Trouble in Nirvana (17 page)

Nature was absolutely amazing. Drops of water sparkled from the deep green of the fruit trees, diamonds quivered on the grass, puddles reflected blue mirrors. She spread her arms wide as if to embrace the earth and the sky and the sun and the whole wonderful world. Lovely. She really could live the rest of her life out here. Plus she’d got off to a very good start with Tom this morning. Nothing like a good feed to cheer a man up.

She followed a well worn path beside the garage and workshop and around the corner. On the right was a shed with a wire mesh front. Brown and black speckled white hens scratched about inside muttering to themselves and each other. Primrose peered in and the hens peered back expectantly with cocked heads, clucking softly. Along the rear wall was a raised bench with a row of separate little boxes. She couldn’t see any eggs. At the commune the hens laid eggs where they felt like it because they wandered about freely. This was a much better arrangement. No fox would break into this pen.

She continued on past the henhouse to a barn and what must be the cowshed next to it. A field lay beyond with a black horse grazing peacefully. It lifted its head and stared, munching, ears pricked. She didn’t know Tom had a horse. She didn’t know lots of thing about him. Delilah the dog stood up from the shadow of the shed and came forward wagging her tail. Primrose went to the gate leading into a small yard and the open-sided cow shed. Tom sat on a stool milking a brown cow whose head was deep in a bundle of hay. A leather halter with a length of rope attached the cow to a metal ring on the wall.

“Hello,” she said.

He raised his head and smiled. “Meet Daisy.” That smile did it to her every time, turned her brain to dough. She had to drag her eyes away to focus on the cow.

Daisy shifted her back leg and twisted her head around to have a look at the visitor.

“Hello, Daisy.”

Daisy snorted, flapped her big hairy ears then turned back to her hay and recommenced chewing.

“Is that your horse?”

“Yes. Cindy.”

“Do you ride much?”

“Not a lot. I use her to get around the property. I’ll take her out later when I look at the fences.”

Primrose considered the idea of a horse. She’d wanted to have a pony when she was a child but knew very early on it wasn’t going to happen. Maybe she could have one now. Tom could teach her to ride. A vision of the two of them on the horse, his arms around her, his body warm against her back, breath in her ear...

“Like to try milking?” Not what she’d anticipated but by the look on his face he was expecting her to decline the offer. Still thought she wouldn’t cope with farm stuff. Think again, Tom.

“Can I? Would she mind?”

“Not if you’re gentle.”

“Okay.”

Primrose took Tom’s place on the stool, squeezing past him in the confined space, holding her breath at the sudden proximity of that broad chest. She steadied the milk bucket between her rubber booted feet the way he’d done. Daisy took another look and snorted softly. A big grey tongue emerged and licked a nostril. She went back to her food. Warm cow smell flooded Primrose’s nose. Not unpleasant at all. “What do I do?”

“Grasp the front left teat between your thumb and forefinger and pull down firmly. Not too tight or you’ll hurt her and she’ll kick. Like this.” His fingers closed over hers. She tried to concentrate on his words but her whole being centred on the sudden, unexpected contact. So close, and totally oblivious to the effect on her. “You try.”

She did as instructed. To her surprise a feeble jet of milk squirted into the bucket. “Gosh. I did it.”

“Keep going.”

Primrose kept on. After a few tries she settled to a steady rhythm producing a strong stream of milk.

“Try both teats with two hands. Alternate,” Tom said.

She managed to co-ordinate left and right hands. He watched for a minute. “You can finish her off. I’ve done the rear teats. Just go until you can’t get much out.” He patted Daisy on her bony rump. “I’ll be in the workshop.”

“Hang on,” she cried as he opened the gate. Surely he was being overly confident in her ability. Recklessly so. “What do I do with Daisy?”

“Take off her halter and make sure you shut the gate when you leave. Take the milk up to the laundry.”

“But...” began Primrose but he’d gone. Was this his way of showing her how useless she’d be as a farmer? Throwing her in the deep end? “Stinker,” she said aloud. Daisy snuffled and tossed her head. “Not you.” This milking business was pretty easy once you had the knack.

But knack or not, soon her hands began to ache and she had to keep stopping to flex her stiff fingers. Daisy finished the hay by which time she apparently decided the milking should be finished too. She began to fidget and shake her head, pulling at the rope. The round belly loomed over Primrose. Daisy was very big from her low angle.

“I’m trying, Daisy. Calm down.”

The left teat was almost empty but the right still flowed copiously. Primrose tried switching hands. Daisy wasn’t happy. She shuffled her feet. Her tail which had been hooked out of the way on a nail on the wall, came loose and flicked across Primrose’s face with a stinging swipe.

“Owww.” Primrose lurched sideways, her hand to her cheek. The little three legged stool tilted but she managed to right it before crashing over. Daisy rumba-ed sideways and one hoof caught the bucket, spilling a frothy wave of creamy white milk over the dirty concrete floor.

Chapter Eight

“Daisy! Oh, my goodness!” Primrose scrambled to safety as the cow swung her bony backside round, kicking out wildly and sending the bucket flying. “Jeepers!”

No way was she going any closer to that lunatic animal. Where was Tom? How could he leave her alone with a cow? How irresponsible was that? All the milk was gone, spread in a vast lake over the floor, stomped on and churned up by the mad cow and it served him right!

Primrose flung the gate open and stormed along the path to the workshop. Tom was busy with some unrecognisable farming implement. He looked up when she appeared in the doorway. “Finished?”

“Sure am! Your mad cow just booted the bucket out of the shed and your milk is all over the ground.”

Tom straightened. For a second she could have sworn he was about to laugh in which case she would have clocked him with something. But his expression darkened. “Where’s Daisy?”

“Trying to get herself out of the halter.”

“You just left her there?” He didn’t wait for her reply, hurried to the door, pushed past Primrose and jogged for the cowshed. Delilah jogged after him. Primrose trailed behind both of them.

“I wasn’t going near her. Not the way she was acting.”

“You must have upset her,” he tossed over his shoulder. “And you didn’t close the gate like I told you. I hope she’s still tied up.”

“I must have upset
her
?” yelled Primrose. “She nearly knocked me over and kicked me.”

But Tom wasn’t listening to her excuses. He was muttering soothing things to his precious cow. He slapped her on the rump and edged in beside her. “Shove over,” he said, giving her a push. Daisy moved sideways snorting and blowing in her indignation. Tom undid the halter buckle and slipped it off her head. Daisy backed out quietly and wandered innocently off into the paddock, pausing to snatch mouthfuls of grass as she went. Tom hung the halter over the metal ring.

“She’s very placid, usually.” He eyed the mess on the floor. Daisy had made her own sloppy, smelly contribution to the milk while she waited. “You can hose that out.”

He pointed to a hose attached to a tap beside the water trough against the shed wall. Primrose glowered at him with her hands on her hips. He stared back, blank faced.

“She wouldn’t have hurt you. She doesn’t even have any horns. I wouldn’t leave you with her if I thought either of you would be in danger.” Nice. She and the cow, equal in his eyes. He picked up the empty bucket. “This’ll need a good wash.” He put it down again.

Her job, no doubt.

He turned to go but paused. “The egg collecting bucket is in the barn by the side door. Should be safe enough. Make sure you shut the chook run gate when you go in and out. Don’t want to be chasing chooks all day. Or letting foxes in.”

Primrose was left staring at his retreating back. She gritted her teeth and walked over to the hose. Right. Hose the crap out of the cowshed. That she could manage. She turned on the tap and aimed the nozzle at the floor. A feeble trickle emerged. She turned the tap on full. The pressure increased slightly. A finger half over the end helped. Milky water sloshed out onto the already muddy ground. Daisy strolled over to watch, chewing, ears flapped forward inquisitively.

“This is your fault,” Primrose told her. “You should be doing this.”

A coarse bristled broom stood in the corner. She grabbed it to clear the hay and the cow poo away. More hosing and the floor was done. She picked up the dirty milking bucket, carefully latching the gate behind her and giving it a few good tugs to make sure. Next chore.

She left the bucket outside the barn. Masses of little yellow, white, and purple flowers grew haphazardly between the path and the wall of the old wooden building. Drops of moisture sparkled on the petals. Primrose bent to sniff the faint perfume rising on the warming air then went inside. The interior was all cool shadows. Quiet, peaceful with dust motes floating in the shaft of sunlight streaming in through the door.

Inside the barn door, he’d said. There to the right on a waist high workbench. Egg cartons and a white metal pail with a layer of straw in the base. Primrose set off for the henhouse swinging the bucket. Chooks would be no trouble. For a start they were smaller than she was and judging by the ones at the commune they were timid creatures, ran away when people came near.

Tom owned about twelve. They clucked and darted about when she opened the door. Some of them made a dash for freedom but she pulled the door closed smartly behind her.

“Not so fast, ladies.” One of them pecked at her boot but the tough rubber stopped the beak from achieving more than a firm poke at her foot. “You can cut that out.”

She discovered that by walking slowly the cluster of chooks around her feet fluttered aside. One egg was on the floor in the corner. The other hens had used the nesting boxes the way they were supposed to and laid their eggs neatly in the straw. She scooped up four more eggs. The third box was occupied but the hen hopped out as Primrose neared. Two brown eggs lay nestled together, warm to the touch. New laid. She always had doubts about the commune eggs.

No eggs in the next. “Someone’s been slacking off,” she said sternly to the little flock. They clucked and scratched and ignored her. Box number five had a white occupant hunched solidly in place. Primrose extended her hand tentatively and flapped it about so the sitter would get the message. The hen eyed her with a beady gaze. It settled itself more firmly into the box.

“Are you sitting on something?” She pushed her hand gently under the warm feathery body, feeling about for an egg. The hen pounced, pecking viciously at her wrist.

“Ouch.” Three red marks appeared on her skin. No blood fortunately. She put the egg bucket carefully on the ground. Good thing she hadn’t dropped it in shock. Primrose studied the hen. It glared at her through a suspicious yellow eye.

“I’m not giving in to you.” She tried to lift it with two hands but the hen swung its head about and connected with the base of her thumb this time. “You horrible thing! I’m having your egg, so there.”

Time for an all out assault regardless of consequences. Primrose drew a deep breath and plunged her hand underneath the chook’s body, feeling desperately about as the beak attacked her wrist. One egg. She pulled her prize out swiftly. One little white egg.

“Pathetic effort.” She put the egg in the bucket and rubbed her wounds. “I’ve one thing to say to you,” she said fiercely to the hen which was now standing, fluffing its feathers indignantly. “Christmas dinner.”

“I don’t think chooks understand very much.” Tom—standing outside the hen run with a smirk on his face and a bucket in his hand. “Their brains are about the size of a pea.”

“This one has an overdeveloped defence system.” Had he seen the attack? She checked the remaining boxes. Five more eggs.

“Didn’t you see the gloves on the bench?” Tom opened the door and stepped in as she stepped out. He tossed handfuls of grass all over the floor and the hens raced about frantically pecking at the new pickings.

“Do you need gloves?
I
didn’t.”

He grinned and upended the bucket for the last of the greenstuff to drop.

“I didn’t know they ate grass?”

“It makes their egg yolks rich and yellow.” He took the egg bucket from her and headed for the barn. Delilah trotted behind him, faithful as a shadow. “We’ll take a walk down to the river and have a look at the water level.”

“Can I see the truffle crop?”

“Not much to see. Just trees.” Tom left the eggs on a shelf in the barn. “But we walk through the plantation to the river.”

He led her toward the house then swung left following the drive for a few metres before cutting across to a gate in the wire fence. The land sloped down gently to the willows lining the path of the river. Orderly rows of young trees filled the paddock. Primrose walked by Tom’s side through the damp grass. His arm brushed hers lightly every few paces, leaving a trail of tingling sparks. Did he notice? His eyes were fixed on the ground ahead. The dog snuffled about running backward and forward around them, checking out interesting smells.

“The rain was handy,” he said. “Truffles need a decent rainfall.”

“Where exactly are they growing?” She stared at the rough grass underfoot. “Are we walking on them?”

“Truffles are a fungus. They grow under the ground as a result of a symbiotic relationship with the roots of particular trees infected with the appropriate mycorrhiza—literally, fungus root,” he added as he saw the expression on her face. “These are oak trees. They seem to work best in Australia but the industry is only young so no-one’s really sure yet.”

“When will they be ready?”