Standing Strong Page 6

  Each morning and evening, he’d taken to making the three-kilometre round trip to the gate to check the depository, new enclosure he’d set up so people could make donations of food and bedding, and surrender unwanted animals. He’d set up an old phone he’d got from the second-hand store in a box attached under the little verandah and had left clear instructions on how to turn it on, send a text advising of delivery of an animal, and then how to turn if off again to preserve the battery. He thought it was pretty straightforward, and hoped it would make people feel more comfortable doing the right thing by the creatures of the district – maybe even beyond. He was going to try to rig up some sort of solar recharger for the phone, but at this stage he was still pondering how. Nonetheless, he was pleased with his efforts. It would be time-consuming and a bit of a pain to keep checking the enclosure, but he couldn’t bring himself to totally trust the phone, or that people wouldn’t just leave animals without notifying him. But it was a start.

  He’d also figured out a contraption for feeding the four tiny kittens at once. He’d wrapped a shoebox in foam and then a towel – that could be washed – and poked holes through so the teats could stick out. Then he’d placed a rolled-up small towel in the shoebox so the bottles attached to the teats would be raised enough to keep the flow going right to the end. He’d put the whole thing in the large box with the kittens and, voila, he had a self-feeder, a pretend mother cat, for his little kittens. He’d work on perfecting his design, but for now it did the job, and he could always add more holes for more teats along the way if necessary. He was satisfied that his creation wasn’t too far off feeling like their mother’s tummy when the kittens paddled, if they used their imagination. But best of all, because it was contained in the larger box, he could take the kittens wherever he went and they could be fed on the move while he was out in the ute.

  It had been a good few days, he thought as he had breakfast and checked the new Facebook page he’d set up. It had photos of the tiny kittens drinking from their self-feeder and a cute shot of Jemima with her head poking out of her pouch – he liked that he had a name to add to the caption. He’d even managed to get a great photo of Squish peering into the box of kittens as if overseeing proceedings. He’d got lots of ‘likes’ and even a few shares. He was beginning to see how Facebook could be a valuable marketing tool. When he got organised to do a major fundraiser, he might be able to save time and money by doing most of the advertising via Facebook.

  Damien was starting to really enjoy the PR and marketing side of things. He’d never had to do anything like this to sell his grain and wool; you just took your load of grain to the silo or put your wool into the next sale. There was no having to suck up to people to get them to buy your produce. Perhaps, if he had his time again, or if this all went tits up – which he wouldn’t let happen because the animals needed him – then he figured he wouldn’t have minded giving this marketing caper a crack. He idly wondered if he should look into doing some short course or something to learn more. He was serious about Esperance Animal Welfare Farm being a huge success. And for the next two years he wouldn’t have a relationship to distract him or take up his spare time.

  With that thought in mind, he gathered his troops – Squish, Jemima, Bob and Cara – and set off to check the depository. On his walks, he always took Jemima’s pouch – she insisted on tagging along, but only ever got a few metres before she was panting and unable to keep up. Damien would stop, bend down so she could hop into the pouch, and then they would carry on until the next time she decided she wanted to get out and hop, though she also spent plenty of time with her head out of the pouch, enjoying the sights. Damien knew this wouldn’t last for much longer – soon she’d be too big for the pouch and too heavy for him to carry. She was growing like a weed, so he was determined to enjoy it while he could.

  Squish’s little legs struggled to keep up too, so he often had the pup perched on his shoulders. He was sure when Bob and Cara paused to look at him it was with pleading expressions for them to be carried too. Not a bloody chance! He felt like a pack horse as it was. Anyway, they needed the exercise, they were starting to look like lard-arses thanks to all the extra human treats – like little bits of cheese – he was giving them out of gratitude, despite telling himself they didn’t expect it and had probably long forgotten the fire.

  His little menagerie sure did bring a smile to his face and put a spring in his step. As he traipsed along, he pictured the four kittens, grown up, following in a line. But he had to stop himself – they were temporary visitors. Not all creatures who came his way could stay – he’d rehome them when he could. He wasn’t going to be in the business of just collecting.

  But he had plenty of space, and if he could earn enough, perhaps horses and donkeys could retire here. He stopped in his tracks. Where the hell had that come from? He hated horses. No, not hated horses, had hated having them on his property. After the last of his mother’s and Lucy’s horses had gone, he’d vowed there would never be another horse there again. He couldn’t think of a reason why, except that it was the view of most farmers around here. And of course, while he’d been so unhappy he’d had a negative opinion on most things. He was starting to see that. His dad had loved horses. Now he quite liked the idea of the challenge of working with a spooked or mistreated horse to see if it could be retrained and then sold on to a good home.

  One step at a time, Damo, he told himself. The universe is going to send what the universe is going to send. Sit back and let it happen.

  He walked on. That was the trouble with being raised by a control freak – you weren’t very inclined to stop and let the plan unfold. It was taking some reprogramming, but he was getting better at going with the flow. He wished his mother would see how uptight she was and how life could be better, easier, if you just sat back a bit.

  She’d phoned him last night, all miffed because Lucy still hadn’t called her back. It had been on the tip of his tongue to ask what she wanted him to do about it when she’d gone on to say that because of this she’d decided to take a tour rather than just book flights and do her own thing, and only spend two days and one night in London. The funny thing was that she’d said it in a haughty tone as if to say, ‘That’ll teach her.’

  Damien had come close to pointing out that Lucy probably didn’t consider her mother choosing to not impose for a week or so the punishment that was clearly intended. He really was beginning to see just how his mum made everything about her. Most likely Lucy would whoop with joy at learning she only had to spend a dinner and maybe an hour or so over lunch in her mother’s presence. It was all too funny.

  ‘People,’ he told Squish, Bob, Cara, and Jemima, ‘are weird. Now you guys have it all sorted. Food, sleep, only get cranky for good reason and when necessary …’

  Damien wondered if his mother was seeing Jacqueline professionally. He hoped not, because if she was, Jacqueline clearly wasn’t making much headway. But then he wondered if people could change such a major part of their makeup. Was a control freak destined to always be a control freak?

  ‘All too much for me,’ he muttered as he reached the boundary and his new little shed and enclosure. He checked the mobile and everything else before turning around and heading back home.

  *

  The phone rang when Damien was enjoying his first mug of coffee for the day and adding and subtracting things from his to-do list and copious sheets of notes. He didn’t recognise the number.

  ‘Hello, Damien speaking.’

  ‘Hello. Damien, this is Irene Timms from the Wattle Creek Hostel. Your auntie Ethel tells me your baby joey and rescued Jack Russell might like to visit and add a bit of interest to the residents’ day.’

  Since the little roo seemed so happy in the company of humans and was still nice and small and manageable – not to mention cute – Ethel had suggested it might make a nice interlude to the oldies’ day. Damien had wondered if there would be health department regulations against livestock in such place
s, but Ethel had assured him these things were at the discretion of the person running the facility and that she knew Mrs Timms well. ‘Of course you do,’ Damien had said with a smirk. His auntie Ethel knew everyone around here well. He knew Mrs Timms by sight and to say g’day to, but no more than that.

  ‘We would. I mean, I’m sure they would.’ He looked down at Squish and Jemima laying on the mat together. Squish gazed back up at him, wagging his tail. He was always up for any attention. ‘Jemima, that’s the joey, has only been in contact with a couple of people at a time so far,’ he warned. ‘But we can see how she goes. Squish – that’s my little Jack Russell – loves everyone. He’d be great.’

  ‘So when would suit you? I’m thinking just half an hour for the first visit to see how it goes.’

  ‘Okay. Well, I’m easy. You choose a time.’

  ‘How would two p.m. Wednesday suit?’

  ‘That would be great. I’ll look forward to it,’ he said, scrawling a note on the nearest piece of paper.

  ‘As will we,’ Mrs Timms said.

  ‘Is there any paperwork I need to fill out or anything beforehand?’

  ‘No, that’s okay. We’ll just play it casual.’

  Even better, Damien thought. Esperance was already starting to generate a hell of a lot of paperwork. He hung up, feeling decidedly chipper. Another step in the right direction. Yippee! He’d take Bob and Cara too. They were just the right height to sit beside a chair or wheelchair for a pat. They’d never spent any time inside, but they were smart and followed basic commands – well, most of the time. Damien refused to entertain the notion that his visit could turn into something resembling a scene out of a National Lampoon movie. Though, if it did, the oldies couldn’t complain they hadn’t been entertained or hadn’t had an interesting interlude to their day. He grinned to himself. He hoped Jemima wouldn’t disgrace him by leaving a smelly deposit on their commercial carpet squares. Though she hadn’t had any diarrhoea for days now and was regularly leaving nice piles of firm little pellet-shaped poo. And if Jemima wasn’t keen to entertain the oldies of the district and submit to having bony, arthritic fingers poking and prodding her and being run through her fur, then Squish was sure to be happy to oblige. Damien idly wondered if he could teach the dog some tricks to entertain them with. And perhaps the facility might like one or two of the kittens when they were old enough and had been desexed. Jacqueline was all for pets as therapy.

  He wished he could go and discuss these things with her. The more he thought about it, two years was a bloody long time. But he had no choice, he’d just have to keep busy. No worries there, he thought, picturing his growing to-do list. God he was getting good at lists. He couldn’t believe he’d tried all those years to keep so much in his brain. No wonder he’d become a bit unhinged – his bloody head had been full of stuff it didn’t need to be full of. He was probably actually becoming a little obsessive with his list-making, but figured there were worse problems to have. And anyway, they helped keep him organised. Organised? Him? Who would have thought? He wished again that he could share all these revelations with Jacqueline and get more of her insights. She really was a smart cookie, as his father would have said. Damien thought they’d make a pretty good team if given the chance.

  God, I’ve really got to stop thinking about her.

  Chapter Nine

  Ethel and Jacqueline set off nice and early for Hope Springs so they could have a bit of a tour of the area. Jacqueline had only visited the town the day she’d driven through on her way to Wattle Creek. Now, as they drove into the wide main street, she marvelled at what a pretty little town it was: lovely old homes and a few larger commercial buildings all in beautiful pale stone. The place was generally very neat and tidy, and the parking area in the middle of the street was adorned with large trees that she guessed were probably Norfolk Island pines. There were two old limestone hotels on corners – one at one end of the main shopping strip in the main street and the other overlooking the small harbour. It was really quite the perfect seaside setting.

  As they drove around and explored the town more, Jacqueline became a little disappointed. Just a street or two back from the hub, the town became bare, paddock-sized blocks with brown weeds waving in the breeze or industrial-sized sheds in shiny steel and various shades of Colorbond. Everything was so desolate, brown and parched. She much preferred Wattle Creek, where more people seemed interested in gardening and keeping a green lawn.

  They were too late for the local artists’ exhibition running in the second storey of the institute and to visit the café-slash-haberdashery-slash-homewares store for a coffee. Ethel apologised profusely for not checking, she had just assumed that everything would be still be open later because of daylight saving. She explained that during the summer holidays, the town’s population swelled threefold. Now school was back in, Hope Springs was back to being its sleepy self.

  They went into the small convenience store that was also the takeaway shop and newsagent. They were greeted by a cheery ‘Good evening,’ and a broad smile that Jacqueline couldn’t help returning. It was infectious. Ethel brought a copy of The Advertiser and Jacqueline the Woman’s Day to while away the next half-hour or so. The town didn’t have its own paper – its news was covered by the weekly Wattle Creek Chronicle.

  Being in the store with its creaking floorboards, grey and shiny from over a century of feet coming and going, reminded Jacqueline of her own summer holidays as a child, when she and all the other kids around her age in her street hung out together and would visit the corner store to blow their pocket money on bags of mixed lollies. She felt really old when she peered into the glass case behind a handwritten sign that read, Mixed lollies $2, and saw just how small the bags were. In her day, twenty cents would have bought more than that!

  She licked her lips as she spied the stainless steel milkshake mixer and line of pump nozzles attached to huge bottles of flavourings.

  ‘Do you fancy one, dear?’ Ethel asked, following her line of sight.

  ‘Sorry? What?’ Jacqueline said.

  ‘Milkshake? You were licking your lips.’

  ‘Was I?’ Jacqueline said, blushing slightly. ‘Oh, no, I couldn’t.’ Jacqueline hadn’t had a milkshake since … Well, she couldn’t recall when she’d last had a milkshake. Eons ago, most likely.

  ‘Well, I am,’ Ethel said forcefully. ‘I haven’t had one for donkey’s years. Owen, I’ll have a strawberry milkshake with the works, thanks – and a …?’ she said, nudging Jacqueline. ‘Come on, won’t kill you. My treat.’

  Oh, why the hell not! ‘Chocolate, thanks,’ she said to Owen, who was patiently waiting with a pink anodised aluminium milkshake cup in hand. ‘And let me get these. It’s the least I can do, since you’ve driven me.’

  ‘Well, I’m not one to argue, so if that’s what you prefer, thank you very much.’

  Not one to argue, my foot, Jacqueline thought with a smirk.

  They drove to the end of the street and sat overlooking the harbour, watching a few boats come in – some small private vessels and some clearly larger commercial enterprises. Most likely belonging to the oyster farmers that had made the town famous right around Australia, and probably beyond. It was nice to sit calmly and watch the world go by.

  Jacqueline was a bit nervous about her talk. She always was. Not hugely, just a little jittery; enough to keep her on her toes and not become complacent, she always thought. It had been what her dad had said when she’d once complained of nerves before one of her university tutorial presentations, despite having done several. He’d hoped she’d never totally quell the butterflies because if she did, it would mean she’d have lost her respect for her subject and her audience. She could see his point. A part of Jacqueline hoped the milkshake wouldn’t leave her feeling sick. Another didn’t care – it was oh so good.

  Ethel was clearly enjoying her blast from the past as well. ‘Sorry in advance for my slurping like a child, but it has to be done,’ she said with a grin a
s she sucked on her straw and moved it about, trying to get every last drop.

  Jacqueline laughed. ‘I was wanting to do that, but thought I’d better not.’

  ‘Can’t not, the best bits are at the bottom,’ Ethel said with a laugh.

  ‘They are! Just hope my nerves don’t cause me to throw it all up.’

  ‘You’ll be fine. Might be good for you to have your stomach lined so well. Well, miss, guess we’d better present you before we start getting frantic phone calls,’ Ethel said, starting the car.

  Jacqueline was given a warm welcome by the CWA President, Mrs Lisa Bishop, who explained they’d opened the evening to all the women of the district, and any who were visiting for the summer holidays. She was then taken onto the stage and introduced to the audience of at least one hundred ladies of various ages seated on rows of old wooden chairs. The room was nice and cool – clearly the building had been shut up for several days and the warm weather kept out.

  Jacqueline’s spiel was similar to what she’d used for each of her other community talks, she just tailored it a bit to the particular audience with the examples or stories she told. She didn’t use notes; she was talking about herself and the profession she was passionate about – she could talk for hours unaided. She didn’t see herself as a comedian by any stretch, but was usually able to get a few chuckles from her audiences by uttering some self-deprecating stories. It was important for her growing business to be seen as down-to-earth and approachable. And she’d seen that country people saw through any inauthenticity and bullshit as quickly as a hot knife went through butter.