Page 4 of The Knitting Club at Wagtail Ridge

‘No, Mother. I really don’t.’

Margaret gave her daughter the look. The same look she’d been giving her since she was a child. A combination of disappointment and disbelief. ‘Brianna? What’s going on?’

Bree gathered her courage. ‘I’m glad we’ve got this chance to talk. Thank you for the offer, but I’m resigning.’

‘Resigning?’ Her father shook his head. ‘Don’t be silly.’

Bree wasn’t sure if his dismissive attitude made her sad or angry. ‘When I graduated, I said I would give you five years. I’ve done that—and more. I’m leaving now.’

‘Have you had an offer from another firm?’ her mother asked. ‘Because we’ll match it. You know that. All we’ve ever wanted was for you to join the firm and become a partner, with a view to taking over when we step down.’

‘Yes, Mother. That is all you ever wanted. But it’s never been what I wanted.’

Margaret raised her hands, palms out as if to ward off some danger. ‘Please don’t say this is about wanting to be a sheep farmer. Or a drover. Or whatever it is you have been talking about.’

Bree was surprised that her mother had actually listened to those conversations. ‘It is about wanting to run my own life. And be the person I want to be. I never wanted to be a lawyer, Mother. You know that.’

‘Then why did you waste all that time at uni? A waste of your time and our money.’

‘It’s all about money for you, isn’t it? Well, not for me. I want to be happy. I went to uni because I was seventeen and desperate to please the parents I loved. I’m old enough now to know I will never do that. So I am going to please myself.’

‘Your grandmother put you up to this, didn’t she?’

The tone of Margaret’s voice horrified Bree. How could any daughter speak of her own mother with such anger and contempt? Bree and her mother were not close, but she could never imagine not loving her. Apparently, that emotion was long gone between Margaret and Rose.

‘It’s my choice,’ Bree said firmly. ‘You’ll have my written resignation on your desks this afternoon. I’ve got a lot on my plate just now. Ken is going through it all with me, so he’ll be across everything. I’ll do a proper hand-off of course. Let me know who you want to take my cases. I should be out of your hair by the end of the month.’

Margaret leaned back in her chair, her face a frozen mask.

‘Bree. Are you really sure this is what you want?’ Gary had always been the more reasonable of the pair. Or perhaps simply the one most willing to give up and let go.

‘Yes, Father. It’s what I want.’

‘And what are you going to do? For a living, I mean.’

‘I’ve built a small but high-quality herd of alpacas. I plan to buy my own place and build that into a business.’

Her father ignored her mother’s snort of derision. ‘Is it viable? Do you know enough?’

‘It is and I do.’

Her mother shook her head. ‘You’ll never make a living at that. You’ll be knocking on our door asking for your old job back before the end of the year.’

‘No, Mother, I won’t.’ Bree put as much bravado as she could muster into the words.

‘Very well.’ Gary assumed the role of peacemaker as he so often had. ‘If this is your final decision, Bree, I respect that. I hope your new life proves to be everything you hoped. And you’ll always have a place here if you decide you want to return.’

Margaret snorted again at that and muttered something under her breath. Bree chose to ignore it. Instead she simply nodded to her father and got up to leave the table. She couldn’t sit through lunch. Not without crying, and she wasn’t going to do that. At least, not in front of her mother. She needed to get away. She’d be arriving early at Nan’s after all.

***

Anyone looking at Rose Fuller would pigeonhole her pretty quickly. With her long salt and pepper hair liberally decorated with locks of startling pink, her lined face devoid of any makeup and her wrists encircled by numerous, brightly coloured bangles, she wasn’t everyone’s idea of a grandmother. Her batik-print skirts and fading tie-dyed tops would suggest she was an ageing hippy with not a lot of money and even less business sense.

Such assumptions would be wrong in every possible way.

Bree kicked her heels off and curled herself into the corner of the big cream sofa that dominated the living room of Nan’s apartment. As always, she felt the tension falling away as she looked out the glass doors onto the balcony and beyond that to the glorious views over Sydney Harbour. She watched her grandmother carry two steaming mugs of strong black coffee across the room. Nan paused by the well-stocked bar and opened a bottle, adding a dash from it to both cups.

‘Nan! It’s a bit early. And what happened to the peppermint tea I was hoping for?’

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