Dear Banjo Page 5

  Willow was so caught up in the creation of her plan, she forgot her promise to call Tanya. She received an email after several days back home:

  Hey Willow,

  I hope you’ve settled in okay at the station. How’s your dad? I can’t believe you’re gone! I get sad every time I walk past your office. Kevin is working at about a million miles an hour trying to get on top of your teaching load and Prof. Dale’s been walking around in a stinker of a mood all week. Please drop me a line when you get a moment. I miss you!

  Love, Tanya

  Oops. She fired off a hasty reply, assuring Tanya she was fine and would write a longer email as soon as she got a second to scratch herself. If she got back to Perth this year, she would take Tanya out for dinner as thanks for the things she’d taken care of for her – the stuff with the rental and the furniture donations. Not that it was likely she would get back to Perth in the foreseeable future. The station and her father’s condition demanded all of her time.

  To Willow’s relief, her father seemed to be taking his convalescence seriously. He talked a lot about his retirement and left her to get a handle on managing the station. She made sure he had things to keep him occupied if she was going to be outside for any length of time, and occasionally relied on Jean, who would come and have a cuppa with Barry whenever Willow asked. The biggest challenge was getting her father to accept his change in diet. It felt like she had the same argument with him every time they sat at the kitchen table.

  ‘Dad, does it taste good?’ she asked that night, watching him prod at the meal she’d placed in front of him.

  ‘Yes, sweetheart, it’s bloody delicious.’

  ‘So why do you look like I’ve presented you with a cow pat on a plate?’

  ‘Bullshit,’ he said and Willow laughed at the pun but her dad didn’t seem to pick it up.

  ‘Seriously though. What’s wrong?’

  He sighed. ‘It just doesn’t feel like a proper meal without meat.’

  Willow managed not to roll her eyes. The red bean chilli and wild rice she’d cooked was tasty, hearty and full of protein. It was so damn frustrating. And yet this was her father and meat was what he wanted. She sighed.

  ‘Fine, I’ll ask Jean for some meat tomorrow,’ she said, although it went against everything she held dear. ‘A small piece. Lean.’ His obvious relief made the decision slightly easier to live with.

  Maybe when Free got home at the end of the month, she would take on the meat-cooking duties. Willow had a feeling it wasn’t likely. Free, with her artistic soul, had never concerned herself with banal matters like cooking or cleaning. She heard from her younger sister by video call on the Wednesday of her first full week back.

  ‘No,’ Willow told her patiently, ‘You can’t talk to Dad. He’s gone to bed.’

  ‘What time is it there?’ It was a rough connection but Willow could see that Free had her golden hair piled up in a messy bun, tanned shoulders gleaming, a glass of wine at her side.

  ‘Ten at night.’

  ‘Ohhh. It’s only, like, four o’clock here.’

  ‘Where are you, Free?’

  She brightened. ‘Florence. It’s so beautiful, Willow! I wish you were here, too.’

  ‘Who are you staying with?’

  ‘We met this lovely guy in Pisa. So sweet. He’s a businessman, does something in investing. It’s a bit boring,’ she added in a whisper, ‘but he’s just gorgeous. He and Flavia are totally in love. Talking marriage and babies.’

  Willow had no idea who Flavia was but at least it wasn’t Free who’d fallen for this suspiciously generous Italian businessman. ‘When are you coming home?’

  Free looked worried suddenly. ‘Beth said Dad was fine. Is everything okay?’

  ‘He’s still weak, but he’s following the rehab plan and is doing pretty well.’

  Free’s frown remained. ‘Beth made it sound really minor. Is it serious?’

  Enlightening. So Beth had played down their father’s illness to Free, encouraging her to stay on and finish her tour of Europe. Why would she do that?

  ‘How long are you at home, Will?’ Free was asking.

  ‘I’m here for good,’ Willow told her. ‘I’ll be managing the station.’

  Free sat back. ‘What? How sick is he?’

  ‘He’s doing well, like I said. But he’s asked me to take over. He wants to make sure he’s here for us for a long time yet.’

  Free’s face crumpled and tears spilled. ‘Poor Dad,’ she said in a choking voice. She attempted to calm herself, but sobbed intermittently. ‘Poor, poor Dad. I’m going to kill Beth. I’ll be home this week.’

  Typical Free. All or nothing. Willow felt a little guilty for thinking Free had fobbed off her duty when in fact it was Beth who’d encouraged her not to come back. ‘Free, we’re totally fine. Don’t rush. In fact, it might upset Dad to see you cut your trip short. I’m taking good care of him and he’s doing really well. Stay where you are for a couple more weeks, huh?’

  Free considered, gazing down at some invisible point on the desk. She lifted her green eyes and stared into the camera. ‘Are you bullshitting me, Will?’

  Willow gazed back. ‘No, Free. I’m not.’

  Her sister nodded, satisfied. ‘Okay. I’ll stay till the end of the month. I need to make a bit of money to get home, anyway. I’m so pissed off at Beth right now.’ She grabbed her wine and drank a big gulp.

  Willow laughed. ‘She probably had good intentions.’

  Free snorted.

  ‘Call earlier next time, okay, Free? Then you can talk to Dad.’

  Free rang off and Willow flicked back to her business plan screen, hitting the save button and closing it down. Her father had been making noise about this party he wanted to hold on Saturday. She still didn’t like the idea, but he was adamant. Just that afternoon he’d reminded her about making arrangements.

  ‘This is special, Willow. You’ve come home for good. I survived a heart attack. I want to keep my friends and family close around me from now on, and that means plenty of get-togethers. Jean loves putting on a spit roast. It’ll be no trouble at all.’

  Willow refused to allow a spit roast that hadn’t been sourced through humane production, so it was actually going to be a lot more trouble than Barry anticipated. Given Hegney had already let the staff know, the party was definitely going to happen. But they had no slaughtered beasts of their own ready for roasting and, in any case, their own beef wasn’t something she wanted to serve to friends. How the hell was she going to organise a humanely farmed spit roast now? Willow sounded out Jean outside the storeroom the next morning, asking for meat supplier contacts.

  ‘You want organic beef?’ Jean looked astounded.

  ‘Or lamb. Pork. Whatever. Yes, organic.’ Willow hadn’t felt so awkward about this request in years. Damn Mount Clair, with its antiquated attitudes.

  ‘I wouldn’t know where to find that, love,’ said Jean, fumbling for a smoke. ‘Maybe you could ask Tom Forrest? I hear they use organic meat over there.’

  It almost stung. Not only was Quintilla ahead of them in methodology, it sounded like they were way ahead of them in station culture as well. Could she phone Tom to ask about this? No. And yet, what kind of ethical pastoralist would she be if she ordered in some animal that had lived a stressed life and died an agonising death – and then allowed it to be cooked and served on her property? Would the Forrest clan even eat it, if they’d already moved to organic and humane meats? Gah! Food had never been quite so attached to emotion – or relationships.

  Willow gathered up all her courage and phoned Quintilla after she finished work. The call was picked up by Cathy Forrest, Tom’s mother.

  ‘Hi Cathy. It’s Willow.’

  There was a silence that seemed to go on a little longer than it should have. ‘Hi, Willow. I heard you were back home.’

  ‘Yeah. Here to help Dad. How are you and Bob going?’

  ‘Good, thanks.’

  Willow paused but t
he woman didn’t elaborate so she blundered on. ‘Uh, this might be a weird request, but our cook was saying you guys use organic meats. I’m trying to get organised for this celebration Dad wants to hold on Saturday and I was just wondering if you would give me the name of your meat supplier?’

  ‘Tom handles all the ordering for the station now,’ Cathy said, and Willow detected a touch of frostiness.

  ‘Oh – um – okay. Is he there?’

  Another slightly too long pause. ‘I’ll get him.’

  During the wait, Willow felt herself starting to sweat. What the hell was she doing, phoning Tom as though nothing had ever happened between them?

  A deep voice sounded down the phone, making her pulse spike. ‘Tom Forrest.’

  ‘Hi, it’s Willow Paterson.’ She cursed herself for using her surname like some kind of distant acquaintance.

  ‘Hi – everything okay? How’s Barry?’

  ‘He’s good.’ She spoke in a rush. ‘Dad wants to have a spit roast this weekend – for the party, you know? But Jean sources her meat from Carter’s in town, and we don’t have any hung beasts. Jean said you have a supplier . . .’ She trailed off, wincing at her own pathetic discomfort.

  If he was uncomfortable, he hid it well. ‘We’ve got a few different suppliers but it’s not enough lead time to get a spit roast in now. Two days. You need to give them a week, or better yet a fortnight, when you order. I’m sure you’d know it’s a slower supply chain for wholesale organic.’

  She didn’t, in fact. It made sense, but she wasn’t used to buying wholesale meat at all. ‘Oh,’ she said, crestfallen. ‘Okay.’ She went quiet, thinking hard. How the hell would she solve this problem? Maybe her father could be convinced to hold off this party for two weeks? But would that cause an argument? He’d insist they could just get a beast from Carter’s.

  Tom broke into her thoughts. ‘We’ve got a pig here.’

  ‘What?’

  He paused, and when he went on he sounded almost as uncomfortable as her. ‘We’ve got a Jinglin Organic Pork pig here. You can have it.’

  She knew of Jinglin. They had an excellent reputation.

  ‘What? No, you’ll need it.’

  ‘We don’t have any urgent need for it. Mack was going to cut it up next week but we’ve got plenty of meat to go on with without it.’

  Willow didn’t know what to say. This was far too generous. ‘Can I buy it off you?’ she ventured.

  He went stiff and formal again. ‘It’s a gift.’

  She softened under his generosity. ‘Wow. Thanks, Tom.’ She paused, truly touched. ‘I’d almost forgotten about country kindness.’

  But he was all business. ‘I’ll send someone round with it tomorrow,’ he said.

  Her heart sank to think how cool his manner was and she made up her mind to thank him personally when she next saw him. Maybe he would warm up a little if she made the first gesture towards reconciliation.

  The spit roast episode motivated Willow to prioritise changes to the kitchen. Figuring Hegney wouldn’t care much about this side of the business, she didn’t waste time running her plans by him. She sat down with Jean, who was having her morning smoke on the kitchen verandah. The woman was excited by the prospect of new meat suppliers.

  ‘It’ll be lovely to serve a decent cut o’ meat,’ she said, smoking enthusiastically. ‘Carter’s meats are pretty average. Samantha over at Quintilla is always bragging about them good-quality meats Tom Forrest buys in. Helps when you’re close to the station owner,’ she added with a wink.

  Willow frowned. ‘She’s the cook at Quintilla, right? I heard she’s seeing Tom.’

  ‘She doesn’t want everyone to find out, you know, because, like Sam says, the other staff get a bit funny about things if you’re on with the owner.’

  Willow didn’t like the sound of this Sam. She changed the subject to organic grains and seeds.

  ‘You should really consider making some small alterations to the menu,’ she said. ‘Cooking traditionally with these ingredients is almost a waste.’

  Jean wanted to leave the menu as it was, declaring her food to be popular with the staff, but seemed open to upgrading her ingredients to fair-trade organics.

  ‘The produce is all quite a bit more expensive too, so you’ll need to be careful how you use it. You know, not just throwing flour over the boards or making extra rice just in case, otherwise costs will blow out and that will hurt the station.’

  Jean scuffed her sneakers on the concrete, her eyebrows knitting slightly, but it wasn’t clear whether she disliked the thought of changing her cooking style or costing the station money.

  ‘Does that make sense?’ Willow asked, watching the woman.

  ‘Yeah,’ Jean said immediately, but when Willow turned back to the kitchen door she thought she caught a mutter about ‘better to have some leftover than not enough.’

  Her manner worried Willow. This might take close supervision.

  Saturday afternoon saw the donated pig roasting on the spit at Paterson Downs. The odour was a little nauseating to Willow but the staff seemed to think it smelled amazing. Her father would be happy. Beth arrived to help mid-afternoon and Willow took advantage of a moment alone with her in the kitchen to ask about their younger sister.

  ‘So, you didn’t want to tell Free the truth about Dad’s health issues?’

  Beth glanced up from the cheese platter she was assembling. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I spoke to her on Wednesday. She didn’t seem to have any idea it was so serious.’

  Beth frowned. ‘It wasn’t that serious, as far as myocardial infarctions go. Not a full obstruction, no surgery required, very little damage to the heart muscle. Dad was in and out of hospital within days – you know that. What did you say to Free?’

  ‘I told her the truth. I told her about Dad’s change in diet and his medication. She was pretty shocked to hear he wouldn’t be managing the station any more.’ Willow watched Beth adjust the cheeses on the platter.

  ‘I didn’t want Free unnecessarily concerned. What’s the point? He’s got you and me to take care of him. She’ll be home soon enough.’

  Was Beth always so judicious with doling out the truth? Willow had assumed her sister was always up-front with her, especially since they’d become closer. A couple of years earlier, Willow finally found the courage to talk to Beth about their mother. A distance had grown between them over the painful years since Robin’s death, but opening up to Beth, even after such a long time, closed that distance. Beth had even stayed with her in Perth several times, and Willow cherished the memories of their late-night giggling sessions over a bottle of wine. They’d missed out on that in their younger days, what with university and the general air of sadness after their mother died.

  Maybe Beth wasn’t always as forthcoming with Willow as she’d thought. How many times in the past had minor issues actually been bigger than Beth made out? Was it just Free who Beth did this with, or Willow as well?

  The guests began arriving and the opportunity for discussion vanished. Willow was reunited with Beryl Weston’s clan from Gundergin, the station on their western side, and embraced affectionately by Bob Forrest. Cathy Forrest, who’d always been kind and chatty in the past, maintained a standoffish air even as Willow gave her a hug. Willow wondered why. Perhaps the woman blamed her in a way for Barry’s heart attack. If she’d come back earlier, then he might never have become so stressed. It was a thought that had crossed Willow’s mind more than once.

  On the back patio, Willow was introduced to a string of staff from both of their neighbouring stations, and she took special interest in Samantha Burrows, the cook at Quintilla. Tom’s girlfriend. Samantha had streaky blonde hair and a buxom figure. She looked around Willow’s age, maybe a little older, and had a forthright manner.

  ‘I’ve heard heaps about you,’ Sam said, her voice carrying over the small crowd. ‘You’re like, a super brain, right? Like, a professor?’

  Willow smiled
uneasily, looking around for a familiar face, but no one she knew was within rescuing distance. ‘No, absolutely not. I promise.’

  ‘Oh, that’s what Bob and your dad said.’ She pursed her mouth, observing Willow carefully. ‘I expected you to look more nerdy.’

  ‘Sorry to disappoint,’ said Willow.

  The woman shrieked a laugh. ‘You’re funny. It’s good to have another chick around.’ She dropped her voice. ‘The male-to-female ratio gets pretty intense.’

  Glad to notice the chip bowls needed refilling, Willow made her escape.

  That was Tom’s girlfriend? Wow, people could really change over ten years.

  The meal went over well and everyone raved about the spit roast. Willow glued herself to Beth’s side for most of the night. She’d only seen a handful of the partygoers on her visits home during the past decade, and people were staring, curious to see her after such a passage of time. She straightened her T-shirt repeatedly and glanced down at her denim shorts, wondering if she should have dressed up more. Samantha wore a skirt and dangly hoop earrings, as if it were a special occasion. But Beth was wearing shorts, too – although more stylish and tailored ones. Her sister was so self-assured in these kinds of situations. Willow wished she had even a little of Beth’s social skill.

  Beth helped Willow clear the outdoor tables after the meal, throwing paper plates into the garbage bag Willow held open. ‘Cathy Forrest is a bit funny tonight,’ she murmured under the general chatter. ‘She’s normally the life of the party.’

  ‘I was thinking the same thing,’ Willow replied. ‘Maybe she’s not feeling very well.’

  Tom spent the night sitting out on the patio amongst his stockmen and some of the Gundergin mob. Beth chatted to him intermittently but Willow hung back. He seemed too caught up in his conversation to notice her anyway. She wanted to thank him for the pig but he was always surrounded by people, including the ebullient Samantha. When she wasn’t sneaking a smoke at the side of the house with Jean, she was hovering around Tom, contributing or laughing loudly at the conversation. Odd dynamic, Willow thought, watching them.