Page 92 of A Home Among the Snow Gums
Hannah didn’t think she’d sleep.
She lay on the doona with an ancient, marshmallow-soft quilt dragged over her and indulged in miserable thoughts about herself.
What specifically had been the problem between her and Tom?
What specifically had been the thing about her that put him off?
She was snippety a lot. She didn’t wear fancy clothes, or brush her hair as often as she should, and she worked pretty much seven days a week. And of course she wasn’t without her complications: she wanted a baby, desperately, and she had that difficulty-with-new-places problem she was working on. And the being photographed thing, let’s not forget that one.
Okay, she was a lot to take on.
She huffed and smacked her pillow a bit and lay down again, but still, no sleep. She eyed the stack of library and fertility books on her bedside table, but even the burly thighs of the Laird of Finchmore held no appeal.
She must have drifted off, because the next thing she knew, she was waking up with her face smooshed into her pillow and a heavy lump of brown fur snoring on her feet.
‘Is that you, Jane Doe?’
A tail wag shook the bed, assuring her that it was, indeed, her brother’s ancient labrador. How she’d made it up to the top floor was a mystery. Determination and an appreciation for a good feather doona, probably.
Hannah opened a bleary eye and examined her watch until the face swam into focus. Eleven thirty! She’d better get up and at ’em if she was going to make it to lunch with the oldies.
She was halfway into an ancient pair of jeans when she caught sight of herself in her bedroom mirror. The underwear she’d thrown on was clean but tatty and one of her bra straps had lost its elasticity so her boobs were lopsided. Her knickers were probably even older than the jeans and they sagged at the back in a spectacularly unattractive fashion.
Maybe this was part of the problem. If she didn’t value herself, why would other people—not just Tom! There were other people besides Tom!—value her? All they saw was some chick in scrubs who had a way with animals and some demented social habits.
The underwear situation could be remedied by a visit to the Big W in Cooma. No biggie, she’d been there plenty in the quiet last hour of late night shopping. And it would be no biggie if the place was buzzing when she visited, she reminded herself. She had wider horizons now. She was practically an adventuress.
She did own better clothes than the ones she habitually wore. They weren’t new, of course, they just weren’t often worn. Kylie had shaken them out and hung them closer to reach and all Hannah had to do was choose them.
Okay, then. A navy dress with white polka dots. It was swirly and possibly a little summery for the late autumn day outside, but she had thick navy tights and a pair of boots, didn’t she?
A denim jacket. Her amber earrings again (thank you, Josh) and—what the hell—she found a lipstick in her top drawer that, when she put it on, looked awesome. Some of Kylie’s magic to hide the vicious black rings under her eyes would have been useful, but alas.
She brushed her hair out and left it loose for the first time in about a year, to distract from how wrecked she looked. It had grown down to nearly waist level and the edges were a little uneven, but a quick snip with her nail scissors sorted that out.
The Billy Button Café had the usual lunchtime crowd, and Graeme and two waitstaff had the place humming.
Her parents were seated in one of the booths with a view through the windows over the lake, and they looked to have been there a while. Newspapers, latte glasses with the remains of chocolate powder clinging to their rims and maps lay spread out in front of them.
She slid into the booth opposite them and gave them each a kiss. ‘Sorry to ditch you this morning. I didn’t get much sleep last night.’
‘No problem, darling. We’ve had a lovely time catching up with everyone. This place has become the hub of town—we haven’t had to leave our booth and we’ve heard everything and talked to everyone.’
‘Graeme’s been looking after you, I see,’ she said, inspecting an empty plate that held suspicious-looking remnants that might have been from the plum crumble tart. Her favourite.
‘That man,’ her mum said, blushing girlishly.
Hannah chuckled. ‘Look out, Dad. Mum’s got a crush on the barista.’
Her dad grunted, unfazed. ‘What’s this Maureen’s writing about you taking up campdraft?’
‘What?’
‘Here.’
He pulled a sheet of newsprint out from the clutter of stuff on the table and spun it around so she could see it. Of course. The Hanrahan Chatter.
THERE’SMOVEMENT ATIRONBARKSTATION(FINALLY)by Maureen Plover
