The House at the Bottom of the Hill (2 page)

‘She’s due in six weeks,’ Ethan said. ‘Little Edie is going to be our summer baby girl.’

‘And how’s how our old summer boy doing?’

Ethan chuckled. ‘Grandy’s doing well. Junior said he’s complaining. They’re not likely to let him out of hospital for another couple of weeks though.’

‘Gave us a scare.’

‘Well, Grandy doesn’t do anything by halves.’

‘It’ll be good to have him back in town.’ Dan didn’t know what had startled the townspeople more—the thought of losing their patriarch or the sight of the air ambulance chopper landing on the field behind the stock feeders’. Dan missed the old man’s dry humour. Main Street wasn’t the same without Edmond Morelly sitting outside his hardware store, taking the sun and keeping an eye on the township. Although after the bout of pneumonia he’d come down with, it was unlikely the townspeople would allow Grandy the freedom he was used to. More than likely, one of the women would force him out of his farmhouse and into some hastily built retirement bunker. Dan had his money on Grandy. Ninety-five or not, the man was a force to be reckoned with.

Ethan lifted his chin and gazed down the street. ‘You spoken with her yet?’

‘The redhead?’ Dan looked back up the northern end of Main Street. ‘Nah, not really. Given her a wave and whatnot.’

‘Whatnot?’

‘You know. A smile, a welcome.’ But no advice. Another stab of remorse about his lack of gentlemanly qualities hit Dan in the stomach. ‘She hasn’t been in the pub, and I don’t expect she will any time soon.’ And it would be best if she stayed away. He’d spent the last fortnight leaning on the bar listening to what people were saying about her. Like she’d been sacked from her job in England and was skulking in the Australian countryside using the B&B as a hideout. Or worse, she’d run off from an angry boyfriend she’d been two-timing. Mostly, Dan gave a nod and a grin, but he drew the line at discussing what she’d be like in bed when some of the farmhands and graziers from out of town started on that subject. He knocked those conversations on the head and turned them to his favourite subject: rugby union. He wasn’t interested in the redhead’s love life—if she had one.

‘Thought you might have taken a closer look,’ Ethan said.

Those vibes of interest flared. ‘Not in the way you’re thinking, mate. Not my type.’

‘Okay then.’ Ethan scooped up Lochie and the guinea pig and turned. ‘So why are we standing here watching her when we’ve got hotel plans to look at?’

Charlotte Simmons pulled her shoulders back and eyed the mob standing in front of her. Only six people but two of them held high seats on the town committee and had enough community rope to hang her.

She’d thought she was bringing herself to a quintessential Aussie country town, but it seemed she’d travelled in a time warp. They turned quirky into an art form. Surely there was nowhere else in Australia like Swallow’s Fall?

Sweat trickled beneath the collar of her white linen shirt but she ignored the need to waft the collar and get some cooler air blowing down her spine. She smoothed the palms of her hands over her beige cotton skirt and raised her chin instead. At least Daniel Bradford had disappeared inside Kookaburra’s instead of standing there watching her. Not much of a conversationalist, Daniel—well, not with her; usually showed her his back after one of his off-hand waves. That’s all she’d seen of him: his broad back and relaxed shoulders. Couldn’t say what he looked like up close.

He had a great bum though. A
fabulous
bum. A twelve out of ten rating masculine butt. He had the respect of the town too, something she definitely didn’t possess, but he’d been in town for years, was practically home-grown. She’d been here two weeks and so far it felt like a life sentence.

Charlotte looked down at Lucy, her dog, and the only friend she had. She tickled Lucy’s ears; a young Australian Shepherd she’d found along the highway on her way down here. She’d emailed and posted lost dog notices at every vet surgery from here to Canberra but no-one had come forward to claim her.

‘Right then,’ Mrs Johnson said, opening the debate.

Charlotte straightened and gave the committee a smile. Two months, three, maximum, and she’d be gone from this unexpectedly perplexing town.
Please don’t let it take any longer
.

‘Good morning,’ she said. ‘How nice to see you all … again. Can I offer anyone a cup of tea?’ She indicated the door behind her. ‘Kettle’s on.’

Mrs Johnson—or Mrs J, as she was mostly called—folded her arms over her lightweight summer jacket, her sharp gaze raking Charlotte’s face as though trying to place her. ‘Jug,’ she said in a considered tone. ‘We’re a little old-fashioned in Swallow’s Fall. We call it a jug.’

Charlotte took her focus off Mrs J’s penetrating gaze and shook away the concern that the woman knew about her. How could she? Charlotte had spent only the first six years of her childhood in Australia before the nightmare event that had forced her relocation from an outer suburb of Sydney to the village of Lower Starfoot-in-the-Forest in Yorkshire, England. Mrs J might know about the event from twenty-three years ago, but not about Charlotte’s involvement. ‘The jug’s on then,’ she chirped. Her smile had surely petrified into a gaping grin and she’d never again be able to lick her lips, which were dry, like the roof of her mouth. ‘And I have a fresh batch of lemon tartlets, if anyone’s hungry.’ Most days they partook of her home-baked fare as they stood around on her front lawn, attempting persuasion.

‘No time for picnics,’ Mrs J said. ‘Let’s get this sorted.’

The temperature of the situation must have risen this morning.

Charlotte eyed the group. Mrs Johnson. Sweet-natured Mrs Tam. Mr and Mrs Tillman, who ran the stock feeders’. Their oddball twenty-year-old twin daughters, who didn’t quite fit in with their 1950s floral dresses and studious natures. One had a purple streak in her hair and the other a tattoo of a scallop shell on her shoulder. Charlotte wondered why the twins hadn’t left home and made their way to the city.

‘It’s our understanding,’ Mrs Johnson said, ‘that you’re planning on repainting the weatherboard on the B&B.’

Charlotte nodded. ‘Sunflower yellow.’

‘And we’re not saying it’s a bad thing,’ Mrs J continued as though Charlotte hadn’t spoken. ‘The house needs a new coat of paint and it’s decent of you for wanting to pep it up.’

‘Thank you.’

‘That bad storm we had a few years back did a lot of damage, and our good friends, the Cappers, didn’t have the money to renovate, with hardly any customers and their income dwindling as it did.’

‘I understand,’ Charlotte said. One of the first things she’d done was repair the sorry state of the veranda railings and put down new turf in the front garden. ‘It’s good of you to take an interest, with me being new. How kind of you all.’

‘That’s why they moved west to their son,’ Mrs J said, steamrollering Charlotte’s sarcasm. ‘Forced to retire because the B&B wasn’t producing an income. So what we really want to know is how you think you could do any better because this is a difficult town to live in.’

Wasn’t it just? ‘Well …’ Charlotte hadn’t given any consideration to answering this question. She hadn’t expected such opposition. Or was it interference? ‘I’ll advertise. Although it might take a couple of months before the house has guests.’ Not that Charlotte would be around to see them. The only advertising she intended was putting the B&B up for resale—and she couldn’t do that without first giving it a cosmetic makeover. It was in a worse state inside than she’d realised.

Mrs Johnson stared at her, face puckered as though she’d taken a sip of strong coffee, expecting it to be weak tea. ‘It’s been pink for as long as any of us can remember.’

‘So yellow would be a refreshing change.’

‘Pink,’ Grace Tillman said, nudging her husband, Ted, in his tank of a chest.

‘Pink,’ he responded on cue, frowning like a disgruntled Buddha. ‘Can’t go changing it now. We had photos taken of the town four years back—we haven’t got money in the kitty to have more done. We have our own website, you know, and those pictures are up on it. That’s the first impression people get when they go wandering the interweb.’

Charlotte withheld her smile at the idea of the world looking for the dot on the map called Swallow’s Fall.

Ted puffed up like one of the local corroboree frogs, although there was nothing endangered about him. ‘This B&B is part of our legacy and we’re proud of our history. Why, it’s practically heritage ranking, is our B&B. It has to remain flamingo pink.’

‘My B&B,’ Charlotte said. Parts of the inside were certainly worthy of a museum, but she’d better not mention that. No wonder it had been on the market forever. If it took too long to settle the repainting issue, let alone what she needed to do inside, she’d never resell the place; she’d be here through summer, autumn
and
winter.

‘It’s our further understanding,’ Mrs Johnson said, ‘that you’re planning on putting kiddie beds in the rooms for young children.’

Charlotte drew her bottom lip between her teeth. ‘Yes. So families can stay.’ Small families—two parents, one child. The rooms weren’t big enough for more.

The group shuffled and sighed, signalling an overall impression of wrongdoing.

‘The Cappers only had couples,’ Grace Tillman said. ‘They advertised their place—’

‘My place now.’

‘—as a retreat for adults.’

The bedrooms upstairs were sweet, in a bijou, chintzy way, but you could fit a trundle bed or a cot if needed, so what was the problem with catering for children? The house was small and currently a bit dated but had enough love in its rafters to make families want to stay for the night—cheaply—and have a hearty, home-cooked breakfast the next morning before moving on. Which is why Charlotte felt it would sell once she’d done some cosmetic renovation.

‘This is a main thoroughfare off the Monaro Highway,’ Grace continued, her plump cheeks reddening with every word. ‘We have a responsibility to our visitors. We can’t go about our business constantly watching for kids running out of the B&B.’

Six cars an hour was a main thoroughfare? Charlotte put her politest smile back in place. ‘I recognise it’s a busy little town and that it’s growing. I have thought about the Main Street issue. I’m going to build a fence around the front garden.’

Silence.

Charlotte stilled. What had she done now?

‘A f–f–fence?’ Ted Tillman spluttered. ‘We’ve never had a fence around the B&B. What colour are you going to paint
that
?’

Charlotte held her breath a moment. ‘I was thinking ordinary white.’

‘A yellow house and now a fence, for crying out loud. What next?’ Ted took hold of his wife’s arm. ‘Come on, Grace. We need an official town meeting about this.’

Charlotte breathed deeply. ‘No need for a meeting, surely?’

‘A fence around the B&B front garden, young woman,’ Ted said, his tone reminiscent of a brewing summer storm, ‘would run up against the bus depot and possibly interfere with the shire’s transportation arrangements. You’ll need
permission
. And let me tell you, it might take months. The shire is busy, you know. They’ve got pot holes on the highway to consider before they jump to your wants and needs.’

Charlotte glanced at the shire’s distinguished depot: a green barricade railing and an open-sided shelter.

‘Nothing to worry about,’ Mrs Johnson said as Ted stormed off, pulling his wife behind him. ‘Town meetings are a normal practice when something major is happening. You’ll find that out.’ She turned to the old 4WD she drove. The thing screeched like a pandemonium of parrots whenever she fired it up. Why hadn’t the committee done anything about that?

Charlotte glanced over her shoulder at her own brand-new 4WD she’d thought would give a better impression of fitting in than the swanky sports car she’d driven in England. Stuff the fitting-in—she’d never fit in here. Good job she didn’t want to.

The Tillman twins looked at each other and back to Charlotte. ‘There’s plenty for you to find out,’ the one with the purple streak in her hair said. The one with the tattoo of a scallop shell nodded in agreement.

Charlotte sighed.

‘Don’t go worrying too hard,’ Mrs Tam said once everyone had gone. ‘Ted’s in charge of the gavel. Likes to bang it whenever he gets the chance.’

Charlotte already felt the weight of it. Right on top of her head.

‘And I do like to give Ted the chance to let his emotions out,’ Mrs Tam continued. ‘He’s been under the weather recently. Too much study of space travel and the like. And there’s the trouble with—’ Mrs Tam pursed her mouth, suggesting she’d like to say more but felt she shouldn’t.

‘I’ll keep all that in mind,’ Charlotte said.

Mrs Tam looked at Charlotte, head tilted, dark eyes searching Charlotte’s face. ‘Are you sure you haven’t been in town before?’ She smiled. ‘Maybe it’s that beautiful hair of yours making me think I’ve seen you somewhere.’ Charlotte swiped at her shoulder-length hair, pushing it from her face and rolling her shoulders in an attempt to release the self-consciousness settling on them. She’d never been here before. Didn’t want to be here now but had forced herself to come, and buying the B&B had been her only option.

She glanced down the street to Kookaburra’s where Daniel and Ethan Granger had been standing. Charlotte had seen Ethan around but hadn’t met him yet. He was quieter-looking than anticipated. Big though; six-foot-five, easy.

She’d be less tense if she kept an open mind about the best way to approach him, but the questions she had for him might anger any man, especially if the townspeople already had wind of something amiss about Charlotte’s sudden arrival. They were so unexpectedly closed off and protective of each other. She’d have to think about backing down a little, not rushing things. Taking her time would be hard, though. She had so many questions and she needed the answers in order to move on. She had a new life to build, away from this place and free of fear.

Ethan didn’t look like his father, or even have the same surname, but was he built the same way, emotionally? Perhaps he was different to Thomas O’Donnell.

Charlotte didn’t know, but she was here to find out.