Beyond the Orchard by Anna Romer

Author:Anna Romer
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Simon & Schuster Australia

We found Mildred Burke’s farmhouse a few miles west of Stern Bay, at the very end of a steep street that led up into the hills. Its weatherboards were buckled and peeling, the gutters dangling loose, but the surrounding steep acre of grass was trim as a bowling lawn. As we approached along the drive, I saw why: a herd of white goats ran towards the van, bellowing in apparent excitement.

A woman pushed through the screen door, and waved the goats away. She was short and stout, her pink face obscured behind large glasses that magnified her blue eyes. Her thick hair was pure white, restrained by a squadron of hairpins.

‘You’re the Briar girl, then?’ she asked, dusting her hands on her apron and peering up at me. ‘I’ve just got off the phone to Brenda from the historical society. She said you’d be popping in. Come through. Don’t mind the mess. I’m baking for the CWA fundraiser next week. I hope you like scones.’

She ushered us along a narrow hall and into a generous country-style kitchen. A huge wooden table sat central, cluttered with mixing bowls and wooden spoons, packets of sugar and raisins. A fine layer of white dust coated every surface. Flour, I realised, seeing the mound of bread dough proofing under plastic wrap. The oven blazed and warm aromas filled the air.

‘Baking keeps me sprightly,’ Mrs Burke said, clearing a corner of the table and dragging out chairs. A cloud of flour wafted around her, puffing from her cardigan as she collected a leaning tower of mixing bowls. ‘But like all of life’s pleasures, it comes with a price.’

Morgan came to her rescue. ‘Let me get those, Mrs Burke.’

Mrs Burke adjusted her glasses and peered up at him, beaming. ‘Thank you, dear boy. Just on the sink, if you don’t mind. And please call me Mildred.’

I brought out the envelope of photos and placed it on the table. While the kettle boiled, Mildred took a batch of scones from the oven and put them on a cooling tray. She made tea, and Morgan helped her set the table with cream and homemade jam.

‘Dig in,’ she said cheerfully, plating up the fragrant scones. ‘Don’t be shy.’

While we ate, she launched into the story of her family. I prepared myself for a polite interim of boredom before getting to the point of our visit, but was quickly intrigued.

Her husband had started life as a shearer, she said. As an eight-year-old, he’d entered the shearing shed, where his hard-headed father expected him to pull the weight of a grown man. Young Jensen lost the tips of two fingers before he was ten; the shears had been sharp, carving through his young bones like butter.

I let out an involuntary murmur, but Mrs Burke seemed oblivious, caught up in the momentum of her story.

‘I met him at a dance after the war. Love at first sight, I suppose you’d call it these days. He wasn’t much to look at – a burly, red-faced lad with shaving cuts on his jaw, and ears too big for his head.

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