The three-week-old lamb, his white tail waggling, pushes his nose through the cage as I undo the latch. He bleats and scrabbles to get out.
‘I’m going as fast as I can.’ Reaching into the cage, I grasp his little body and pull him clear of the car door, holding him close as I collect the bag of bottles I mixed up at dawn, and the extra formula.
‘Prim! Prim! We’re coming!’
The screen door slams shut behind Thomasina Atherton, one of Jock’s five-year-old auburn-haired daughters. Dressed in pyjamas, a dressing gown and hot-pink sheepskin boots, she gallops along the concrete path that runs through the neat front garden of the old workers cottage.
‘Do you always get up at six o’clock in school holidays?’ I ask Thomasina.
‘We were waiting!’
As Thomasina, chattering excitedly, shuts the gate, I kneel on the path to release the lamb. He takes a look around before skittering off the path to the grass.
‘Are you sure you don’t mind looking after my lamb?’ I ask.
She squeals with delight. ‘We want to! We want to!’ As the door opens again, she calls out, ‘Lacie! He’s here!’
I’m much better at spotting the differences between Lacie and Thomasina now. The physical markers—freckles on Lacie’s nose and the cowlick in Thomasina’s hair—are subtle, but their personalities are distinct. Thomasina prefers running to walking and talks very quickly. Lacie is curious but cautious and has a shy smile.
Lacie grasps my hand and points to the lamb. ‘I made him a ribbon.’ She burrows in the pocket of her dressing gown and produces a broad yellow ribbon with bright red stitching down the sides. ‘Mrs Nash helped.’
I admire the needlework. ‘A lamb with a ribbon like this will definitely need a name. Could you think one up for me?’
‘Snowball!’ Thomasina says. ‘Fluffy!’
Lacie pats the lamb’s head. ‘Where’s his mum?’
‘She can’t look after him so … we’re helping out.’
Even if I’d been called earlier, I mightn’t have saved the lamb’s young mother, but I could have minimised her trauma in birthing a lamb too large for her frame. Believing the lamb, barely responsive after the ewe had died, was unlikely to survive, the farmer hadn’t been prepared to hand feed him. When I argued that he should be given a chance, the farmer offered him as payment.
‘In a few months,’ I tell the girls, ‘he’ll be big enough to live with other sheep and lambs.’
Jock pulls on his own sheepskin boots and tucks in his shirt as he walks down the path. ‘Good morning to you, Prim.’
‘Are you sure you’ll have time for this? He’s still on three hourly feeds, but I’ve made up bottles to give you a head start and—’
‘The lassies have barely slept with the excitement of it all.’ Jock takes the bag while Thomasina holds the lamb steady for Lacie to secure the ribbon around his neck. ‘It’ll be the highlight of their holiday.’
‘They must keep you busy.’
‘And I couldn’t be happier about that,’ he says, a little misty eyed. ‘To be blessed with two rays of sunshine at the age of forty-five must make me the luckiest man alive.’
‘Their mum lives in Tamworth? That’s a long way from here.’
‘We weren’t together long, and parenthood turned out to be my dream, not Maxine’s, but the girls should spend time with their mother. I’ve booked a holiday for the four of us at Christmas.’
‘Thomasina and Lacie seem happy.’
‘They’ve settled in very well at school.’ He holds in a yawn and indicates the house next door. ‘And fortunately for us, Mrs Nash claims she’s as happy to knit at my house as her own.’
‘She told me she’s saving up for flights to see her grandchildren.’
‘Look, Prim! Look at him!’
I warily consider the yellow ribbon, tied round the lamb’s neck in a haphazard bow. ‘We can’t get too attached to him,’ I remind Jock.
He laughs as I scoop up the lamb and we walk through the central hall to the back of the house, the girls chattering behind us. The garden is mostly lawn, but two mature wattle trees, not yet in flower, provide shade and shelter. A tall timber fence, split by a gate, backs onto the same laneway as the pub.
‘It’s too wet and cold for the lamb to be in a paddock with my animals, and he needs regular feeds. But if it gets too much, I’ll take him back and keep him in the laundry.’
‘He’ll be no trouble.’ Jock smiles at his daughters as they fuss over the lamb. ‘How the animals survive the winds and frosts of Scotland, I’ll never know.’
‘Do you have to hand feed if there’s a lot of snow on the ground?’
‘As I come from a long line of publicans, I’d say that’s a question for Blake.’
‘He … said his grandfather lived in the Highlands.’
‘Where the winds blow hardest and there’s rain and sleet all year. Quite a coincidence, meeting Blake out here. My parents’ licensed house was a good twenty miles from old Sinclair’s farm, but it was his closest pub.’
‘Dr … Sinclair told me about the farm.’
‘Did he indeed?’ Jock says in surprise. ‘The land had been in the family for generations. There was a wreck there too, a castle dating from Roman times. Sinclair was a curmudgeonly old fellow who mostly kept himself to himself, but he’d stay with us whenever he came to town. His affection for his heritage, and his grandson, was obvious. There was no question as to where that land was going.’ His brows lift. ‘I assume it was sold due to family troubles?’
‘It might be best to ask Dr … Sinclair about that.’
Jock laughs. ‘He’s a charming lad, our Blake, but he refuses to be drawn on his family.’
When I crouch, the lamb bustles towards me. ‘I’m meeting Mum and Auntie Debra later this morning. I’ll take them home for a while, then we’ll head to the pub. Thanks for fitting us in for lunch.’
‘I told Robbie to reserve a nice spot near the window.’
‘Prim!’ Thomasina kneels on the grass and encourages the lamb to eat. ‘We can call the lamb Daisy!’
‘That’s a grand name,’ Jock says, ‘but the lamb is a boy.’
‘It’s a good name for a boy too,’ Lacie says.
‘What do you think, Prim?’ Jock smiles. ‘Rather apt, come to think of it, with my granny being a Marigold and you being a Primrose.’
My mother was born in New Zealand, where she went to school and did an undergraduate degree. Then she travelled to England and studied at Oxford. After that, she lived in Primrose Hill before accepting an academic post in Australia. I have few happy memories of Mum and me before she had the stroke, so what I remember is precious. One day, when I was five or six, she put her hand to my ear like she was telling me a secret. ‘Primrose Hill was close to Regent’s Park,’ she whispered, ‘and the primroses came out in spring and summer. No matter how busy I was, I’d always stop and admire them.’ Was she trying to please my father, a classicist, when she named her first two children? Phoebe, from the Greek phoibe or bright. Patience, from the French patient or suffering. Was naming me Primrose a little rebellion? In Latin, Primrose means first and rose. It’s simple. Straightforward.
Primrose. A flower.
My mother loved primroses.
Robbie seats us at an out-of-the-way table near the window, but quite a few locals have found us. Are they curious because I’m usually on my own, drinking lime and soda while chatting to Jock and the waitstaff?
Everyone who comes to the table says similar things. ‘It’s nice for Prim to get a visit from her family. How long will you be here? What do you think of Ballimore? I bet you’re proud as punch of your daughters.’
Soon enough, people work out that Mum is incapable of answering their questions. Sympathetic smiles are easier to tolerate than insensitive stares, but after two hours, my throat has tightened up and I’m finding it hard to form words.
‘This is such a treat, isn’t it, Barbara, getting to see where Prim lives and to meet her friends?’ Debra says.
I lean in front of Mum to cut the last of her chicken schnitzel into more manageable pieces. ‘I’m … sorry I couldn’t do more than lunch in the pub.’
‘With such short notice?’ Debra smiles. ‘I knew nothing about it myself until Ron gave us the tickets. “Only ten days,” he said, “because I can’t run the dairy single handed.”’ Debra smooths a napkin over Mum’s lap. ‘Not that we’d want to be away any longer, would we, Barbara?’
Debra has just turned seventy and Mum is two years younger. With barely any wrinkles, rounded faces and silvery white hair, they look very similar.
‘We like to be at home,’ Mum says.
‘You’re less steady on your feet than you were,’ Debra says, eyeing Mum’s walking stick, leaning against the wall. ‘Travelling can be tiring.’
‘You should have let me come to Parkes or … Sydney,’ I say.
‘What?’ Debra says. ‘When you have commitments here? And with Phoebe booking a hire car to bring us to Ballimore and take us to the airport later? We’re being ferried about like royalty.’ She glances at her watch. ‘In a few hours’ time, we’ll be on the plane to Sydney and then on the boat.’
‘Are we going to the airport?’ Mum asks.
‘If it’s in the itinerary, we’re doing it.’ Debra laughs. ‘Two days with Patience in Sydney, and two days with Phoebe in Parkes. Seeing Primrose’s little farm and a long lunch here has been the icing on the cake. Isn’t that right, Barbara?’
‘We’ve had a lovely time.’ Mum pats my hand before turning to Debra. ‘Isn’t she a pretty girl?’
Debra beams. ‘I suspect she wore a dress just for you. It’s very flattering, Primrose, and a lovely shade with your colouring.’
The pale blue dress has a deeper neck than I remembered, and the stretchy fabric clings to my curves. I smooth it over my thighs before taking Mum’s fork out of her hand and skewering chicken and carrot. ‘Just think, Mum … Soon you’ll be on the cruise.’
She takes the fork. ‘Are we going on a boat?’
‘A giant ship, Barbara,’ Debra says. ‘For three whole days, all the way to Wellington, Imagine that? We can have cocktails, lie in the sun, even go to a beautician.’ She holds up her hands. ‘I can’t remember the last time I had a manicure.’
Mum considers her nails too. She frowns for a moment, as if chasing a memory. But then, like her life before the stroke, the memory fades. When I touch her hand, she turns it and takes mine.
‘You’re a pretty girl.’
‘Make … sure you … take photos.’
‘You can count on that!’ Debra says.
Within a month of the stroke, it was clear that Mum would need care for the rest of her life. As my father was unable, or unwilling, to do it, the only other option was an aged-care nursing home. Debra and Ron were already running the dairy farm where Mum and Debra grew up, and my other aunt lived close by, so Debra offered to look after Mum. One of our aunts might have taken Phoebe, Patience and me to live with them, but Dad would never have agreed to it.
Mum smiles gratefully as she puts down her fork and pushes her plate away. ‘I’ve had enough.’
Mum traces the words on her coaster. Ballimore Hotel. Established 1899. ‘Is it time to go home, dear?’
Debra touches my arm. ‘It’s been a long day, Primrose, for you and your mum.’
I smile bravely. ‘I’ve loved … seeing you both.’
‘We set the clock by Phoebe’s Sunday call. And we get regular calls from not only Patience but her mother-in-law, Greta. I think she and Derek love that sister of yours almost as much as Hugo does.’
‘The Halstead family are great. Patience is very happy.’
‘And what about you, love? Ron worries, as do I, that you’re still up in the air.’
‘Do you mean on the shelf?’
She laughs. ‘Not at all. But it’s nice to have someone special, someone to share life’s journey with. You live all alone at your house.’
‘I have … my animals.’
She squeezes my arm. ‘Your stutter is troubling you, isn’t it?’
I glance at Mum, still tracing the words on the coaster. ‘It’s okay.’
‘We should have done more,’ she says. ‘But your father wouldn’t have a bar of you girls coming to stay, and we were afraid he’d stop all contact if we interfered. You and your sisters excelled at school, you never complained and—’
‘We had each other,’ I reassure her. ‘And we knew you cared about us. Anyway, you had responsibility for Mum, day in and day out. You … still do.’
Debra waves a dismissive hand. ‘Ron backs me up, as does your Auntie Carol. When Barbara has her little turns and needs more help, we bring in carers.’
‘It’s been twenty years.’
‘That long? You were such a sweet child.’
‘I don’t remember much before the … stroke.’
‘When Barbara was still in the hospital, you were a pitiful little mite, screaming at night but never a peep in the daytime. You didn’t say a word.’
‘Phoebe and Patience are happy … So am I.’
‘You chattered so merrily to your animals, like you’d created your own little world.’ She puts her hands on her heart. ‘Never a complaint.’
Ignoring the ache in my chest, I push my coaster across the table. ‘Would you like this one too, Mum? Then we’d better get going.’
It’s too cold to wait outside for the hire care, and Mum can’t stand comfortably for long, so Debra, anxious that we don’t keep the car waiting, claims a table near the door. We’ve only just sat down when she bounces from her chair and waves. But then she sits down again.
‘How embarrassing,’ she says, as Sinclair, his white T-shirt crossing the V of his dark grey sweater, walks towards us. ‘I thought he was our driver.’
Five days have passed since I sat with him on the bench at the zoo. And, much as seeing him is unsettling, it’s not at all surprising that he’s here. It’s Sunday afternoon. He’s friendly with Jock. He has as much right to be here as I do.
He nods as he walks towards the bar. ‘Prim.’
‘You know him?’ Debra whispers loudly. ‘Thank goodness for that.’
‘Please don’t—’
She beckons Sinclair closer. ‘I can’t imagine what you must have thought, me waving at you like a traffic controller. I was expecting somebody else.’
He smiles. ‘I’m sorry to disappoint you.’
Debra laughs. ‘I’m not at all disappointed!’
It’s impossible not to introduce them. ‘This is Debra Barton, my aunt,’ I stay stiffly. ‘And this is Barbara Cartwright, my … mother. Debra, Mum, this is Blake … Sinclair. Dr … Sinclair.’
‘Blake.’ Sinclair holds out his hand and Mum shakes it.
‘Do you work at the hospital?’ she asks. ‘Is that where I see you?’
His confusion lasts for a heartbeat. Then, ‘I don’t believe we’ve met.’
‘Dr Sinclair is Primrose’s friend,’ Debra says.
‘A vet from … Scotland,’ I say. ‘He’s … working at the zoo until the end of the year.’
‘Did you hear that, Barbara?’ Debra says. ‘He comes from Scotland and he’s a vet like Primrose.’
Mum smiles wistfully. ‘Primrose is a lovely name.’
‘As you bestowed it …’ Debra laughs good naturedly, ‘I’m not surprised that you approve.’ She puts a hand on my arm. ‘It won’t be news to you, Primrose, that your father didn’t approve.’
‘He rarely … said it.’
Silence descends until Debra pipes up again. ‘Do you grow primroses in Scotland, Blake?’
‘English primroses grew wild on my grandfather’s farm.’
‘How lovely. What colours were they?’
‘I didn’t take much notice.’ He shrugs. ‘Yellow, white, pink. Scotland’s native primrose, which is purple, grows on the coast.’
Debra smiles at Mum. ‘You loved the primroses when you lived in England, didn’t you, Barbara?’
‘How long were you there?’ Blake asks.
Mum looks at me. ‘Have I been to England, dear?’
‘You … studied at Oxford, Mum. That’s … where you did your PhD.’
‘In which college?’ Blake asks. ‘I studied there too.’
I stand so suddenly my chair scrapes the floorboards. ‘We don’t … want to keep you.’
Debra blinks. ‘Barbara studied mathematics, Blake. I’m not sure what college that would be in.’
When the driver appears, Debra graciously says goodbye to Sinclair. My goodbye is not only stumbled but awkward.
Why make such a fuss? Because he’s charming? A player?
He knows too much already.