The Vet from Snowy River by Stella Quinn

CHAPTER

3

It’s done, Jill,Vera wrote on the letter pad she had perched up against her knees. Our café is open.

Her thoughts wandered as the bubbles in her bathtub made gentle popping noises against her skin. Her aching feet felt better now she had them submersed in hot water, and the lavender oil she’d dolloped into the tub was doing wonders. A half-hour in the tub relaxing, a quick dry of her hair, and she’d be out at Connolly House to see Jill for a sunset tipple of the monstrously sweet sherry her aunt was partial to.

She could call the egg supplier on the drive down to Cooma. She’d need to double her order for the coming week if their first day’s sales were any indication, and she’d need to go visit the local butcher, too, and start prepping the more substantial meal menu she was hoping to offer.

She tapped her pen against the porcelain. Kitchen logistics could go on hold for now, she had to think how to describe today—opening day of The Billy Button Café—to her aunt. She’d been so busy working her butt off, the details were a blur.

How many business openings had she attended in her old life? How many dry, emotionless little articles had she penned for the South Coast Morning Herald?

The old bank building in the small town of Hanrahan has been given a new lease on life this week with the opening of The Billy Button Café. Vera De Rossi serves Italian-style sweets as well as some old-fashioned country favourites, and plans to open—

‘Blah blah blah,’ said Vera, and grinned, surprised at herself. Journalism had been her life, once, and she’d prided herself on her cool, dispassionate prose.

She took a sip of the green tea she’d perched on a stool by the tub. That was the old her.

The new her baked fancy tarts and made epic beef bourguignon and could use whatever flowery words she damn well chose.

‘Opening day at The Billy Button Café was frazzling and glorious,’ she announced to her imaginary audience. ‘It was nerve-racking and frantic. It was’—she hunted for the perfect word to capture how she was feeling—‘empowering.’

She smoothed the top page of her notepad, where lavender steam was making the corners curl, and continued her letter to her aunt.

I hope you’ve settled into your new room and you’re enjoying the garden. Such a pretty view! So much better than that gravel carpark your window at the old place looked out on. Have the local birds found you yet? I wonder how the butcher birds of Queanbeyan are coping without your toast crumbs keeping them plump?

I’ve not got very far with unpacking all your storage boxes, Aunt Jill, but they’re in the spare bedroom of the apartment I’m renting in Hanrahan. If I unpack anything fun, I’ll bring it in to show you.

She sat bolt upright in the bathtub.

The De Rossi brush! Of course, that’s where it must be! She must have slung it into one of those storage boxes instead of packing it in Jill’s suitcase for the move from Acacia View to Connolly House. No wonder she hadn’t been able to find it.

Tossing her notepad onto the stool, Vera hauled herself upright, ignoring the protests from her sore feet. She dried herself off in a hurry, flung herself into jeans and a t-shirt and the softest, flattest shoes she owned, then went into the spare room.

Cartons stood in a higgledy-piggledy row, their bland brown sides neatly annotated with words like books, and winter outfits and useless knick-knacks with sentimental value.

She swallowed. Jill—the old, fun, hippy Jill—would have hated to see remnants of her adventurous life packed so neatly away.

So boringly away.

Vera could do something about that. Not this second, perhaps, or even this month, because she was up to her eyebrows in café jobs as it was—but soon.

For now, finding the family heirloom her aunt had used to brush Vera’s hair when Vera was a little girl would have to do.

She ripped into the masking tape until the flaps of the first carton flopped open, revealing the jumble of memory within.

The brush was there, right on top. Vera smiled. Maybe fate really was going to be on her side from now on.

When she arrived an hour later at Connolly House, her aunt Jill was seated in a wicker chair beneath the speckled canopy of a grevillea. Her face, once so quick and lively, stared into Vera’s with interest, but no recognition. So, today was going to be one of those visits.

She set the sherry bottle and two tiny crystal glasses down on the picnic table, and gave her aunt a kiss. ‘Hello, Aunt Jill. It’s Vera. How are you settling in? Your room looks lovely, and someone has popped a rose on your bedside table. How sweet is that? Fresh flowers!’

Still no response. The visits where Jill struggled to formulate thoughts into words were becoming more common. ‘Do you like it here, Jill?’

She hoped so. The gardens were beautiful—as Jill was, colour in her cheeks from the crisp mountain air, the soft fleece she wore newly laundered. Nursing staff and residents could be heard chatting and laughing in the gardens behind them, and she could almost feel the late afternoon sun gilding the place with peace and serenity.

She felt hope loosen the tight knot of worry that was her constant companion. Maybe this hospice would slow down her aunt’s demise. Slow down the loss of memory, the loss of speech.

Maybe Connolly House really could be a home for Jill.

She poured a full nip of sherry into a glass for her aunt, and a scant splash into a glass for herself. Jill’s favourite tipple was the rock bottom of adult beverages, so she only ever pretended to drink it.

‘Jill? A drink for you?’ She held out the glass, ready to assist her aunt to hold it if need be, but her aunt had turned her face to the mountain range which was never out of view.

Not sherry, then. Perhaps Jill was still confused about where she was. She could do something about that, she thought, and tried to recall some snippets of local lore.

‘This close mountain you can see is called Old Regret by the locals. Rock climbers love it, and there are horse-riding trails, and a few privately owned properties that farm on its lower slopes.’ Now, where had she heard that? In the online material when she was researching homes who had room for her aunt, perhaps. ‘Behind it are the eastern ridges of the Snowy Mountains. People ski up there, in the winter.’

She’d skied herself a little, growing up. On school trips and occasionally with friends.

‘I wonder how Hanrahan got its name, Jill? Maybe the gift store in town has a book that will tell us. I know Lake Bogong spills into a creek system that ends up in the Snowy River. Sounds romantic, doesn’t it? A ribbon of water, winding through the mountains for thousands of years, snow gums shadowing its banks. Sadly diminished now, of course, since the dam went in. Progress, I suppose they called it back then. You’d call it an environmental tragedy, Jill. You’d have been painting signs and chaining yourself to snow gums.’

‘Snow gums,’ murmured Jill. ‘So lovely.’

‘Yes!’ This was progress! ‘I could bring you in some leaves from one of them next time I visit. We can rub them in our hands and smell them—that would be fun, wouldn’t it? Like we used to smell herbs back in your garden.’ Vera opened her bag and pulled out the heavy hairbrush. Now Jill was responding, perhaps she’d remember the old family brush she’d held so often in her hand.

‘Shall I brush your hair, Jill? Then you can look lovely too.’

Her aunt’s face grew confused. ‘Let me see that.’

She handed the brush to her aunt. ‘It was your mother’s, remember?’

‘No, Barb took it from me. She was always taking my things, wearing my clothes. She was a pest.’

Vera sighed. ‘It’s mine now, Jill. You gave it to me.’ A tear ran down Jill’s cheek. Sadness for the past, or sadness for not being able to remember the past? She gave her aunt’s hand a squeeze. ‘Don’t be sad, Jill,’ she said. ‘I can do the remembering for both of us. Come on, let me smooth these tangles for you.’

She began to draw the brush’s stiff bristles through her aunt’s wiry grey hair, and the motion was bittersweet. It was her aunt’s brushed hair—or, rather, lack of brushing—which had begun the descent into hell which had taken up the last year of her life.

She’d thought it such a simple question at the time. ‘Excuse me,’ she’d said to the duty nurse on the desk at Acacia View, ‘my aunt … her hair’s quite dirty, I noticed, and unbrushed. Has she been difficult about washing herself lately?’

‘All commentary and complaints about patient management are to be in writing,’ the woman had said.

She could recall her surprise. ‘I just wondered if there was anything I could do—’

The duty officer had tapped a laminated sign sticky-taped to the counter. Zero tolerance, the sign had read. Aggressive and abusive behaviour will not be tolerated.

Vera kept sweeping the De Rossi brush through her aunt’s hair, up–down, up–down. If only her bitter memories could be swept away and detangled as easily.

If only she’d not involved the other residents’ family members, asking them if they had concerns. If only she hadn’t joined that social media group for relatives of Acacia View residents.

If only—

Crap. There was no use wishing if only. She’d done what she’d done, and now she had to live with it … or pay for it. A courtroom of strangers would decide which.

As though fate had heard her thoughts and decided to mess with her just a little bit more, her phone buzzed in her bag.

Hell. The one person she never wanted to hear from who she still had in her phone’s contact list.

‘Well well,’ said a voice that was three parts gravel and one part schmooze. ‘What do you know, telephones work up there in snowy woop woop.’

‘Hi, Sue. I’ve moved to the foothills of the Australian Alps, not Antarctica.’

‘Is there a shoe shop within a five-minute drive?’

‘Er … no.’

‘Antarctica it is. I got a little something in my in-tray today. You checked your mail?’

Vera held her breath. ‘Don’t tell me they’ve dropped the charges?’

‘I applaud your optimism, Vera, but this is not my good news voice. This is my serious voice, the one I use when my trusty timesheet is billing you for every minute of our time.’

Crap. ‘Just tell me quick, then. How bad is it, this thing you’ve received?’

‘Court appearance notice.’

‘When?’

‘Six weeks.’

‘Six weeks? I thought you said these private prosecutions dragged on for months.’

‘I was wrong. You might want to buy a lotto ticket, because that doesn’t happen often.’

Vera pressed her phone to her cheek for a moment. ‘What else do I need to know?’

‘Here’s the gist of the short particulars listed on the notice: Acacia View are bringing a charge against you, they’ve lawyered up with some hotshot from Sydney, and they’re ready to turn their threats of prosecution into the real deal. Arraignment, trial, verdict.’

Prosecution.

It was really happening, then. The countdown on her time as a free woman had begun.

Bile rose in Vera’s throat. ‘It’s ridiculous. Since when was looking out for a vulnerable person a crime?’

Sue’s voice was brisk. ‘Since the Surveillance Devices Act was introduced into New South Wales in 2007 and put limitations on what is considered okay to record. You planted a camera with a microphone in your aunt’s aged care home, and now you’re facing the consequences.’

Yeah. She sure as hell was … all thanks to her former boss (and boyfriend) Aaron who had sold her out. She was facing consequences all right, and a potential prison sentence was just one of them.

She eyed the inch of sherry she’d poured her aunt and wondered if this situation qualified as rock bottom.

‘Vera? You paying attention?’

‘Yeah. I was just thinking about alcohol.’

‘You and me both. You, at least, have an excuse. I just paid a hypnotist a hundred and eighty bucks to convince me that five booze-free nights a week would make me a happier person.’

‘That’s … a lot of money.’

‘Yeah, I could tell he was spouting claptrap while I was listening to him drone on, but his recliner was epic and, wowza, he was easy on the eye. Not my worst buy for a hundred and eighty bucks. Where was I?’

‘Prosecution. Lawyers. Hotshots.’

‘Right. The court appearance notice says you’ve been mailed a copy but I’ll scan this in and email it to you so you can read the details. It lists place of offence, statutory provision breached, summary of charges.’

‘It’s all sounding very serious, Sue.’

‘Of course it’s serious; it’s the law, but that doesn’t mean we need to be quaking in our Italian leather heels.’

‘What about this hotshot they’ve hired?’

‘Hotshots don’t scare me.’

That, Vera could believe. Sue would be more likely to be slipping them her phone number on a cocktail serviette. ‘What do I do now?’

‘Keep dusting flour off your hands and pinning your apron on, or whatever it is professional women do when they abandon their careers and go on a mountain change. I’ll be in touch.’

Vera frowned. ‘Sue, I run a caf—’

Too late. Her lawyer was gone.

Taking a breath, Vera reached forward, lifted the glass, and tossed her aunt’s nip of sherry down her throat like she was an outlaw in the Wild West. Rock bottom it was.

Sighing, she dropped the phone back into her bag, then moved to tuck the rug in a little more firmly over Jill’s knees. Her fingers paused as they rubbed over the bland beige of the hospital-issue blanket. Her aunt hated beige. She loved colour, loads of it, all clashing and lurid and loud as squabbling parrots. When she got home, she should dig through those boxes once she had the evening’s baking in the oven, find something a little more fun to keep her aunt warm.

Keeping busy was the best way she knew to keep her mind off her problems.

Her aunt patted her hand and the gesture was so missed, so very very welcome, she felt tears rush to her eyes.

‘Thank you, Barb,’ said her aunt.

Vera, she wanted to yell. I am Vera. Instead, she stretched her legs out in front of her and crossed her booted feet. ‘Shall I read you your letter?’ she said in a voice of forced calm. ‘It’s from me … I mean, it’s from your niece, Vera.’

Jill didn’t answer, just continued to stare up at the mountains darkening the late afternoon sky.

Vera pulled the folded sheets from her bag and started reading. Maybe some part of her aunt’s brain was listening, and enjoying hearing what the niece she’d given up her independence for was doing to rebuild her life.

‘Dear Aunt Jill,’ she read. ‘It’s done. Our café is open …’