‘Your kind and sweet nature.’ His sparkly green eyes stared down at her. ‘They’re awesome.’
‘How embarrassing,’ she said into her hands.
Matthew shook her from her slump. ‘Not at all embarrassing.’ His eyes softened. ‘It’s just you.’
Sarah dropped her head to his shoulder and they sat again in momentary silence. ‘I miss them so much already.’
‘Talk to them every day if you need to.’
‘No. Things will get better. We just need to settle in. We’re going to be busy enough. Work will distract me.’ She gave his forearm another pat. ‘I’m making a cuppa. Want one?’
‘Yeah, why not?’
Sarah left their room and made her way to the kitchen. While waiting for the saucepan to boil, she received a message from Sandra in their private chat:I love him.
Sarah gave a short exhale and her face bloomed in a radiant smile as she replied:He’s lovely.
Enjoy each other. Go slow. It’s not a race to be won.
What’s not a race, Mum?
Love, of course, sweetheart.
Sarah’s smile suddenly receded.Who said anything about love?
‘I want to know more about Sarah and Grammy,’ Matthew said as they enjoyed their tea at the outdoor setting in the rear courtyard.
A nostalgic contentedness appeared across Sarah’s face. ‘She was just the most wonderful woman, Matthew. I spent so much of my childhood with her. Mum and Dad have a huge property, livestock, orchards, the apiary, then just masses of open land. Their house is set up on this ridge that overlooks it all, and Grammy and Pa lived in the house next to ours.’
‘On the land?’
‘Yes. Like neighbours. There was just no fence.’ She picked at the bowl of grapes between them. ‘Mum, Dad and Pa would spend long days on the land doing all this heavy manual labour. They had farming help, too, when the seasons required it. But Grammy didn’t have it in her for manual labour.’ Her eyes hit the cup of tea which she held nestled in her palm. ‘She’d had an accident many years earlier. A tractor. Or ride-on mower. One of the two. I was a baby when it happened. She sustained fairly major injuries, and never regained her physical strength and the confidence to get back out there.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that.’
‘She would run both households and looked after me when Mum wasn’t able to. And when I was school-aged, she would come and collect me from the bus stop on her duck egg blue bicycle and dink me home.’ She smiled. ‘Those were such fun times.’
‘Ah, so is that why you wanted to buy your bike?’
‘Yes. I couldn’t leave it there. Like a sign from the heavens.’ She popped another grape in her mouth. ‘Grammy was always busy. Something was always cooking or baking or needed to be peeled, chopped and canned. It was always an adventure with her. I remember requesting scones for an afternoon snack one day. That involved milking the cows and churning the butter, all before we could think about actually making them.’
‘No wonder you’re so resourceful and clever. You learned from a master.’
‘I really did. Nothing ever went to waste. We would bottle fruit, pickle vegetables, make jams, relishes, sauces. You name it! But Grammy, for all her strengths, had one terrible flaw.’
‘Which was?’
‘She was the world’s worst loser! She had such a reputation at the Rural New South Wales Women’s Association too. The other ladies knew not to cross her.’
Matthew laughed. ‘To the level of sabotage kind of sore loser?’
‘Not quite. But I reckon it would’ve crossed her mind. I guess I get my fieriness from her.’
He fiddled with a grape stalk. ‘Of all the things she used to make, what was your favourite?’
‘The sourdough. Hands down. It was like magic, Matthew. I never understood the process at the time because I was too young, but seeing the bubbling starter, watching it become part of a new loaf . . . The kneading. God, I loved the kneading. She would stand behind me – I’d be propped up at the kitchen bench on a stool, mind you – and we’d knead in tandem. It was just the best. And then, when the bread was done, out came the jam!’
Matthew watched as her face blossomed. ‘What did she make? Just the prize-winning strawberry of ’92?’
