Flying the Coop (21 page)

‘Well?'

‘Maybe because
all
of your clothes look suitable for working in,' snapped Chris. ‘Whereas
none
of mine do.'

‘So, what you're saying is that you've got a wardrobe full of nice gear, while mine are all old and crappy? What does
that
say?'

‘Don't try and twist things! And
don't
take my clothes!'

Zoe looked at her curiously. ‘Another thing. Why d'you have a meat tenderiser next to your bed?'

‘A meat tenderiser?' repeated Chris, desperately trying to think of a good answer.

‘Yeah.'

‘Um, I don't know. Maybe I was using it as a hammer?'

‘You're weird.' Zoe shook her head rather sadly and then changed the subject abruptly. ‘Have you told Mac yet?'

‘Told Mac what?' asked the man himself, coming back into the cool room and picking up a stack of plastic egg trays from the corner. Geraldine followed and settled herself quietly into her position by the door, from where she watched proceedings with bright-eyed interest.

‘Oh, um . . .' Chris looked at him, wondering why she was finding it so hard to just tell him that they were changing the way the farm did business. After all, it was
her
farm now, so why did she feel like an errant child confessing some misdemeanour to her father?

‘Eggs are gonna scramble.' Mac nodded towards the washer and Chris whipped around to see a steady stream of eggs tumbling down the rollers towards the spinning tray, which now had very little room left.

‘Bugger!' Chris grabbed one of the plastic trays from Mac and started loading it quickly. As that one was filled, she grabbed another and soon was back in control.

‘So what're you gonna tell me?' asked Mac, taking the full trays from her and laying them out on the bench.

Chris decided to take a leaf out of Garth's book and go on the attack. ‘Why didn't you tell me that this farm used to sell eggs at the door? And that it's actually more lucrative to run it that way?'

‘You never asked.'

‘Oh. But don't you think you should have told me anyway?'

‘Why?'

‘Because it's important?' Chris started to get annoyed. ‘Because it might make the difference between us being able to stay here or not.'

‘Won't make no difference,' stated Mac shortly, taking another tray from her and placing it on the bench. ‘None whatsoever.'

Chris raised herself to her full height and glared across at him furiously. ‘What do you mean by that? Don't you think I can run this place, then?'

‘Nuh.'

‘I'll have you know that you're wrong.
Totally
wrong. I am one hundred per cent committed to making a success of this farm and have been from the start.
And
I'm going to use every method available to make sure I do so. Besides, if you're
so
sure that I'm going to stuff everything up, why have you been helping me so much?'

‘Part of th'contract,' said Mac laconically.

‘Well, you can
stuff
your contract where the sun –'

‘Eggs,' commented Mac, looking over her shoulder.

Chris whipped around just in time to see a freshly washed egg topple from the edge of the spinning plate, which was now overcrowded, and splatter onto the concrete floor. Cursing roundly, she managed to catch the next one, and the one after that, but it seemed that as quickly as she gathered them up,
more were being pushed off to plunge, lemming-style, towards obliteration. Then Zoe was beside her, wordlessly holding out the plastic tray for her mother to frantically fill and, before long, the situation was back under control again. Chris looked at the floor, which was now covered with splattered egg yolk and pieces of thin, fragile eggshell. With her temper now reined in, she was extremely reluctant to look across at Mac and see how entertained he had been.

‘Happens to th'best of us.'

Chris looked up with surprise. And met his piercing blue eyes, looking at her with the utmost seriousness.

‘Look, Red, it's not that I don't think you've got spunk. You '
ave
. You may be a bit clumsy –' he glanced at the floor with a brief flicker of amusement – ‘but you're gutsy. In fact, I reckon you've got balls just trying to take th'place on. But it's a
man's
job – not a woman's. Don't you reckon you'd be better off finding some nice fellow t'look after you and th'kids?'

‘Shit, Mac!' Zoe stopped feeding the machine to glare across at him. ‘That's a load of rubbish! Apart from the fact she's got balls, that is. But she doesn't
want
a “nice fellow”! And
anything
a guy can do, my mum can do better! You'll see!'

Chris glanced across at Zoe with astonishment. In fact, her surprise at Zoe's response – and the implied admiration of her mother, balls or no balls – drowned out her own angry reaction to Mac's chauvinism. After quickly checking the spinning plate to avoid a repetition of the earlier egg scramble, Chris looked back at Mac and spoke calmly.

‘Okay, listen. Zoe's right, I
don't
want a nice fellow to look after me – been there, done that. I'd rather do it myself, thanks. And if you'd said I was out of my depth because I've never done this sort of thing before, well, I might take more notice. But you
can't
say that I'm incapable just because I'm a woman. That makes no sense.'

Zoe clapped. ‘Here, here!'

‘Having said that, though, I admit we've got problems here. Which is why we're going to reintroduce direct selling, to try to boost income. We're going to sell straight from the door, and only the excess will go to the wholesalers. And we're going to give this venture
everything
we've got until Christmas. Then, if we're still not making ends meet, we'll sell. But we'll sell knowing that we've given it our best. And when we do, it
won't
be because I'm a woman. It'll be because I'm a . . . a –'

‘A failure,' said Zoe supportively and then, as if replaying what she'd just said, turned to her mother apologetically. ‘I didn't mean it like that. I just meant that it'd be because you
failed
, which you would've done whether or not you're a male. Which you're not.'

‘Ah – thanks.'

‘Mum!
Mum
!' called Michael loudly from the direction of the house.

‘Come out
here
if you want me!' Chris yelled back.

‘Look, out o'curiosity –' Mac, totally unfazed by the fact that he had just been verbally attacked by both Zoe and Chris, took out his tobacco pouch and started rolling another cigarette – ‘where did'ya get th'idea to sell at th'door? Was it –?'

‘Dot,' said Zoe. ‘Lucky
she's
on our side.'

‘Ah.'

‘
Mummy
!' Michael burst through the door and glanced around until he spotted his mother by the washer. ‘I was
trying
to tell you there's a woman in the house going through all your papers. She keeps talking to herself and she sounds real cross.'

‘That'd be Elsie.' Mac hung the unlit cigarette from his mouth and shoved the pouch away. ‘Elsie De Bries. She does the paperwork. Oh, and I promised her one of the older chooks a couple a weeks ago. She was after 'aving her own eggs.'

‘Fine.' Chris packed the eggs that she had in her hand into a tray and then stood back. ‘Can you two handle this? I need to go and let Mrs De Bries know that she's not needed anymore. I'll give her the hen as a goodbye present.'

‘You're a braver man than I am, Gunga Din,' said Mac obscurely. ‘Good luck.'

‘C'n I stay here?' asked Michael, spotting Geraldine by the door and making a beeline for her side. ‘I c'n help.'

‘Sure. Just don't get in the way.' Chris wiped her hands on her overalls and straightened her beanie while crossing the yard towards the office door. As she pulled off her gumboots on the veranda, she could hear a deep female voice muttering within.

‘Absolutely ridiculous. What a nerve! Oh, I'm not putting up with this. Not at all.'

‘Good morning.' Chris pulled the screen door open, determined to be polite despite the fact that the woman was already seated at the desk rifling through paperwork. She was the greyest person Chris had ever seen. Steel-grey hair, sallow grey-tinged skin, and even a grey skirt and grey woollen jumper to match. It was like encountering a particularly bland ghost.

‘Ah, yes. Good morning.' The woman fixed a pair of greyish eyes on Chris, looked her up and down, and then turned down the corners of her mouth. ‘
I
am Elsie De Bries.'

‘And
I
am Christin Beggs,' replied Chris, looking pointedly at the paperwork spread across the desk. ‘The owner of this farm.'

‘Yes.' Elsie De Bries picked up a biro and raised her eyebrows as she read the PROPERTY OF BEGGS EGGS label. Then she placed it neatly on the top of the desk, wiped her fingers fastidiously and turned back to Chris. ‘I expect that Mr Mackaway will have told you that I do the paperwork here? Every Saturday?'

‘About that . . .' Chris had fully intended to ease gently into the explanation that she was no longer needed, but found herself in total agreement with Dot – the woman
was
a bitch. And if there really was some sort of evil portal in here, she was probably more than familiar with it. Chris wanted her out of here quickly.

‘About this –' Elsie De Bries held up a sheath of invoices that Chris had painstakingly completed the previous night – ‘this is
not
the way I do things. And I'm afraid I must insist on total jurisdiction within this office. And that includes children.' She put the invoices down and picked up one of Michael's matchbox cars instead, holding it in the air as Exhibit B. ‘
No
children.'

Chris felt her temper slipping. ‘Well,
that
may be a problem.'

‘And why's that?'

‘Because I
have
children. Two of them. And they're welcome anywhere within this house. Do you know why?' Chris paused and looked at her enquiringly. ‘Well, I'll tell you why. Because it's
my
house. Not yours –
mine
. Is that clear?'

‘Perfectly clear.' Elsie De Bries dropped the matchbox car on top of the invoices and then wiped her fingers again. ‘But unacceptable.'

‘
What
?' Chris stared at the woman in astonishment. ‘That's it. You're fired.'

‘Don't be ridiculous. You'd never be able to manage this without me.'

‘Just watch me.'

‘Besides –' Elsie stared at her with flinty eyes – ‘you can't let me go without at least four weeks' notice. And a good reason. Otherwise I'll sue you.'

‘You'll
what
?' Chris looked at the grey woman and saw red. ‘If you don't get yourself out of my house in the next two minutes, I'll sue
you
. For unlawful entry. Because I
don't
have a contract
with you, and I
don't
have to give you any notice. In fact, I strongly suspect that you've been getting paid under the table for however many years you've been haunting this joint. And
that
, in case you're not aware, is illegal. So unless you want me to make a couple of phone calls, lady, you'd better get moving.'

Elsie De Bries sat motionless for a few seconds after Chris stopped speaking. Then, very slowly, she rose from the chair, smoothed down her skirt and picked up a steel-grey leather handbag from underneath the desk. After adjusting the handbag to hang precisely from the crook of her elbow, she gave Chris a measured – and extremely baleful – look and walked past her and into the kitchen with her head held high. Chris followed her at a distance because, even though she was still shaking with anger inside and desperately needed to sit down, she didn't put it past the woman to break something on her way out. Like one of the kids.

Through the kitchen they walked, as if playing a silent version of follow-the-leader, and down the passage to the front door. There, Elsie paused and turned to face the hall mirror, examining herself for a minute or so before giving Chris another narrow glance. Having had more than enough, Chris moved past her and opened the front door meaningfully.

‘You haven't heard the last of me,' stated Elsie De Bries in a forbidding tone of voice as she passed through the doorway and onto the veranda without looking back.

‘Who's been watching a few too many movies, then?' called Chris after her before slamming the door shut. Then she leant with her back against the door and took a couple of deep breaths. Christ Almighty, what a nasty piece of work. How on earth had Mac put up with her for so many years? No wonder he'd wished her luck when she'd said she was letting the woman go. But, then again, he could have warned her. Chris shook her head in amazement.

After a few minutes, the nervous, sick feeling that Chris always got after a confrontation started to dissipate and she put her fingers up to smooth out her frown lines. Just then the doorbell sounded shrilly by her left ear and she jumped, jamming a finger into one of her eyes. At the same time, her heart shot into overdrive as the sickening feeling immediately returned. The woman was back. Perhaps with ammunition.

The doorbell sounded again and Chris turned to stare at the door, wondering if she should ring the police. Or get help. Or maybe a large knife. But instead, she took another deep breath and then stood on tiptoe to peer through the peephole. And there, on the veranda, strangely magnified within the circular brass frame, stood a brunette of about her own age. By her side stood a slim, blonde teenage girl and a pair of brown leather suitcases. As Chris stared, not quite believing what she was seeing, the duo turned to look at each other and then the woman reached out a finger to press the doorbell once more. But before she could make contact, Chris recovered enough to throw open the door and then throw open her arms.