Blueberry Read online

  I closed the magazine and pushed it across the table.

  ‘Show me Daddy.’

  ‘Not now.’

  ‘I want to see the picture of Daddy.’

  ‘Be quiet.’

  She started to cry.

  Her pancake and my fruit and muesli arrived.

  ‘Stop it. Eat this.’ I shoved the plate forward.

  The brow-studded waitress glared at me. And she could just bloody well fuck off.

  I gazed into the different shaped grains and mixed berries and the dollop of thick white yoghurt. I held the spoon but didn’t eat. And while Sophie jabbed at her pancake with her fork, I realised that I hated Nick – that he deserved to be hated – and the feeling blossomed inside me. It was almost a relief and my shoulders dropped as I took a full, deep breath. I wanted to cry, but I didn’t allow it.

  I reached for the magazine and shakily thumbed my way back to the photo of him and the woman. Her hair was long and dark, her eyes were black and her skin was the colour of weak coffee. Her nose and teeth seemed big, but the pieces of her fitted together to make her beautiful.

  The two men at the table beside me stood, scraping their chairs back, and as they side-stepped away they clipped the newspapers hanging on the edge of my narrow table so they fell to the floor. I glanced down and left them there.

  So that was it then. Nick had a girlfriend. More than that, she had been elevated to partner. I half laughed. I scanned for her name in the copy. Lila Attar. And there she was. A lawyer. She worked with Nick at UNICEF in Amman.

  I dumbly kept turning pages, watching my hand move like it wasn’t attached, a free-floating limb. Life and Style, the pages said, and there was a picture of some gorgeous matching turquoise shoes and bag. Maybe I would go shopping later. New shoes would make me feel better. How dare he.

  My latte arrived, the perfect fern. Sophie scooped up the marshmallow in her babyccino and pushed it into her mouth.

  I took a sip and turned another page – wine selections and a butternut pumpkin fritter recipe. I thought about phoning him. But what could I say that would touch him or make any difference? Nick should have told me himself. I wondered if Jane knew, or any of our other friends. Of course they did – a new lover was always good gossip. I held my hands out and stared at my fingers, looking for the trembling I could feel on the inside. Nothing. My hands were perfectly still.

  So I picked up my coffee and thumbed past another page. I sipped as the page slowly curled, floating before settling on the table like a dropped leaf. Before me were five properties for sale from different states. I’d been playing this game since I first left home. Sometimes Nick used to play it with me, and mostly we chose the same one. Which one would I buy? Which property would be my great escape, the place I would run away to if I could? If ever there was a moment I wanted to escape from, it was now. The exterior of the dream home may have changed over the years, but I always imagined the same interior. There was a long galley kitchen with an island bench, dark polished-timber floorboards, high ceilings and large rooms. My things were around me, books mostly, photos and heavy antique furniture I had never owned but would buy. Sometimes I daydreamed I was already there, in this place where I would live calmly with Sophie and somehow everything would be contained, but in a good way.

  A house in Tasmania near the beach looked all right. Eucalypts surrounded the house, though that would be a problem in bushfire season. My hand gripped the latte glass. It was cooling so I sipped deeper. The New South Wales property looked too dry. The lawn was parched, the garden non-existent.

  Bottom right. I brought the magazine closer and frowned.

  Lifestyle property with income. It was a twenty-acre commercial blueberry orchard in Huntly, north-east Victoria. The property title was on fifty acres and included a house, sheds, a dam, a small pine plantation and paddocks. Four hundred and fifty thousand. That seemed like a reasonable price.

  I was intrigued. At the very edge of my brain, a possibility was fluttering.

  ‘Mum?’

  ‘What, honey?’

  Sophie opened her hands like a magician to reveal an empty plate.

  ‘Good girl. Hang on a minute.’

  The house belonging to the farm was old – red brick with two chimneys. A yellow climbing rose spread along the front veranda. The garden had a dry stone wall along the side and tall trees.

  I looked up and stared across the café to the table where I had put Nick with the lycra-clad women. They were still having a wonderful time. And Lila Attar had now joined them. She was sitting on his knee, an arm around his neck. It hurt to breathe.

  A commercial blueberry orchard. It was a sudden test of courage not to dismiss this idea. All I knew about blueberries was I liked eating them. They sold at the market for anywhere between four dollars fifty and eight dollars a punnet. Sometimes I had paid even more.

  I clutched the magazine on my lap under the table, and it took me a moment to realise why I was doing this – it bothered me that thousands of others would be looking at that ad. People in coffee shops and home patios and lounge rooms, each in their own way disillusioned with their circumstances, and this advertisement, lifestyle property with income, might be their answer. Perhaps I would take a look. We had no plans for the weekend.

  I reached into my bag for my phone and dialled the real estate agent’s number.

  5

  WHEN the speed limit on the Hume Highway finally hit 110, I broke away from the snub-nosed trucks – four in a row following each other like a camel train heading north. In the rear-vision mirror was the uneven line of the miniature city, silver and grey boxy buildings that glinted against the white sky. Looking ahead, the sky was all soft white billowing clouds with an undercoat of blue. Paddocks on both sides of the highway were being carved into small residential blocks. The billboard photos were of a grinning mum and dad and a toddler standing on a patch of flat green with a two-tone brick house behind them.

  Sophie was quiet, also staring out the window. Scrubby bushes and mannequin eucalypts bordered the highway. Beyond were fenced paddocks with grazing cows, sheep, and horses. I started a game to entertain her; who would see the next cow. It quickly became tedious so I put the Frozen soundtrack on and we sang together, not getting the lyrics right, but close enough.

  Somewhere past Seymour, when the road seemed too straight and each rise led to another endless stretch of highway, I began to doubt what I was doing. In the space of two hours I’d stepped out of Oscar’s, raced home and maniacally packed a few things then rushed off to a strange destination with my child strapped in the back seat. I couldn’t push the uncomfortable thought away that I wasn’t just being impulsive, but irrational. And in that doubting space, I saw Nick in the front seat reminding me that I knew nothing about growing blueberries, that I was hopeless at even keeping the potted herbs alive and that it was him who had the green thumb.

  I slowed and waited for a place to pull over.

  Then the Bluetooth; it was Michael.

  I hesitated, not wanting to be bothered with him, but like a reflex I pressed to receive the call.

  ‘How’re you going, you beautiful thing?’ he asked.

  ‘All right.’

  ‘You’re driving?’

  ‘On my way to an appointment.’

  ‘I want you to come into the office.’

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Not a lot. But we’ve had another glass complaint. And our Facebook page now has more than two hundred negative comments.’

  In the left lane sitting on eighty, I gripped the wheel at ten and two, arms ramrod straight.

  ‘The news has all been benign,’ I said. ‘They’re reporting the recall as a community service. And there haven’t been any media calls today. Not one across the whole country.’

  ‘I want you to come into the office.’

  ‘I can’t. But the statement should be reposted on Facebook. Tania can do that. And no one from Wrens should engage in any online conv
ersation.’

  ‘Who’s paying the bills here?’

  ‘I’d be wasting your money if I came in. There’s been no media calls today. The story is over. Weekend crews are thin. It’s all about the football.’

  He spoke slowly, like I wasn’t getting it. ‘But I want to see you in the office.’

  I was driving so slowly cars were passing me.

  ‘Why exactly do you want me to come to the office?’

  ‘I thought you’d want to see me too.’

  ‘In the office?’

  ‘I’m here working.’

  It didn’t make sense and I wanted to hang up.

  ‘Where are you?’ he asked.

  ‘I told you. Driving to an appointment.’

  ‘But where?’

  ‘It’s just a thing that came up.’

  ‘Is that so?’

  A B-Double roared past too close and the car shook.

  ‘Michael, we need to talk because I’d like us to get back onto more of a professional footing. I’m not comfortable about seeing you outside of work. I’d like to talk to you about it next week.’

  ‘I’ll need to think about that.’

  ‘We’ll talk during the week.’

  ‘Last chance.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘Seeing me this afternoon.’

  ‘I can’t, and besides I’ve got Sophie with me.’

  ‘You need to make some babysitting arrangements.’

  ‘What I need is to get off this phone. But let’s talk during the week. About how we work together.’

  ‘I don’t know about that.’

  And the line went dead.

  In the next confusing moments I played with the idea of turning around and driving to Wrens. But the recall was under control and the suggestion of me loitering around his desk to keep him company made no sense. There was a couch in his office – low-backed black leather. I had sat on it at our first meeting while I waited for him to finish something at his desk. When he finally came and sat opposite he said, ‘I’m all yours.’ He had smiled and leaned forward and I’d felt flattered by the attention.

  Green-and-white signs directed to Nagambie, Avenel, Ruffy, Creightons Creek – strange names I had never heard of. The pink line of the GPS was pointing north. I looked ahead at the long stretch of grey bitumen. With a feeling of unease, I reset the cruise control to 110 and kept on going.

  Two hours from Prahran and we were in the main street of Euroa. It was mostly freshly painted old buildings with long verandas that stretched to the kerb. Saturday afternoon and most of the shops were shut. I parked in front of a café, Binneys.

  A small group were sitting at tables on the footpath, men and women dressed casually in fleeces and jeans. They seemed cheerful and matey. I was a stranger to them, yet felt oddly snubbed when no one looked at me. Sophie held my hand because everything was unfamiliar. I pushed the narrow café door open. A bell jangled.

  Inside was neatly renovated with subdued colours and antique furniture: buffets, tables and chairs. We sat at a small table against the front window and I could see the real estate agent’s office across the street. I worked through my poached-chicken-and-salad focaccia, glancing out the window while trying to make sense of why I was here. In front of the small old-fashioned fireplace, on a coffee table, were the weekend papers. I could see the glossy back cover of The Australian magazine and I knew if I opened it I’d see Nick’s handsome face and rediscover he had a new partner, which was the same as him having a new life. And proof that in five months he had moved on from twelve years with me.

  My latte was very good, taste and temperature, and for some reason that surprised me. Sophie was eating her sandwich too slowly, although it was more about me being impatient to get going. Finally, I paid and we walked out through the narrow door and crossed the street.

  My phone rang as we arrived outside the white-framed real estate agent’s door.

  It was Lena, and I remembered the sick feeling that was mixed up with Michael and everything else.

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘In Euroa. Why?’

  ‘Where’s that? You’re needed at Wrens – Michael Foster just called and cancelled the account. I can’t believe this. Do you understand me? The account’s now finished.’ She sounded breathless. ‘He said he asked you to come into the office this afternoon to provide support on the recall and that you refused.’

  ‘He cancelled the account?’

  ‘I want you to go and see him and sort this out.’

  ‘I’m more than two hours away, but I explained to him there was no need for me to go into his office because the recall is under control.’

  ‘If the client asks for you, then you go.’

  ‘You’re not listening, Lena. There was no need to go to Wrens: I’m in the country. It wasn’t possible.’

  A tall woman with long grey hair rambled past, staring at Sophie and me with open curiosity.

  ‘So I’m hearing that you’re not prepared to go into Wrens this afternoon to sort this out.’

  ‘I can’t. I’m too far away.’

  ‘I see.’

  I knew what was coming. I looked up the asphalt path beside the shops, veranda posts and two square metal rubbish bins. A paper cup skittered along the path. Manchurian pears lined the street, and burnt orange leaves had fallen, surrendered. I closed my eyes in surrender, too. Of course it was going to end this way.

  ‘Without the Wrens account I have no work allocation for you, so I’m terminating your contract. Effective immediately. Your desk will be cleared on Monday morning and I’ll arrange for anything personal to be sent to your home. I’ll also give you one month’s pay. That’s all I’ll bother to say about this. I suspect there’s more going on here than I know, but anyway. Good luck. And take care of your little girl.’

  There was a pause, as if she might say something else. Then she was gone. Tears wet my eyes. I sniffed and clamped my jaws. I would not cry. Sophie was holding my leg so I squatted down, held her tight and kissed her hair.

  ‘It’s all right,’ I said.

  I stared at my reflection in the real estate office window and tried to gather it all in, to understand what had just happened. I considered calling Michael to sort things out, or Lena, but I dreaded both being ignored or succeeding at convincing them to take me back.

  6

  MARK Palmer was around sixty, a small, self-effacing man with thick eyebrows and a gentle face. When we entered his office he came towards me with his hands clasped, as if humbled to meet me. We shook hands lightly.

  The manly baritone of his voice surprised me: ‘Good to meet you. Big drive up from Melbourne?’ He didn’t wait for my answer, but picked up his keys from a desk and headed for the door.

  I sat in the front passenger seat of his Subaru, Sophie in the back. A scented tree dangled from his rear-vision mirror; a faint smell of pine. We drove under the freeway overpass along a stretch of road, hills on the left. It had rained overnight and pools of water edged the road.

  ‘We’re in horse country here. Black Caviar is at Nagambie.’ His small hands were splayed on the steering wheel, a finger flick to the right. ‘This place here breeds foals for racing. One of them sold for over a million last year.’

  He drove fast, edging on too fast and I considered asking him to slow down. I checked my phone, a three-bar signal. And even though I didn’t expect Lena would change her mind and call me back, I still cradled my phone in my lap as the road climbed and wound towards Huntly. Scrubby trees were on one side and on the other were hundreds of granite plates, boulders and rocks anchored in the ground. Sheep were grazing. The temperature seemed to suddenly drop. I glanced at the dash, 8ºC, and asked for the heater to be turned up. Mark Palmer glanced at my coat and turned the knob.

  ‘Don’t mind old Charlie Chandler too much. He’s a bit of a character,’ he said. ‘And try to look past the old curtains and carpet. It needs painting. But the house has potential. It’s very solid. Bui
lt in the 1920s.’

  The property had been on the market for about eighteen months, he told me. Charlie’s wife Audrey had died three years earlier, and she was the one who had managed the orchard so nothing had been done on it for four years. I looked at him then. So a woman had already run the place, a woman older than me.

  ‘She was a hard worker, she was. Turned a decent profit on the blueberries. It was a sad day when she passed.’

  He kept on about Audrey, the family she came from, something about the size of her funeral.

  ‘Did she keep books?’

  He glanced at me.

  ‘You know, accounts, costs, productivity, harvest volumes?’

  ‘They weren’t into anything like that. They just operated from harvest to harvest and they did all right.’

  He slowed down at the Huntly sign, and thirty seconds later we had passed through. There was a flat-roofed general store with a sign saying ‘Best Coffee in Town’ and the primary school. I turned to take it in – a blue-painted building with a flat corrugated iron roof and a wall of graffiti art. Then we passed the local hall, a war memorial with a chain around it and a row of houses before we crossed a bridge, and onto another long road. A few minutes more and we turned right into Josephs Road. On the left was a tall, clipped cypress hedge, the narrow peaks of four chimneys and dark red-and-gold leafed trees rising above it.

  Mark pointed. ‘The neighbours. McCurdys. Audrey’s people. They’ve been there five generations. Only a couple of months ago Shane sold half the land.’

  I was vaguely interested but not really paying attention because I was considering who I’d need to connect with to get some work, thinking about how I’d have to update my LinkedIn page as soon as I got home. And how maybe I’d quit consulting altogether and get a permanent job inside an organisation in corporate affairs, or something like that.

  ‘We’re here.’

  At the top of the driveway was a cream-coloured milk-can letter box welded onto a post and sheltered by a eucalypt with branches that drooped like a willow.