‘How many acres of land do you have?’
‘Six hundred in total. Four hundred are set up for grazing and I’m rehabilitating another two hundred.’
‘Were the two hundred previously owned by the mine?’
‘The land was abandoned when the mine went bust. I bought it from the liquidator.’
‘What kind of rehabilitation work does it need?’
‘It was used for mine-related activities—vehicle and material storage, drainage, safety zones. I’m cleaning it up, improving the soils, revegetating.’
‘I didn’t expect you to be a farmer.’
A lift of his lip. ‘Me neither.’
I’ve been courteous and neighbourly, now it’s time to walk away. But I want to ask more questions, I want to know—
‘Did Jimmy fill you in on the building work?’ Cameron crosses his arms, uncrosses them, puts his hands in his front pockets. He has spruce needles in his hair. Hesmellsof spruce.
‘I’ll need to confirm with Julia that I can access the surgery from next week.’
‘Have you seen her?’
‘She’s invited me to morning tea tomorrow.’
When Jimmy said Julia hadn’t called about the builders because she’d been poorly again, I got the impression he thought I’d know more about her health than I do. Is Cameron the person to ask about that? I’m not sure he is.
‘I’ll move the ute.’
After he reverses up the bank on the far side of the driveway, he jumps from his ute and faces me across the bonnet of mine. Keith Urban sticks his head out of the window and Cameron, mumbling words I can’t make out, scratches under his chin. I search for words of my own.
‘Is it safe to climb the tree like that?’
Cameron blinks as if he’s never considered the danger. ‘Anna’s kids liked the lights last year.’
‘I met Tara. And CJ. He told me he plays cricket.’
‘I used to go to all of his matches, but now …’ He blows out a breath. ‘Teenagers get self-conscious. They need their own space.’
The cicadas continue to chirrup. The scent of the bush is sharp yet sweet. A breeze blows through the eucalypts. For the second time this morning, Cameron’s gaze slips to my mouth and mine slips to his. Neither of us is smiling. A few seconds pass. One, two, three.
‘How are you celebrating this year?’ he asks quietly.
I open my door and stand on the running board. ‘Celebrating what?’
‘Christmas.’
Christmas is environmentally unsound. A commercial indulgence. Wasteful and profligate, excessive and reckless. These were the hymns of my childhood. I’m hot. Then cold. I feel sick.
‘Amelie?’ He walks around the bonnet so all that’s between us is the open door. ‘I didn’t mean—’
‘Thanks for moving the ute.’ They’re only words, but he takes a step back like he’s been pushed.
‘No problem.’ After a long hard look that I refuse to acknowledge, he walks away.
Chapter 7
‘I have to forget awkward conversations and unhappy memories and do the job I’ve agreed to do,’ I say, as Keith Urban, totally disinterested, looks out of the window.