Page 14 of Wings Above the Mallee

‘Good boy. I’ll be back out in a minute.’ She quickly mixed insectivore powder for Dusty, rolling it into small pellets and wrinkling her nose at the odour of the crushed bugs. Although Dusty had unrestricted access to forage during the day, Amelia wasn’t confident in the magpie’s ability to feed herself. Particularly not if her penchant for running to the house to deliver Amelia a leaf or a flower was any indication. Biggles was still curled on her shoulder and, as she put the small brushtail safely in the large cage Gavin had delivered, Amelia rolled her head from side to side to release the crick. Despite the sore neck from adjusting to the possum’s preferred cuddling spot, having to clean the bathroom from the magpie’s overnight occupancy and the lack of sleep because of her latest rescue, Amelia’s little furred and feathered family helped her feel complete, temporarily patching the hole in her heart.

Pulling on a pair of jeans under the long t-shirt that served as her sleepwear, Amelia opened the front door, taking a deep breath. She loved country air, and the completely empty street in the small, quiet town was fragrant with the overblown perfume of autumn. The houses, each set on a generous block that would fit half-a-dozen city dwellings, were a mix of rendered post-war homes, with their recessed porch in the shadow of a prominent front room the perfect place to shuck boots and wet weather gear, and much older solid stone rectangles with wraparound verandahs.

Unlike Dusty, other magpies were well and truly awake, carolling from the trees lining the broad street. A trio rooted around in the bark covering the neat borders surrounding the lawn in front of Amelia’s cottage. The nestling loudly demanded food from the harassed-looking parents, and sad nostalgia shot through Amelia.

Making her way to front corner of her garden, she examined the rose bushes. Although fed mainly on eucalypt tips, of which there was an abundance in the nearby mallee scrubs, Biggles loved flowers. She had a preference for red or pink petals, but the garden sported only several richly rainbowed yellow Peace roses. Amelia wrinkled her nose. Beggars couldn’t be choosers.

‘Morning, love.’

Amelia jumped, pricking her finger on the rose bush. ‘Ouch. Oh, good morning.’ After living in the caravan park, she should be accustomed to neighbours. But the residents there had fallen into two distinct groups: the nomads, objectionably keen to pool their dinner and share a campfire each night; and theotherswho, for whatever reason, were intent on maintaining their own space and privacy. When she’d arranged the semi-furnished rental, Taylor had no way of knowing just how deep Amelia’s desire for solitude went nor that it was an effort to interact with people. She’d much rather be secluded with her animals. But she couldn’t allow that. She had to force herself out, force herself to adopt a degree of normality, pray that faking it would one day turn into her reality.

Her dressing gown–clad neighbour was evidently also making an early foray into her garden, hose in hand; although the weather was cool, it had yet to rain. ‘I’m Tracey. You’d be Amelia, I’m guessing? Lynn told me she was letting the house out. It’ll be lovely to have someone next door again.’

Amelia tried to process the deluge of information while sucking her injured finger. There didn’t seem a whole lot she could add to the older woman’s upbeat, friendly chatter. ‘Hi, Tracey. Yep, Amelia. Your sources are obviously impeccable.’

‘And what is it you’re here for, love?’ Tracey asked, then waved away her own question with a surprisingly girlish giggle.‘You come from the country, right? So you know that we all know all about you already.’

God, she hoped notallabout her. Although Taylor wouldn’t have disclosed her personal information, her story had been shared by the tragedy-hungry media. But that was years ago.

‘You’re filling in at Jamie Stokes’s office?’ Tracey continued, barely taking a breath. She pushed a hand through wild, silver-blonde hair, succeeding in tempting it to further disarray. ‘Though I daresay he’s not long for the town anyway.’

‘He … isn’t?’

‘Oh, not that he’s about to drop off the perch or anything,’ Tracey again used her hand to wave away the words, and Amelia realised that the tiny, chirpy woman seemed unable to stay still. She was like a fountain, all movement and light and happiness. ‘But he’s a city boy. I don’t know why these city lawyers keep coming down here and trying to pretend they’re invested. No one’s going to trust them. No, we’ll all head over to Murray Bridge. Not much choice, but the lawyers have been there forever. They’re almost local, you know?’

‘So I’m out of a job already?’ Amelia asked with a smile. Release from the office wouldn’t be the worst thing. Although she’d been perfectly capable of handling the myriad office tasks that came with the vast family property, behind a desk had always been her least favourite position.

‘Oh, no, love. Don’t mind me. What would I know? I’m sure you’ll be right as rain. Though the office manager James brought along doesn’t help the poor man get accepted.’ Tracey cast around as though she’d find the name written in the droplets the sprinkler hung in the air. ‘Faelie, that’s it. Puts on her “walking shoes”—’ Tracey made air quotes,as though the idea that anyone would ever wear shoes they were unable to comfortably walk in was ridiculous ‘—and strides down Main. Never buys anything at the CWA trading table. She’s too busy avoiding eye-contact. And the other day, I swear she crossed the entire street rather than say hello to Young Eric.’

‘Well, now I’m intrigued to meet my new boss.’

Tracey threw up her hand and a rainbow of crystal bracelets caught the sun. ‘She’s probably perfectly lovely as a boss.’ Her tone didn’t hold an ounce of believability.

As long as it wasn’t about her, Amelia didn’t have a problem with small-town gossip. ‘Those bracelets are gorgeous. Is that onyx?’

‘Lucie Schenscher makes them. Well, I suppose she’s not really a Schenscher; she and Jack aren’t planning to do anything as mainstream as marry. But they are married. Just not … you know … in the church and such.’

‘Common law, you mean?’

‘More like true love,’ Tracey agreed with a satisfied smile. ‘And, as my friend Marian always said, love is far more important than any piece of paper, litigious licence or preacher’s praise.’ She frowned, cocking her head on one side. ‘No, that’s not right. Preacher’s prose. Of course, that’s it: more important than a litigious licence, piece of paper or preacher’s prose.’ She nodded her satisfaction at remembering. ‘You’re not married, love? In the eyes of the law or otherwise?’

So thereweregaps in the community knowledge of her. That was promising.

Amelia shrugged noncommittally. Not that either denial or agreement would have been a lie. ‘I guess I’d better get a move on,’ she said, ‘or it sounds as though I’ll be in trouble with my boss already.’

‘Oh, yes, you don’t want to start off on the wrong foot, do you? What time will you be home? I’ll pop over with a cake. Or perhaps lamingtons. They keep better and you could even freeze some, as you’re all alone. Were you looking to cut some roses?’ Tracey pointed at the bush in the corner of the garden. ‘Yours are looking a little sad. Lynn’s had trouble getting someone in regularly to do the gardening.’

‘Actually, I was collecting a few petals for my possum.’

‘What colour does she prefer?’ Tracey asked, her gaze darting over her own bushes. ‘We’re on the last flush now, but you can have whatever you need. In fact, I’ll cut you a couple of bunches for your house, and you can give your dear little possum whatever she wants. Roses make a house much more a home, don’t you think?’

The last thing Amelia needed was a home.

‘You can’t keep him here,’ Faelie snapped.

A week ago, Amelia had thought her new boss’s disconcertingly soft voice, verging on a whisper, was a poor disguise for a vacuous, ineffectual nature. However, the determination in the woman’s tone now proved how wrong her assumption had been.

She touched her toe to the crate beneath her desk, where Karmaa curled in a nest of blankets, then gestured around them at the gloomy room in the dark building just behind Main Street. ‘He’s just sleeping, Faelie. It’s not like he’s kicking up a ruckus—you didn’t even notice him last week. He’s not old enough to be on his own for a few days yet.’

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