Clouds over featherwood.., p.7
Clouds over Featherwood Falls, page 7
Meeting the junction, where the left-hand fork was clear and well-trodden as it led to the village shop, they took the less-used, right-hand path. Narrow and overgrown underfoot, it forced them to slow and Piccolo swung from side to side, her nose to the ground. It wasn’t a track they’d frequented but it provided steep inclines to test their fitness and pretty flora with views to enhance their walk.
Emma knew exactly how far they could travel before turning for home prior to darkness falling and the trail becoming fraught with tripping hazards. For years, she and Ryan had ridden their horses or walked this way in single file, stopping frequently to steal a kiss. At the top, over an hour’s walk from the town and snuggled into a hollow in the lee of the hill, stood a timber-cutter’s hut. Its solid, rough-hewn walls and corrugated-iron roof had provided shelter for both animals and humans for decades—and for Emma and Ryan, it had been their secret place. In the early years of Maureen’s illness, Emma had escaped here whenever she could. Then, two years after Ryan’s departure, she had perched on a log facing the hut and cried like a baby, swearing she would not come this far again. Her visits had been futile. Ryan was not coming back and there was no point dwelling on the past. She would move on.
In the previous decade, she had made only one excursion to the hut. It had been following her mother’s death and, with the pressure of caring for the woman and the secrets they’d both held, Emma had burned with a need to return to a place that had once offered complete privacy, love, hope, and a happy future. On that visit, a deep-seated sadness had paralysed her. Dirty, forlorn windows blanketed by cobwebs, the loose, flapping iron on a corner of the roof, and the moss-covered bench leaning precariously on the broken veranda floorboards had reminded her that nothing was as it should be.
Since Piccolo had joined her life, she couldn’t resist varying the inquisitive little dog’s walks, providing them both with fresh smells, intermittent, breathtaking views, and a sense of being alone with nature. So, she had weakened and begun to trek the old path once again.
Increasing her pace, she dwelt on Zoe’s visit. While the girl appeared quiet and well-behaved—and sang beautifully—Emma knew little more about her now than she had the day they met. After forty-two years of life in the village, almost every resident was familiar to her, especially as most newcomers had at least one child attending the local school or were parents and grandparents of children she’d helped in the past. So where did Zoe fit in? Was she the older sister of one of the students? She’d mentioned staying with family. Perhaps that was the connection.
A ruckus in the tree above interrupted her thoughts as three white-headed pigeons took flight. In the absence of the evening sun that had shimmered on the leaves only minutes before, the bush had taken on a gloomy, unsettled atmosphere. She shivered.
‘Come, Piccolo! Time we headed for home.’
The pup looked up from several metres away where she had been nosing a hole in the ground. Disobeying Emma’s call, she attempted to scamper further before coming to a sudden halt as she reached the end of the extension rope Emma gripped firmly in her hand.
‘You little monkey. Come!’ Emma ordered.
For a second, Piccolo met Emma’s stern stare before returning sheepishly and tangling herself in the leash.
Emma shortened the lead until Piccolo stood beside her with less than two metres of leeway.
‘Lucky I didn’t let you have a free rein tonight—isn’t it, missy? If I had, I suspect you and I would’ve played cat and mouse until well after dark.’
As though understanding every word, Piccolo pressed against Emma’s legs and willingly trotted down the hill toward home.
The words of the song “The Climb” played over in Emma’s head, and she hummed the tune. She and Zoe had run through the Christmas carols scheduled for the concert, then had finished with what was clearly one of their mutual favourites. A thought sprang to Emma’s mind, and she smiled to herself. What if, after the standard routine of school presentations, singing, and acting the children’s version of the nativity scene or a musical play, this year they ended with a duet—she and Zoe? Last year, one of the fathers had recited a poem he’d written about school days to conclude the presentation. Another year, three ex-pupils who had formed their own band played a bracket of songs unrelated to Christmas. It didn’t have to all be about the festive time of the year. Featherwood Falls had always seen the concert as an opportunity to get together and celebrate all things communal, including the enormous spread of multicultural food that weighed the trestle tables down afterwards.
Her heart gave a little skip as she planned the performance. It would be a wonderful way to introduce Zoe to the community. Featherwood Falls was a welcoming village, and it would give Zoe a chance to widen her circle of friends.
With the details churning in her mind, she charged along the wider part of the track, pushed the picket gate open, and took the front steps two at a time.
15
Lola and Ginny sat in the shade of the massive avocado tree on the western side of Featherwood homestead, looking across the house paddock to the stables and round yard. From the top rail where she was positioned, Claire called encouragement to Zoe, who was mounted on Tango—the steady little brown mare Zoe had fallen in love with.
It had been eight days since Zoe’s first riding lesson. Although Lola had not ridden since childhood, she had been a supporter and pseudo-grandmother to both Ginny’s girls, leaving Frank to run the store one Sunday each month while she joined them at Pony Club. After witnessing their growth and increased confidence, she passionately believed having horses to care for, exercise, and spend their pocket-money on was what had helped shape Briony and Claire into kind, responsible adults.
Now it was happening again. Lola could only imagine how nervous Zoe must have been initially—especially when the other student Claire had expected did not turn up–Zoe had returned to the store bursting with vitality and a wide smile on her face. During Zoe’s first week of lessons, Claire had collected her at seven-thirty each morning and delivered her home again before ten. It seemed Zoe had hoped for longer lessons, but as each day passed, colour brightened her cheeks, her eyes sparkled, and her energy increased.
‘Do you want to come and see how I’m progressing?’ Zoe had asked on day seven.
Lola had jumped at the invitation, ensuring Janet was installed in the shop at least half an hour before she and Zoe hopped in the car and whipped up to the farm, relieving Claire of the free daily return taxi service.
‘Look!’ Lola flapped a hand in Ginny’s face and stood up. ‘She’s trotting now—and rising nicely. Hardly even a bump.’
Ginny linked arms with Lola and together they ambled toward the stables.
As they drew near, Claire glanced over her shoulder and held her hand up in a stop signal. They waited, and Lola held her breath as the pony changed into a smooth canter.
‘That’s good, Zoe. Keep those heels down and sit up straight!’ Claire called.
Her mouth set in a firm line and her shoulders back, Zoe gripped the reins until her knuckles shone white.
After cantering three laps of the round yard, Claire called again, ‘Steady now, Tango. Trot on.’
The pony reduced its pace to a slow trot before dropping into a walk.
Zoe lifted her gaze from the horse’s ears to Lola and Ginny, who were now leaning on the railing beside Claire.
‘That was lovely, dear,’ Lola yelled, unable to keep the excitement from her voice.
Zoe beamed, puffing as they approached the other women, and halted. ‘That was my first canter.’ She grinned at Claire. ‘You were right. It’s more comfortable than trotting—just a bit scary when you first start.’
‘Of course. A week ago, you were frightened to get on, remember? Look at how much confidence you’ve gained and how well you’re doing.’
‘The main thing is,’ Lola added, ‘are you enjoying it?’
Zoe nodded enthusiastically. ‘It’s awesome. And Tango is so sweet. She doesn’t mind me making mistakes. Claire said in another week when Penny comes out here, we’ll both be good enough to go out in the paddock riding with her.’
‘Yeah. I just have to work out who’s going to ride which horse,’ Claire laughed. ‘Tango is perfect for you both, but because Penny is taller than Zoe, she’d be better on Splash. Zoe can ride Tango and I’ll ride Akela.’
‘Who’s Penny?’ Lola asked.
‘Val and Neil’s granddaughter from over at Kallala.’ Ginny’s brow creased in a concerned frown.
‘Of course,’ Lola blustered. Wracking her brain, she vaguely recollected Ginny mentioning something about Val and Neil’s son and wife going through a nasty divorce. Penny must be their daughter. She’d only met the girl once, soon after Val and Neil had moved to the district and when Penny and her parents had visited for a long weekend. They’d come to Featherwood Falls for a barbeque and Lola had not been impressed with the awkward, spoilt fourteen-year-old. Silently, she hoped the girl had improved. Penny was obviously the other student Zoe had expected to be having lessons with.
As though reading Lola’s mind, Claire said, ‘Penny’s grown up a lot and I think she and Zoe will get along well. She’s a bright girl but has never had much to do with animals, so I was surprised when she asked me to teach her to ride. She was staying with her grandparents during the September holidays. Lonely, I guess.’
No different to Zoe then. Except Penny had the luxury of a private-school education and wealthy parents—and her mother was still alive when Zoe’s was not. Lola clamped her lips in a firm line, annoyed she had allowed herself to think that way. She had always strived to look at the bright side of everything and never let negativity invade her opinions.
What is happening to me? I’m becoming a crabby, old woman.
She drew a deep breath and focused on Zoe again, her chest swelling with pride as she watched her.
‘That will be nice for them both,’ Ginny said.
For a few seconds, Lola looked at her friend blankly. What was she was talking about? Loneliness. That’s right. If Penny is lonely, then perhaps Zoe is too? She studied the enthusiastic expression on her granddaughter’s face and gave a small shake of her head, allowing a smile to lift her lips and ignoring the niggling pain that ran across her left shoulder.
No. I think she’s okay.
With the horses unsaddled, groomed, and released into the paddock, the four of them returned to the house for a cup of tea and one of Ginny’s freshly made scones, covered with lashings of strawberry jam and whipped cream.
Lola patted her stomach, her face alight with a satisfied grin. ‘Thank you both once again, Ginny and Claire. Zoe and I had better get back to the shop or Janet will think we’ve deserted her.’
Zoe stood and gathered the empty mugs. ‘Yeah, thanks heaps for this morning, Claire—and Mrs Shepherd. Those scones were delicious.’
Ginny waved a hand dismissively. ‘Please call me Ginny, Zoe. Everyone else does.’
‘Except for Uncle Donald,’ Claire chipped in. Shooting Zoe a quick wink, she continued, ‘He calls Mum, Virgin-ia.’ She emphasised the first six letters, and Zoe raised her eyebrows.
Ginny rose to her feet, her mouth clamped and her eyes flashing with anger. ‘That’ll be enough about him.’
The air weighed heavily with tension. Lola gathered her cardigan from the chair back and began walking to the veranda. ‘Thanks again, Ginny. We’ll see you tomorrow, Claire?’
‘Sure. Can we make the lesson a bit later—say ten o’clock? We’ve got hay down and Andrew’s coming to bale it tomorrow night. I want to get it raked early in the morning before the sun gets too hot,’ Claire said.
Zoe looked at Lola. ‘Is that okay with you, Nan?’
It was the first time Zoe had used the endearment, and Lola grinned, delight bubbling inside her. ‘Of course.’
‘Are you doing anything tomorrow evening, Zoe?’ Claire asked. ‘You might like to come and join us. We could have a barbeque first, then you can ride in the truck with Mum. She manoeuvres the loader, scooping up the bales while Kirk and I stack the hay.’
Ginny added, ‘Sounds like a great idea. Lola, why don’t you and Frank come too?’
Lola glanced at Zoe, aware of her routine dog walk with Emma. ‘Zoe? I’m sure Emma will understand if you send her a text.’
The girl nodded, her eyes alight. ‘Love to.’
16
As they cruised up the slope toward Featherwood Station the following evening, Lola shared with Zoe a synopsis of Andrew’s life, as if to reassure her there would be no strangers to make her feel uncomfortable.
‘He’s just finished uni, so he’s managing Glenrowan, the farm next door, at the moment for his father. Nothing like his dad though, thankfully—that’s Donald, the black sheep of the family,’ she chattered on. ‘Don’t know his mother, Sarah, very well. She rarely comes to family functions and has led a fairly separate life with her accountancy colleagues. But she and Andrew are close, even though Andrew spent most of his childhood holidays on Featherwood Station when Lyndon was alive—that’s Claire’s and Briony’s father.’
Zoe said nothing, conjuring up pictures of a young smart-arse she would be expected to be polite to. Probably a snobby, privately educated “mummy’s boy” or a ragged youth with his cap on backwards and nothing sensible to say.
Then she remembered Claire’s mention of him baling the hay. Surely that involved operating some sort of fancy farm machine. If he could do that, and had been to uni, he couldn’t be too stupid.
An hour later, and after being unprepared to meet someone so “normal”, she pushed the pieces of steak around her plate with a fork, taking little notice of what she was eating, her attention focused on the young man leaning against the veranda rail.
He wasn’t handsome in that dark, mysterious way of love stories, nor was he even particularly good looking. But since Claire’s introduction of her cousin Andrew, Zoe found herself entranced. He’d offered a work-worn but clean, dry hand, squeezing hers gently when she tentatively offered it. His warm grin and thin, clean-shaven face surprised her in a good way. No spotty teenager with fluffy chin hair here, nor the unshaven look of those students who had matured early—in looks, if not in mentality.
‘I’m sorry to hear about your mum, Zoe,’ he’d said, his grey eyes filling with compassion.
She’d nodded silently, snapping her gaping mouth shut, awkward with her loss of words. The last thing she’d wanted was him thinking she was a gawping teenager.
As the evening progressed, Zoe’s nervousness eased, absorbing the relaxed interactions between him and Claire. Both tall, thin, and sandy-haired, the family likeness was transparent. Andrew’s smile encompassed them all, his grey eyes shining with happiness. His easy, almost gangly strides as he ferried platters of meat and salad from the kitchen to the veranda spoke of a teenager, while rippling arm muscles and the bond he seemed to have with Claire suggested a close, sibling-like maturity.
As he and Claire joked, Zoe envied their uncomplicated chatter. Her own circumstances had prevented her from experiencing such a connection, and it seemed as foreign to Zoe as her horse-riding lessons had been.
Zoe stared at him now, reflecting on how easy it was to mis-judge a person.
He looked away from Claire, meeting Zoe’s gaze, and smiled. ‘What sort of school year did you have, Zoe?’
She shrugged. ‘Okay.’
‘Any favourite subjects or activities?’ he prompted.
Swallowing, she answered tentatively. ‘Science, maths … everything really.’
He raised his eyebrows. ‘Great. They were my favourites, too. What about sport?’
‘I like tennis.’
Elbowing Claire, Andrew grinned. ‘As soon as we get that new fence around the courts, we’ll have another player to join our merry band of tennis enthusiasts.’
He explained how the fortnightly get-together at the local courts was on hold for a few weeks as the community grant Claire had applied for had finally been approved, and now they were waiting for the materials to arrive so a working bee could be arranged and the new fencing erected around the venue. As he chatted, firing the occasional question at Zoe, she responded with shy, stilted words—his probing was not done intrusively like most adults, but more like a genuinely interested friend might be after being away for some time.
‘I like music and singing too.’
‘Awesome. I muck about on the guitar sometimes. Not very well, but enough to enjoy myself. Maybe one day we can get together for a jam.’
She grinned then, a sense of calm and inclusion washing over her, tinged with excitement.
He pointed to her plate. ‘Better get that down you. Dessert’s coming up, then we’ve got a paddock full of hay to bale.’ He winked before turning his grin to Claire as she plonked a pile of dessert plates on the table. ‘Feeling strong and energetic, Claire? Your mate over there looks weary tonight.’
Zoe followed his gaze to Kirk, the gigantic, bearded man they had introduced to her as Ginny’s “other half” when she had first visited Featherwood Falls Station. Zoe noted the deep creases across his forehead and either side of his mouth, suggesting he had the weight of the world on him as he scraped the barbeque plate clean and buffed it with paper towels.
‘Nah,’ Claire snorted. ‘Kirk always looks like that, ay, Kirk!’
‘What? You lot talking about me again.’ He smiled at Zoe, a row of straight, white teeth highlighting his grey-streaked black beard.
She grinned back, recalling her first impressions of him. He had reminded her of Hagrid from the Harry Potter books she had poured over as a child, and she had taken an immediate liking to this quiet and gentle giant in much the same way she had with Ryan. Kirk had been at the stables constructing a new row of stalls to allow for Claire’s growing band of horses, and it had been Kirk who had given her the confidence to sit on Tango that first day. Despite her desperation to hide any fear, she had frozen, unable to move. He had grasped her bent left leg by the shin and lifted her one-handed into the saddle as though she weighed no more than a two-year-old, murmuring encouragement and recalling his own early riding experiences. They had made her laugh, and she relaxed. Then, after watching for the first few minutes, reassuring her with every step, he’d returned to hammering and sawing throughout the lesson. His presence had given her the faith that she had it in hand—there was nothing to be afraid of and everything to enjoy.
