A Chance of Stormy Weather Page 9

  “Hello, Paula.”

  “Hello, Dad. You’ve made good time. How’s the four-wheel drive experience?” Paula stalled for time. She didn’t want to admit she couldn’t direct her parents to her new home.

  “It’s a good vehicle to drive and comfortable to ride in. I think I’ve nearly convinced your mother we need one. I’ve looked at the map. It should only take us a couple of hours to reach you. How do we get to the farm from town?”

  “It’s a bit complicated, Dad.” An idea formed in Paula’s head. “Why don’t you ring me before you leave Adelaide and I’ll wait for you in town by the post office. You’ll be able to find that easily in the main street and then you can follow me home.”

  “Good. We’ll probably get away about eight o’clock but we’ll ring first. See you in time for smoko, your mother says.”

  “Yes, bye Dad.” Paula hung up the phone. Smoko! Where did her mother get these ideas? She looked around the kitchen and the old familiar anxiety rose and swirled inside her. She needed more preparation time. She’d planned a few more days of getting organised before her parents arrived. Not only that but she couldn’t even find her way into town to meet them. She hoped Dan would be able to come with her.

  She’d worry about that later. For now she wanted to give the main rooms the once-over. She went into the spare room and collected the painting things she’d left. The window was bare, framing a dull grey sky, and the room was very cold. Rowena hadn’t dropped off the curtains she’d promised. Oh, and Dan had wanted her to tell Rowena not to bring lunch. Paula decided to call before she tackled the lounge and then she’d do the kitchen.

  She also wanted to do some cooking. There had been a box of recipe books in the pantry. Maybe there were some recipes in there like the things Dara had made. There was a lot to do in a short time. She picked up the phone again to call Rowena.

  Two hours later Paula glanced again at the battered little CWA cookbook lying open on the benchtop and hummed along with the radio. With the housework done she’d decided to tackle the cooking. She had selected this book from the collection assuming anything produced by the Country Women’s Association would be foolproof.

  There was an abundance of tempting cake recipes and with plenty of eggs at her disposal she had settled on a sponge. She had carefully added the eggs, one at a time, then beat the mixture madly with a fork. It was looking good. She cracked the last egg and gasped. A blueish-green blob fell into her mixture and a putrid smell assaulted her nostrils. She gagged.

  With a wail she grabbed the bowl and spatula and made a dash for the door to the side verandah. It was a stiff door and she wrenched it with one hand, tipping the bowl and splashing some of the revolting mixture down the front of her shirt. Angry now, she pushed open the screen door and stomped to the side of the verandah where she scraped the remains onto the overgrown tangle of garden. How did she end up with a rotten one among all the other lovely deep yellow yoked eggs?

  She washed the bowl, wrapped up the egg shells, changed her shirt and, with fresh determination, turned up the music on the radio and started again. This time it was an apple cake and she took care to crack the eggs into a cup before she added them to the mixture.

  The oven was old and the door groaned as she opened it and peered inside. The light didn’t work but the interior looked okay so she turned it on to pre-heat and went back to her mixture. The recipe called for two sandwich tins and she had only been able to find an old round cake tin in a cupboard. There was no baking paper. She hoped a good smearing of margarine would prevent the cake from sticking.

  Her confidence restored, she hummed along with the radio again and decided she’d try an egg-and-bacon pie next. At least they’d finally get to eat some of the bacon instead of feeding it all to the mice. One of her magazines had a section on old-fashioned recipes which they’d jazzed up with a few new ingredients Paula didn’t have. She’d found a similar recipe in a booklet put together by the Uniting Church Ladies Auxiliary for their centenary. She decided she would serve the pie for lunch tomorrow.

  Paula turned from her cake and sniffed the air. Was that burning? She opened the oven door and a waft of smoke puffed out. Flapping madly with one hand she reached up and turned the oven off. She couldn’t see anything in the smoky gloom, then she remembered the torch.

  By the time she returned the smoke had dispersed leaving an acrid, smouldering smell. She shone the torch into the oven and discovered a small black blob right at the back. Using a pair of tongs she gingerly picked up the cause of the problem. Horrified, she looked at the blackened remains of a mouse. It was stiff and dry. She hoped it had been already dead and she hadn’t just burned it alive.

  She dumped the residue into the bin, wondering how on earth it could have got into the oven in the first place.

  “Now I’ll have to clean the oven,” she muttered.

  She shone the torch into the dark recesses in case there were any other little surprises then went off in search of something to clean it with. It was an old oven and there was plenty of built-up grime that wouldn’t budge. She decided to add a little of the pine disinfectant to the hot water in the final rinse then turned away quickly as she gagged. The warm pine smell reminded her of the maggot-ridden mouse. She quickly finished the job, holding her breath.

  While she waited for it to heat up again she prepared the egg-and-bacon pie. The recipe simply said plain pastry, so then she had to hunt though the books until she found a recipe for pastry. She’d only ever used frozen sheets before and she didn’t have any.

  The pastry was very tacky so she added more flour and flattened it out on the benchtop with her hands. She had nothing to roll it out with. Improvise, Paula, she told herself. There was a bottle of chocolate flavouring in the pantry so she used that as her makeshift rolling pin.

  The pastry didn’t roll well and she had to stretch it and fill the gaps with off-cuts to make it fit the pie dish. She looked at her patchwork pastry and decided it would be covered with the egg and bacon anyway.

  The oven was ready for the cake so she put that in. The last directions for the pie made her wail again. ‘Cover with rest of pastry and bake in the usual way’. Rest of the pastry! She’d used it all, and what on earth was the usual way? “What kind of person writes a recipe like that?” she fumed.

  The name of the person who had supplied each recipe was written in large print underneath. In the space below the egg-and-bacon pie was written MRS P PORKER. Paula’s floury hand flew to her mouth. It had to be a joke. She glanced at the names printed under the other recipes. They were WILLIAMS, COLLINS and JONES. She couldn’t imagine the ladies who had prepared this recipe book would have entered the name PORKER as a joke.

  All the same Paula giggled to herself as she prepared the second lot of pastry. Well, Mrs P Porker, with a name like that you should know about bacon recipes.

  She used less flour this time and the final result was a spongy mixture, which sagged into the spaces as she spread it over the top layer of bacon. Somehow Paula didn’t think Mrs Porker would approve.

  The pie fitted in the oven under the cake and Paula hoped the smell of fresh baking would replace the lingering charcoal odour mingled with a whiff of pine disinfectant. Then, remembering there was still the evening meal to prepare, she rummaged in the freezer and took out a pack of T-bone steak. She put it on to defrost in the microwave and double-checked the settings, not wanting a repeat of the chicken fiasco.

  It was getting dark and she needed wood for the fire so she made a trip to the woodheap out past the back gate. She threw the chunks of wood quickly into her basket. There was no sign of any mice but she was sure she could hear them scrabbling under the pile.

  Safely back inside, she lit the fire in the lounge and came back to the kitchen in time to remove the cake. There was a faint burning smell but everything looked fine. The top of the cake had risen and browned nicely but the pie was still a bit pale on top so she left it to cook a little longer.

 
; There was no wire rack so she decided to turn the cake out onto the chopping board. But, as she tipped it, the top came away and the bottom stuck in the tin with half the apple. Paula looked at her crumbling creation in dismay and sniffed. She forgot the cake for the moment. There was definitely a burning smell.

  She went back to the oven and opened the door. The smell was much stronger but the pie looked fine. She took it out and lifted it up. Through the clear glass dish she could see a blackened bottom.

  “Oh no!” she yelped as the heat penetrated the tea towel. The pie dish ended up next to the broken cake and Paula stood miserably surveying the disaster that was her kitchen. What on earth had made her think she could cook? There were dishes piled in the sink, flour and egg shells scattered along the bench, assorted packets and the pitiful results of her labour spread across the table. There was not one decent thing to eat to show for all the mess.

  ‘It’s My Party’ blared at her from the radio and she did indeed want to cry. Tears of frustration welled in her eyes, but the beeping of the microwave attracted her attention. She lifted out the bag of meat which was now warm and soft and looking nothing like T-bone. There were several bones and she belatedly spotted the label in Rowena’s neat print, indicating it was a bag of large chops.

  “Argh!” shouted Paula at the mess around her. “I can’t even get that right.”

  “Paula?” Rowena’s voice came from the back.

  Paula hadn’t heard the car. She flung the chops back in the microwave and rubbed at her eyes, cursing under her breath.

  “Paula? I brought over the…” Rowena pushed open the door then stopped. She cast her eyes over the kitchen. “What on earth has happened here?”

  It was the last straw for Paula. She could no longer hold back the tears. They flowed freely, making little trails down her flour-coated cheeks. She panicked as she felt the old despair wash over her.

  Rowena put the bundle she was carrying on the one patch of table that wasn’t covered in debris and sat Paula down.

  “I’ll make you a cup of tea. Don’t tell me you’ve been trying to cook in that pig of an oven, you crazy girl.” Paula leaned back in her chair. Rowena’s words were like a slap. “It’s well past its use-by date. It cooks everything well on the bottom and leaves it raw on top.”

  Paula watched Rowena as she stacked dishes and wiped benches.

  “What were you cooking? Is that apple?” Rowena peered into the cake tin. “Apple cakes can be tricky. You need the apple to be very dry. Looks like the bottom was done but the middle wasn’t.” She poked at the pie dish with her finger. “We’ll have to give that a good scrub. Was this going to be your tea?”

  Paula shook her head. “Grilled lamb chops.” She pointed at the microwave.

  “I don’t think the griller works at all.” Rowena opened the microwave and pulled out the bag of meat. “Just as well. These are mutton chops, too tough to grill. Much better if you simmer them slowly with some onion and make a gravy. I thought you must have bought meat. We haven’t killed a lamb in ages.”

  She put a cup of tea in front of Paula and started working on the chops. Paula watched her and tried to fathom what on earth killing a lamb had to do with anything and what kind of animal produced a mutton chop anyway? She wasn’t going to ask Rowena, so she gave up and sipped at the hot, sweet liquid gratefully. She didn’t usually take sugar but she was enjoying this. She realised she was thirsty. Perhaps she’d had a drink with her lunch but she couldn’t remember having anything since.

  “Feeling better?” Paula looked up and caught a glimpse of a reassuring smile on Rowena’s face.

  “Yes, thanks. I don’t know why I let it get to me like that.”

  “It’s a long day here on your own, with no one to talk to.”

  Paula didn’t want to think about that. She stood up, embarrassed that Dan’s aunt had found her, yet again, acting like a weak fool. “Here, let me do that. It’s hardly fair you have to clean up my mess.”

  “That’s all right. I called over to drop in those curtains.” Rowena nodded at the bundle she had left on the end of the table. “They were my mother’s pride and joy. She had a matching set in the second and third bedrooms. Dan’s father slept in the second bedroom and I slept in the one you’ve painted for your parents so they should be a perfect fit. Now, I’ve still got a lot to do.” She looked around the kitchen checking her handiwork. “I need those papers Dan left as well. I can’t put off doing the quarterly tax statement any longer. Tomorrow morning I’m out at a meeting but after that I have to tackle it.”

  “Is that something I can help with? I am an accountant.”

  “Are you? I thought Dan said you did secretarial work.”

  “My last job was personal assistant to the company director. I oversaw everything, including the finances. My original university degree was accountancy.” Paula left out the ‘so there’ but she thought it. “I could help with the paperwork.”

  “No.” Rowena cut in quickly. “I’ve always done the bookwork. Our own accountant seems to think I keep everything in order. You’ve got enough to do here. There’s absolutely no need for you to worry about the paperwork. Are these the receipts?” She hung up the tea towel and gathered up the dockets Dan had left. “I seem to recognise the state of the paper.”

  “I really would like to help.” Paula offered again.

  “I’ll manage.” Rowena’s response was firm. “You’ve got enough on your plate at the moment. I’ll have a word to Dan about that stove. He should have replaced that before he brought you here. Typical male, doesn’t think about food till it’s plonked down in front of him.”

  Paula didn’t think Dan was like that at all. She bridled at Rowena’s slur. “We’ll sort it out, Rowena. I am capable of selecting a new oven.”

  “It’s more than that. There are finances to consider. Dan’s already spent a fortune in the last few months. Some things are more necessary than others.”

  Did Rowena’s tone sound accusing? Paula remained silent. He’d only spent money because of her, or at least that’s what Rowena was inferring.

  “Anyway, if you’ll be all right now I’ll be off home.”

  “I’ll be fine. Thank you,” Paula replied stiffly.

  “Keep an eye on those chops,” Rowena commanded. “Let them simmer gently for another hour or so then thicken the liquid with some flour.”

  “Yes, thanks,” Paula said to the empty room after Rowena had bustled out. She doesn’t even think you can manage to thicken a gravy. Paula returned to the sink and scrubbed at the soaking cake tin. She obviously thinks you’re a useless animal, not worth the good farm money spent on you.

  Surely Dan could afford a new oven. If not, she’d buy it herself. Finance was another thing they hadn’t discussed, beyond the wedding costs, which her family had split with Dan. Paula rubbed at the tin even harder. She was highly proficient at managing money. Even with the Marco fiasco she’d escaped without losing everything, although after she left him she’d only had short-term jobs until she met Dan, and now she wasn’t earning an income from working. Paula’s heart skipped a beat at that. It felt weird not to have paid employment. She hadn’t thought much past marrying Dan. Surely there’d be something she could do from home. She glanced wryly at her phone and tablet lying idle on the dresser. If she could get a decent internet connection. At least she had some savings and several good investments still in place.

  No time to think about that now. She was exhausted from a day’s work that had been mostly unproductive. Tomorrow her parents were arriving. Paula picked up the bundle of curtains with a sigh. They were coming ready or not.

  CHAPTER

  8

  Next morning Paula was out of bed before Dan. She did another check for mice, finding just one in the trap by the fridge, and made sure all of the traps were out of sight. The kitchen was spotless again and she sat down to write a shopping list. Once she got to town she would pick up a few things before she met her parents.


  Dan had come home later than she’d hoped last night. She had told him of her parents’ early arrival as he ate the stew she’d prepared. Then he’d gone to bed. He was asleep before she could join him. At least he’d agreed to go with her into town to meet her parents. Evidently he needed to pick up some extra chemicals to re-sow a patch that had been damaged by mice.

  Paula had tossed and turned all night. By five o’clock she’d given up wrestling with her thoughts. When she was under pressure at work the only thing she could do was to get up and start tackling the job. Eventually exhaustion would catch up with her, but by then the current crisis would be over.

  Dan stumbled in rubbing his sleepy face. He yawned and bent down to give her a hug. “You’re up early.”

  “Just making sure everything is ready for Mum and Dad.” His eyes were red and bleary and his hair stuck out in all directions. “You will be back to drive me in to meet them, won’t you?”

  “I’ll be back.” He yawned again. “I have to help Tom move the equipment on to the next paddock and make sure he gets under way okay.”

  Once he was gone, Paula showered, dressed and took one last look through the house to make sure all was in order. The room she had prepared for her parents was ready. The curtains Rowena had found were a good fit. The deep maroon and cream stripes were not what she would have chosen but at least there were curtains and they didn’t clash too badly with her paintwork. Or should she say Carl’s? She just hoped she would be able to find the box of spare bed linen and quilt easily among the containers her parents were transporting from Sydney. So much had happened since she had sorted what to bring and what to leave behind for the move halfway across the country.

  The phone rang and Paula looked at her watch as she lifted the receiver. Eight o’clock.

  “Hello, Paula.”

  “Hi Dad, how are you?”

  “We’re ready to leave. See you at the PO.”