Page 12 of The Side Road
Mounting a treasure hunt at this time of the night wasphysically beyond him. First, he needed to talk to Reverend Rebecca. If she knew nothing, then tomorrow he would search the house. Hopefully, he would find a substantial wad of cash.
Tash’s knitting was on the table. It was the one task he needed to complete before bed. Retrieving the needles, he studied the loops of wool. Knitting was an ancient craft; men and women had been knitting for thousands of years. How hard could it be?
‘It’s just knots,’ he said. ‘I can service a MINI Cooper engine. One of the most unforgiving, knuckle-scraping, sideways cars in the world. If I can do that, I can fix a few loose knots.’
He scratched his head. There must be a manual somewhere. After looking around the room, he spotted aKnitters Worldmagazine on the bench. He flicked to the back page, hoping to find a troubleshooting table. There was no troubleshooting section. Somewhere on the internet, there would be a video. He opened his phone and searched for a solution.
An hour later, he had repaired the sampler and knitted another three rows. The task was contemplative and surprisingly relaxing. But it was now eleven o’clock. Exhaustion overwhelmed him.
The few times Oliver and Tash had returned to Eagle Nest, he took the third bedroom at the back of the parsonage. Although small, the enclosed veranda section was a private space, and he enjoyed the garden view. The room faced east, receiving the morning sun. The bed was a single, and his feet hung over the edge, but tonight he would sleep like the dead.
He collected his bags from the entrance and headed to the little room at the back of the house. When he opened the door, his heart sank. There was no bed. The room wasempty. Completely empty. Where was the bed? Where were the boxes of his belongings?
His shoulders dropped. ‘Why?’ was the only word he could muster.
It was between Elsie’s bed and the sofa. He decided on the sofa. As he lay down, the furniture groaned. A crocheted rug served as a blanket. A scatter cushion for a pillow. The fabric smelled faintly of Labrador.
As tired as he was, sleep didn’t come. Elsie’s death had made his future clear; his time in the Kimberley was over. After five years of red dirt and hot dust, it was time to come home. Tash had left six weeks ago, returning to live with Elsie so she could start the first term of high school. He had planned to follow at the end of the month. However, six weeks away from his daughter was already too long.
He would miss the hot northern landscape; the place had a way of getting under your skin. The rust-coloured country framed by a steel-blue sky. And there was nothing like a desert sunset, as the horizon blazed, the ground turned purple and crimson; the scene changing every few seconds. A spectacular sight. Like a reward for putting up with the incessant heat. The flies, he would happily leave those behind.
Shrub Valley Station, a cattle ranch in the Kimberley, covered nine hundred thousand hectares and handled fifty thousand cattle. Owned by his friends Vickie and Allen, they also ran off-road adventure motorbike tours. Oliver was their tour manager. Tash had loved the place. She joined the remote School of the Air, along with a dozen other kids who lived on the station. For a seven-year-old mourning the loss of her mother, it had been a remarkable place for her to grieve.
Oliver had left behind people he cared about. For some,the word care didn’t do justice to his feelings. The men and women who worked on the station were an eclectic mix of stockmen, station hands, cooks, mechanics, drivers, and nannies. An assortment of nationalities – British and German backpackers – and indigenous kids who taught Tash about Aboriginal Country. The goodbyes had been tough.
Now he was back in his hometown. Long-forgotten memories pressed on him. Lizzy, Tash’s mother, was gone. Elsie was dead. Oliver was sleeping on a sofa in the living room of the old parsonage. Life was a mysterious journey.
5
THE CONVENT
Snood followedMia into the kitchen. He lay down on the floor at her feet and rolled onto his back. With her foot, she rubbed his stomach. Then she poured herself a glass of water and leaned against the sink. Her memory of Oliver was still clear. An attractive man with a sensitive face, kind eyes, and unruly brown hair. He had excellent posture for such a tall person. The weight in his body shifted evenly from his torso, over his arms, to his powerful shoulders. A physique that suggested he might be a swimmer, but not in the Kimberley. He rode motorbikes. She knew this because Tash had told her. Physically, he was impressive, but the way he smiled made her wary. His eyes had been all over her like a onesie.
A nervous, apprehensive feeling settled inside her, like cutting the last thread of a delicate hand-knitted cardigan that had taken months of work. Quickly, she dismissed their connection as two weary, possibly lonely – and in her case slightly drunk – people who had found themselves under a star-filled sky, amongst the hullabaloo of a wake. Unfortunately, both the moon and the music were romantic.
Her knitting was on the table; she picked it up and examined the rows. She was making a new jumper. The wool was vicuna from the South American llama, one of the most expensive yarns on the market. A decade ago, it had been more expensive than gold. Mia couldn’t resist the soft, cinnamon-coloured fibre, and she had already finished one sleeve of the garment. On the front, she thought she might incorporate a pattern, but she was still deciding.
It was getting late. Snood knew the nightly routine. After Mia removed his collar, he settled into his bed by the back door. She reached down and patted her dog. ‘I know you’re in fine health,’ she said. ‘But I just wanted to say it’s great having you in my life, especially when I’m lonely. You might already know that, but it’s a privilege knowing you, and I don’t say that lightly.’
Snood nuzzled into her.
‘If you could talk, I think you’d have a low, growly country and western drawl. This could get weird, but you’re going to need a bandana.’
She headed to her bedroom, a dusty blue space with fluted lamps and a frosted glass chandelier. A navy throw complemented the flower-print bedcover. Luxurious mother-of-pearl buttons studded the padded headboard. Mia loved extravagant textile details, like fringing, pleating, and interesting buttons.
She lay down on the bed, certain that Oliver would not derail her. After almost three years of singledom, she had crafted a new life and built a successful business. Life was good and she had never been happier. Nothing was going to rock her boat. Odd, though, that she felt so weighted down and strangely sad.
On Saturday morning,the sound of a hammer striking an anvil wafted up the road to Mia’s house on the hill. The restored blacksmith house, once the king of trades, was now a working museum. Every weekend, Terry, the smithy, donned a leather apron and worked the forge for the tourists. The museum didn’t open until nine, but Terry was on site at eight, working the forge and pounding the anvil. She appreciated his punctuality.
In bed, Mia rolled over and looked out the window. Outside, it was a bright, crisp day. The waratah bush in her garden was flowering, and she watched a red lorikeet foraging for nectar in the globe-shaped flowers. To be a bird, she thought. One that lived in a quiet country town, free from predators.
Realising she was awake, Snood slunk into the room, and Mia invited him onto the bed.
‘Morning, handsome,’ she said.
The big black Labrador placed his head in her lap and Mia ruffled his ears. ‘You make me impossibly happy. Are you my big boy?’ she asked.
He was.
