Three elderly men lean on the bar of the Ballimore Hotel. A young couple are the only people in the lounge, but a reserved sign on a long narrow table suggests others are on their way. I wipe my boots on the mat and hang my oilskin next to a dripping umbrella. The carpet is faded and worn, but fiery logs, steepled high, burn brightly in the hearth. Jock Atherton, the ex-military man who came to my father’s funeral a month ago, pulls a beer for one of the regulars.
‘Cheers, mate.’
A few days after the funeral, I bumped into Jock at the general store. He proudly told me he’d bought the pub and was in the midst of moving here from Tamworth where—after resigning his commission and migrating from Scotland—he’d lived for the past ten years. Coming from a long line of publicans, he’d finally realised his dream of owning his own hotel and creating a home for his two young daughters. A few of the old-timers are suspicious of Jock’s ambitions to introduce craft beers, fine wines and a la carte dining to a country hotel, but they welcome Jock’s cheerfulness and enthusiasm, and we’re all relieved the pub will stay open.
‘Dr Cartwright,’ Jock says jovially, as he wipes his hands on his blue and white striped apron. ‘Thank you for getting here so quickly.’
As well as doing volunteer work at the Returned and Services League, Jock volunteers with wildlife rescue. When I pull up the sleeves of my sweater, the cuffs, still damp, stick to my skin.
‘I’ve come straight from work.’
‘At the Codys’ alpaca farm?’
‘How did you know that?’
‘I have not only a curious mind, but a talent for eavesdropping.’ He winks as he pushes through chest-height louvred swing doors. ‘I’ll take you to the invalid.’
A cobbled brick courtyard littered with kegs and tubs leads to a covered area, like a carport, which shelters a long timber bench topped with mismatched cages. A kookaburra, marked as a juvenile by the tan feathers on the side of his head and scalloped layers of tan and cream feathers on his chest, has his wings strapped to his body, but hops over leaf matter to the door of one of the cages. Keeping a close eye on Jock, he emits a low cackle and opens his beak.
‘Coming up!’ Jock produces a sliver of meat from a bar fridge, opens the cage and dangles the treat between two fingers. The bird grabs it, his throat working furiously to gulp it down.
‘The vet who set his wing told me the break has healed well,’ I say.
‘Surprisingly well, considering he was clipped by a car doing a hundred on the highway.’
The kookaburra takes another sliver of meat from Jock as I reach into the cage and scoop him up. His heartbeat thrums against my palm as I sit on a chair and unravel the bandage. The only indication of the injury are snapped and missing feathers and a ridge of raised scar tissue near the elbow joint. But when I extend the bird’s wing, the movement is only twenty per cent of what it should be.
‘He needs physiotherapy to get him back in the air again,’ I say.
Jock winces. ‘I’m afraid of pulling too hard.’
I focus on the bird’s heart rate as, a millimetre at a time, I extend his wing. ‘Can you offer him another piece of meat? He’s unlikely to eat if he’s uncomfortable.’
The kookaburra snatches the meat, so I continue to stretch and massage his wing. ‘It’s the surrounding tissue that needs loosening up.’
‘I can see the improvement already.’
‘Do this once or twice a day. When there’s more movement and less chance of him reinjuring his wing, we can let him stretch it out by himself.’
‘Jock!’ one of the wait staff calls. ‘Your seven o’clock booking is here. Want to say hello?’
Jock jumps to his feet, rubbing his hands together. ‘Ten guests, Prim. Things are looking up.’
‘You go in.’ I talk through a yawn. ‘I won’t be too much longer.’
‘Eat here tonight. On me. I should have offered earlier.’
‘Thank you, but I have to feed my animals.’ I glance at my boots and mud-splattered jeans. ‘And have a shower.’
‘In that case …’ He smiles broadly. ‘You’ll appreciate my takeaway offerings.’
My stomach rumbles as I re-examine the kookaburra’s wing. He turns his head, looking straight at me. ‘I guess you’re familiar with “Kookaburra Sits in the Old Gum Tree?” What about “Goodnight, Kookaburra?”’
I hear you, dear kookaburra, up in your tree,
Laughing and chortling your chorus to me.
The moon is up high, the stars are still bright,
Sleep now, dear kookaburra, till morning light.
‘Phoebe used to sing it when I couldn’t get to sleep. I think that’s how it went.’ When I release the kookaburra’s wing, he pulls it back to his body. ‘I haven’t heard it in such a—’
‘Prim.’ A footstep. Another. By the time I look up, Blake Sinclair, his dark hair damp, is barely a metre away. He’s renting the Coach House from the Oldfield sisters. The house is close to the town, so it’s not so surprising he might come to the pub but …
My heart thumps much too fast.
‘Dr … S … Sinclair.’
‘Blake.’ Cleanly shaven, he’s wearing a button-up white linen shirt, black jeans and lace-up shoes.
The chair next to me is in the exact same place as it was when Jock was here, but when he sits, Sinclair seems to be closer. He leans forward, forearms on his thighs.
‘Jock said you were out here.’
‘Have you been here before?’
‘A number of times in the past few weeks.’
‘Jock has … worked hard … with the refurbishments.’
‘We were introduced at your father’s funeral.’
‘You’re both from … Scotland.’
‘He’d read about me.’ I’m looking down but feel Sinclair’s gaze. ‘He knew of my family.’
‘In … in …’ I squeeze my eyes shut. Forget Scotland. ‘Edinburgh?’
‘In the Highlands.’
‘Oh.’
Sinclair turns in his chair. ‘May I?’ When I reposition the kookaburra, Sinclair feels along his wing and finds the scar tissue. His hands are gentle. ‘Jock said he needed your help.’
‘He’s … He’s …’ Forget scared. ‘Afraid of hurting him.’
‘You volunteer for this work?’
‘I’m on a wildlife rescue register.’
‘You didn’t get back to me.’ He speaks gruffly.
His voicemail was left a week ago: ‘Prim. Blake Sinclair. I hope you’re well. Please call.’
‘I couldn’t think … what … we’d have to talk about.’
‘As a result of your father’s death, you couldn’t change your schedule and you had to get home. Why didn’t you tell me that?’
‘It … wouldn’t have changed anything.’
‘You don’t care what I think of you, do you?’
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. So I hand him the bird like a parcel, before searching through Jock’s supplies. Bandage. Check. Tape. Check. Scissors. Check. When I reclaim the kookaburra, our fingers touch. My breath hitches and I swallow. Then I edge away.
‘Are you here for dinner?’
‘Yes.’
‘The reserved table? You’d better get back.’
‘I’m not in a hurry.’ He rerolls the bandage and hands it to me. Our fingers touch again. ‘Douglas Farquhar. Can we talk about the allegations you made against him?’
The kookaburra sits quietly as I secure his wings. Is he exhausted? In pain? I carefully count. His heart rate is steady. His eyes are clear.
‘Prim?’
‘It’s over.’
‘Besides Douglas, no one has a bad word to say about you.’
‘Have you been asking around?’
‘I’ll listen to what you have to say. Nothing you tell me will get back to him.’
When I stand and put the kookaburra back in the cage, he hops to the water dispenser and drinks. But as soon as I open the door of the fridge, he returns to the bars and opens his mouth. I feed him a sliver of meat.
Sinclair mutters under his breath. ‘Prim?’
I’m tired and hungry. I’m unsettled. He unsettles me. ‘You claimed I … was unfair. You … said I’d offended you.’
‘I don’t like to make mistakes,’ he says.
‘I bet you don’t.’
‘Wouldn’t your sisters have paid for a lawyer if you couldn’t afford one?’
‘I … wouldn’t let them.’
‘Jock said you take any work you can get.’
My feet are cold, just like they were when I took off my boots so I wouldn’t mark Farquhar’s carpets. I curl my toes, uncurl them.
‘I … was … suspended during the inquiry. I need … whatever money I can earn.’
‘I’m a committee member of an international wildlife organisation which Douglas supports. I’ve seen him at fundraising and other events. We’re not friends.’
‘You drink … w …’ Tendrils of smoke dance from the pub’s chimney. ‘You drink … whiskey together.’
‘Andrew gave me access to the original complaint,’ he says. ‘You saw data in a folder. You made assumptions. What else?’
Farquhar pinned me against a desk. Does Sinclair want that level of detail?
‘W… w…’ I walk to the concrete sink, turn on the tap and plunge my hands into the water. A shiver passes through me.
‘Douglas is undermining you, isn’t he? Let me talk to him.’
The soap dispenser slips from my fingers and rattles into the sink. A frog croaks. ‘No.’
With a muttered curse, Sinclair puts his hands under the tap. After he retrieves the soap dispenser and holds it out, I cup my hands. One squirt. Two. We lather from our wrists to the tips of our fingers. I started earlier than he did. Shouldn’t it be me who stops first? I rinse and shake. Our elbows touch and I jump, turning away to wipe my hands down my jeans.
He stands back, waiting for me to precede him over the cobblestones to the door.
The noise level inside has increased tenfold. The Beatles play over the loudspeakers: ‘Let it Be.’
‘Prim! Hey! Over here!’
I know most of the people at the table near the window. Luke Martin, with a solid build, light brown hair and a generous smile, looks uncannily like Andrew, his father. Mandy Flanagan was a psychologist at my high school and now breeds Welsh Mountain ponies. I talked to Elizabeth and Beatrice Oldfield at Phoebe and Sinn’s wedding. As well as the house they lease to Blake, they own an adjacent property where they farm cattle. They also own racehorses and have a large Federation house in Denman.
Luke plucks a chair from a neighbouring table, puts it next to his and makes extravagant arm movements, encouraging me to sit.
My boots are scruffy, my jeans dirty. Clean hands, stained nails. I must’ve retied my ponytail twenty times today, but I stop at the bar and do it again. Luke opens his arms as I approach.
‘I’ll dirty your shirt,’ I say as we hug.
He laughs. ‘It’s not like you to be out after dark.’
‘I’m on my … way home.’
A middle-aged woman with bright blue hair, an orange caftan and sparkling bracelets on both wrists shakes my hand and introduces herself as Rowena Lefebvre, head of HR at the zoo.
‘Prim? Rowena? Can I get you a drink?’ Sinclair stands behind a chair on the opposite side of the table. A pale pink jacket hangs over the vacant chair next to his. ‘Beer or wine? A spirit?’
Luke’s gaze shifts from me to Sinclair. And then, ever so casually, he drapes an arm around my shoulders. ‘Prim doesn’t drink.’
An attractive blonde woman works her way around the table. She’s wearing a floaty cream dress, and her lipstick and nail polish match the jacket on the chair. She puts a hand on Blake’s arm.
‘Hello, stranger,’ she says. ‘Where did you disappear to?’
Blake’s eyes meet mine. ‘Prim, this is Serena Field. Serena, Prim Cartwright.’
When someone from the bar calls Luke over, he squeezes my shoulders. ‘Want to stay for dinner?’
‘Thanks, but like you … said, it’s after dark.’
He takes me in another bear hug. ‘We’ll catch up soon.’
Mandy leans over the table to shake Serena’s hand. ‘I think we’ve met before,’ she says. ‘You work at the zoo?’
‘I’m head of marketing and publicity.’
‘You’ll be here long term then.’
Serena smiles at Sinclair. ‘That’s the plan.’
It was Candice the Canadian last year. Six weeks ago, at the Holden’s farm, Sinclair was with somebody else. Is Serena next in line?
‘Prim?’ Serena says. ‘Is your name short for something?’
Is the music louder than before? ‘A Long and Winding Road.’ I open my mouth, close it again. An early start, a long day.
‘Primrose,’ Mandy says brightly. ‘She’s one of our local veterinarians.’
‘You don’t work at the zoo, or we would’ve met,’ Serena says. ‘Are you based in Dubbo? Are you a small animal vet?’
‘Sheep,’ I manage. ‘Cows.’
‘And birds,’ Sinclair adds.
Serena smiles. ‘I presume you’ll want to further your studies. To specialise? Most vets seem to do that these days.’
‘S… s…’ Forget sometimes. Even forget not always.
Some who stutter find ways around blocks—the pauses before or between words. They use alternative words or speak in a certain way to avoid stuttering. Some stutterers are fluent on the stage. Others are fluent when they sing or when they speak another language. In a supportive and affirming environment, some children’s stutters smooth out and appear to resolve. In other environments …
My father wholly supported the strategy I adopted as a child and adolescent. If you can’t speak clearly, say nothing at all.
Sinclair’s face is impossible to read. Mandy would like to answer Serena’s question on my behalf, but I suspect she feels guilty for doing so earlier. Serena, not squirming too obviously, waits patiently.
‘Yellow Submarine’ blares in the background. I nod. And swallow. ‘I don’t … want to … specialise.’
‘Right!’ Mandy waves a menu around. ‘Who’s ready to order?’
I nod a general goodbye before weaving through tables and chairs to get to the door. I’m fastening press studs on my coat when Jock, a large paper bag in his hands, rushes towards me.
‘Stir-fried vegetables with tofu,’ he says. ‘Bon appetit!’
My smile wobbles. ‘Thank you, Jock.’