The Norwegian Landrace pigs that Mrs Kovacs farms have pink skin, sparse white hair and large floppy ears. As I work through my list—including vaccinating Iced VoVo’s ten piglets and treating Marshmallow Blush for suspected mastitis—Monte Carlo, a two hundred and fifty kilogram pregnant sow, is contained in the farrowing pen. She rearranges the straw as she nests, moving mounds from one end of the pen to the other, lying down and then getting up again.
‘Thanks for helping out.’ Mrs Kovacs, well into her seventies and running her farm on her own, rubs her knee. ‘Can’t get up and down until this leg gets sorted out.’
After two more hours of labour, Monte Carlo has delivered seven male piglets.
Mrs Kovacs, sitting on a deckchair in the corner of the pen, is beaming. ‘What a day you’ve had!’ she says.
I’m not sure whether Mrs Kovacs is talking to me or Monte Carlo as I scrape soiled straw from my boots. Kneeling again, I check the piglets are firmly latched onto teats and swallowing. Colostrum, the early milk, gives them antibodies against infection.
‘They’re all doing well.’
‘You need a change of clothes.’
When I lift an arm to wipe my face, there’s blood on my sleeve. ‘After I see to my horses and donkey, I’ll have a shower and put my pyjamas on.’
‘It’s Friday night. Aren’t you going out?’
Blake will be back tomorrow. Scooping up a handful of straw, I scrub at the mud on my knee. ‘Hopefully Saturday,’ I tell Mrs Kovacs.
With a grunt, Monte Carlo struggles to her feet. Her piglets come off her teats and tumble on top of one another as her tail twitches and she stamps a foot. Scooping up the piglets, I put them behind me so they don’t get trampled. Then, as the sow bears down, I cup my hands and catch the eighth piglet. I pull the remaining membrane from the piglet’s warm wriggling body and check the airway is clear.
‘Welcome to the world.’
‘A girl?’ Mrs Kovacs says hopefully.
I turn the piglet over. ‘Finally, yes.’
‘Cherry Macaroon.’
I laugh. ‘It suits her.’
‘She’s the one I’ll keep.’
After they’re weaned, the rest of the piglets will be sold to another organic farmer to be, much as Mrs Kovac doesn’t like to think about it, fattened up on pasture and sent to market.
I kneel again, drying the piglet with a cloth before applying steriliser to the umbilical cord and cutting it. A few minutes later, with a bloodied plop, the afterbirth is delivered. I glove up again to examine Monte Carlo, ensuring the membranes and placenta have come away clean. And as soon as I’m done, as if relieved it’s all over, the sow crosses the pen and lies down on her side. All the piglets except Cherry Macaroon scrabble to their mother and attach themselves to teats. I pick up the youngest and recheck her airway before returning her to her family. Soon enough, she finds a teat of her own.
‘Hang on tight, little one.’
When I see the glint of metal at the front of the Coach House, my heart jumps around. It’s not Saturday yet, but maybe Blake caught an early flight.
A late-model sedan—possibly a hire car as it’s remarkably clean—is parked in front of the Coach House. The man leaning against the bonnet is tall and middle-aged with thick, greying hair. When he sees me, he straightens. He looks towards the house and calls out, ‘Ginny!’
A slender woman wearing a navy and white dress with a broad navy belt and matching low-heeled shoes walks briskly down the steps of the verandah. She’s very attractive, with shoulder length dark hair. How old is she? Late forties? Early fifties? Her eyes are blue. She crosses her arms.
I look at the man again. He has a straight nose, strong jaw and brown eyes. There’s something about him that …
Like Blake’s mother, Blake’s father was twenty-three when he was born. Given the resemblance between Blake and the man, the woman’s eye colour, even the way the couple are dressed, it could only be them.
Before I left the piggery, I scrubbed my hands and face. I took off my boots and socks and threw them into the back of the four-wheel drive. But the front of my shirt is smudged and splattered, I have dried blood on my jeans, my hair is sticky with something indeterminate, and the graze on my elbow is vividly red.
‘It is what it is,’ I mutter as, with one more glance at the couple, I hop out of the car.
After taking in my appearance, the man nods politely. ‘We’re looking for Blake Sinclair.’
‘Blake?’
‘He lives here, doesn’t he?’ Blake rolls the odd R and some of his vowel sounds are different, but it’s hard to pin down his accent as Scottish or English. This man’s Scottish accent is pronounced.
‘Yes.’
The woman joins us. ‘Do you have any idea when he might return?’ She doesn’t sound quite as posh as King Charles, but there’s no mistaking where her accent comes from.
I bite my lip, release it like I did when I was a child. ‘Tomorrow.’
‘Virginia! What did I say?’
The woman glances sharply at the man before turning back to me. ‘We ought to introduce ourselves.’ She holds out her hand. ‘I’m Virginia Broughton-Sinclair, Blake’s mother.’
‘Prim Cartwright,’ I say as we shake.
‘We’ve waylaid you.’
‘I’ve been at … w … w …’ I brush at a stain on my hip. ‘I’m a vet.’
‘Ah,’ she says.
‘A farrowing.’
A crease in her brow. ‘Pardon?’
‘A pig,’ the man says brusquely. ‘A sow has had piglets.’
‘This is my husband,’ Virginia says. ‘Blake’s father.’
I shake hands with him too. ‘Dr … Sinclair.’
‘Angus, please.’
‘And I’m Virginia.’ A small smile. ‘Do you work with Blake?’
‘Not really.’ I cross my arms, uncross them.
‘Are you certain he won’t return this evening?’
Deep breath. ‘S … Saturday afternoon.’
Angus turns to his wife. ‘It’s getting late, Ginny. Let’s drive back to Dubbo before—’
‘Prim?’ Virginia interrupts. ‘Is that your name? Or did I mishear?’
‘It’s short for Primrose.’
‘As you’ve no doubt ascertained, we were hoping to surprise our son.’
‘He’ll be … sorry he’s missed you.’
Angus grimaces. ‘I very much doubt it.’
‘Stop it, Angus.’
‘You called me “doctor”,’ Angus says. ‘You knew who we were before we introduced ourselves. Are you and Blake close?’
A few weeks ago, we almost went out to lunch. ‘I’ve known him most of the year.’
‘Do you live with him?’ Angus says. Virginia frowns. ‘Angus …’
‘It’s relevant, isn’t it?’ he says. ‘When so far as we know, he hasn’t lived with anybody else.’
My skin warms. ‘Only my horses and donkey live here.’
‘Were you aware we were in Australia?’ Angus says.
‘You … saw Blake in … Sydney.’
‘Blake volunteered that?’ Brows high, Angus glances at his wife. ‘Surprising.’
‘Angus. That’s quite enough.’
‘On a whim, Ginny, you insisted we set off on a wild goose chase. We might as well get something out of it.’
‘Prim said Blake will be back tomorrow,’ Virginia says. ‘We’ll wait.’
‘And where do you suggest we stay overnight?’
I focus on rolling up my sleeve. ‘Jock, the publican at the Ballimore Hotel, has rooms he keeps for friends. He might be able to help.’
‘Do you think so?’ Virginia says. ‘That would be greatly appreciated.’
‘I could call him to let him know to expect you.’
A nervous smile. ‘You won’t mention this to Blake, will you?’
‘In case he doesn’t come back if I do? Did you have an argument? Is that … why you’re here?’
‘As Blake largely refuses to engage with us,’ Angus says, ‘arguing with him is a challenge.’
‘You’re aware of our estrangement, aren’t you?’ Virginia says. ‘How difficult it has been for all of us?’
‘Ginny.’ Angus steps closer to his wife. ‘Please don’t—’
‘Be quiet, Angus. It’s about time we faced up to it.’
‘Is that … why you gave Blake the cufflinks?’ I’m not sure where the words come from, or whether they’re appropriate, but just for a moment, Virginia closes her eyes. Her hand goes to the cuff on her sleeve.
‘You’ve seen them?’ she says. ‘Has he worn them? What did he tell you?’
I look from Virginia to Angus and back again. ‘I don’t think I should … say.’
‘I shouldn’t have asked.’ Her eyes are brighter than they were. ‘But thank you.’
‘Ginny?’ Angus puts his hand on her arm. ‘He’s not here, darling. It’s time to go.’
‘Don’t fuss, Angus.’
‘It’s been a trying—’
‘Prim.’ With a deep breath, Virginia frees her arm and smooths her smart navy dress. ‘We fly home from Sydney on Monday morning.’
‘According to Blake,’ Angus says, ‘it will be at least a year before we see him again.’
When I push back my hair, my fingers get stuck in whatever is in it. ‘He’s committed to the zoo until the end of the year.’
‘We’d simply like to say goodbye,’ Virginia says.
Blake’s parents have the capacity to upset him. He has the capacity to upset them. As if to confirm that, Angus’s hand slips to the small of Virginia’s back.
‘Blake said goodbye to us in Sydney,’ he says quietly.
‘Two nights in Ballimore,’ Virginia says. ‘You gave me your word.’
‘I did.’ His smile is reserved yet supportive. ‘We’ll stay.’
‘I’ll call Jock.’
‘If possible, we’d stay until Sunday afternoon,’ Angus says.
‘Prim?’ Virginia fiddles with her belt. ‘Could you refrain from telling Blake that we’re waiting for him?’
‘I … d …’
She puts her hand on my arm. ‘We’re not here to cause our son distress.’
‘I doubt we’d have the capacity to distress him,’ Angus says gruffly.
‘I … won’t lie about you being here if it comes up.’
‘Certainly not,’ Virginia says. ‘But if it doesn’t come up?’
‘I … won’t … say anything.’