very well, and Sean’s going to Sydney.’
‘She’ll have some suggestions, too,’ I said, sighing. ‘Right, I’d better go and pick Lily up from school. Can I leave Nathan here for another quarter of an hour, Mum?’
‘Yes, of course, love,’ she said.
* * *
Rebecca and Caleb flew into Hamilton airport on Sunday afternoon, and that evening – a soft, fragrant evening with a most picturesque dusting of tiny apricot clouds in a pink and blue sky – she appeared suddenly around the corner of the house, wearing the very latest in fashion sportswear and looking glossy and urban.
Harry and I were sitting on the deck, drinking coffee, while the children played swingball on the lawn. Harry had been justifying to himself Chris the Ex’s failure, as yet, to disentangle himself from the new boyfriend, while I tried to mingle sympathy with the warning, delicately conveyed, that people can usually manage these things if they really want to.
‘Evening, all,’ Bex said, making everybody jump. Tessa, who had been lying on her side beneath the table, nudging my bare foot whenever it ceased to scratch her tummy, sat up with a start and pattered self-importantly down the steps to greet her.
‘Aunty Bex!’ Lily squealed, joyfully tossing her swingball bat aside and hitting Nathan in the stomach.
This put an end to conversation for a little while, but eventually, when Nathan’s wails had diminished and greetings and introductions had been completed, we all sat down.
‘Where’s Caleb?’ Lily asked.
‘He’s at Nana’s,’ said Bex. ‘He’s looking forward to seeing you.’
‘Can we go and see him now, Mum?’
‘No, it’s too late now, love. We’ll see him tomorrow.’
‘But Mu-m . . .’
‘He’s in bed already,’ Bex said.
I looked at my watch – it was half past seven. ‘Crikey, you guys should be, too. Teeth, please.’
‘But Aunty Bex is here!’
‘I’ll still be here tomorrow,’ Bex said.
‘But –’
‘Zip it, sprat,’ she said.
Lily looked at her for a moment, decided not to push it and changed tack. ‘Can Harry read me a story?’ she asked.
‘Only if I get to pick it,’ said Harry, who had not yet recovered from The Tailor of Gloucester the week before. (Tippets and pipkins and dressmaking mice were not, he said, features of any reasonable children’s literature.)
‘I want a story too!’ Nathan cried.
‘Well, go and brush your teeth,’ said Harry. ‘I’ll be there in a minute.’
Both children vanished inside, and Bex yawned and stretched. ‘You’re a handy chap to have around,’ she told Harry. ‘You wouldn’t consider moving to Wellington, would you?’
‘Yes, actually,’ he said with a sad little smile.
Rebecca, who never felt bad about ignoring conversational leads if they didn’t interest her, ignored this one. ‘Sean’s in Sydney,’ she said, hooking one knee over the arm of her chair and swinging a slim foot clad in a beautiful peach-coloured sneaker.
‘Yeah, Mum said. For work?’
‘Mm. Sorting out some project or other that’s gone way over budget.’
‘Wow. Go, Sean.’
She made a face. ‘Any excuse to be away from home. I might as well be a single parent.’
‘When’s he back?’ I asked.
‘Thursday.’
Harry yawned and stood up.
‘Thank you,’ I told him. ‘You’re wonderful. You will be rewarded with cake.’
‘That’s alright, then,’ he said, going inside.
While he was putting my offspring to bed, Bex told me about her job (exhausting) and her morning sickness (hideous). She did not, however, mention selling the farm, and I was grateful that Mum and Dad hadn’t yet brought her up to date.
I got up to make hot drinks, and carried a loaded tray out onto the deck as Harry came back up the hall. ‘Excellent,’ he said, sinking into a chair and accepting a large slice of banana cake with chocolate icing.
‘Bex?’ I offered.
‘No, thank you. I already look like a hippo.’
‘You do not. And it’s very tactless of you to say that you do, when you’re two sizes smaller than me.’
‘But you look great,’ she said in surprise. ‘You’re so . . . what’s the word I want?’
‘I shudder to think.’
‘Statuesque,’ she said.
‘What, as in large and imposing?’
‘As in elegant, you dribbler. Classically beautiful.’
‘Yeah, she is reasonably easy on the eye,’ Harry said, looking at me critically.
‘Wow,’ I said. ‘Thanks, guys.’
‘So, are you two an item?’ Bex asked.
‘No,’ said Harry and I together.
‘Why not?’
‘I’m gay,’ Harry said, and his voice was almost blasé. He really was coming along beautifully.
‘Well, that’s a shame,’ said Rebecca. ‘I’m sure it’s time you got back on the horse, Jen.’ She turned to Harry. ‘What about your brother? Mum says he looks like Bruce Springsteen.’
‘Bex, don’t be an idiot,’ I said, feeling my face get hot. So Mum thought so, too . . .
‘Well, well,’ said Harry. ‘She’s blushing.’
‘I am not!’
‘Yes, you are,’ Bex said. ‘Well, well, indeed. Does he like her?’
‘As much as he likes anyone, I suppose.’ Harry said. ‘He’s a grumpy bastard. Yell at you as soon as look at you.’ He took another bit of cake and inserted about half of it into his mouth.
‘Probably just needs the love of a good woman,’ Bex said briskly. ‘Right. Jen, you need to have him around for dinner some night when you’ve got no kids. Cook something fabulous and talk about how big and cold and empty your bed feels these days.’
‘Subtle,’ I remarked.
‘And wear lots and lots of lip gloss. And play with your hair. Like this.’ She demonstrated.
‘Yep, that’s really alluring,’ I said.
‘Have you been doing your pelvic floor exercises?’ she asked.
I threw a used teabag at her.
‘Please,’ said Harry. ‘I have a delicate stomach.’
‘Obviously,’ Bex said, arching one delicate brow as she watched him swallow the last of his cake and reach for a packet of chocolate biscuits.
‘If I wanted a relationship,’ I said, ‘which I don’t, I wouldn’t pick a grumpy prat with a thing for pot plants to have it with.’ I was surprised by the stab of guilt that followed this statement – well, it served him right for being so mean at Pet Day. And he was grumpy. And he did like pot plants. And – and heaven forbid that Rebecca should think I liked him; she’d be quite capable of tracking him down and telling him so.
Chapter 22
On Tuesday morning after taking Lily to school, Nathan and I drove back up the hill to Mum and Dad’s place for our bimonthly meeting with Arnold Keller. Harry’s car was there already, but Arnold hadn’t arrived yet.
‘Aunty Jen!’ Caleb shouted, meeting me at the door and thrusting a lump of greyish putty towards me.
‘Wow!’ I said. ‘It’s lovely.’
‘’Es,’ said Caleb smugly, trotting off after his cousin, who was busily unpacking the toy box in the corner of the living room.
‘We’re baking,’ Mum explained from the other side of the kitchen bench. ‘I thought we’d have homemade bread for lunch.’
Bex came into the kitchen pink and fragrant from the shower, with a towel around her head. ‘Good morning,’ she said, selecting a mandarin from the fruit bowl. ‘Mind if I sit in on your meeting?’
‘Towel and all?’ Dad asked.
‘Why not?’ she said, but she drifted out again, presumably to dry her hair.
It was a good half-hour later by the time Arnold had arrived and been introduced to Rebecca. Mum and I moved the two little boys outside to the sandpit with a piece of shortbread apiece, and we all sat down around the table.
‘I’ve been thinking about this possibility you mentioned of selling the farm, Brian,’ Arnold said, twirling a gold pen between his fingers.
This, as an opening statement designed to catch and hold his audience’s attention, could scarcely have been bettered. Harry’s eyes widened. Bex leant forward in her chair. I looked sharply at Dad.
‘I just mentioned it to Arnold as one of the options that we might be looking at, sometime in the future,’ he said uncomfortably.
