Tumble Creek (22 page)

‘No, Brock's worded Walter up. I gave him some recent photos of you and he's shown them to Doreen, okay? Don't worry if she doesn't make sense at times, just let it go, and be yourself.'

Claudia shoved her feet into a pair of track pants and pulled on an oversized jumper, then tugged on a pair of thick socks. And Sofie thought, the apple never falls far from the tree.

Claudia left Gypsy snoozing on the bed and, arm hooked in her mother's, headed for the kitchen. The soft thud of Sarge's feet followed behind them.

‘Doreen, Walter, I'd like you to meet my daughter, Claudia. Sweetie, these are Brock's parents, Walter and Doreen.'

‘Hello,' Claudia said and offered her hand.

Oh joy, oh miracle, Sofie's relentless nagging about good manners had sunk in; she was so proud of her girl.

‘Is this the place that makes those great flat things?' Doreen glanced at everyone in turn as she sat, then went totally off track, almost squealing like a teenager, ‘What a sweet, sweet …' And suddenly frustrated with herself, she shoved her free hand into her hair.

Sofie tried to help. ‘Teenager?'

Doreen's confused expression saddened her lovely face, then suddenly the light dawned. Smiling, her bright eyes darted to Claudia, and she cried out, ‘Yes! Aren't you just the most darling thing?'

Claudia blushed, then giggled her thank you.

After a very successful brunch, during which laughter filled the kitchen, Doreen sipped the last of her cordial (which was actually tea), and to Sofie's surprise didn't rise to wander into what used to be her and Walter's bedroom. Sofie turned to look at Brock; his eyes warmed and his mouth held back a grin. She kissed his jaw and turned back to the conversation, which was about how Brock had found Gypsy for Claudia. Doreen smiled and wanted to meet this sweet kitten. Claudia stood, went down the hall to her room to get her, and still Doreen stayed and chatted happily. It was often far from coherent, but that didn't matter.

Claudia came back, holding Gypsy to her chest. ‘Would you like to hold her?'

‘Oh, that would be lovely.' Doreen held out her hands and Claudia placed Gypsy in her palms. She talked to the kitten as if it were a baby, and in a way it was.

Sofie was very proud of Claudia, who took it all in her stride, often engaging Doreen in conversation about things she would hopefully remember and enjoy, such as nineteen-forties and fifties music.

Three hours later Doreen asked Claudia to come visit and gave her address as twenty-two Lavender Lane—where Sofie and Claudia lived before their house had been demolished.

‘Oh.' Claudia gave her mum a wide-eyed look, then turned back to Doreen and carried on as if nothing were amiss. ‘I would love to. Can I bring a friend?'

‘Gypsy?'

‘Um, I'll try and do that, but I meant a girlfriend, her name is Michelle McGregor. Would that be okay?'

Smiling, Walter nodded. ‘We know the McGregors, Doreen, they have a farm outside town. Connie lives there.' But Doreen's eyes had gone vacant and Walter said, ‘You're getting tired, love, it's been a big morning.'

‘Yes, but I love those flat things, they're delicious. And the kitty …' she trailed off.

Out by his dad's car, Brock hugged his parents and kissed his mum. Sofie and Claudia did the same and waved Walter and Doreen goodbye.

‘How come you know so much about old-fashioned music?' Sofie asked Claudia.

‘History of music at school.'

‘Oh, well, Doreen loved it and so did Walter.'

‘They're the best,' Claudia announced as she trotted inside.

‘Brock?'

‘Yeah?'

‘Your Mum said her address was twenty-two Lavender Lane.'

‘She did?' Brock's gaze went somewhere across the street, looking at nothing, thoughtful. ‘I'll have to check where that came from.'

‘Could be her thoughts went way back to when she was a small girl?' Sofie suggested.

‘Hmm, maybe. Pretty sure neither Mum or Dad has ever mentioned that address. Interesting.'

Chapter 10

After living at Brock's for two weeks, Sofie arrived home from Veronica's, and was playing with Sarge in the backyard, when the phone rang inside. She hurried in, dropped her bag on the kitchen bench and picked up the receiver. She didn't even have time to say hello before a gruff voice clipped, ‘Thought y'might be there, we've started on removin' y'house.'

‘Th-thanks,' Sofie stammered.

‘Ya want us to wait for ya?'

‘No, that's fine, I'll be right there.' And then he was gone.

She let Sarge in out of the cold then hurried to the bedroom, hauling on warmer layers of clothing, lastly a parka and scarf. Although she yearned for Brock's support, he was busy at the station.
Bad luck kiddo
, she told herself,
you're on her own, and no one need hold your hand
. She hurried out the door ready for a tough day. It was also going to be freezing bloody cold on a windswept, empty block of land.

Sofie stood on what used to be her beautiful cottage garden, tears rolling down her cheeks, while a bunch of men tore apart the rest of her house. Trucks carted good timber, doors and windows away for recycling. The men had carefully dismantled the kitchen and bathroom, taking extra care with the original tiles that Sofie had painstakingly saved when she'd renovated.

One of the men, wearing a red beanie, a plaid flannel shirt, a padded vest, baggy jeans and big workman's boots, strode down the footpath towards her. His weather-beaten face cracked into an easy smile. She tried to smile back at George Phelps, the owner of the secondhand furniture warehouse, but under the circumstances all she could manage was a flutter at the corners of her mouth.

‘G'day, luv. Don't look so sad or you'll have me cryin', not a good look for a man me age. People'll think one o' me old mates has kicked the bucket.' His voice was rough like a packet a day and a whisky at night man. ‘All the old dears'll come out ta feed me casseroles and cakes and shit.' He lifted his cap and scratched his head, before settling it back down, adjusting it for comfort. ‘Hmm, not a bad idea, if only I could stand the attention.' He threw his head back and laughed at himself and whatever strange images he must have conjured up. Eyes back on the job, he turned to yell at one of his men. ‘Take it easy with that winda'!'

‘It was a lovely old home, George.' Sofie pulled a wad of tissues out of her pocket, dabbed her face and blew her nose. ‘It's a shock seeing where I lived … what I loved about our home, carted away like this.'

Standing at her side, George bent over for a better look at her, and said, ‘Y'know who used to live here, don'tcha?'

‘Um … I have no idea.' Hand on her heart, she waited.

George straightened and silently scanned the area where the house used to be. ‘Well, luv, that beats all, because the house used to belong to Doreen Stewart's parents.'

Sofie's pulse rate surged. When Doreen gave Claudia this very address, she'd thought there couldn't possibly be a connection or surely Brock would have known.

Muttering, and eyes squinting, he turned his face up and sought answers from the sky. ‘Nah, just did me sums,' he said turning to survey the debris-strewn block, ‘Doreen was only a little tucka when they sold up, she probly doesn't rememba. But I do, it's me job, y'know. I'm part of the historical society. Whoever done this,' he waved his arm out at the destruction, ‘should be hung, drawn and quartered.'

Despite herself, Sofie shuddered.

‘Sorry, luv, bein' a bit too graphic for ya?'

‘That's okay, George, he probably deserves nothing less. Um … I need to ask you a question, and I hope you don't take it as a slight to your professionalism.'

‘I won't, go ahead, shoot.'

‘Will all these lovely Edwardian doors and windows, even the damaged ones, find good homes?'

‘You've been to me warehouse, yeah?' Teary-eyed, Sofie nodded and gave him a tentative smile, so George continued. ‘It's in our interest to take good care o' the stuff. The people who buy from us care as well, 'cause they're fixing up
their
home. Even the damaged pieces will get restored—if possible, mind. When shit happened to yer place, sure it was bad. Nothin' you can do about that. Ya need to look ahead now.' George's hand shot straight out. ‘See, can't do anything 'bout what's behind ya—only in front o' ya.'

‘Thanks, George, I'll try.'

‘Good girl.' George patted her shoulder. ‘I'd stay, but have to make sure blokes do it right at the other end, y'know.'

Sofie found herself really smiling at him now, and said, ‘I'm fine, George, thanks for stopping by and making sure that I was.'

‘All-righty then.' He nodded. ‘Every time we sell somethin' o' yours, y'll get a statement and money'll be transferred to yer bank.' And with a touch to his cap George was off trotting to his car.

The last backhoe motored back and forth, scraping off the rubble. At one pass, something glinted through the dust and grime that hung in the air. A piece of glass? Then a flash of breathtaking colours. Okay, a piece of crystal? The backhoe turned, rattled over the ground to fill yet another truck and Sofie hurried over to where she'd seen the flash. Hunkering down, she scraped away the soil; the small piece grew and grew until she got to the edges. Sofie could see beyond the dirt and grime that it was a stunning piece of art nouveau leadlight window. At least a foot square. The design so stunning it took her breath away. On closer inspection she could see that all the pieces were intact. A couple of corner points had bent lead, something easily fixed by a professional. It was a miracle that it survived a truck, men with crowbars and sledgehammers, and finally a backhoe. This window deserved to be restored and admired.

Sofie stood, and turned to call the backhoe guy, but he'd just rolled his machine back onto the truck that had delivered it. He jogged to his cab, slid in behind the wheel, and took off. She needed help to get the piece out without damaging it and rummaged in her shoulder bag for her mobile. Standing in the middle of where her house used to be, arm outstretched, squinting at the display, Sofie held her phone up hoping for a connection.

‘Bugger, why is it when you really need someone,' she muttered turning and peering at the display, ‘you can't get a bloody signal.'

‘What's up?' a deep voice behind her asked.

Sofie squealed and swung around. ‘Shit! You scared the life out of me.'

‘Sorry, I tried to get here in time.' Brock kissed her lips briefly. ‘Had my boss in from Armidale. We might have a lead on where Britt is hiding out.'

Grinning like an idiot, Sofie jumped him, arms flying around his neck. ‘That's fantastic!'

‘Jesus, Sofe, you're shaking.'

She eased herself down and muttered, ‘My house is gone, but I've got exciting news. I've just found out from George, your Mum used to live here as a toddler before the family sold up and moved.'

‘That's why she mentioned it to Claudia. Amazing how the mind works.'

‘There's something else!'

‘Okay,' he said, and jokingly added, ‘someone found buried treasure under where your house was.'

‘Well, yeah.'

He gave her look, and then he said, ‘Come on, let's go get you warm.'

‘No wait, you have to help me with the treasure.'

‘Sofie, stop fooling around. We've got a whole four hours before Claudia comes home.' He wiggled his eyebrows, and Sofie laughed; for a big man he could be really cute sometimes.

‘I'll give you hours of fun, all I want is five minutes of your time.' She grabbed his hand and led him to her precious window.

‘Shit, a window,' Brock announced.

‘Not just any window.' Sofie hunkered down again. ‘I know my stuff and the oblong pieces used to frame the centre scrolls and flowers are bevelled
crystal
. I have no idea why it's here and how it remained intact after all these years. So beautiful.' She ran her hand lightly over the window.

‘What can I do?' Brock asked.

‘My art stuff is still in the car. Could you get my palette knife, I'll use it to free it out of the dirt. I also need a paint board and the dust cover too, please.'

After careful scraping and prising, they carefully wrapped the window up and slid it into Sofie's station wagon.

‘You're freezing. Come on, let's go home,' he urged. ‘What're you going to do with the window?' Brock asked, hand to the small of her back as he gently guided Sofie in behind the wheel.

‘I'm going to build our new house around it.'

Brock grinned and closed her car door, its hinges creaking loudly.

***

During a mid-morning lull in Veronica's kitchen, Sofie asked the new breakfast chef, Matteo Salvetti, if there was anything else he wanted to ask her. He gave her a stunned look, as though his feelings were hurt, really hamming it up like a good Italian. She'd only been working with him for a couple of days, and already he'd brought ideas in to enhance the menu. He worked hard and was proud of his heritage—and his body, which he flaunted at every opportunity. His blatant machismo made her giggle. After all, Matteo hadn't met Brock yet.

‘You have been here all this morning. Go … go now, do something, er, nice for you.' Matteo grinned, clasped her shoulders and swiftly kissed both her cheeks. ‘Shoo,' he urged, waving his hand.

‘Okay, I'm going. Jennifer will be down a bit later.' Sofie stripped off her apron, threw it in the laundry basket, slipped into her winter coat and left him to it.

The bleak winter sun was a welcome sight as she made her way along the footpath to the newsagent, thinking about which books to buy on building an eco-friendly house, when someone came up behind her and caught her by the arm. It wasn't Brock's touch on her body, but she turned around with a ready smile anyway, assuming it was a local. It wasn't. It was Jett. Just the sight of him, and anger exploded inside her.