Derisive laughter echoed inside Lisa’s head. Scott was perched on a bar stool, relishing his role as centre of attention at the pub. Throwing back his handsome head, he spread his giant hands in imitation of the crazy Yank with false teeth who’d attacked him with a broomstick. The cackling grew louder, hysterical. Lisa was the laughing stock of Castlemaine. Sweating with embarrassment, she jolted awake. Shafts of grey light filtered through the curtains. She ran a finger over her mouthguard and coaxed it out into its case. As she excavated the earplugs, the laughter started up again. Kookaburras.
It hadn’t been a bad night. With a chair jammed under the back door, she’d felt passably safe. Her bedding smelt of fresh grass after being aired all day. The stale smell of her bedroom was more comforting than off-putting. And the ghost, if there was one, had found better things to do.
Scott had promised to show up first thing. That could mean six a.m. in country terms. Lisa sprang out of bed and pushed the curtains open with the backs of her hands. New curtains were high on the agenda. Flinging open the French doors, she stepped on to the balcony. The sun was still dozing in the hills under a clear lavender sky. The valley sprawled before her like some prehistoric landscape waiting to stir with life.
But there was no time to linger. This time, Scott wasn’t going to catch her out. She hurried back inside to shower and put on khaki trousers and a blue and white check shirt. Her hair was combed, makeup minimal. Elastic-sided boots completed the look: she was only an Akubra hat away from being Crocodile Dundee.
By 5.45 she was downstairs shaking muesli into a bowl. It crunched like gravel against her teeth. She’d need to find a dentist soon, and a doctor to keep up her annual checks.
An hour later he hadn’t showed. It was still early and there was plenty to do, opening boxes and arranging the kitchen chairs at tasteful angles. She was seriously short of furniture. Now the sofa was on the veranda, there was nowhere to sit in Alexander’s room except the floor. Part of her was dreading seeing Scott again. The other part, in fact most of her, was looking forward to it.
At 8.30, she checked her phone. Maybe he’d been held up. Or, at 9.30, had an accident. Around ten, a cloud of dust hurtled down the road. Her jaw tensed. The truck went straight past her gate. By 10.30, she was annoyed. The least he could do was come back and fix the lock he’d broken. By noon she was furious, not because he was obliged to turn up, but because he’d just proved himself to be like every other man on earth.
Hot chocolate wasn’t part of Lisa’s latest diet, but not everyone said it was bad for you. Chocolate could be mood-enhancing and an antioxidant, which had to be good for a woman in her situation. After heating a mug of full-cream milk, she shovelled in a mountain of what claimed to be the finest Belgian chocolate powder. Then she toasted two slices of bread, suffocated them with raspberry jam and carried it all upstairs to her study.
She switched on her computer. The screen emitted its lifeless glow. She tried to tap into Emily Brontë’s world, but her heroine refused to respond. The toast vanished with depressing speed. So did the hot chocolate. Just as she was reminding herself to be one of those people who stop for lunch instead of eating at their desks, the door knocker crashed against the front door.
So, he’d finally deigned to show his face. She checked Portia’s Facebook page. Portia had been to, and Liked, a zombie musical.
Scott deserved to wait. The knocker hammered again.
She adjusted the collar of her shirt and strolled downstairs.
‘You took your time,’ she said, opening the door.
A turtle in white overalls looked up at her through rheumy eyes. ‘Ron Sotheby, Grey Army,’ he whistled through ill-fitting teeth. ‘Scottie told us to drop by. He said you needed a quote.’
Behind Ron were two other men in paint-spotted overalls. Though the years had put their bodies through the wringer, their eyes were bright with curiosity.
So sending this motley crew was Scott’s way of apologising for not showing up.
‘Oh! Come in.’
‘This is Ken.’ Ron waved a hand at a man with a mane of white hair and a nose like a turnip. ‘Electrics and plumbing. He’s got a dodgy knee but he’s pretty good.’
‘And I’m Doug.’ Ron and Ken’s bearded accomplice was a dead ringer for Santa Claus. ‘Retired carpenter, emphysema.’
‘And there’s nothing wrong with me long as I remember my heart pills,’ Ron added.
She beckoned them into the kitchen and settled them around the table. Ron peered hopefully at the cupboards as she put on the kettle.
‘Sorry,’ she said, taking out a packet of Anzac biscuits. ‘This is all I’ve got.’ She shook the contents onto a plate.
Ron accepted a biscuit with the dignity of an athlete who’d won silver when he really deserved gold. ‘So what can we do you for?’
‘I’d like to start with painting the kitchen,’ she said. ‘Then maybe expose the flagstone floor.’
The air was heavy with caution. It was a trial marriage of sorts. If both sides assumed the best of each other, the relationship might work. Alternatively, it could end up in resentment and tears.
Tempting as it was to mention the awful upstairs bathroom, the floorboards that needed sanding and every other surface in the house thirsting for three coats of paint (not to mention broken windows and shutters), she said nothing more. She didn’t want to give them simultaneous heart attacks.
The Grey Army dunked their biscuits and rolled appraising eyes over the kitchen. Like a trio of magistrates, they assessed its less admirable attributes. After two more biscuits and a lot of small talk, Ron announced their hourly rate, not counting lunch and morning-tea breaks. It seemed reasonable.
‘Oh, and if you could take a look at the roof slates and the back door lock, I’d be grateful,’ she added.
Ken said that shouldn’t be a problem. They agreed to start work the day after next. That, Ron said, would give her time to get some colour cards from the paint shop and do some baking.
The next morning, the sky was bright and plastic blue. After showering and brushing her teeth, Lisa checked her emails and the weather forecast. A row of suns yellow as egg yolks ran across her screen. If the weather man knew anything, her bedding was safe for the next few nights.
The prospect of going to town was almost exciting. But what to wear? Her shirt from yesterday was in the wash, along with most of her other Aussie outfits. She rummaged through her New York clothes and pulled out a navy polo and skirt. Standing in front of the mirror, she stabbed pearl studs in her lobes. She was overdressed by local standards, but she had no choice. After raking a comb through her hair, she collected her handbag and wandered downstairs.
When she opened the front door, she was startled to encounter Atlas in work shorts, his hand raised to reach the knocker. The hairs on his copper legs gleamed in the sunlight, and the sunglasses he wore shoved back on his head glinted.
Scott flashed a row of near-perfect teeth. ‘Off to the CWA?’ he asked.
‘What’s that?’
‘Country Women’s Association. They dress like that. And they do good works.’
Rude. Sexist, too.
He offered no explanation for his disappearance. Instead, he scratched his coarse green jumper, scuffed his boots and waited to be asked inside. She wasn’t going to let him get away with it.
‘What happened?’
He blinked like a stag caught in headlights. ‘Oh, you mean yesterday?’ His face lit up with a tender smile. ‘I took Todd river-rafting. It was a great day for it.’
Lisa stifled annoyance. He’d gone gallivanting off with his kid when, for all he knew, burglars could have been strolling through her back door, and her roof was collapsing on top of her.
‘I’ll get my gear from the ute,’ he said, ambling away.
Now he’d decided to show up, she felt obliged to stay in the house. She sighed, climbed the stairs to her study and opened the Emily file.
Anxious to impress the talented young author, the earl put on a magnificent feast in his dining hall . . .
An electric drill buzzed to life in the kitchen.
The earl’s complexion deepened with concern when he noticed that Emily hadn’t touched the pheasant on her plate. He’d shot it with his own gun and Cook had spent hours preparing and roasting it to perfection. Yet when he enquired after her health, Emily snapped back that she was perfectly well, thank you . . .
Lisa’s concentration was interrupted by the thud of boots stomping across the roof over her head. She logged off and went downstairs to make instant coffee. He probably expected her to call out and invite him to join her.
She laid out a tray with the Happy Holidays mug, a jug of milk and a bowl of sugar. Taking a pencil from the window ledge, she scribbled a note on a scrap of paper: ‘Gone to town. Back late. Help yourself. Please leave your invoice. Thanks, L.’
The tray seemed a miserly offering—especially with the note slid under the coffee jar. She hunted through the cupboards and discovered the packet of chocolate macaroons she’d hidden from herself. She tore it open at one end and laid it next to the sugar bowl.
It was a relief to get away from him. After the supermarket and the paint shop, she went to Togs for quiche and a latte. It seemed a lifetime since she and Maxine had sat at the same table over lunch.
When she arrived back at the old house, there was no sign of Scott or his ute. The kitchen tray seemed untouched. On closer inspection, the milk jug and sugar bowl were empty. The mug had been rinsed and put back where she’d left it. The packet of macaroons appeared pristine—until she peered inside. A solitary biscuit was left.
Under the coffee jar large, childlike letters had been scrawled on the back of her note. ‘Roof will need replacing one day but OK for now. Call if you need anything. S.’ A shiny brass key lay next to the note. She took it to the back door. It slid neatly into the new lock he’d fitted.
There was no need to see him again, thank goodness.