7 AMELIA

7 Amelia

Amelia stared at the face of her watch in the first light of dawn. It was ninety-one hours since she’d had more than a couple of hours of unbroken sleep. The sleep deprivation woke the memories of last time she’d felt like this, seven years ago; although now she experienced only the dizzy exhaustion, without the overwhelming joy that had created a surreal—and ultimately predictive—sense of a life too good to be true.

The farmer Taylor had introduced her to three days earlier, Roni, had offered to take in the lamb, saying he’d be company for her massive old merino, Goat, who had loudly greeted them from a paddock alongside the farmhouse. But Amelia had clung to the scrap of furry wool. She recognised the underlying psychology that rendered her unable to let the animal go, but that didn’t change her reaction: the lamb needed her love, her protection, and she wasn’t about to fail. Not again. So she’d named the lamb Karmaa, and had spent the last three nights propped against the footrest of the old velour lounge chair in the rental Taylor had organised for her, the lamb lying against her naked chest beneath a soft blanket from the well-stocked linen closet. With each breath she prayed that her own heartbeat would encourage the tiny, erratic flutter of the lamb’s life. Roni and her vet husband, Matt, had warned that attempting to raise a newborn lamb was likely to fail, but Amelia was determined that, at the very least, Karmaa wouldn’t die alone and unloved. He would be warm and cossetted, sliding into a deep sleep knowing neither pain nor fear.

Biggles balanced on the arm of the chair, holding slices of fruit between her tiny pink-palmed paws and nibbling delicately, her fawny brown ears twitching as she watched the lamb curiously from big, chestnut eyes.

‘That’s another night he made it through, Biggles,’ Amelia murmured as the lamb moaned in his sleep. She had been alarmed to discover that the animal verbalised dreams as much as any child, uttering sad, lonely bleats that she thought had to be evidence of his trauma.

The brushtail dropped the wedge of pear and scooted onto Amelia’s shoulder, curling in close against her neck as they both waited for the lamb to wake properly.

Karmaa raised his head then struggled to stand, his tail frisking through the hole in the nappy Amelia had modified for him. He thrust his head into the crook of Amelia’s elbow, soft lips seeking.

‘Actually have an appetite today, do we?’ Amelia said, trying not to let herself get too excited. ‘Let’s get that bottle on to warm, then.’

As she walked down the hall, she opened the door to the bathroom, where Dusty slept on a branch Amelia had rigged over the retro pink ceramic bathtub. Accustomed to human hours, Dusty tended to wake later than wild birds. Now she fluffed her feathers and observed Amelia with what seemed a degree of annoyance.

Amelia chuckled. ‘Sorry, kiddo, but Mum has to get ready for work today. You’ve got five minutes before it’s my turn in here.’

Dusty fluttered to her shoulder. Her beak loomed intimidatingly into Amelia’s line of vision, but she knew the bird was leaning in for a ‘kiss’. Occasionally she regretted having encouraged that behaviour when Dusty had been a nestling, entirely dependent on Amelia for company and warmth. The great, slightly curved beak was an impressive weapon and more than capable of taking out Amelia’s eye. But, although Dusty would occasionally seize and twist Amelia’s fingers when she was being closed away for the night, the magpie always regulated her own behaviour, and was gentle when she approached Amelia’s face.

The rising of the sun made responsibility for the lamb weigh less heavily. As Karmaa staggered on scrawny little legs to trail Dusty, who marched imperiously around doing her morning inspection of the house, it seemed that, despite his size, he might survive. Amelia fed him the enriched milk, a tiny amount so he wouldn’t bloat, as Roni had cautioned that was one of the leading causes of death in rescued lambs. After discovering that Karmaa aspirated, breathing the milk into his lungs, Amelia had changed from using the stock teat Roni had supplied to a baby bottle and nipple. That purchase probably had her new local store gossiping, if the arch of the cashier’s tattooed eyebrows was anything to go by, but the slower flow did the trick.

Karmaa tired himself suckling, then curled up in the dog bed Amelia had bought from the local hardware shop and lined with a sheepskin throw pinched from her own bed.

‘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 the others who, 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 not all about 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 there were gaps 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.’

‘No, I hadn’t noticed you had him here earlier—I assume I was too busy in this professional place of business.’ Faelie was apparently oblivious to their tatty surroundings, which paid homage to several decades: the heavy wooden reception desk an import from the sixties, the orange filing cabinets from the seventies. Three dust-covered balls on each of the pendant lights—relic of the eighties—struggled to illuminate the large roses on a carpet that probably dated back to the fifties, and the yellowed walls of the warren of small offices had a patina that defied any attempt at dating. Amelia had learned from the sign outside the building—the original regional district council office, an elegant, high-roofed stone building with an impressive facade and multi-paned windows—that the lawyer’s practice shared space with an MP’s office, the town information and tourist centre, the local library and the historical society. The MP had evidently won the room lottery, as he’d claimed the space fronting the street. The two-roomed solicitor’s office, guarded by Amelia’s reception area, was wedged between the library and the single toilet, whose constantly running cistern often seemed the only noise in the building.

Amelia had learned from Faelie that, although they were employed by the lawyer, James Stokes, the other tenants of the building—and, in fact, all of the clients—believed their daily presence automatically made them front-of-house for all of the businesses. Faelie seemed to have a love–hate relationship with the fact: she treasured the extra measure of control, but loathed the responsibility for which she didn’t receive adequate recognition.

‘He needs feeding every three hours,’ Amelia said firmly. Karmaa would never have less than the care he deserved. Amelia knew what a moment’s inattention, allowing other responsibilities to take her focus, could do. ‘And while I’m rostered on, he is here with me. Or I’m not here at all.’

She didn’t need the job—she worked for the distraction, not the money; her share of the sale of the family property had taken care of that. She’d told her father she didn’t want the money, but he insisted it was an early inheritance. He’d kept only enough to comfortably set him and Mum up in an enormous apartment in the lush Gold Coast hinterland—about as far from the dry interior of South Australia as they could get—and had thrown sufficient into superannuation to see them through retirement. The remainder he’d put into Amelia’s account and said there was to be no more discussion on the matter. It was like he needed to be rid of all ties to the cattle station that had been in the family for generations, and that entailed disposing of the exorbitant sum the overseas investors had paid for the vast tract of land by dumping it in her account. Blood money.

She had told Dad he owed her nothing. What she’d meant was that he owed nothing he could ever repay. But, much as she wanted to, Amelia couldn’t find it in herself to blame him—because she knew where the true fault lay: a mother’s most important job was to protect her child.

‘I’m sure we can replace you,’ Faelie said frostily, although Amelia knew she was lying. The job had been going begging for nine weeks. It barely paid award and the handful of hours seemed rostered to deliberately eliminate anyone with children to care for.

That didn’t exclude Amelia.

‘But in the interim, I expect you to serve out your notice. And I’ll also need you to work late tonight.’

‘I’m aware. Six o’clock finish.’ Amelia matched Faelie’s tone. She could almost guarantee the door from the street into the old council offices wouldn’t open after three. Thursday, which was both pension day and the sole day the library was open, was the only time the small town had seen any action in the week she’d been here. The back streets—of which she’d discovered there were two running parallel either side of the main drag—never had more than three dusty vehicles parked along the length.

‘The Regional Action Group will be using the community room this afternoon.’ As usual, Faelie’s disconcertingly wispy voice drifted off into nothingness, the end of her sentence barely audible. ‘The other offices don’t care to be accountable, so we oversee the use of the facilities, then do the lock up after community events.’

Micromanagement seemed to be Faelie’s style.

‘You can go home for an early dinner first. And to feed that animal.’ Faelie pointed at Amelia’s desk.

Dinner wouldn’t take any time. It would be a peanut butter sandwich. Had been for the last three years. Amelia had carefully not given Noah any peanut products for the first two years of his life but then, when he discovered peanut butter, it became a firm favourite. She loathed it. Always had. But she’d eaten it almost every day for the last three years, staring at the solitary sandwich as though it was a communion wafer.

Communion with her dead son.