Page 119 of Outback Secrets
‘Wow.’ She took a moment, steadying herself on the ironing board, clearly letting this staggering news sink in. ‘I thought you’d gone to bed?’
That’s what Henri had told her at dinner—that she needed an early night—but although she was exhausted, it was more to get away from her mother’s fussing than anything. She’d taken one look at Henri when Tilley delivered her home and known something was wrong. What was it with mother’s intuition? Henri had explained that she and Liam had broken up—not giving any reason why because she couldn’t bear to explain everything—and requested to be left alone.
Of course, giving someone space wasn’t something Fiona Forward was capable of. Half an hour later she was in Henri’s room with a large bowl of chicken soup—as if such a dish had heart-healing properties. She didn’t have the flu. And who made soup in the height of summer anyway? Soup wasn’t the only offering either; there’d been cups of tea and slices of cake at regular intervals throughout the afternoon.
But after dinner, when her wish for peace had finally been granted, Henri found that lying on the single bed where Liam had kissed her so deliciously was not good for the soul. She’d kept picking up her phone and torturing herself by re-reading the last text he’d sent her.
Not that she needed to re-read it; it arrived when she was standing in the queue at the pharmacy waiting for the morning after pill and she now knew it off by heart. It was much shorter than the memory verses Eileen Brady had made her learn at Sunday School.
I’m sorry, Henri, but I can’t help you with your charade anymore.
That was it. After all they’d done together all she deserved was a brief text?
Maybe if she could think about it logically, she’d realise that a simple text message was all that was required—they weren’t even dating—but it still made her blood boil whenever she thought of it. Whenever she thought of him. Which was constantly.
That’s why she’d hobbled out to the living room—she couldn’t stand being alone with her thoughts any longer. She wanted someone, something, anything to distract her from herself.
‘Couldn’t sleep,’ Henri said, flopping down onto the ghastly floral couch that had been bought the year she turned five.
‘Missing Liam?’ Mum asked gently.
‘Missing the functionality of my left ankle more like it!’
All day she’d longed to be able to throw herself into work around the farm, but because of her stupid ankle she was housebound, and because of stupid Liam she was heartbroken—a state she’d vowed she’d never allow herself to be in again, which made her angry and self-loathing as well as sad. It certainly wasn’t the Christmas she’d had in mind when she’d come back to Bunyip Bay, and she’d think twice before doing it again.
Next year she’d make sure she was as far away as possible. Timbuktu was looking good.
Her mum raised an eyebrow as if she didn’t buy the whole ankle thing but didn’t push the point. ‘Okay,’ she said, ‘so you want to learn to knit?’
‘That’s what I said.’ Henri had never sat still long enough to learn before, or had any desire to, but … desperate times and all.
‘Crochet is easier. Do you want to start with that?’
Henri shook her head. She didn’t want easy, she wanted something that required all her brain power so there wasn’t any room left to think about Liam.
Without another word, her mother left the room, returning a few minutes later with the big wicker basket where she stored all her needles, patterns and spare yarn. She sat down on the couch next to Henri, plonking the basket between them.
‘Pick a colour,’ she said, gesturing to the balls of wool.
Henri plucked one at random—it didn’t matter what colour it was.
‘Now, what do you want to make? Scarves are easy to start with. Or you could try a dishtowel.’
Henri hadn’t thought about making anything in particular. ‘A dishtowel? What the hell is a dishtowel?’
‘It’s a tea towel, only made with wool.’ When Henri screwed up her nose, she added, ‘They work just as well and add a more personal touch to the kitchen.’
‘What’s a hard project?’
‘Well, I have a book with some fabulous jumper patterns, but they’re all fairly intricate and require a bit of skill.’
‘I want to do one of them. The harder the better.’
‘Why don’t I just start by teaching you the basics and then, if you like it, you can choose a design and attempt something bigger. We’d have to buy wool especially anyway.’
‘Okay,’ Henri relented and picked up two thick wooden needles. These would make good weapons, she thought, rolling them between her fingers.
As if reading her mind, her mother took them off her and dumped them back in the basket. She picked up a metal pair that were much thinner instead. ‘It’ll be easier to learn on these.’