Flying the Coop (13 page)

‘Nonsense.' Dot used the frilled edge of her apron to wipe down a plastic four-wheel drive with super-sized wheels. ‘I'm having a ball. So don't you worry about us, love, we're fine. And Michael'll be getting dressed in a minute. All under control.'

‘Um, thanks.' Chris watched them for a few more minutes in silence but Dot certainly looked like she had everything under control. Most of Michael's books were already in his bookshelf and the open wardrobe door revealed a neat row of footwear that was almost certainly not his handiwork. Shrugging philosophically, Chris left them to it.

Grace's door was firmly closed and bore a sign featuring the skull and crossbones with the words: ‘Enter only if you have a death-wish' written in a blood-dripping gothic font. Chris, not having a death-wish, knocked first.

‘What?'

‘It's me,' called Chris. ‘How are you going in there?'

‘Fine!'

‘Do you want some help?'

‘No!'

Congratulating herself for at least having made the effort, Chris abandoned any further attempts at communication and headed down the front stairs, admiring the newly polished floorboards as she went. In the lounge-room they looked even more effective, being set off by two beige and dark green rugs that she had bought for just this purpose – one in front of the couch and the other under the dining-room table. In fact, apart from a few boxes by the archway, the lounge-room itself was almost all in place – and was looking really nice. The forest-green curtains from Canterbury fitted perfectly, as did her large, camel-coloured corner couch, which had always looked so cramped in the other house. A Constable print, which she had found in a second-hand shop a few weeks ago, was hanging over the fireplace, and her semi-circular crystal cabinet was in the far corner just waiting to be filled with the yet-to-be-unpacked crystal. Then, between the cabinet and the kitchen archway was her oval polished walnut dining-table surrounded by the six chairs with dark green velvet seats. It all
looked so comfortable and cosy that she stood and admired it for a while, trying to make the room give her a lift and dissipate some of the stubborn heaviness that was weighing her down.

When, after five minutes or so, that still hadn't worked, Chris moved through the archway and into the kitchen. Because here, too, miracles had been wrought. Even though all she had done was have the wallpaper stripped in favour of the soft eggshell-white paintwork, and hang some white lace curtains at the window, the difference was remarkable. The only yellow left was on the cupboards themselves but, with the new dominance of white, these now just looked rather cheerful instead of cloying and nauseous. The new colouring also made the room itself appear more spacious, and certainly large enough to accommodate the round pine table and chairs that she had fitted between the staircase and the passage doorway.

It looked like a real farm kitchen – homely, and inviting, and snug. It even had a few finishing touches like the porcelain rooster-shaped biscuit barrel Jenny had sent her for her birthday, which crowed whenever it was opened. But although Chris could appreciate the overall improvement, deep down she knew that she was comparing it to the elegance of her old kitchen, with its matching mod-cons, and leadlight, and polished granite bench-tops; and the comparison wasn't doing anything to cheer her up.

She took a deep breath and decided to concentrate on just getting settled. Surely when everything was in place and she felt more at home, her attitude would improve. Or maybe it was the thought of running the whole farm that was getting her down? Chris looked towards the office and decided to attack that side of things first. Going through the paperwork and getting a handle on the business would give her some confidence – and
that
was desperately needed right now.

She started with the lever-arch binders, pulling out the past five years and systematically going through both the incomings and outgoings. Then she moved to the filing cabinet, extracting the files one by one and flicking through them. Although she only got halfway through her accountancy degree, Chris had spent most of her working life in finance administration and so had a fair idea of bookkeeping and accountancy practices. But this was a system she had never encountered before and which, she suspected, was highly unorthodox. Nevertheless, over the course of the next few hours, she grasped enough to learn several things. The first was that the business generated a
lot
of paperwork, and the present system just made it worse. It needed a total overhaul. The second was that Mac had tiny spider-like writing that gave her a headache, and the third was that she was definitely going to have to get a part-time job – real soon.

Because she and Virginia had spent some time going over the figures several months ago, Chris had always known that things would be tight. But her optimistic nature tended to gloss over this fact and, whenever it nibbled at the edges of her consciousness, she had just shoved it aside. She'd even, she now laughed bitterly to recall, had thoughts of making the farm more economical, more prosperous. But it seemed that there wasn't really much to improve. Eggs come in, eggs go out. The only standout saving would have been the chook feed and, even in her ignorance, she was fairly sure that putting them all on a diet would be counterproductive. So here, finally, was reality. And reality was saying quite clearly that the farm, as their only source of income, did not so much amount to a tightening of the purse strings, as fiscal strangulation. She would need to start job-hunting immediately.

This did nothing to cheer her overall mood up so, in the interests of getting through the day, Chris thought it best to
play temporary ostrich and shove her prospective finances to the back of her mind to join the other niggles. Instead, she spent the next hour or so unpacking her own study items, like computer discs, stationery, and the brown leather desk set that had been a twenty-first birthday present from her parents. Just as she had hefted up the old – and very heavy – typewriter to store it underneath the desk, she saw, from the corner of her eye, a movement out by the fence. Chris froze for a second and then, realising that this might be her chance to spot the elusive Mac, quickly shovelled the typewriter under the desk and then peered out of the louvre windows. By now, though, he – if indeed it had been him – had gone past the barn and was out of sight. Chris clambered up on the desk for a better view and was rewarded by the sight of a dog – a beautiful black, longhaired border collie with a pluming white tail, running past the veranda and behind the barn.

‘What're you looking at, love?'

Chris, from her position kneeling on the desk, turned around to face Dot with a sense of resignation. She was obviously doomed to have this woman creep up on her whenever she was facing the other way. Rather than answer, because the answer would probably have made her look even
more
foolish, Chris gave her what she hoped was an enigmatic smile and then scrambled off the desk and dusted her jeans down.

‘I just came to tell you that Garth's here, love, and he's brought lunch.'

‘What?' Chris's mouth dropped open.

‘Garth's here,' repeated Dot slowly, enunciating each syllable. ‘You know, your ex-husband? And he's brought lunch, and –' Dot looked quickly behind her and then lowered her voice – ‘he's also brought
her
.'

‘Oh. I see. Okay.'

Having delivered her message, Dot exited the room, leaving
Chris in a state of total bewilderment. It wasn't just that Garth was here, or that he'd brought lunch – both of which were enough to cause considerable surprise on their own – but that Dot even knew who Garth
was
. Shaking herself out of her trance, Chris ran her hands through her hair and dusted her jeans off more thoroughly before going in search of some answers. She found him in the entrance, having just come down the staircase presumably after touring the upstairs rooms.

‘Hiya.' Garth, dressed casually in navy slacks and a red polo shirt, ran his hand approvingly over the stair banisters and then continued straight past her and into the lounge-room. ‘Hey, the couch looks good here. Fits really well. So does the table and chairs. Great fireplace. Oh, and I see there's the crystal cabinet, and – is this the kitchen?'

‘No,' said Chris sarcastically as she followed him in. ‘It's the bathroom. Open-plan.'

‘Excellent,' replied Garth smoothly, undoing his belt. ‘Just what I need. Can you give me some privacy?'

‘Very funny.'

‘Would you like me t'set the table, love?' asked Dot as she came in through the passage door, her eyes widening as she took in Garth, who was now doing up his belt again. ‘Oh, sorry! Sorry! Didn't mean t'intrude!'

‘That's okay,' said Garth with a smirk. ‘We've finished.'

‘Good heavens!'

‘Shut up,' snapped Chris. ‘Not you, Dot, him. Just ignore him, he's a fool. Have you been introduced?'

‘To Garth, you mean? Oh, yes – we're old mates. Met upstairs.'

‘What's for lunch?' Michael, now dressed in jeans and an Astro Boy t-shirt and with his ginger hair plastered wetly to his head, bounced in behind Dot and sat down at the kitchen table expectantly. ‘Did you bring McDonald's, Dad?'

‘Sorry – but no.' Garth disappeared down the passageway for a moment, returning with a large wicker hamper. ‘You'll have to settle for barbecued chook – I thought that'd be appropriate – and salad.'

‘Salad!' repeated Michael, with obvious disappointment.

‘With bread rolls and croissants. And chocolate for dessert,' added Cynthia, coming into the room from the lounge-room archway. ‘Hello, Christin, we've come to help. Not that it looks like you need it – you've got the whole place looking so lovely already.'

‘Thanks,' replied Chris shortly. She never quite knew how to answer Cynthia's overwhelming
niceness
. It would all be so much easier if she could actively dislike the woman, but there really wasn't anything
to
dislike. Which, in itself, was eminently dislikeable. Today she was wearing a fitted summer dress of cream linen with a matching short-sleeved jacket, and her blonde hair was pulled back in a rather childish ponytail. For someone who had come to help perform manual labour, Chris noted snidely, her ensemble was entirely unsuitable.

‘Are we all ready then?' Dot took the hamper from Garth and carried it through to the dining-room, with everybody slowly following her. There it could be seen that she had used the preceding few minutes to unearth a large burgundy tablecloth and set the table with plates, cutlery and salt and pepper shakers. Garth looked across at Chris and raised his eyebrows questioningly but she ignored him.

Dot bustled around the table pulling out chairs. ‘Sit, sit. And now I'll just scoot back home for my own lunch.'

Except for the scraping of chairs as people sat themselves down around the table, silence greeted this announcement and Chris realised that she'd assumed, given Dot's behaviour to date, that she would have just invited herself to join them. But it seemed even Dot had her limits. By now she had disappeared
into the kitchen where she could be heard collecting her breakfast implements together. Chris looked around and saw that everyone else was watching her expectantly. She closed her eyes, rolled them, and opened them to find that nothing had changed.

‘Dot?'

‘Yes, love?'

‘Why don't you stay and eat with us? I'm sure there's plenty.'

‘Oh, yes – masses!' added Cynthia. ‘
Please
stay.'

‘Well . . .' Dot reappeared in the doorway, skillet in hand, and seemed to give the invitation some thought. ‘Okay then, but only if you insist.'

‘Bags a drumstick.' Grace, dressed in her cat burglar outfit again, ducked around Dot and pulled out a chair beside her mother. ‘No salad.'

‘Me neither!' piped up Michael from the other side of the table.

‘You're both having salad,' said Chris evenly. ‘Dot, there's a spare seat there between Michael and Cynthia. Grab it before someone else does.'

Dot, having rid herself of the skillet and obviously taking Chris seriously, moved quite quickly around the spare chair and sat herself down with a sigh of pleasure. In the meantime, Garth and Cynthia had started to unload the picnic basket, covering the table with a variety of plastic food containers. Cold roast chicken, coleslaw, potato salad, lettuce, grated carrot, cheese and avocado all made an appearance, together with a bag of mixed rolls and another bag containing some very flaky croissants. As Chris watched the table fill and people start to help themselves, she suddenly had a brilliant idea.

‘We should invite Mac!'

‘
Pfft
!' said Dot, pursing her lips and making a spitting sound
that was totally inappropriate for the lunch-table. Then, without elaborating, she went on piling her plate.

‘Who's Mac?' asked Garth curiously.

‘You know, the guy I bought the farm from. He's out there now, looking after everything for me until tomorrow.' Chris pushed her chair back. ‘I'll go and ask him.'

‘Don't bother,' commented Dot, using tongs to select some chicken. ‘He won't come.'

‘Oh.' Chris sat down again and looked at Dot with interest. ‘You seem to know him well. What's he like?'

‘
Pfft
!' said Dot again, as if she expected this to be accepted as the final word. But, when she looked up, she saw that everybody – except Michael, who preferred to concentrate on the food – was watching her expectantly. She sighed before continuing: ‘He's a good worker, I'll give him that. But don't you trust him, love.' She waved the tongs at Chris. ‘He's a right proper bastard. Excuse my French.'

‘In what way?'

‘Oh . . . well, he'll like
you
, I bet. Be all over you like a rash. He likes pretty ladies.' Dot cast a sidelong look at Garth as she said this before turning back to Chris. ‘
Especially
redheads. Yep, a real ladies man.'