Flying the Coop (6 page)

‘I can see you're pleased.' Frank, seemingly recovered from his earlier embarrassment, joined her on the veranda. ‘I
knew
you would be.'

‘Mmm . . .' Chris chewed her lip, and then sighed. Reluctantly, she decided that now was the time to inform him
that she wouldn't be going through with the sale. While she tried to find the words, they leaned in silence against the railings and gazed out at the view. From here she could see the top of the farmhouse just beyond the hill containing the sheep paddocks. Tendrils of smoke from its chimney drifted lazily across the horizon to mingle with the greyish clouds and vanish as if they had never been. Chris sighed again.

‘Lost for words, hey?' Frank smiled shyly at her. ‘So, would you like to see the equipment now?'

‘No.' Chris turned to face him. ‘Not yet, that is. I need to say, um, ask . . .'

‘I
knew
you'd have questions. And I
did
ask the owner to hang around. But, to be honest –' Frank paused and looked at her confidingly – ‘I think Mac's finding it a bit hard to let go. Been here a while, he has. So I'll do my best without him. Ask away!'

‘Oh, um, there's the kitchen . . .'

‘Don't you just
love
yellow?'

‘And the carpet –'

‘Great, hey? And it goes all the way upstairs as well, you know.'

‘And the house next door. It's so close and –'

‘Little old lady. Keeps to herself. Practically a hermit.'

‘And the . . .' Chris fell silent for a second, took a deep breath and turned to face Frank full in the face. ‘And the chooks. So many chooks. So much . . . work.'

‘Which is exactly why Mac's staying on for a month. Not
here
, of course.' Frank gestured towards the house. ‘You know, I told you about it the other day. It's in the contract. One month handover. He'll be on hand to teach you everything, and then more. He won't leave till you know the lot. Look –' Frank pointed over towards the spot where Grace, standing by the barn with her arms stretched wide, appeared to be working
out some measurements. ‘Your daughter's certainly taken to it, hasn't she?'

‘Yes. Yes, she has.' Chris fell silent again. The truth was that Grace's enthusiasm was still taking her by surprise. From her initial reaction yesterday, to the research she must have conducted last night, to the manner in which she was exploring the property, the girl had never wavered from being upbeat, and animated, and totally committed.

‘Look, I'll tell you something.' Frank turned towards Chris confidingly. ‘You know, yesterday, when you put in your offer without even looking, I thought you were a bit, well . . .' He hesitated, obviously searching for a word other than ‘certifiable'. ‘Well –
impulsive
. But you knew, didn't you? You just
knew
that you were right for this place. And that this place was right for you.'

Chris looked at him. ‘Can I ask you a question?'

‘Sure!'

‘What's changed? I mean, yesterday you were . . . look, I don't want to be rude, but you're
different
today. More . . .'

‘I know,' Frank laughed, ‘and it's all because of you, dear lady!'

‘
Me
?' Chris stared at him, her eyes slowly widening in surprise. Because suddenly it all became clear –
that
was why he had been so ineffectual yesterday, so bumbling and awkward. And
that
was why he seemed so happy today. And he'd flushed before! How could she not have realised earlier? Was she so out of practice as to miss all those telltale signs, like the way he kept smiling at her, and saying her name, and –

‘Because you're my first sale. My
very
first sale!'

‘Oh – I am?'

‘Yes! It's like this.' Frank shook his head ruefully, and then automatically put his hand up to adjust his toupee. ‘See, I've been with Fielders for four months now, but I haven't made a
sale. Not one. They say it's all to do with confidence, but how can you get the confidence unless you make a sale? And then how can you make a sale without the confidence? It's a conundrum, isn't it?'

‘Um, yes, I suppose so.'

‘But now my problems are over!' Frank smiled at her with pleasure. ‘And it's all because of you. I was almost ready to throw it in, you know – yep, almost ready.'

‘Wow!' Grace, who at some stage had settled herself cross-legged on the lawn by the veranda and was stroking the cat, looked at her mother with mock horror. ‘Did you
hear
that, Mum? I bet if he was to lose this sale, well – who
knows
what'd happen?'

‘I'd probably get fired for one!' Frank laughed good-naturedly. ‘Fielders have only got so much patience with real estate agents who can't make a sale!'

‘God.' Chris took a deep breath and then shook her head in disgust. It was all getting so damn
complicated
. What had started off as a pleasant little fantasy was becoming a never-ending nightmare. She looked along the veranda, now minus the swing and the cane setting and all the plants, and then down at the cat, which was entwining its way around Grace's legs. She let her breath out with a sigh.

‘How about I leave you two alone?' Frank suggested. ‘There'll be things you'll want to discuss. I'll return in a little while and then we'll go over to the barn.'

‘Okay,' Chris replied flatly. As Frank left, she moved back towards the corner of the veranda, so that a fair expanse of the property was again visible. Then she turned towards Grace, who was watching her with anticipation but had the sense to keep momentarily quiet. Chris opened her mouth and closed it again. A flock of white cockatoos swooped down onto a gum tree by the barn, where they greeted each other with
gregarious shrieks before, one by one, departing towards the horizon.

Using the noisy advent and departure of the cockatoos as an excuse to prolong her silence, Chris watched them wing up past the farmhouse on the nearby hill. The smoke from that direction had swelled into fluffy plumes that billowed out, forming their own dove-grey clouds above. Chris brought her gaze back to Grace, who was still watching her mother intently while stroking the cat, its tail ramrod still with pleasure. Their eyes met briefly before Chris's flicked away again. Towards the barn, with the peeling paint, and the hedge backing the first chook enclosure. Past the chooks, some of whom could be glimpsed having a sociable chat just within the gate. Over the old Hills hoist, and the rhododendrons. Around the veranda, furnished once more with the swing and the cane setting and the potted foliage and now also with a bottle of champagne nestled within ice in a long-legged metal cooler. Then on over the crown of the willow above the back of the sheet-metal fencing and, finally, back to Grace. And as her gaze settled on her daughter once more, Chris felt a sort of peace descend that brought with it a sense of calm, and tranquillity, and confident certainty.

‘So tell me. What's plan B?'

From:
Christin Beggs

Date:
Sunday, 16th July 2006. 10.05PM

To:
Jenny Parker

Subject:
Guess what?

I've got a riddle for you, Jen – what have I got in common with Old MacDonald? That's right – I'm going to do it!!! Grace and I went out there today and all the way around I was thinking of ways to tell the guy I was backing out of the sale. And believe me, there were plenty of excuses to use!

But then, at the end, I just thought why the hell not? It's so peaceful, Jen, so serene. So
exactly
what I need. What I've always wanted. You have to come visit. There's a veranda almost all the way around and we'll sit out there each evening and swill gin or something.

Love, Farmer Chris

PS Settlement is Friday, October 13th – lucky I'm not superstitious!

From:
Jenny Parker

Date:
Sunday, 16th July 2006. 10.45PM

To:
Chris Beggs

Subject:
Re: Guess what?

You're joking. You
cannot
be serious. If you had some sort of farming experience – or ever shown the least inclination to
gain
such experience, maybe I'd believe you. But you?!! You won't even have a dog because they're too much trouble! So this
is
a joke, isn't it? Whatever, your day must have been more interesting than mine. Lauren had a tribe of friends over and they had an impromptu
Star Wars
festival – all day! I now know more about the Alliance than I ever wanted to. But have you ever realised how much your ex sounds like Darth Vader? I now have a theory that there's some sort of weird link here – I mean, both started off fine and then went over to the Dark Side. Then there's the names – Garth, Darth. Coincidence? I think not.

Love from Jenny.

PS Overexaggerated? Ha!!!

‘S
o what did you get up to this weekend?' Virginia, one of the lawyers from Chris's firm, slid a sheaf of billable hours into Chris's in-tray and then perched on the edge of the desk, ready for a chat. ‘Anything interesting?'

Chris quite liked Virginia. She was one of the younger lawyers at the legal firm, which merely meant she was on the right side of forty rather than the left side of sixty. She was a tall, slim brunette with an unfortunately beaky nose and a head that had a rather flattish look, perhaps from being banged against the glass ceiling a few too many times. And, for a lawyer, she was surprisingly considerate. For instance, she always organised her paperwork before she handed it to Chris to transform into client accounts. Not like some of the more senior members of the firm, who would toss a handful of post-it notes and restaurant receipts in her general direction and expect miracles.

‘Well, let's see.' Chris drummed her fingers on the desk and made herself look contemplative. ‘There
was
something interesting that happened. Now, what was it? Oh, I remember. I bought a farm!'

‘You
what
?'

‘I bought a farm,' Chris repeated, grinning at the stunned
response. ‘I went down to Healesville for the day and saw this farm in a real estate agent's window. So I bought it.'

‘Are you serious?'

‘Absolutely.'

‘What
sort
of farm?'

‘A free-range poultry farm. Twenty acres of rural bliss complete with a two-storey farmhouse and a huge barn.'

‘My god, all
I
did was buy a pair of shoes. Even though they
were
Manolo Blahnik's, they don't measure up.
You
bought a farm.'

‘You can come visit,' said Chris magnanimously. ‘Recharge your batteries.'

‘Rachel, did you hear this?' Virginia turned to the receptionist, a twenty-something with long, silvery blonde hair who, rumour had it, was sleeping with one of the junior partners and could occasionally be seen emerging from the stockroom looking rather dishevelled. This wouldn't have been so interesting except for the fact that the junior partner's wife happened to be a senior partner. Which probably accounted for the harried expression that Rachel often wore. Either that or she had a thing about stationery.

‘What?' Rachel finished watering the plants in the reception area and came over to Chris's desk, still holding the plastic watering can.

‘Chris bought a farm on the weekend.'

‘You're kidding!'

‘Yep.' Virginia turned back to Chris. ‘So are you going to move there, or is this an investment?'

‘Oh, move there. Definitely. Settlement's in three months.'

‘That's so gutsy, Chris. I'm green with envy.' Virginia looked at her admiringly. ‘
I
don't even have the courage to ask for a damn raise. And you're changing your entire life! Fresh air! Country living! No more rat-race!'

‘You lucky thing!' Rachel was staring at her open-mouthed.

‘Oh, it's nothing,' said Chris, waving a hand airily.

The truth was, shortly after leaving the farm yesterday, she had developed a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach that had stubbornly refused to go. And coming to work today, looking around at the firm where she had felt so secure and knowing she would soon be leaving, hadn't helped. But this unexpectedly envious response had done what several aspirin and an entire bottle of good riesling had been unable to accomplish last night. Suddenly she felt great.

‘God, Chris.' Rachel waved the watering can excitedly, sending a few odd droplets over Chris's desk. ‘It's just like that ABC series, you know –
Sea Change
, with Sigrid Thornton. Where she just picks everything up and goes off to start again. You're her!'

‘I wish,' said Chris fervently.

‘And you'll meet this absolutely gorgeous guy, just like Diver Dan.'

‘Better and better!'

‘Do you want to show me the documents?' Virginia, eminently more practical than Rachel, looked at Chris with a touch of concern. ‘I mean, I'm sure you went over them with a fine toothcomb, but it doesn't hurt to have another opinion, does it?'

‘Absolutely,' agreed Chris, who didn't even own a fine toothcomb.

‘So you're leaving?' Rachel looked at Chris's desk acquisitively. ‘D'you know, I might apply for your job. I'll get to sit down more. My legs are always aching.'

‘Jump in my grave, why don't you!'

Virginia looked at Rachel appraisingly. ‘Maybe it's all the running around you do?'

‘Nah, wouldn't be that,' replied Rachel. She picked up a pen from the desk and fingered it musingly. ‘Hey, d'you use a lot of stationery in your job, Chris?'

At this point Gloria Stanford, the senior partner with the allegedly errant husband, emerged from the elevators and crossed the marbled foyer to the pigeonholes by the reception desk. There she collected her mail and, putting her briefcase down, started to flick through the thick pile of envelopes.

Virginia, who had leapt off the desk at the sound of the lift doors opening, picked up her sheets of billing hours and then ostentatiously replaced them in Chris's in-tray. ‘There you go, Chris. My hours for last month.'

‘Thanks.' Chris picked up the papers and pretended to examine them. ‘Oh, and thanks for making them so legible, Virginia, you really make my job easier.'

‘My pleasure.' Virginia smoothed her skirt down. ‘And now I'd better get back to work. Give me a yell if anything needs clarification.'

‘No problem.'

Gloria Stanford turned around at last and regarded them quizzically over the top of her bifocals. To Chris, she always looked like a slightly younger version of Britain's Maggie Thatcher, and she had a sneaking sympathy for her husband's roving eye. It was hard to imagine Gloria doing
anything
of a sexual nature and, even if she did, it was more than likely she kept track of the time spent and billed accordingly.

‘Good morning, Chris, Virginia. Rachel, are you doing
anything
?'

‘Uh, I was watering the plants, Mrs Stanford.'

‘Well, may I point out that Chris's desk
has
no plants? And neither has the vicinity
around
Chris's desk. Perhaps your time would be better spent visiting the offices, where there
are
plants. I know for a fact that Mr Stanford has a giant monstera deliciosa that was quite limp the other day. It is
constantly
in need of refreshment.'

‘Sure, Mrs Stanford!' Rachel headed eagerly towards the junior partner's giant monstera deliciosa and Chris looked at Gloria Stanford curiously. She was becoming convinced that not only was there definitely an affair going on, but that Gloria knew about it and was somehow extracting amusement from the proceedings.

‘Did you know that Chris has bought a farm, Gloria?' asked Virginia, who, despite having stated her intention of returning to work, was still standing by Chris's desk.

‘Really?' Gloria looked at Chris with interest. ‘We must be paying you too much.'

‘It's an egg farm,' continued Virginia. ‘In Healesville. She's going to move there.'

‘Well, I hope it was an astute investment. Naturally you checked the land prices?'

‘Naturally,' nodded Chris.

‘Then congratulations. So does this mean you'll be leaving us soon?'

‘That's right.' Chris looked apologetic. ‘I was going to see you this afternoon. I'll be giving three months' notice but the last couple of weeks I'd like to take as annual leave.'

‘We'll miss you. How long have you been here?'

‘Let me see . . .' Chris cast her mind back to before Michael's birth. ‘It'd be about ten years. I came here when Grace was four.'

‘That definitely calls for a farewell party then. Tell Rachel to organise it – it'll give her something to do.' Gloria picked up her briefcase and strode purposefully off towards her office. She paused momentarily before her husband's closed door and then rapped sharply on it with her knuckles. As the sound of
something falling came clearly from within, Gloria permitted herself a small smile and then continued on her way.

‘I'll miss this place,' commented Chris reflectively.

‘And what can we do for you, Ms Beggs?'

‘Well, I'm after a small loan.' Chris injected confidence into her voice while she maintained eye contact with the bank manager. ‘Just to cover a deposit I made on the weekend for a free-range poultry farm. Down in Healesville. It's twenty acres. With a two-storey house and a huge barn. Fully accredited, ample goodwill, thriving business. Wouldn't have lasted.'

‘I see.' The bank manager raised his eyebrows. ‘Now let me get this straight. You placed a deposit but you don't have enough money in your account to cover it?'

‘Ah . . . yes. That's about right.'

Without taking his eyes off her, he made a steeple of his fingers and then held them under his chin. In other circumstances, Chris would probably have laughed out loud, because it was almost as if once, a long time ago, he had studied the stereotype of a bank manager and moulded himself accordingly. Thin and bespectacled, with just a meagre patch of grey hair remaining above each ear, he was dressed in a dark three-piece suit and even, unbelievably, a fob watch complete with dangly gold chain.

Unfortunately, however, Chris dared not laugh – because she needed him. Otherwise the cheque she had pressed so willingly into Frank's hands on Saturday was going to prove rather embarrassing.

‘You
do
realise that sort of thing is frowned upon?'

‘Yes, and normally I'd be frowning too –' Chris wrinkled her brow for good measure – ‘but circumstances were such that it was unavoidable. And I assure you that you'll get your money back. With interest, of course.'

‘Of course,' he replied derisively. ‘But might I ask
how
, if you don't even have the money to cover the deposit, you intend paying for the farm itself? Or were you going to ask us for that as well?'

‘Certainly not. Well, maybe just a bridging loan. The sale of my house will more than cover it.'

‘Your house?'

‘My house,' repeated Chris, leaning forward and pointing to her address, which was written on the application form in front of him. ‘That one there.'

‘You
own
this house?' The bank manager, looking incredulous, finally let his steeple collapse. ‘At
that
address? In Canterbury?'

‘Free and clear. That is, apart from a rather small mortgage.'

‘Well, well, well. In
that
case, Ms Beggs . . . may I call you Christin? Would you like a cup of tea? I think we may be able to accommodate you after all.'

‘D'ya want your usual, love?'

‘No, I feel like branching out today.' Chris looked up at the lunch menu chalked on a huge blackboard behind the counter. ‘I think I'll have the pesto, thanks. No, wait! I'll have the avocado and lemon on rye. Do you know I bought a farm on the weekend?'

‘Did you now?' asked Glenys, the rotund sandwich lady, with a distinct lack of interest. ‘So it's the avocado and lemon?'

‘Yes. It's down in Healesville. Twenty acres. Beautiful.'

‘All right for some.' Glenys sharpened her knife briskly on a butcher's steel.

‘I'm going to shift down there in a few months and run it. It's a free-range egg farm.'

‘Excellent.'

‘Wait, Glenys! Have you already started my lunch?'

‘Just about to, love, why?'

‘Because I've changed my mind. I'll have my usual, thanks.'

‘
Hello, Garth? Are you really not home or are you still not speaking to me? Okay then, I'll leave a message. Look, I really think we need to talk about this. I know I sort of sprung it all on you, but it's not like I planned it. That is, actually I did plan it – of course I did. Otherwise what would that make me? Ha, ha. But I just hadn't realised I'd find the perfect place so soon. Not until after I'd told you, see. But not talking to me isn't going to change things, is it? So give us a ring, or drop around, and we'll discuss things. Okay?'

‘Look, after you sign Michael out, can you pop over here and have a chat?'

‘Fine.' Chris's stomach sank just like it always did when the After School Hours Care lady asked for a ‘chat'. Because it usually meant that Michael had managed to get some other kids involved in an imaginative game that resulted in something getting broken – usually a window or piece of furniture but, occasionally, one of the other children.

Noting the time on the overhead clock, Chris signed the log-out book and then reluctantly approached the little cubicle where the After School Hours Care lady was doing paperwork. Through a huge plate glass window set along one entire wall of the playroom, Chris could see the children outside clambering over some brightly coloured climbing equipment. Automatically, her eyes flicked over the multitude of hanging, swinging and scrambling bodies until she located her son. He was perched, rather precariously, astride a yellow monkey bar and was fully occupied with flinging pine bark
down on the heads of several small boys who were attempting to dislodge him. It looked like an accident waiting to happen. Seemingly oblivious, the two teenage carers were sitting on a nearby bench, deeply engrossed in conversation.

‘Is something the matter?'

Chris glanced over at the After School Hours Care lady, who had paused in the paperwork to look at Chris questioningly. Instead of answering verbally, Chris simply raised her eyebrows and pointed outside. Michael, who had now run out of pine bark, was having a leg pulled by each of the other boys. Either he was going to be dislodged within seconds, or Chris would only have Grace to rely on for the production of grandchildren.