Hamish gave a short whistle and clicked his fingers, and the dog returned to his side. ‘Sorry, mate,’ he said to the animal. ‘Looks like your second mum’s over at Tracey’s.’ As he opened the gate of the adjacent cottage, he restrained the dog. ‘Mind your manners, Chance, ladies first. Everyone’s around the back,’ he added, directing Jemma with a nod.
As she passed beneath an arch of variegated white and green devil’s ivy, a swell of noise buffeted along the side passage of the house. ‘Big family?’
‘A muck-in.’ Hamish ducked to avoid becoming tangled in the vines.
‘What?’
‘Guess you’d call it a working bee. Only not that organised, obviously, because we’re country, you know.’
She hid her grin. He didn’t deserve any kind of positive feedback.
He lowered his voice. ‘Tracey’s getting on, needs a bit of help managing the backyard.’
Not his girlfriend, then. ‘She’s family?’
‘Tracey doesn’t have any blood relatives.’ Hamish lifted one shoulder. ‘But, yeah, we’re family.’
Like that made any sense.
As they rounded the back corner of the house, Jemma pulled up short. Flannel and beanies were clearly de rigueur, from pre-schoolers to septuagenarians. A dachshund yipped in excitement, darting through a forest of jean- and trackie-clad legs, and Chance gambolled after it, plunging through a jungle of deep green silverbeet bordered by huge clumps of rhubarb. A magpie swooped in to join the chaos and Jemma ducked; she’d heard tales of the aggressive birds taking out the eyes of joggers and cyclists.
‘Don’t worry,’ Hamish said. ‘That’s Dusty.’
‘Naming a threat hardly makes it less menacing,’ Jemma said.
Hamish shrugged. ‘Dunno. If she was called Lorena, I reckon we’d all be clutching our jewels.’
No one else seemed concerned as the bird wandered about, cocking its head imperiously while assessing their work.
Jemma whipped around at an ear-splitting whistle.
Hamish took his thumb and middle finger from his mouth and gave her a wink. ‘Everyone, Jemma. Jemma, everyone,’ he said into the ringing silence.
A chorus of g’days and waved greetings followed them as Hamish ushered her between the assorted garden tools and piles of weeds mounded on the damp concrete path. Jemma picked her way carefully—if she’d wanted her joggers covered in mud, she could have taken the riverside path at Dad’s place.
‘Tracey?’ Hamish called into the shaded depths beneath the back verandah.
‘Be there in a minute, love,’ a voice came from inside.
The dozen or so people in the yard had gone back to either labouring or chatting. Much as Jemma loathed socialsituations, she had become accustomed to commanding attention, a measure of respect, not this underwhelming indifference. Still, it was better than the overt attention that persisted in her nightmares.
The screen on the back door creaked open, and Hamish leaned in, dwarfing the woman he embraced. ‘Morning, Trace. Sorry I’m a bit late—I stopped for breakfast with Ethan.’
The woman nestled readily into his hug. Shiny patches of tight new skin amid the lines of life and an oddly scooped-out area beneath the bridge of her nose hinted at past surgery, most likely for skin cancers.
‘He’s in Settlers for the weekend?’ Tracey said. ‘How lovely. I know Heath’s been a bit worried about Charlee, you know … prolapsing.’ She squinted as she chose the word, her wild bush of silver-blonde hair barely restrained by a fat floral scrunchie. ‘But Ethan will be able to sort her.’
‘You mean relapsing?’ The amusement fled from Hamish’s face. ‘I thought she had everything worked out?’
‘Oh, she’s doing ever so well helping me with the Up Shop.’ Tracey patted the patch of lace that decorated the front pocket of the baggy, faded, floral dungarees she wore. Then she sighed, drooping like a wilted flower. ‘But it looks like Dave Jaensch was right. Though don’t you tell him I said that.’
‘Right about what?’ All levity had disappeared from Hamish’s tone now.
‘The skatepark is attracting a certain undesirable element,’ Tracey said, her brow furrowed like a rumpled tissue.
Jemma snorted. Those undesirable elements were a legal practitioner’s bread and butter, and she had a fair idea what the issues around a skatepark would be. So much for her father’s idyllic portrayal of the small town.
Hamish suddenly remembered her presence. ‘Tracey, this is my friend, Jemma. Chance got a bit overenthusiastic with his greeting. Can we grab some paper towel for a clean-up, please?’
