I arrange to meet Farquhar at four thirty on Tuesday, but when I arrive at the house half an hour early, he and another man are already there, photographing drunkenly angled fence posts, a fallen tree near the gate and strips of corrugated iron hanging from the roof of the shed.
‘Prim.’ Farquhar nods politely as we shake hands at his four-wheel drive. ‘This is most unfortunate.’
I’ve seen him at a distance and transferred the monthly rent to his agent’s account, but we haven’t spoken since the meeting at his house. He wants to know what happened on the night of the flood. I want to know what happened with his cattle and the PMSG, but I also need somewhere to live.
‘It’s good you get to … see it firsthand. The … water level dropped over the … weekend.’
He introduces the other man, Greg Hadley, as his new property manager. ‘Good you got the stock out,’ he says as we shake hands.
‘I … want to get them back here as … soon as possible.’
‘There’s no hope of sinking fence posts for the perimeter fencing, even if we could find a contractor willing to take on the work,’ Hadley says. ‘The shed, the drainage … It’d take months to get this place cleaned up.’
‘What?’ I turn to Farquhar. ‘I can’t … wait that long.’
He spends five minutes explaining things I already know. That the property is on a flood plain, a fact I was aware of when I signed the lease. That he’s responsible for the fencing and shed because they’re improvements on his land. And that’s why it’s up to him to decide how, when and whether they’re repaired.
‘My donkey and the goats could be tethered short term, so I could get away … with a paddock for the horses. I have friends who’d help … with fencing if you’d pay for the materials.’
‘The house—’ Hadley points, as if I need a reminder of where it is, ‘—is uninhabitable.’
‘What?’
‘Steady on, Greg.’ Farquhar holds up a hand. ‘One thing at a time.’
‘What is he talking about?’
‘Blake didn’t warn you what was coming? I thought he would have.’
A haystack. Stalks on stalks on stalks. All come tumbling down. ‘Blake didn’t … warn me of … what?’
‘You’re aware he’s in London? It might be the time difference.’ Walking to a clump of dandelion weeds pushing through the gravel, Farquhar scrapes his boots. ‘My real estate agent carried out an inspection of the house earlier today.’
‘He has to give notice.’
‘I was assured that he did.’
‘I was … working. He left a message I should call.’
‘Mould being a health issue, he appreciated the urgency.’ Hadley smiles insincerely. ‘According to the agent, you must have scrubbed the place clean before he did his earlier inspections, but you weren’t expecting him today, were you?’ He shakes his head. ‘Ceiling and wall mould, buckets in the hallway. We can’t have you living in a toxic environment, Prim, can we?’
‘This rain is unprecedented.’
‘Now I’m aware of the situation,’ Farquhar says, ‘I’m forced to act. You can no longer occupy the house.’
‘But—’
‘And the land is no longer fit for your stock,’ Hadley says.
‘I catch the leaks. I … scrub the ceilings. I’ve cared for the house and I look after the land. I have two years left on my lease. You can’t do this.’
‘I’ve had legal advice, naturally. Through circumstances beyond my control, you haven’t got what you bargained for. The land is unusable. The house is uninhabitable.’ Farquhar scrolls on his phone and reads. ‘It’s known as frustration of contract.’
‘It’s not—’
‘Because of frustration of contract, the lease is over.’ Hadley speaks slowly, as if I have trouble keeping up. ‘No land, no house. I’ve got that right, haven’t I, Douglas?’
‘I’m afraid so.’ Farquhar can’t quite meet my gaze. ‘You’ll have furniture and personal effects in the house. In view of what has occurred, I’ll pay your moving costs.’
‘Where am I … supposed to live?’
‘If funds are tight, a house in the suburbs? An apartment?’
‘And … where … will my animals go?’
‘Short term, Blake says the Coach House is available. Long term, naturally, you’ll be forced to make other arrangements. I’ll give you a week to get out.’
If I lose my temper, I lose my voice. ‘You’ve been … waiting for an excuse to get rid of me, haven’t you?’
‘What are you suggesting?’
‘You’re … scared of me … Why?’
Ignoring what I’ve said, Farquhar takes a step away but then, after indicating to Hadley that he carry on without him, he faces me again. His fists are clenched. He’s white around the mouth.
‘I’ve warned you before,’ he says. ‘If you take me on …’ He looks me up and down. ‘You’ll regret it.’
Farquhar wants to drive me out of town. And Blake? I told him he was nothing like Farquhar. But he talked to him and didn’t warn me. Can he be trusted?
Three days after meeting with Farquhar and Hadley, I turn into the poplar-lined driveway of the Coach House and follow the neatly trimmed hedge to the barn. Juniper, grass up to his knees in the half-hectare paddock behind the house, pricks his ears and trots to the fence as I jump from my four-wheel drive. Harry and Darcy, tethered in the paddock so they don’t, for the third time, escape through the fence to the garden, bleat a welcome.
Short term, Blake says the Coach House is available.
Ignoring the tightness in my chest, I climb through the fence and clip a lead rope to Juniper’s halter before straightening his rug.
A European car, smart metallic blue, scoots around the corner and parks next to mine. And, as Juniper and I look on, Beatrice Oldfield, wearing a green tweed suit, thick ribbed tights and short brown boots, steps out.
‘Primrose! Jock thought I’d find you here.’ She walks around a muddy patch of ground to the gate. ‘How are your horses getting along?’
‘Merrylegs still isn’t right, but Bonny’s feet are improving—he spent a few hours in the paddock this morning.’
‘More rain is forecast.’ She pats Juniper’s neck. ‘What a handsome young fellow you are.’ She smiles. ‘Did he race?’
‘Group one, but then he hurt his leg and was sold to a riding school. He couldn’t be ridden when he was lame so they left him, untreated, in a paddock.’
‘How disgraceful. Did you track down his original owner? They had an obligation to look after him.’
‘That’s hard to enforce.’
She gestures to the barn. ‘Tell me about dear Merrylegs.’
‘As soon as I bring her out of the stable and walk her around, her heart rate goes up. It’s like carrying the foal is suddenly too much. I’m … worried about her.’
‘Rest will do her the world of good.’
‘Thank you for what you, Elizabeth and Matthew and his brothers did.’
‘As I’ve said on the last half-a-dozen occasions you’ve thanked us, we were delighted to help.’ She nods towards the Coach House. ‘As was dear Blake.’
‘Use of the barn … was only ever temporary. I have to find somewhere else.’
Beatrice’s gaze is sympathetic. ‘I’ve heard a rumour about your rental property,’ she says. ‘Is it true?’
Beatrice ‘ohs’ and ‘ahs’ as I stumble through an explanation.
‘I’ve always … wanted my own animals, but I need … somewhere to keep them. I don’t … want to leave Ballimore, but the few properties available in the district are out of my price range.’
‘I suspected as much,’ Beatrice says. ‘And to be perfectly honest, that’s why I’m here. Were you aware that Elizabeth and I own a modest weatherboard cottage a kilometre or so away? Other than a smallish garden, there’s no land, but the cottage might suit until you find something more appropriate.’
‘I … wouldn’t be able to commit, not … without land.’
‘It was originally built for the manager of the cattle farm, but Matthew, having his own home, has never used it. Take it for whatever period that suits.’
‘I’d have to find agistment close by.’
‘The cattle farm isn’t suitable, unfortunately. “Too many cows and too much barbed wire,” according to Matthew.’
‘Thank you for even considering it.’
‘One minute, dear.’
I wait politely as, holding her phone at a distance and typing with one finger, Beatrice sends a text.
‘Done!’
‘Do you mind if I … settle the horses?’
Beatrice follows as I lead Juniper into the barn and a stable. ‘Have you heard from Blake? He was most concerned for your welfare last week.’
‘It … was good of him to help out.’
‘He might like to continue to help.’
‘I’d be here twice a day, Beatrice. It’s too much of an imposition.’
‘Have you had a falling out? Is there a personal connection I’m not aware of?’
‘Nothing like that.’
When her phone pings, she plucks it out of her pocket. And then, after fruitlessly searching for her glasses, she holds the phone at arm’s length and reads.
‘Blake—’ she looks up and smiles, ‘—is perfectly happy for your animals to extend their stay.’
I open my mouth and shut it again. ‘Did you ask him to do that?’
When she holds out her phone, I can’t see the text she sent to Blake, but I can see his response: Yes.
Beatrice, after telling me she’ll arrange for Matthew to show me the cottage in the morning, hangs her jacket over Merrylegs’ half-door and requests a grooming bucket. And, as I feed the horses and bring in the goats, she fluffs up Merrylegs’ coat with a body brush and untangles her forelock with a wide-toothed comb, before taking pictures to send to Elizabeth.
‘She’s a little lacklustre,’ Beatrice says, ‘but what a gem.’
When I take Eeyore out of the stable and lead him outside, Beatrice dons her jacket and joins me. She puts a hand on my arm as we approach her car.
‘Have I upset you, contacting Blake as I did?’
‘I appreciate your offer of the cottage, Beatrice. But—’
‘You’d prefer to speak with Blake yourself. I do understand, but I believe, as a member of your little community out here, and as a colleague, he’d be delighted to lend assistance.’
‘He’s a … specialist at the zoo. I’m—’
‘Highly respected,’ Beatrice interrupts. ‘As are your sisters.’ She brushes Merrylegs’ hairs from her jacket.
‘I’m grateful for your … support.’
Beatrice pauses, as if wondering whether to speak up or not. Then she smiles kindly. ‘Do you recall meeting Elizabeth and me when you were a child? It was at the Warrandale fete and Phoebe was unwell.’
When Eeyore rubs his head against my hip, I stroke his grey ears. ‘Phoebe has mentioned it.’
‘When we offered to drive her to your aunt’s house, she was adamant you and Patience accompany her. She refused to leave without her sisters.’
Eeyore’s halter jangles as he shakes his head. A kookaburra laughs. ‘I … was only eight or nine.’
‘A younger version of the way you look now, fine boned and long legged, with remarkably blue eyes.’
‘We loved … staying in … Warrandale.’
‘Elizabeth and I put Phoebe in the front of the car, and I sat between you and Patience in the back. Patience looked out of the window and didn’t say a word. But you bounced on the seat and talked about lizards and birds and whatever else came into your head, stutter be damned.’
‘We … weren’t allowed actual pets.’
‘On the surface, you were a happy little thing. But your hands were clamped tightly between your knees. A little bundle of anxiety, that’s how I described you to Elizabeth afterwards.’ Her smile slips. ‘Why was that?’
‘I … would have been … worried about Phoebe. And that … we might have to go home.’
‘Your sisters wanted you to be happy and carefree.’ She smiles again. ‘You did your best to please them.’
Mandy Flanagan, the school psychologist, had a no-nonsense way of explaining why I often felt overwhelmed, and what strategies I could use to overcome those feelings. When she was younger, she’d competed with her horses in three-day eventing, and now she had a Welsh Mountain pony stud, and I liked talking about both of those things. But halfway through year eight, and even though my speech was the worst it’d been for years, I wrote to Mandy, telling her I didn’t need to go to counselling any more. Had the bullying started already? I think it had. Perhaps that was why I wanted to quit, in case Mandy found out about it and reported it to the school.
I didn’t tell my sisters I thought it was my fault that Mum had a stroke. I didn’t tell them I was afraid on the day of the fete, or that I was bullied in high school. They didn’t know about the drinking and one-night stands.
I was hiding in plain sight.
Pushing the unsettling thoughts aside, I open the gate, patting Eeyore’s rump as he walks reluctantly into the paddock.
My phone, sitting on a bale of hay inside the barn, stops ringing the moment I reach it. Blake Sinclair. He sends a text immediately afterwards. Call me, Prim.
About Farquhar? Beatrice’s message? My thumb hovers over his number, but then I pull back.
If I called Blake, I wouldn’t be able to speak.