Flying the Coop (27 page)

As Chris and Jenny watched curiously, both car doors opened simultaneously, with Mac climbing out from the driver's side and another man from the passenger side. The stranger, uncannily like Mac in both age and appearance, did not even glance in their direction. Instead, smiling broadly, he flung both arms out and headed straight over towards Dot, who had paused in her weeding to observe their arrival.

‘If it isn't Dorrie!'

Dot stared at the stranger open-mouthed for a moment and then beamed with recognition. ‘Ken! Goodness gracious!' She dropped her garden fork and got awkwardly to her feet before hugging him enthusiastically. ‘Where on earth did
you
spring from?'

‘Just down from 'orsham to visit the ole bloke for a bit.' Ken, with his hands still on Dot's ample waist, took a step back to examine her. ‘And aren't
you
a sight for sore eyes! But I thought you weren't livin' round 'ere anymore?'

‘Who on earth told you that?' asked Dot with surprise. The pair looked at each other for a split second and then, at exactly the same time, both turned to stare at Mac, who was standing by the ute with one hand still on the car door. And from the way he regarded them expressionlessly, Chris guessed he was not as impressed with the reunion as they were.

‘You bugger,' said Ken, shaking his head at Mac. ‘You 'aven't changed, 'ave you?'

‘And he never will,' added Dot, looking at Mac for a long minute before dismissing him. ‘Never mind. Let me introduce you round, Ken love.'

With one of Ken's arms encircling her waist, Dot brought him across to Chris and Jenny. Michael, who had been using his matchbox cars to make roads in the garden bed by the veranda, jumped up and followed.

‘Chris, Jenny – this is my brother-in-law, Ken, from Horsham.'

‘Hi,' said Jenny.

‘Hello.' Chris looked down at her green-splattered hands. ‘I'd shake your hand but . . .'

‘Never mind.' Ken clapped her on the shoulder boisterously. ‘So
you're
the spunky little lass I've heard about, hey?'

‘I am?'

‘Oh, and this is Michael.' Dot gestured towards Michael, who had bobbed down by the ute and was examining the rich blackness of its tyres.

‘G'day, mate.' Ken finally let go of Dot to crouch beside Michael. ‘D'you like cars, then?'

‘Yeah,' breathed Michael, standing up and still gazing at the car.

‘Good-o.' Ken ruffled his hair and then turned back to Dot. ‘Can't get over meetin' you here!'

‘Where else would she be?' muttered Jenny to Chris, who stifled a grin.

‘That ole bugger told me you moved up Albury way a few years back. Probably scared I'd come down and pay you a visit, hey?'

‘Probably.' Dot glanced across at Mac and pursed her lips.

‘Oh well, just means we've got even more to catch up on.' Ken took Dot by the arm and ushered her away from the ute – and his brother. ‘So you need to come and fill me in on what you've bin up to.'

Chris watched them walk back over towards the side fence curiously. There was obviously a great deal of affection
between the two. She turned back to Mac to see his reaction but he was still watching the pair without any discernible expression – which spoke volumes in itself.

‘So
this
is Mac?' asked Jenny in a whisper. ‘I bet you have trouble concentrating when
he
wanders around flexing his biceps while wearing nothing but a pair of bib and brace overalls.'

Chris looked at her blankly for a few seconds before remembering her boasts about the hunky owner back before she had even moved to the farm. It almost seemed like another lifetime ago. She shook her head ruefully

‘So, are you going to introduce me?' hissed Jenny. ‘Or did you want to keep him all to yourself?'

‘Ha, ha.' Chris took a step forward to get Mac's attention. ‘Mac, this is my friend Jenny from Queensland. She's going to be staying for a week or so.'

‘Pleased to meet you,' said Mac unsmilingly.

‘Likewise.'

‘Listen, Red –' Mac turned back to Chris – ‘you might need to get th'vet out for Ergo. I reckon something's wrong with his eyes. They look a bit inflamed.'

‘Oh.'

‘Yeah. You wanna watch that. Worth 'is weight in gold, Ergo is.'

Chris glanced around frantically for a change in subject, her gaze finally settling on her son, who was running a hand gently down the side of the ute. ‘Michael, don't touch!'

‘He's right.' Mac nodded at Michael. ‘You go ahead, mate. And if you want, I'll take you for a drive in a tick. If it's okay with y'mum, that is.'

‘Mum!' Michael leapt across to her, his eyes wide. ‘
Please
?'

‘It's fine with me,' Chris nodded. ‘Thanks, Mac, that's nice of you. Is the car new?'

‘One week.' Mac glanced quickly across at where his brother and Dot were chatting.

‘Um, lovely. And you brought it around here to show us?'

‘What?' Mac gave her a look that quite clearly questioned her sanity. ‘Of course not. I brought you th'cupboard.' He waved towards the tray, where a dilapidated piece of furniture lay on its back. ‘For th'eggs.'

‘Oh. Thanks.'

Mac seemed slightly offended by her lack of enthusiasm. ‘It's th'proper one, from th'veranda. Fully insulated. Here, we'll get it down. Ken! Over here!'

Ken came back across the yard with the same loping stride that Chris had become accustomed to with Mac. Dot followed him, looking much like the cat that had just received the proverbial cream. While he waited for his brother, Mac opened the tailgate and then clambered up onto the ute tray, positioning himself at one end of the cupboard. Then, as Ken wordlessly grabbed the other end, they lifted it and manoeuvred it off the car and onto the driveway. Upright, it looked even worse. About six foot tall with flaky white paint and a single door that, as Chris watched, swung open loosely to reveal an unevenly shelved interior and thick padded insulation.

‘There y'go!' Mac, still standing on the ute tray, beamed at Chris proudly. ‘But you can't use it on days like today, you know. Too damn 'ot.'

‘Thanks, Mac.' Chris mustered up more enthusiasm. ‘I really mean it – thanks.'

‘It'll come up grand with a lick o' paint.' Ken gave it a nod of approval and then turned back to Dot. ‘Now, where were we up to?'

‘We've gotta go.' Mac glared at him as he stepped down from the ute tray and thrust the tailgate back into position. ‘Now.'

‘What about me?' asked Michael in a small voice. ‘And my ride?'

‘I haven't forgotten you, mate.' Mac opened the passenger door and gestured to Michael. ‘C'mon, 'op in. You too, Ken.'

‘But if you're taking the lad for a spin, why don't I just –'

‘Get in,' said Mac shortly.

Chris thanked Mac again as he lowered himself into the driver's seat. Then, with much waving – especially from Michael, who sat sandwiched between the two men in the front – the ute took off down the driveway with a liberal spitting of gravel. Chris watched it turn into Zoello Road and then disappear around the corner.

Jenny, who was staring at the old cupboard in disbelief, put out a finger and flaked off a large section of white paint. ‘Lucky you.'

‘She
is
lucky.' Dot sounded a bit stung. ‘This is the cupboard we used t'have on the veranda for the eggs. It's a cooler, you know.'

‘Oh. Excellent.'

‘He must've taken it with him when he went,' continued Dot, looking at Chris. ‘You know what this means, don't you? He's come on board. For support.'

‘Does it?' Chris looked at the cupboard through new eyes. ‘That's great!'

‘Have you got a wire brush?' asked Jenny, flaking off yet more paint.

‘In the laundry. Why?'

‘Because I'm going to fix this thing up.' Jenny wiped her hands on her shorts. ‘It'll be my day's project. That way I can take my time. You can do your own damn fence.'

‘Guess what?' asked Dot in a very smug tone of voice.

‘You've got a date?'

Jenny grinned at Dot's look of surprise.

‘Yes – but how did you know?'

‘One look at Ken's face and you could see what he was after. What's the story?'

‘There's no
story
.' Dot visibly preened. ‘Just two old friends catching up, that's all.'

‘Tell that to Mac,' commented Chris. ‘I don't think he would've brought the cupboard over if he'd known you were here.'

‘Probably not.' Dot smiled at the thought. ‘Stupid old bugger. Excuse my French.'

‘Was there something between you two?'

‘Of course not!' Dot looked affronted. ‘I'm married!'

‘Separated,' corrected Chris. ‘For fifteen years.'

‘And Ken would
like
there to be something, wouldn't he?' Jenny pushed her sunglasses to the end of her nose and then, still holding them, regarded Dot over the top. ‘And what's the harm in a little date between old friends, anyway?
Especially
when it's going to annoy Mac thoroughly.'

‘I don't know what you're talking about.' Dot tried to look innocent, and failed miserably. So instead she grinned, suddenly looking half her age. ‘A girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do. Now, how about some lunch?'

‘Maybe just a coffee,' said Jenny with a grimace, shoving her sunglasses back up.

‘Ditto,' agreed Chris.

‘Righto.' Dot, humming happily, took the veranda steps back up into the house. Chris turned to Jenny curiously.

‘Do you think she wants him back?'

‘Who, Ken?'

‘No, you idiot – Mac.'

‘Either wants him back or wants to make him suffer.' Jenny smiled without humour. ‘One of the two.'

‘Hmm.'

‘I'm going to get that wire brush.' Jenny flaked one last piece of paint off the cupboard and then followed Dot inside, leaving Chris standing by herself. She opened the cupboard
door fully and gazed inside at the uneven shelves, several of which were still covered with the remains of some yellow floral Contact. She smiled to herself and suddenly realised that, as nauseous and fragile as she still felt, something had happened that made her feel warm. And it wasn't just the rapidly increasing intensity of the sun. No, it was Dot, with her sudden youthful glow, and Jenny, with her companionable support, and Mac –
especially
Mac – going out of his way to bring this dreadfully ugly piece of old furniture over because he thought it might be needed. Even though he had little faith in her ability to manage the farm, or pull the new scheme off, he had nevertheless done what he could to help. Chris ran her hand down the side of the cupboard, watched a myriad of minuscule paint flakes float to the ground – and felt good.

From:
Neil Mackaway

Date:
Sunday, 29th October 2006. 9.31AM

To:
Christin Beggs

Subject:
Re: Christmas?

Dear Mum,

What a surprise! When did you learn to use a computer? And who is Christin Beggs? As for Dad, honestly I had no idea he was planning to visit me for Christmas. I've just rung him to find out what's going on and he said it was supposed to be a surprise. He and Uncle Ken are going to take off as soon as he finishes the handover on the farm and travel around for a bit and then finish up here for Christmas. Did you know Dad's bought a new ute? Anyway, since he's never come up here before, I can't really say no. Why can't you come up too? Surely the two of you can get on together for a week or so.

From:
Christin Beggs

Date:
Sunday, 29th October 2006. 9.06PM

To:
Neil Mackaway

Subject:
Re: Re: Christmas

Hello – my name is Christin Beggs and it was my computer that your mother used yesterday to email you. I'm the new owner of your father's farm. I've printed out your email and will give it to your mother in the morning.

Chris

From:
Neil Mackaway

Date:
Sunday, 29th October 2006. 10.01PM

To:
Christin Beggs

Subject:
Re: Re: Re: Christmas

Hi Christin, don't worry about passing on the email as I've just rung my mother and explained the situation. She spoke very highly of you and seems to be really enjoying your family's company, so thanks for making her feel so welcome. Congratulations on your purchase of the farm. From my point of view, I'm glad that the place has been sold to someone intent on making a go of it rather than a mob of developers. Hope my father's been treating you well with the farm handover.

Yours, Neil Mackaway

A
ny expectations that the new system would reap immediate miracles were well and truly dashed within days. Despite a high level of anticipation, Monday reaped not one single sale. Then Tuesday brought just one purchaser to the door, a middle-aged man whose thick pelt of dark hair was eminently set off by his off-white singlet and stubbies-style shorts. He bought two dozen eggs. On Wednesday, they doubled sales by selling one dozen to an elderly couple who came walking across from the estate, another dozen to a woman in full netball gear, and two dozen to a rather harried young mother who had pulled into the driveway in a 4WD full of wailing children. However, hopes of a steady escalation were spoilt on Thursday, on which no sales were made at all. Then, on Friday, they were right back to the beginning, with only the hirsute customer, still in his singlet and stubbies, making an appearance. For another two dozen.

This was despite Jenny having spent the better part of Tuesday walking the main street of Healesville and putting up flyers in all of the businesses that would have them. She had thrown herself into the quest to make the farm viable with considerable gusto needing, perhaps, something to soak up her energy and take her mind off her marital predicament.
Regardless of Jenny's motivation, Chris was thoroughly enjoying both her company and her support. Suddenly the work did not seem so time-consuming, nor the problems so overpowering.

Lauren also offered a surprising amount of help for a teenager. Although she was never up in time for the morning egg collection, she helped out every afternoon, as well as doing a multitude of other chores, like sweeping the veranda, feeding the cat, vacuuming, washing, and even helping Michael with his homework. The only thing she
didn't
do was make any inroads into her relationship with Zoe. And Chris had to admit that it was Zoe's fault. She avoided the other girl whenever possible, rarely spoke to her unless she had no choice, and spent most of her spare time either in her room or outside. One plus regarding Zoe, though, was that she seemed to have settled into her new school fairly well. For her. Certainly there had been no complaints, no sick stomachs in the morning, and no phone calls from the school asking Chris in for a ‘chat'.

Dot had also enjoyed a good week. Dressed up to the nines, she departed for her ‘date' on Tuesday evening – and then again on Wednesday, and announced plans for yet another outing on Friday evening. Each day after her stint at the community centre, she dropped in to update Jenny and Chris on the latest developments, her conversations littered liberally with ‘Ken this' and ‘Ken that'. But any idea that she was actually serious about Ken were dissipated by her timing. She usually happened to appear when Mac was in the vicinity, and once even came over to model a new dress as he was having a cup of tea in the kitchen. All week Chris had been dying to ask him what he thought of these developments, but each time his morose face had dissuaded her. One thing was perfectly clear – he was not a happy camper.

Perhaps the oddest thing that happened during the week was that Chris appeared to have found a new pen-pal. From the relatively formal communication she'd exchanged with Dot's son on the weekend had transpired several low-key, friendly emails that she was finding herself quite looking forward to. Neil, who worked for a large agricultural firm in Sydney, appeared to be a very pleasant guy. Much of their conversation revolved around the farm, which he naturally knew quite well, and Chris was growing rather appreciative of this extra, and unexpected, source of knowledge.

The farm itself was looking great. With a freshly pruned front yard, and the side fence painted a uniform dark green, it was a vast improvement on what it had been. On the veranda by the front door stood the now Brunswick green cupboard, although it was yet to house any actual eggs as the weather had been too warm. And, on the newly painted fence, Jenny had spent Monday outlining and then painting
Beggs Eggs
in huge, crimson lettering, and underneath:
Genuine free-range eggs
–
door sales welcome
in buttercup yellow. Then, flushed with artistic drive, she had painted up three brightly coloured signs – one for the front door, one for the cooler-cupboard, and one for the letterbox, each bearing instructions for prospective customers.

The problem was that the vast majority of those prospective customers remained just that. And exactly how to transform them into
actual
customers occupied much of their conversation. Early Friday evening found Chris standing in the kitchen, staring at the pile of egg cartons on the kitchen table, each with the
Beggs Eggs
sticker and each unsold. Which meant that, just like on the previous four days, they would have to be taken out to the shed and put back into blank cartons for the wholesalers.

Chris sighed. She was not so much upset for herself, because she'd always had reservations, but she knew that
everyone else was taking the disappointment hard. And they had all, including the kids, put in
so
much work. Leaving three cartons on the table just in case, Chris started loading the rest into the bottom half of the cyn-bin, which had turned out to be the perfect size for this task. When she finished, she hefted it up and took it out through the office. But when she reached a hand out awkwardly to open the screen door, Chris paused as she noticed Mac approaching from the side door of the barn, carrying the metal bucket again. Geraldine trotted happily beside him. Instead of turning towards the house, however, they continued straight on across the garden and out of sight.

Recalling his similar action of the previous week, Chris quickly put the bin full of egg cartons down and, pressing her face against the screen door, peered to the side to see where he'd gone. From this position, she could see the back of his brown-checked shirt and corduroys as he stood by Dot's fence, but she couldn't see what he was doing. She leant even closer, straining to gain the necessary inch or so – and suddenly the door swung open and she shot out. She stumbled onto her knees on the veranda and, rapidly regaining her balance, crawled quickly back inside through the still swinging screen door. Then she reached up and, as quietly as possible, pulled the door closed and made sure it latched. Still on her now throbbing knees, she took a deep breath to calm the rapid pace of her heart and then stood up, praying that her brief misfortune had gone unnoticed.

Mac was now walking away from the fence, the bucket still hanging by his side. Geraldine had raced ahead and was already nearly at the barn. Chris stood to the side, confident that her black t-shirt would render her close to invisible through the mesh, and watched him as he crossed back over the garden and past the back door without even glancing in her direction.
Enormously relieved, she let out her breath in a controlled whoosh.

‘G'day there, Red.'

Chris's mouth dropped open and she stared after him in amazement. Without turning, Mac continued over to the barn, where he opened the side door and, with Geraldine preceding him, disappeared from sight. Now feeling horribly embarrassed, Chris took a few steps backwards and sat down in the office chair that, fortunately, was exactly where it was supposed to be. She pulled up her cargo pants and examined her knees, which were quite red and flat-looking where they had hit the veranda.

‘Bloody hell.'

Chris waited until she saw Mac leave the barn, with Geraldine following, before she took the eggs over and deposited them in the washroom. Then she spent ten minutes transferring all the eggs to the wholesaler's cartons and stacking the now empty
Beggs Eggs
boxes up ready for use tomorrow. When that was all done, Chris hugged the now empty bin against her chest and wandered back over to the house, still pondering the mystery of Mac and the silver bucket. As she reached her back steps, she hesitated, glancing over towards Dot's fence, and decided to spend a few minutes investigating. Accordingly she left the bin by the veranda steps and headed over to the gate amongst the rhododendrons.

The faint sound of Dot's voice enthusiastically singing ‘If I Was a Rich Man' from
Fiddler on the Roof
came floating out from her house. Chris paused as she was hit with a mental image of Dot accompanying the song with a Russian folk dance, the one where they squat with arms folded and bent knees, flicking their legs out one after the other. Chris's eyes widened and then she shook her head, resolutely clearing the image away. Instead she concentrated on the task at hand,
frowning as she tried to remember exactly where she had seen Mac standing. She stared at the ground along the fence, checking for footprints, but to her untrained eye, all the packed earth and patchy grass looked identical. Then she had a brain-wave. If she lined herself up with the screen door, on a severe angle, then she should be in the approximate position that Mac had been in when she fell through the door. Chris walked slowly along the fence until she reckoned she was in the right position, and then turned, pushing down the shrubbery against the fence for a better view. And there were Dot's chooks, all pecking happily at a generous scattering of grain on the ground.

He had been feeding them. Using the bucket to bring over grain, obviously on a regular basis, which meant that Dot must also have been aware of his assistance. Chris shook her head, puzzled. If they hated each other so much, why would they have such an arrangement in place? The chooks had by now slowed down in their feeding and, except for one that hung around the back looking apprehensive, were just pecking lethargically. The one at the rear, a skinny looking hen that Chris recognised as Costello, finally took a few tentative steps forward and began thrusting his head down to peck at the grain furthest away from the others.

Chris left them to it and, still shaking her head over her discovery, started across the yard. As she passed the old Hills hoist, she spotted a small pile of faecal pellets that looked identical to the ones left by her nocturnal trespasser a week or so ago. Still in investigative mode, Chris ignored her sore knees and bobbed down by the pile to search for clues. There were none. All she knew for certain was that the pellets were not from a dinosaur, as she still had Michael's fossilised example and they were nothing alike.

Having solved one mystery and determined to add to this
record, Chris dug around in her pocket for a tissue. She figured if she took a sample of the faeces, then she could surreptitiously place it near Mac at some stage and then casually point to it and enquire about its source. Unfortunately the only tissue in her pocket appeared to have been washed, with the pants, at some stage and was now a firmly moulded lump. Chris shoved it back in and looked around for inspiration, finally spotting one of Michael's matchbox cars near the fence. It was an old Model T Ford, complete with tray at the rear of the cabin. Perfect. Chris placed the car next to the pile of pellets and flicked the bits of dirt out of the tray to make room for her chosen specimen. Then she selected two small but firm twigs and, concentrating fiercely, used them to lever a pellet up and over towards the tray.

‘What on
earth
are you doing, love?'

Startled, Chris flicked the twigs together and the pellet shot up into the air and then hit the ground some distance away. She watched it land with a sense of resignation and then, still squatting, turned to face Dot, who was leaning against her gate dressed in a buttercup-yellow bathrobe and surrounded by several of her chooks. She glanced from the matchbox car to the pile by the Hills hoist and then back to Chris with bafflement.

‘Are you playing with
possum
poo, love?'

Chris looked at the pellets with delight. ‘
Am
I?'

‘You all right?' asked Dot, concerned. ‘Are you feeling well?'

‘Never better.' Chris stood, her knees making an unattractive creaking sound as she did so. ‘Listen, Dot, do possums also make a “tut, tut, tut” sound?'

‘They do when they're cornered.' Dot was still looking puzzled. ‘Why?'

‘Because the other night I heard something walking all over my veranda roof,' explained Chris happily. ‘And it was making
this “tut, tut” noise. I had
no
idea what it was but the next day, there was all this –' she paused to wave at the evidence on the ground – ‘
everywhere
. And I've been trying to find out what it was ever since!'

‘You should have asked, love,' Dot chided gently. ‘That's what I'm here for. And you know what it probably was? That cat of mine loves chasing the possums. He probably got one all riled up on your roof.'

‘You've got a cat?' asked Chris, as a suspicion occurred to her. ‘Ah, what does he look like?'

‘Big tom. Black with short hair. He comes and goes but he hasn't been around much lately. Some fool's probably feeding him.'

‘Really?' Chris made a mental note to get rid of the cat food in her cupboards. She opened her mouth to ask about Mac feeding the hens and then closed it again, feeling strangely embarrassed by her discovery, and what it said about their relationship.

‘Oh well, love, glad I solved your little mystery.' Dot heaved herself away from the fence and pulled her bathrobe firmly closed. ‘I'd better go get ready for my date.'

‘Have fun.' Chris watched her walk over towards her back door, telling Howard off roundly as she went. Mysteries were being solved left, right and centre. Possums! They had to be considerably less threatening than a psychopathic stranger with a fetish for spinning jennys. Much relieved, Chris kicked Michael's car away from the faeces and then headed inside, picking up her bin on the way. Back in the kitchen, she dumped the bin and put the kettle on. Shortly afterwards, just as she was taking two painkillers to dull the ache in her knees, Zoe, still dressed in her school uniform, came down the wooden stairs and regarded her darkly.

‘I'm calling a family conference,' she declared dramatically.
‘We need to come up with some more ideas to get the word out.'