A Bush Christmas (7 page)

In no time they were slowing down again and the bike was coming to a halt. Jaime peered around Stirling's broad back to see they were at the gateway into Polly's Plains. And, my God, what a sight! The overarching metal sign proclaiming the name of the property was lit up with hundreds of tiny coloured budlights. Flicking, spinning, running and jumping, the sequences of the light show were enough to blind. The words POLLY'S PLAINS were picked out in white. It was stunning but that was nothing compared to the house she could see lit up across the paddocks. Stirling's place.

The blow-up Santa he had earlier dragged from the shed now sat on the roof, looking like he was about to descend the chimney to leave his presents. A massive tower of lights to the right of house was topped by a brilliant yellow star. Candy canes of red and white spun down the verandah posts while waterfalls of white glittering stars cascaded from the fretwork. It was incredible.

It was beautiful.

And because the hundreds of acres in the mountain-ringed valley were otherwise in total darkness, the light show shone so much brighter. It beat every house she'd ever seen back in Ivanhoe.

Jaime shook herself. Well, that's if you were into Christmas and all that kind of festive stuff.

‘Amazing, isn't it?' murmured Stirling. ‘Your house has lights too. They stay up all year round. I never tire of doing this. My mum and dad did it before me, and now Valerie helps me continue the tradition.'

Jaime frowned. ‘Your mum and dad did it
here
?'

‘Yep, I reckon they did. My sister and I are proof …' Stirling tossed a grin over his shoulder. ‘And they put up the lights too.'

Good Lord. The man had cracked a joke. Jaime smiled faintly in return but her mind was still tussling with the idea of his parents. ‘Did they work here?'

‘Yep. Them and my grandparents. They used to own the place.'

Aha. That's why he invested so much of himself in Polly's Plains.

‘My grandmother was Polly.' His tone was melancholic. ‘My grandfather loved her so much he called the place after her. She was the one who started Christmas in a big way at Burdekin's Gap.'

Aw, shucks, what a sweet thing to do. But then, did that mean his parents sold the property to Valerie? How tragic Stirling was still working on the farm that by rights should have been his!

But she didn't get a chance to ask anymore, because Stirling started the bike. Over the rumbles of the motor as he readied them to take off she heard him say, ‘But then, I forgot, you don't
do
Christmas, do you?'

‘
Hello!
Anybody home?' There was a chorus of voices from beyond the screen door.

It was Saturday morning and Jaime was down on her hands and knees trying to coax The Cat out from under the Chesterfield lounge. After flagrantly pulling most of her dry and folded clothes out of the laundry basket, the damn thing had dragged inside a morsel of bird – deceased probably last century – and was balefully staring at Jaime while it chewed. She really was in its bad books for feeding it dried cat food. At least dogs came when you called. Eventually.

‘Coming,' she shouted to the screen door, backing out from under the couch.

Plumed like Crimson Rosellas, three women stood outside the flywire. Brightly dressed in all shades of red, green and gold, they shone of Christmas as brightly as Rudolph's nose. One even had a flashing brooch. Jaime considered slamming the main door shut but then realised by the way the heavy piece of wood was propping it open, the damn thing had probably never been shut. Not in this decade anyway.

‘Hello. How are you?' she said, hoping her grin was a smile rather than a grimace.

And that was enough, for in they came, trailing tinsel and baubles (one had balls hanging off her ears, for God's sake!), and carrying clipboards bristling with official looking paper and china plates piled with sumptuous cakes. The last woman stank of Lace perfume.

The Cat took one look at the oncoming traffic and departed, a fluffy grey-blue ball streaking across the room, meowing loudly as he went. The fossilised bird landed right at Miss Lace Perfume's feet.

She didn't bat an eyelid, just swept the thing away with the side of her elastic-sided boot. Jaime watched in admiration. If she'd been confronted with that disgusting sight,
she
would have screamed.

The women moved into the kitchen. One put the kettle on the stove, another placed the delicious looking cakes on the bench, and the third just sat down at the end of the table and shuffled her papers. She looked very important with her gold-rimmed glasses perched on the end of her nose, Bob Hawke eyebrows creasing her face with a frown. Even Jaime, a veteran of meetings with state government ministers and their aides, was suitably impressed.

‘Um … I'm Jaime,' she muttered, not sure exactly what the protocol was here. These women acted like they owned the place and she was only a visitor. Which she was … a visitor, that is. ‘What can I do for you?'

The three ladies stared at her. The one sitting at the table (she was wearing the bauble earrings) beamed a wide smile. ‘We thought you might like to help us.'

Jaime didn't like the sound of that. She was here to house-sit and look after The Cat. Nothing more, nothing less. She pushed all her other extra-curricular activities firmly to the back of her mind.

Miss Bauble Ears was talking again. ‘I'm Irene, and this here's Susan and that's Sharyn. Welcome to Burdekin's Gap!'

‘That's Sharyn with a “y” not an “o”,' interjected Miss Lace Perfume from over near the sink.

‘We thought we'd call to say …' and together they all chorused, ‘
Hi!
'

The conversation baton was handed back to Irene. ‘We don't get too many newbies up in these parts, so we're here to say hello, and invite you to take part in the Burdekin's Gap Christmas Tree.'

‘Christmas Tree?' said Jaime, faintly. But she'd already helped Stirling with the Christmas trees. Hopefully they were now in Lake Grace, outside the supermarket with the fire brigade doing a roaring trade.

‘Yes, the Christmas Tree,' said Sharyn with a ‘y' not an ‘o'. ‘It's next Friday night. Santa Claus comes in the big red shiny fire truck, the kids get presents and there's a BBQ and everything! It's
very exciting
.'

The woman looked so ecstatic, Jaime was sure she was on the verge of an orgasm.

‘We thought you might like to be involved?' said Susan. This one appeared to be at least approaching what Jaime called normal. (Except for the flashing brooch. What was it? A snowman or something?) ‘We'd love you to make something.'

Oh Lord. Make something? ‘Like what, exactly?' Jaime asked.

‘You know, maybe some decorations? Paper chains, baubles or anything Christmassy?' said Susan.

‘I
love
making baubles,' said Sharyn. ‘All those glitzy, iridescent pins, sticking them in one by one. It takes
ages
to finish each polystyrene ball, but you kinda feel like you've accomplished something big when you do. And to fill in the time you can just pretend you're a wicked witch doing voodoo.' She mimed sticking in a needle. ‘Take that, you little sucker!'

Jaime gaped at Sharyn. The woman wasn't serious, was she? One glance at Miss Lace Perfume's face and Jaime realised she was. Deadly serious. Great. Making Christmas decorations really floated her boat. For
crap's sake!
Where was Myer or David Jones?
They
had Christmas decorations. Classy ones, not paper chains and polystyrene balls!

‘No? I don't think decorations interest Jaime,' said Irene, who was frowning at her across the table.

Jaime tried to reconfigure her face so it looked pleasant rather than suicidal (or was that homicidal?). In the meantime, Irene's attention was now on her clipboard. She was making little gasps of approval interposed with moans of displeasure. She finally glanced up, peering over her glasses at Jaime, her expression thoughtful. ‘We do need more cakes and slices …'

Jaime clung to the word ‘cake' like a life-saving buoy. She could buy one and drop it off at this Christmas Tree thingy and run. Plus these women looked determined. And the way Susan was making the cups of tea without even asking her what she wanted, indicated they were of the bulldozer variety too. A bit like her own mother.

‘Well, I once made a sponge–'

‘Great!' cried Irene. ‘We haven't had a good sponge since Nanny Burgess fell off the ironing board and tripped over the pig. Broke her hip and she was done for.'

All three women hung their heads for a moment. ‘Poor old Nanny,' muttered Sharyn. ‘The pig didn't last long either. Ryan butchered it for the Christmas Day shin-dig.'

Jaime contemplated which expression was appropriate: sadness for Nanny Burgess, despair for the pig or happiness everyone obviously got a good feed out of it.

‘What was Nanny doing on the ironing board anyway?' asked Susan of the others.

Sharyn shook her head. ‘She was seeing if she could surf. The University of the Third Age down in Lake Grace was doing a trip to the beach. Poor Nanny never made it past the store at the Gap.'

Jaime found her voice. ‘How old was she?'

‘About eighty or thereabouts but you never know with old ducks like her. She could still shear a sheep. A bit slow, but she was thorough.'

Jaime didn't know what to say. Her own mother was fifty-one and she couldn't imagine her
looking
at a sheep let alone shearing one.

‘So,' Irene pushed her glasses firmly up her nose, obviously trying to get things back on track, ‘how many sponges can I put you down for?'

‘I've only tried–'

‘Five? Oh, terrific! That'll do nicely.' Irene beamed.

‘But–'

‘We are just so grateful. And you'll attend too, of course? Everyone comes to the Christmas Tree, don't they, girls?'

Sharon was making sounds of approval and clapping enthusiastically. Nauseating puffs of Lace wafted through the air.

Susan was nodding in a self-satisfied way. ‘Right,' she said as she brought over the cups of tea, ‘that's settled. I'll bring forth the cake now, shall I?'

Jaime nodded weakly. Done over by the three stooges. What a job this was turning out to be.

Susan brought the china plates over and placed them on the centre of the table. Jelly cakes and lamingtons smothered in coconut flakes and spilling with cream beckoned to Jaime. A rich brown mudcake followed, drowned in tiny flakes of chocolate.

Jaime's hand was in the air, just about to dive in on a mouth-watering pink cake when Susan pulled the plate out of her reach.

Jaime glanced up to see the three women still contemplating her with mute expectation. Irene checked her clipboard again. ‘Would you also like to do a dessert for the Christmas Day shin-dig next Sunday?' A pen moved in expectancy across her page in the partial shape of a tick.

Thwarted of her prize Jaime was disgruntled. What did these women think she was, a benevolent society?

‘We charge twenty dollars a head for the communal lunch. Everyone from Burdekin's Gap comes. We all make and donate the food. The proceeds from the day are in aid of the fire brigade. We're in dire need of a new quick fill pump, so it's all hands on deck to raise some funds …'

That'd be right. Just hit on her Archilles heel. Her father was a fire brigade volunteer in the outer suburbs for years.

‘… and Stirling McEvoy is donating a few legs of lamb …'

Marble Man was involved? Good. He could deliver the cakes. She wouldn't even have to go near another Christmas tree ever again.

‘… of course I could put you down to make some more Christmas decorations. We need them down by the river for Christmas lunch as well.'

‘Yes, I'll do it,' said Jaime, shuddering. She went to drag her pink lamington back across the table. Found Susan holding onto the other side of the plate. Would the woman ever give up? Judging by her determined expression, no was the answer.

‘You'll do what, exactly?' interjected Irene.

The lamington looked so scrumptious and Jaime's taste buds were crying out for some sweetness in this backwater. ‘Put me down for a dessert,' she said through gritted teeth.

Susan let go of the dish, a feline smile curving her mouth. Jaime was pulling so hard the plate slid across the table and nearly into her lap.

Whatever. She would buy cakes, tinned fruit and some jelly from the shop.

That'll teach them.

‘Take that you damnable thing!' yelled Jaime, throwing a flat round projectile out the back door.

Striding up the path towards the house, Stirling ducked as what looked like a low-flying saucer winged its way through the air. Buster, ambling along at his heels, pounced on the object with the glee of dog-meets-rabbit. A flat and spongy rabbit.

‘And don't come back!' yelled Jaime before she turned away in disgust. The Cat had tried to drag the last failed attempt inside as if it was determined to make her face up to her mistakes.

Why oh why hadn't she listened to Mrs Legge (that's with two ‘e's and two ‘g's) who had taught Home Economics at school. Instead Jaime had been too busy reading the latest
Dolly
magazine, jammed between the covers of her cooking textbook.

She stormed back to the kitchen and stared balefully at the two dozen eggs sitting in their pristine cardboard packet. A couple of empty cartons sat in the bin, along with two dozen eggshells languishing in bits and pieces. Egg white dripped off the edges of the counter while flour dusted everything in sight.

She was never going to be able to make a sponge.

Jaime poured another glass of wine and glared at the (now practically empty) wine bottle.

‘You got a problem, Princess?'

Jaime spun around. What was he doing in her domain? Correction, Valerie's kitchen?

‘Nope. What made you think there's a problem?'

Stirling leaned against the nearest bench, crossing his arms and legs in a pose of studied relaxation. A mild quirk to the edge of his mouth added to Jaime's displeasure.

‘Just thought you might be in need of a hand.' He picked an egg out of its casket. Threw it into the air.

Jaime leant forward to snatch it back. She didn't need him adding to the mess she was already in. Her fingers caught the egg.
Crunch!
Oh God, there was another one gone. At this rate she'd outstrip the supply of the farm's chooks and have to visit Ryan at the store. Then she remembered, no Suzuki. Plus she had an idea she might be a little wincy bit drunk.

She dived down to pick up the runny egg before it coated the floor. Found Stirling down there too. Two heads – one dark russet, the other blonde – bumped against each other. Hard.

‘Youch!' cried Jaime, sitting back on her heels and rubbing at her forehead.

Stirling reared back too but after a few seconds his hand came up to rub
her
head, then dropped just before it made contact.

More's the pity, Jaime found herself thinking.

‘Sorry about that,' Stirling muttered before standing back up. ‘You didn't need me to add to the mess.'

‘Mess? What mess?' Jaime immediately bristled. ‘This is an incredibly organised kitchen.' Her hands fluttered through the air. ‘Oven over here, fridge over there …' She looked around. ‘And ingredients everywhere!' She started to giggle, which turned into a wail. ‘I'm never going to be able to make a sponge. And I have to make' – she perfectly mimicked Irene's voice – ‘“a sponge or two”. I thought I could buy them from the store but I rang Ryan and he just laughed at me. I have to deliver
five of the bloody things. Thank God I decided to make and freeze them ready for next Friday. I've got twenty-four more eggs to get it right.' She took another swig from the glass that was sitting on the bench, swung her arms around and started raucously singing ‘Tomorrow' from
Annie
.

Stirling slammed his hands against his ears and yelled, ‘If you stop that infernal racket I might be able to help you!'

Jaime immediately stopped singing and put down the glass. ‘Really? But you're …' she grasped for a word, ‘you're … well …
you
.'

‘And what's that supposed to mean?'

‘A stockman. How the hell can you cook a feather-light sponge?'

Stirling almost cracked a grin. ‘Valerie showed me how and now I'll show you.'

 

Ten minutes later and Jaime wished she hadn't been so hasty to agree. Stirling's arms were clasped around her, his body glued to her bare back. She really shouldn't have worn a halterneck top. She could feel every muscle, every movement he made as he guided her hands to ‘fold' the thrice-sifted flour into the egg mixture.

‘And you just lightly lift the fork up and down, blending the flour with your eggs.'

Jaime knew what her eggs were doing and they weren't blending. Her ovaries were standing to attention, passionately saying, ‘Man! Give me man!'

She tried to wiggle a little out of his grasp, moving her bare legs away a fraction only to be pulled in tighter by iron-hard arms.

A soft voice murmured seductively near her right cheek, ‘Slowly does it.' As he spoke, tiny puffs of air wafted into her ear causing her to shiver with suppressed delight. She could feel goosebumps patterning her skin below her cut-off shorts.

‘Just move it gently in a circular motion …'

She wanted to gyrate her hips
in a circular motion
against his–

‘And that's enough.'

The cold air of the overhead fan now brushed across her spine. He'd let go abruptly and turned his back on her, facing towards the sink. He washed his hands, then veered to the oven, grabbing a tea towel as he went. He checked the temperature on the gauge, adjusted it a bit, and swung back, the tea towel draped across his middle as he fastidiously dried his fingers.

Jaime couldn't help but wonder if that tea towel was hiding something …

‘Just pour the mixture into the tins and gently place it in the oven for twelve minutes. I'll be back to check.' The man then dumped the cloth and literally ran for the door. The Cat, languishing in the window, meowed as Marble Man rushed past. Stirling halted momentarily, his fingers brushing its fur. The Cat leaned into the caress.

Jaime watched the whole performance gob-smacked. The bloody cat hadn't even
looked
at her let alone sat still long enough for a pat.

Then Stirling was gone, slamming the screen door as he went, calling the dog from an accumulation of cakes which looked like plate-sized discuses. The dog came on command but not before he'd snatched a delicacy to have on the run.

Well, at least she'd made
someone's
day.

 

He came back exactly twelve minutes later. Jaime knew this because she sat on a stool in the kitchen munching on some nibbles, counting down the seconds, trying to work out why she felt such a strong attraction to this bloke.

He was nothing like her usual boyfriends. They were normally debonair, lighthearted, fun-loving, out-to-have-a-good-time-regardless kind of men. A bit like herself. Well, that was until her dad died, leaving her all bereft. Good times didn't seem to mean so much after his death. As if to have a good time was almost in violation of the sadness she felt.

Now she was attracted to this man, a more serious,
very
country bloke. What gives? she wondered. It was weird. Really, really bizarre.

But even ‘bizarre' didn't cut it, she decided, as Stirling walked back in the door and her heart just melted as he stood there, fresh from a shower. His russet hair curled at the ends, softly touching his tanned neck. A yummy set of broad shoulders were now encased in vivid green. His long legs were sheathed in faded denim blue jeans with a brown leather belt drawing attention to his trim waist. The man had no right to look so scrumptious. She could have eaten him right up. No, bizarre didn't cut it at
all.
He was fantastic.

Jaime touched the side of her mouth, checking to make sure her tongue wasn't hanging out. It wasn't but she clenched it firmly between her teeth just in case, and smiled brightly. ‘Time to retrieve your sponge?'

Stirling didn't move. For some reason his eyes were focused on her legs. She glanced down. Nothing strange there. Her knee was crossed over the other as she sat on the stool. She looked back up. He was still standing there, all silent and brooding, just staring.

‘Ahem …' She cleared her throat.

Startled blue eyes dragged their way up to her throat, where they fastened on the V of her halter-neck top.

Now there was one thing in life Jaime wished she had, and that was a bigger cleavage. She needed to squish her arms together to give the impression of a decent bust. But her arms weren't together now and he was still staring.

She peered down and there, sitting on her top, was a big blob of cake mixture. She lifted a finger, scooped it off and slid her finger into her mouth to suck the sweet mixture. Lavishly licking her skin, she gloried in her femininity, something she never would have done if she hadn't downed a whole bottle of wine and just started on a second. Stirling's flinty eyes watched every move. She licked and nibbled some more, enjoying having this man watch her do it.

Until The Cat appeared, curling around the stockman's legs. Stirling was jolted out of his trance, and leant down to scoop the creature up. Jaime's eyes nearly popped out of her head. The Cat let him pick it
up
!

‘You better get that cake out of the oven, otherwise it'll be flat
and
burnt.' The man leant against the doorjamb, stroking the feline which lay cradled in his arms like a baby. As The Cat stretched out its paw in obvious ecstasy, Jaime found herself wishing Stirling would stroke her like that.

‘Yes. Right. The cake.'
Mind on the job, Jaime Josephina.
She moved to open the oven door, grabbed a pot-holder and slid out the two sponges. They were beautiful. Tinged with light brown, crisp at the very edges, nice and high, looming over the tin.

‘Now run a butter knife around the edges and tip them out onto that cake cooler with the clean tea towel on it.' Stirling sounded matter-of-fact.

How did a man who lived in the bush know all this finer cooking stuff?

Jaime did what he said. And voilà! There they were, two featherlight sponges. She turned incredulous eyes towards the man still standing in the doorway, stroking The Cat.

‘It worked!'

‘Of course, Princess. I expected nothing less.' And he grinned.

Holy fuck! When the man really smiled, as in put his whole heart into it, his face lit up like a Christmas tree.

Oh crap, did she say that aloud? And why was he looking at her all funny?

Jaime had to sit down.

‘Are you feeling okay?' Stirling dropped The Cat and was at her side in seconds.

She waved him away, grabbed her wine glass and tipped it up, realising it was empty at the same time. She felt Stirling's hand come down on hers.

‘Here. I don't think you need any more of that.' He took the wine glass away and delivered a cup of water into her grasp instead.

‘Party pooper,' she mumbled.

And then promptly passed out.