Chapter 18

The breakthrough was indeed the discussion about family, as Sarge and the B&B owner sat down at the kitchen table. Sarge pulled out his phone and proudly showed off his two lovely daughters. Miss Fields oohed and aahed over them but when Sarge showed his partner’s picture and said that this woman was Sarah, the only person that he had ever loved and would ever truly love, Miss Fields almost blushed deep red. She said that her name too was Sarah and that a young man many years ago had once said the same thing about her. Sarge politely asked what happened and why they had never married. There was a touch of whimsy but a more overwhelming sense of sadness in her reply. “There are laws that prevent you marrying your own son.”

The barriers between her and Sarge had been torn down and the floodgates were also wide open as tears poured down her cheeks. She rose a little unsteady and Sarge reached across to guide her, but her resolute protestant upbringing came to the fore and she straightened her back and walked over to the mantle piece over the old kitchen fire. From it, she took down what Sarge at first thought was one of her many recipe books. As it turned out the books were not recipe ones, but photo albums. She kept them there, close to where she spent most of her days. Between guests and on lonely empty nights she would sit at the kitchen table and slowly turn the well-thumbed pages, thinking of what was and what could have been.

She began to open up the photo album and indeed her heart to her guest, that she had warmed to straight away and had seemed to have the same qualities her son, Scott had before he had gone away to war.

There were no oohs and aahs from Sarge. He sensed her passion, her reverence for these memories and the incredible gift she had bestowed on him. He just listened as she laid out her son’s life before him. She reminded him a bit of his Auntie Jean, the woman who had raised him after the tragic accident that had taken his parents away from him when he was only four. His Auntie Jean was now at rest too, buried in the family plot on the large cattle station he had grown up on in Far North West Queensland right near where her sister, his mum was also buried.

Sarah Fields almost seemed to forget that there was a man there listening to her tell her story, a story that had vicariously taken her back to much happier times. Without the stern countenance, her smiles and, at times, laughter, the wrinkles seemed to disappear and she looked a much younger woman. At one point she stopped talking and glanced up at the clock. Apologising, she began to rise saying that she had not even offered him any dinner. Sarge put his huge hand over her tiny frail one saying, “You stay there and keep telling me about Scott. If I may just have use of your kitchen and a couple of ingredients, I’ll show something better that you can do with oats than make gluggy porridge to punish guests who forget their manners.”

Sarah Fields blushed and sat down. No-one had cooked in her kitchen but her. She slowly nodded her assent and the big Queenslander stood up, insisting that she keep talking and went to her pantry. He grabbed some golden syrup, oats, flour and some other ingredients and made a dough which he rolled out and cut rough circles out using an upturned glass. He didn’t measure anything. He’d watched his aunt make Anzac biscuits so many times, it was all ingrained in his memory. Soon the room was filled with intoxicating smell of these, slowly cooking in the oven. Sarge made another pot of tea, taking his time as his aunt used to do, and by the time the tea had drawn, hot delicious biscuits were sitting on a large plate between Miss Fields and himself. Miss Fields for the second time let him ‘play mother’ and stopped speaking watching the smooth, slow but very calculated movements used in what was like a ritual tea ceremony. She had never tasted these sorts of biscuits before, and her young guest had made them so well, they seemed to melt in her mouth.

She was glad that she had finally shared her thoughts about her son, but now wanted to hear more of the story of the man who sat next to her and about his family. She sensed there was a lot more than what met the eye with him.

It may have been a cool climate as far as Sarge was concerned but there was a special warmth in that kitchen that night. That was broken when a slightly tipsy Liz walked into the kitchen, “Sorry, I got a little delayed. Don’t worry I’ve already eaten…… I think I smell Anzacs. I could go one of them and she stared down at the empty plate and the empty tray near the stove.”

She missed the smile that passed between Miss Fields and Sarge. She just said, “Damn, they’re all gone.”

“Young lady!” Miss Fields said indignantly, “In my house we don’t use that sort of language, especially when it is said by a woman. It is something I won’t tolerate. Now please leave my kitchen.”

Liz looked at Sarge and rolled her eyes. She winked at him, but there was no smile or wink in return. She shrugged her shoulders and turned and left the room, saying, “Night all.”

It was hardly surprising that she was served an English breakfast as well as porridge the next morning. Sarge on the other hand had just toast and jam, tayberry of course.