‘You’ve finally graduated from watercolours, then?’ his brother teased.
‘On the hard stuff now, mate. Acrylics. Juz came round last night to show me how to build up the paint with a spatula to get more of a 3D effect.’
‘Mmm. But the van?’ Although they shared a love of making music, art wasn’t Lachlan’s thing. He was always slightly uncomfortable and shifted the topic when it came up. ‘You could live in there, set your gear up in the shed to give you a bit more room. It’d save you travel time.’
‘Nah, she’s right. I’m used to having my own space. And Ethan’s crashing at mine most weekends. I like the guy, but not enough to share the caravan bed with him. Besides, moving out here wouldn’t save much time considering I need to be on the tools at the workshop in Settlers some days. I’ll live.’
The toaster ejected the bread and they both lurched forward to grab a slice. As always, Charity had set the breakfast things out before she went to bed. It worked for Lachlan, but would drive Hamish nuts. Who needed that kind of structure in their life?
Lachlan pushed the jam and butter Hamish’s way. ‘So long as you know there’s space for you here if you want it.’ He was obviously intent on making sure Hamish knew he’d been accepted back onto the farm as an equal partner, after having been pretty much exiled by their father for years.
‘Actually, you know what? If it’s cool, I wouldn’t mind taking a look at the old van. Give her a bit of a refurb. Then I could stay out here odd nights. Might be a good idea for harvest season.’
‘Sure thing. That old girl’s got some good memories, right?’ The caravan had been part of their family holidays for years. ‘I could give you a hand this weekend, if you like. The ceiling could do with replacing. And Charity reckons the mice have eaten in through one of the cupboards.’
‘Don’t ever go into sales, mate.’ Hamish chuckled. ‘Sure, let’s do it. Oh, hang on. I might be in the city this weekend.’ He glanced at his phone again, as though there’d be a reply to the message he hadn’t yet had the balls to send.
‘Hot date? Thought you’d given up on the swipe-rights?’
‘Still off the apps.’ He’d lately realised that it was impossible to articulate what he was looking for, particularly when he was no longer sure himself. It sounded pathetic to say that perhaps he was looking for someone to share his life,when he’d spent years dodging exactly that. ‘Jemma needs someone to go to a function with her.’
‘You?’ Lachlan said incredulously.
‘Thanks for the vote of confidence, mate. I don’t know if I’ll offer, yet. Seems like it’d be the right thing to do, given the circumstances, but it’s likely I’ll be setting myself up to get shot down.’
‘I thought Jemma rubbed you the wrong way and you were hellbent on steering clear?’
‘It’s not all on her,’ Hamish admitted. ‘She’s just different. Definitely uptight, I’m not taking that one back, but she’s … driven, I guess. Speaks her mind and doesn’t care who disagrees. Keeps me on my toes.’
‘Sounds like a fun evening,’ Lachlan said sarcastically, stacking his plate and mug in the sink. ‘What do you mean by “circumstances”, anyway? She scares off all the other contenders?’
‘Partly that,’ he said, with a flash of empathy for the handbag guy. He drained his coffee. It was lousy, but it was fuel. ‘Seems she’s picked up a stalker.’
‘For real?’
‘Pierce has moved her to the cottage.’
Lachlan scowled. ‘Maybe you shouldn’t get involved, man. I mean …’ He nodded at Hamish’s bad arm. ‘History.’
Hamish flexed his arm. ‘Not planning to lend any muscle, it’s more a case of having someone with her. Guess you’re headed out to Juz’s gig this weekend?’ At his brother’s nod, he reached for his wallet. ‘Toss my money in the kitty, then, will you? I might make it out there’—if Jemma rejected his offer—‘but just to be sure. And do me a favour?’
‘Sure.’
‘Keep on eye on Tara Paech. She’s a bit off the rails lately. Maybe watch Charlee Brennan, too,’ he added as an afterthought.
‘I’m old enough for that to sound all kinds of wrong. Might have to get Charity onto it, instead.’ Lachlan shoved his feet into beaten-up leather boots and reached for a beanie hanging on the coat rack near the back door. Despite the lie of the bright sun in a flawless blue sky beyond the kitchen window, the temperature would be lucky to hit double digits. ‘What’s going on?’
‘Not sure. Maybe nothing. But you’d be doing me a solid if you gave me a buzz if you noticed anything … unusual.’
Three hours later, they’d dodgied up the fence as best they could and Hamish was headed toward Murray Bridge to price out some new posts. He cranked up the radio; 5MU was the only station that locals listened to. The morning crew kicked off around the same time he did, though Jennie and Adam always sounded far more upbeat than he ever felt at that hour. Of course, they were getting paid to spruik unicorns and rainbows, sprinkle a little glitter on the day, rather than to plough fields, dag sheep and spread fertiliser.
Though it was chilly, he had both windows of the old ute wound down. Deefer, chained up on the tray of the vehicle, wasn’t the only one who liked to snuff the breeze.
The needle-leafed she-oaks and scrubby mallee lining the dirt track whipped by. Tantalising hints of spring, made visible by glittering flecks of mica in the dust, wafted into the cab. He grinned at the scent of the heavy pollen from the bright yellow capeweed. Even though it was an invasive pest and he and Lachlan would spend the next few months monitoring stock for signs of nitrate poisoning from consuming too much of the flat, hairy-leafed new growth, the smell evoked good memories. Mum had taught them to makedaisy chains from the black-centred flowers, their thumbnails stained green, palms yellow with pollen and skin tingling from the acidic juice.
The unmistakeable crushed-green scent of new growth trampled by wildlife fleetingly gave away the location of a hidden spring and he made a mental note; potentially a good spot to sink a bore to prop up their notoriously poor rainfall supply. Out here, even the dust smelled good, though his watering eyes suggested it would be smart to crank the windows back up till he hit the bitumen.
He slowed as he approached the turn onto the main road, the lesson from the previous year still fresh in his mind and in the scar on his arm. There were fewer native pines and some larger stringybarks along this stretch. On the left, kilometres of Peppertree Crossing’s fences stretched into the distance, taut and straight. Roni and Matt Krueger had been lucky—though, as Mum always insisted, fortune favoured the bold. The couple had fallen on their feet, inheritance-wise, but that didn’t mean they didn’t work bloody hard to hang on to what they had. What it did mean was that they could afford decent fences, unlike the one on the opposite side of the road. With a glimmer of satisfaction, he noted that it was in worse condition than the one at home. The posts were decades old, with some—clearly rough-hewn timber from trees felled while clearing the paddocks—dating back more than a century. An attempt to modernise, using cement posts, had been made on one stretch, but the concrete had eroded, exposing the oxidised iron core. The top wire of barb was down, a rust-coloured worm coiling along the edge of the paddock with the zigzag spacers—which should have tied the two lines of barb together to help them rebound after stock impact—scattered alongside. The odd star picket had been whacked in along the boundary line, the saggingface loosely wired to it, but the top of the steel posts glinted, giving away the fact that they’d been hammered into the soil, rather than seated with a picket driver. As a result, the posts bowed outward, dragging down the last of the fence.
