Week 12: A Little Love

by Nicola
(South Australia)

Turning off the main street, Jo carefully reversed the trailer into the packed earth driveway, eager to fill the nooks and crannies of her new home with the treasures she had found on her day’s outing. Stepping out of her old four wheel drive, its colour indistinguishable beneath the layer of red dust, she looked at the locust encrusted green netting over the grill, and wondered how on earth she would ever get it clean. Her musings were interrupted by plaintive bleating from the newly fenced back yard.

“Hello Roast! It’s ok poppet. Mummy’s home!” she called to the almost weaned lamb. As she scooped him up into her arms, his velvety muzzled nibbled at her lips. “You are getting far too big to carry now, young man,” she smiled, as she remembered the sleepless nights she had endured, after finding the tiny orphaned creature by the side of the road weeks before. He was worth it, she had to admit. He filled a gap in her deliberately lonely life and wondered what Pete would think if he could see her now. Her friends had told her she was mad, buying a place, sight unseen in a remote mid-north town, but after Pete’s shock death, she needed to get as far away from memories as possible. Home was no longer home without his comforting presence. She had tried, but the walls no longer echoed with laughter, the bed was far too big, the large kitchen unnecessary. It had been their place, for their lives, their dreams and their future. It could never be hers, and deep within, she knew that two years had been time enough, to farewell what was ‘theirs’ and find ‘hers’. Quiet, remote and almost abandoned, this town was like a kindred spirit, a balm to heal her shattered soul.

Putting down the lamb, Jo smiled at the old horse shoe she had nailed to her door frame. "Hello you, so when are you going to bring me the luck you promised?"

She opened the door to her cottage, satisfied by the freshly whitewashed stone walls, and newly polished floor boards. Central to the living area, was a stone chimney, nestled within, a traditional wood stove, topped with an old black kettle. Cast iron pots and pans hung hooks on either side. She grinned as her eyes rested upon the freshly chopped wood in a basket on the hearth, pleased she had learned the art of splitting kindling by herself. Where to place the rocking chair was easy, but what about the spinning wheel? Not that she intended to use it, of course, but it just seemed so perfect when she saw in the antique store.

She grabbed herself a quick glass of water and returned to her unpacking, marching in and out until, the lounge was filled with assorted items. The spinning wheel, rocking chair, a coat and hat stand, a narrow dresser on spindly legs, with wonderful little lead light windows, a cast iron boot cleaner, an old leather harness, a pile of old books, assorted pottery carefully wrapped in newspaper placed gently in a cardboard box, and a coal scuttle, stood lined up in the hallway. She wondered where she would put them all. She looked around. Find the gaps. Fill the space. No more emptiness.

“Knock. Knock!” A deep male voice, startled her and she turned to see John, the local vet at the door way.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. I was just in the area and I thought I would see how Roast was going.” His bright blue eyes twinkled in his weathered face. “Still not letting him inside, I see.”

She smiled wryly and rolled her eyes, “I’ve tried that, but I don’t seem to be able to house train him. What goes in one end, always comes straight out the other!” she laughed, and the grey lines of early grief, disappeared, revealing a hint of who she had once been.

“This place looks fantastic, Jo. You have done wonders with it.” He remembered its broken windows, dust covered floor, the cobwebs and graffiti. Now his eyes drank in every detail, from the sparkling panes of glass, to the photos of landscapes on the walls. A silver tray with two port glasses, a decanter of port with just enough for two people to each have a single after dinner drink in front the stove on a cold winter’s night, sat neatly atop the mantelpiece. Oil filled lamps and candles waited to cast a cozy, welcoming glow. Occasional tables and historical books were peppered throughout the cottage.

Jo grimaced, “Well, I like it, but I am going to have to bar myself from going to antique shops. I think it’s starting to get a little cluttered.” She paused, a flicker of some distant thought momentarily crossed her face. “I love old things. They’re just so real, so warm. Pete didn’t like them. He liked all the mod cons.”

“It’s your place now, Jo. I don’t see clutter. I see a place transformed. All it needed was a little love.” She looked so small and fragile, not unlike Roast. Lost, frightened, alone, and he fought against a sudden desire, to hold her, to protect her from the pain he could see in her swimming green eyes. “It’s beautiful.”

“Thank you.” She glanced up, the warmth in his gaze made her question, briefly, whether he was talking about her home or herself, and she felt the heat rising in her cheeks. Turning her back quickly, she brushed a stray blonde lock behind her ears. This was the last thing she needed. Fancy blushing! This was her place. She wasn’t ready. It didn’t seem right, that it was appreciated by a man. Pete wouldn’t have entertained living here. Aware her pulse was racing, Jo spoke in clipped tones, “Roast is outside if you need to check him. He seems to be doing just fine. I am quite sure he’s past the point you need to visit every other day.”

He frowned, "I'm sorry Jo. I didn't mean to become a nuisance. I'm just being neighbourly."

She felt guilty. "Sorry John," she shrugged helplessly. "It's been a while since … well, I guess I have become a little anti-social."

"That's fine. I do understand, Jo. So have you decided on how you're going to make a living out here?"

"I have." Her face lit up, "I was a photographer back in the old days. This place inspires me. I want to show the world the beauty of rural Australia through my camera lens. When I've finished doing up this place, I plan to hold an exhibition. Maybe get the local ladies to cook scones?" she laughed, pleased that someone had asked. "C'mon, I'll show you what I've done so far."

She led him out to her soon–to-become studio at the end of the garden. Looking over her shoulder at John, she stumbled on the frolicking lamb, fell forward into a low branch.

"Ouch!" John helped her to her feet. "I bumped my head!"

“You did. You look like a tennis ball’s growing out of it. You’ll need stitches too. Let me just wash my hands.”

In spite of herself, a little giggle escaped her lips. “You’re a vet. Is that because I was such a bitch earlier?”

John turned toward her smiling and gently took her face in his strong, gentle hands. “No.” His voice was gruff with emotion, “I don’t normally get the urge to kiss my patients.”

****
Later as the moonlight fell softly through the bedroom window, to pooling on the floor below, Jo smiled to herself. Her home was now perfect. The emptiness had gone. Pete would always be there, but cradled in the tender arms of her vet, with the weight of his leg across hers, and his soft, warm breath in her hair, Jo thought of the horse shoe and realised that like the cottage, all she had needed, was a little love.