A Place to Remember Page 2

  ‘I hope so. Quentin left an awful mess behind and Eva is starting immediately.’

  ‘It’s Ava, actually.’

  The room paused, the correction slipping out before Ava could stop herself. Another wink from John, and the crunch of a country apple pressed play.

  ‘I’ll put sheets and blankets on the veranda,’ Marjorie continued. ‘The publican dropped Eva out here today, John, so you’ll need to drive her back to town to collect her bags. Your father’s busy spraying the orchard, which he was supposed to do last week.’ Marjorie let out another sigh and Ava guessed she should get used to hearing such from her new employer. ‘Come on, John, the sooner you get going, the sooner Eva will be settled and on the job.’

  Ava!

  ‘And there’s a shoulder roast in the fridge for dinner tonight – if you can get back here in time. It’ll be only us, no guests. We’ll see how you go with all that.’ The woman’s fingers splayed on the wooden table under the pressure of levering herself out of the dining chair. Large in stature and disposition, it was clear she wielded the whip around Ivy-May and that there would be numerous kitchen tests for Ava to pass – and pass she would. The prospect didn’t keep the self-congratulatory smile from her face as she reassured Mrs Tate she wouldn’t let her down.

  After running away from the city there was no going back, so losing this job was not an option. If she was to stay as far away as possible from men like Zac and stand on her own two feet she could not afford to be fussy about a job. Her boyfriend had raised a fist to her just once, and when Ava had heard herself using the demands of a five-star restaurant to justify his temper, she heard her father excusing her mother’s abuse. When fuelled by a blend of alcohol and anxiety, Zac’s temper could be unpredictable. Ava couldn’t be around when his pressure cooker blew, and with him constantly warning her that she’d never get another job if she left him, there had been limited options in the city. A small country town was ideal.

  She knew plenty about food and cooking and what she didn’t know about farm work she’d learn. At the same time she felt a little sorry for Quentin, who’d broken his leg so badly it was unlikely he’d return to work any time soon. His misadventure was her good fortune, and Ava finally felt luck was on her side. Her new post included food and a room so she would save money faster and be closer to fulfilling her father’s wish that she travel.

  With her thirtieth birthday three years away, Ava made herself a promise. No matter how much or how little she had in the bank, she’d find a way to spend her thirtieth year making pasta in Marco’s Amalfi, making high tea at London’s Grand Royal, and touring the world, even if she did have to get there via a place called Candlebark Creek.

  First, though, she had to survive the journey back into town with Marjorie Tate’s son, who drove way too fast over the corrugated roadway with its ripples and ruts set hard.

  Chapter 2

  Young John

  When John had loaded the new cook’s belongings into the car he’d managed a quick gander at the portfolio filled with pages labelled ‘Signature Dishes’, the photographs glued two-to-a-page and slipped behind plastic. Although some were too fancy for a country farmstay establishment, it was clear that she could cook far better than coke-snorting Quentin.

  No wonder Mum offered this chick the job.

  John turned the car in the direction of Ivy-May, a road he knew so well he could afford the odd glance at the woman in the passenger seat, both hands clawing the plastic folder resting on slim legs. Her bag – a battered suitcase bound with an old leather belt – had been small but bulging, tempting John to ask if she was prepared for the dust and humidity of Queensland’s tropical mid-north. Today’s all-black garb might work well in city kitchens and for interviews, but she’d melt at Ivy-May if she was covered up like that.

  When she caught him staring at her legs, he asked, ‘You really cooked all those dishes in that folder?’

  ‘Of course!’

  ‘Wish I could do stuff like that. Have you always wanted to be a cook?’

  ‘It’s genetic.’ She smiled. ‘An Italian dad makes me born to cook.’

  ‘He must be proud.’

  First she nodded, then her smile faded and she looked out of the side window. ‘He would be if he was still alive.’

  ‘Oh, Jeez, trust me to put my foot in it. Was his passing recent?’

  While she didn’t answer straight away, the small shudder accompanying her sigh spoke volumes. ‘I wish I knew the exact date. My mother never told me. I found out he’d died in an accident not long after I left home. Long story.’ She kept her expression to a thin smile. ‘I have a few of those, but I prefer to talk about food and cooking, if that’s okay with you.’

  ‘My favourite topics – after breeding.’

  ‘Breeding?’

  He’d made her laugh and the sound was low and sensual, nothing like the high-pitched giggles that exploded from the mouths of some girls he’d known.

  ‘I’m talking about cattle.’

  ‘Ah, right.’

  He’d wanted to impress the hot-looking chick with the teasing eyes. Instead he was acting like he’d never had a girl in his car before. Maybe that was it. Ava Marchette wasn’t a girl. She was all woman – the kind that made a man lower the driver’s window to let the wind cool his face. John dangled one arm over the dusty paintwork of the old ute, his fingers tapping out a beat on the metal.

  ‘We’re milking bulls on Ivy-May this week. You can watch.’

  ‘You milk bulls?’

  ‘For sperm. Those with strong swimmers all heading in the right direction are the prize animals in the paddock. Too much information?’

  ‘No, not at all. I love learning new things. Life out here is going to be very different.’

  ‘I was hoping you’d make the cut. Only because you’re a lot better-looking than Quentin,’ he added. ‘I did enjoy picking his brains about cooking, though. I also had to cover for him in the kitchen some nights. Did I mention I love to cook? Always have.’

  ‘I loved playing around in the kitchen so much when I was young that while my friends had their noses in romance novels and dreaming of handsome hunks carrying them off into the sunset I was drooling over recipe books. That probably makes me sound a little pathetic.’ She chuckled and leaned back into the head rest.

  ‘What if you met some guy who could do both – carry you off and cook up a storm?’

  ‘First he’d have to prove it, of course.’

  ‘That he loved you?’

  ‘No, that he could cook.’

  ‘And what would he need to cook?’ John asked, eyes on the road.

  ‘Panna cotta.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s Italian and means cooked cream, but,’ she shrugged, ‘I’ve yet to find a panna cotta that tastes anything close to Marco Marchette’s, so… ’

  ‘You don’t look like you’ve eaten too many of them.’

  There was a pause while she stared at him. ‘How old are you, John?’

  ‘Twenty.’

  ‘Twenty?’

  ‘But I’ll be twenty-one soon enough,’ he added.

  ‘Given twenty-one generally comes after twenty, I suppose I have to believe you.’

  ‘How old are you, Eva?’ he asked.

  ‘Older.’

  Ava did not add that by his age she’d been kicked out of home and worked in numerous commercial kitchens, sometimes juggling three different casual jobs each week to make enough money to live on.

  Life at Candlebark Creek would be quite different from the work-hard, party-hard, pot-smoking hospitality crowd in the city. Although she’d sat on the periphery, a quiet observer, and never took drugs, she had been known to occasionally wake up the next morning hung-over and in an unfamiliar bed. But work was her priority now, a plane ticket to London her goal. Not only would a cook’s job with food and board allow her to save faster, a relaxed life in a small country town might see her emerge from a decade of spiralling worry and m
aybe even let her unwind a little. Or could she, with John Tate around? Clearly an intense and confident young man, passionate about life, he was also funny and sweet. He made Ava laugh and for the first time in ages helped her forget how alone she was in the world. All that made John a beguiling blend of man and boy – one she’d need to be wary of, if she was to stay on the right side of Marjorie Tate and keep her job.

  The car continued to rumble along, the vibrations loosening the pins in the bun at the back of her head. Ava secured them and settled back into the car seat feeling the safest she’d felt in ages. Yes, she could get used to the quiet country life.

  For a while, Ava, only for a while.

  Chapter 3

  Katie-from-next-door

  His father’s rebuke was echoing in his ears. ‘They’re not here to get comfortable, son, they’re here to get fat.’ John knew that, but wanting the creatures to enjoy what life they had didn’t make him soft or a bad cattleman. There was nothing wrong with fresh hay and a molasses lick to help settle Ivy-May’s newest arrivals.

  ‘Hey, John, you done yet?’

  He heard the shout as he saw the familiar figure making her way towards him. Katie O’Brien had been ducking under fences from the time she could walk and it showed as she negotiated the maze of cattle yards to reach him. Like John’s other mates from around town, she was good company and handy, but full of opinions. Unlike the boys, she had beauty, brains – and boobs.

  ‘Almost finished.’

  Thud. The first hay bale landed on the rusting tray of the old truck.

  Like his grandfather, John believed yard weaning produced the most manageable cattle. Getting to know newcomers and letting them become familiar with their environment before meeting the rest of the mob made a lot of sense. After branding, and particularly after the bloody de-horning process, he preferred to move the weaner steers to the small paddock beside the yards to monitor them. ‘A good cattleman identifies and deals with troublemakers quick smart,’ his granddad had told a young John. ‘And your only cost is time.’ That attitude had skipped a generation, so it was John’s responsibility to uphold his grandfather’s doctrine, which he intended to pass on to his own children. As far as his father was concerned, belligerent beasts were guaranteed to end up in an Ivy-May sausage before their time, with fence crawlers – those that continually broke out – the first to be butchered when the freezers needed filling.

  ‘What’s up your nose today?’ Katie asked.

  ‘Nothing. Why?’

  Thud.

  ‘You look… I dunno, like you’re in a hurry.’ John lugged a third bale from the shed and threw it onto the ute tray.

  Thud.

  ‘Not my favourite kind of day, I guess. Keen to hit the shower.’

  ‘You should have waited for me. I could’ve helped.’

  ‘I wanted it done early.’ De-horning wasn’t a difficult job, but it wasn’t nice work for either party, and now a hundred head of cattle were bunched in a corner, making a racket and eyeing John: the enemy, the cause of all their pain. A molasses treat and fresh hay was the least he could do. ‘Gotta get dressed for dinner.’

  ‘Dressed for dinner?’ Katie looked at her watch. ‘It’s four in the afternoon.’

  ‘I’ve worked up an appetite. I need food.’ Or was that just an excuse to hang around the kitchen while a certain cook prepared the evening meal? He removed his hat and wiped the yard dust from his eyes. ‘And I’m a mess.’

  ‘Cattle don’t care what you look like and the job’s gotta be done.’ Sometimes Katie sounded so much like his mother it was scary. ‘My dad would say the start of spring is late in the year to be de-horning, but better while they’re young and before it gets any hotter and the flies any thicker. You know that, right?’

  Now she sounded like his father. ‘Of course I do, Katie. Doesn’t mean I have to like the job.’ With no time for talk, he climbed onto the tray to check he’d tied his molasses load tight, then hopped down and hauled himself up into the truck’s cab.

  ‘No one likes de-horning,’ Katie called over the start-up of the engine as she opened the gate. ‘But there is a bright side.’

  John had known her his whole life. She had the same fire in the belly about land management as he did, and was forever going on about what if or imagine when, always with a silver lining thrown in. ‘There’s a bright side, Katie?’ John yelled, edging the truck past her and into the paddock. He watched in the rear-view mirror as she closed the heavy metal gate. Then he yanked on the handbrake and jumped out.

  Ignoring his outstretched hand, Katie hoisted herself onto the truck and pushed the bales towards the edge, then attended to the ties on the plastic drum of molasses lick. ‘I’ll get to help out more often now school’s done.’

  ‘No more school bags, no more books, eh?’

  ‘And no more teachers and their dirty looks.’ She slapped her palms together, then wiped the sticky residue on her jeans. ‘These last two years without you on the bus were the worst, but now we’re both done with school we can get serious and start planting out the ridgeline. That’s the plan, right?’

  ‘Sure is.’

  *

  They both loved the ridgeline and Katie enjoyed riding any time of day, but in the early morning and at dusk the sprawling Basmorra plains were ablaze with fiery sunrises and sunsets. The Tate and O’Brien land, combined, stretched for hundreds of kilometres in every direction. One spot – the site of John’s great-great grandparents’ original homestead, not far from the Tate family plot with its crumbling headstones – was a favourite place and gave a perfect view of both current farmhouses. Every time they rode the ridgeline John would talk about his dream to build a new home for the next generation of Tates.

  Katie looked forward to that. The ridgeline had served as a meeting place for her and John since they were kids. ‘See you on the ridges,’ he’d tell her on the way out of church on Sundays. After changing from their good clothes, they would each ride out on horseback and meet at the same spot. Following the fence, one horse trotting on either side, she and John would chat. When they ran out of conversation, usually gossip about the other kids in Sunday School, their mounts would shift into an easy canter and head for the north-west access gate where they’d race to the far side of Mount Hedlow and to the shady grove that provided a cool place for the horses. In summer, sticky from the sun’s heat and horse sweat, they’d strip down to their swimmers and swing off the rope, squealing before they bombed into the cool water of Candlebark Creek.

  While Katie hadn’t missed Sunday church during her final school year, preparation for the exams had severely impacted on her spare time. She hoped to get back into a riding routine soon and into hanging out with John.

  ‘I know how to cheer you up.’ Katie dropped to the ground beside him as he swigged cordial from a plastic flask. ‘How about I see you on the ridges tomorrow? You haven’t suggested we ride up there for ages.’

  ‘You’ve been too busy studying.’

  ‘Not any more, so how about it?’

  John shrugged. ‘Maybe.’ He pulled at sheaves of spiky grass, plucking them one by one in such a rhythmic fashion that Katie found herself silently chanting: He loves me, he loves me not. One day he’d confided that he thought his great-great-grandparents’ old home on the ridgeline the most romantic place on the property, despite a cyclone having flattened the buildings decades earlier.

  ‘We can check what’s left of the old house and plan how to reuse the timber. I reckon there’s stacks we can recycle.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  Katie shoved his shoulder. ‘Can you say anything other than maybe, John Tate?’

  ‘Maybe.’ He cowered, readying himself for the thump he knew she’d deliver.

  ‘We are serious, aren’t we, John?’

  ‘You know me, Katie, I’m always serious, especially when it comes to recycling and responsible land and cattle management.’

  ‘That’s not what I meant.’

 
; ‘But it’s my focus right now. I need to prove to Dad I’m ready. Ivy-May’s future is up to me and it’s great that you’re keen to help so, yeah, I reckon we have serious covered for now.’

  ‘I’m not your helper,’ she chided. ‘We’re partners. Two heads are always better than one. You’ll focus on what you’re good at, I’ll take care of the other bits, and some things we’ll do together, naturally.’

  ‘Naturally?’

  ‘I’ve already started a to-do list, in the order things need doing.’

  ‘Of course you have, Katie.’ His shoulder nudge almost pushed her over.

  ‘Quit that.’

  ‘You and your endless lists.’ John gulped more cordial.

  ‘A list is a plan in dot points and plans are important.’

  Katie didn’t mind that John fell quiet. Mentioning his great-great-grandparents’ place often made him drift off. Most likely he was dreaming about the future and that made her happy. Looking across to the Tates’ current home, sitting like a crown on top of a small rise, Katie knew that one day the Ivy-May homestead, and all the land around it would be John’s and hers, and together they’d run the property the way they’d discussed on those long school bus rides.

  In her first year of high school, after learning about her father’s failing health, Katie had muddled through schoolwork, concentrating on learning the skills she’d need in the future when her family property and Ivy-May, together, would be a magnificent country retreat. The place she and John had always imagined where fancy city folk would stay for weekends, enjoying purpose-built cabins, quaint, private, and dotted along the expansive creek that separated the two properties. The township of Candlebark Creek wasn’t so isolated that people wouldn’t make the trek, and it was small-town enough to attract city-dwellers for short breaks and special occasions.

  ‘It’ll be so romantic.’

  ‘What will?’ John asked, over a liquid belch.

  Katie snatched the flask and replaced the lid. ‘That is so gross, John Tate.’