The Co-op, Hope Junction,
Western Australia—Saturday, 9:30 a.m.
Today. It’s true. Well, I don’t know, I guess she’ll be taking the bus from Perth. Although being a celebrity and all, maybe she’s chartered her own jet. She has got a nerve, I couldn’t agree more.
Oh, hi, Mrs. Willet. Just the apples this morning? Yes, I was just chatting about it with Linda. I’m surprised the news isn’t front page of today’s West, I thought she would have rated higher than the premier opening a regional hospital. You’re absolutely right, it’s because it’s here. Small town, back-of-beyond. Oh jeez, but if they knew the truth, if they only knew what she left behind. She was always a bit of a snob at school, none of us could believe it when they started going out. And then when, well, you know...
Me? I would have sold my soul to marry him. We all would’ve. Phwoar...speak of the gorgeous devil.
About Coffee Time, Hope Junction,
Western Australia—Saturday, 9:45 a.m.
The usual, thanks, Sherry, but make it extra strong today. My nerves need it. Oh, you haven’t heard? A jet plane apparently. Chartered. You know, I’m not one to listen to gossip but she’s bringing her own pilot. A toyboy, barely over twenty but buff as they come. Or so I’m told. You ask me, he’d have to be pretty damn alluring to hold a candle to our Flynn. Most Saturdays, you say? Well, he’ll no doubt be a little flustered this morning. Maybe give him a free slice of your fabulous chocolate cake, and your ear. You’re still single, aren’t you, dear?
Outside the post office, Hope Junction,
Western Australia—Saturday, 10:00 a.m.
Sorry, can’t stop to chat, I have to get back to the café. I’m expecting Flynn—he grabs the paper at the Co-op and then comes for a late breakfast. A lot of the footballers do, I feed them up good before the game. Do you think he’ll still come? You’re right, he might be keeping a low profile. Maybe won’t even play today... He’s not one to dwell on the past but Mom always says that’s a front. Men, they’re not as strong as us, you know, they don’t get over that sort of knock easily. I bet he still thinks about her. Hard not to when her smug face is on the telly every night. Ouch, what’d ya do that for?
Oh, hi, Flynn.
Hairlicious, Hope Junction,
Western Australia—Saturday, 10:10 a.m.
Sure, I heard about it yesterday, people tell hairdressers things, you know. You’d be amazed; sometimes it’s a real chore. Yeah, I did her hair once. Between you and me, it’s quite thin and flyaway. They must have good hairdressers and makeup artists at Channel Nine. Me neither, I always thought she was a bit skinny, anorexic even. Too worried about her image, I suppose.
She’ll not have it easy around here, though. There’s not a person within two hundred kilometers who doesn’t like Flynn. You are so right, there’s probably not a girl anywhere who wouldn’t like him. And she won’t do well with the blokes, either. They’re not as shallow as those city guys. Just because her legs never end and you could wrap your fingers round her waist, won’t mean a thing to them. They’ll not go near her. Boys from the bush look out for their mates.
What’s that, Emma? Is he really? Ten-fifteen. Well, well, well...
WHEN FLYNN QUARTERMAINE drove into town, he couldn’t get a newspaper or pick up his mail without being stopped by someone or other on the main street. He’d lived in the small farming community of Hope Junction—southeast of Perth and affectionately known to locals as Hope—every one of his twenty-nine years. He knew everyone and they knew him. And he was famous. Aside from his legendary streak across the oval on Grand Final day ten years ago, he was the last baby born in the local hospital, having just slipped out before the maternity ward was closed and everyone had to travel farther afield.
What was most embarrassing to Flynn was that people still talked about this. Whenever someone new came to town, or a long-lost relative was passing through, the first thing the introducer would say was, “Meet Flynn, he was the last baby born in our hospital.” Nothing about the fact he ran one of the biggest farms in the district. Nothing about almost doubling his family’s income by introducing South African Meat Merinos (or SAMMs for short) to their flock. Nothing about how other local farmers followed suit. But then, perhaps he should be grateful people didn’t mention other things.
There were some things no guy liked to be reminded about.
Today, however, there wasn’t a single mention of babies. And instead of flocking when they saw him coming, people quickly turned away. It was odd. Flynn picked up some supplies for his mother and drove back out to the family property, keen to return and get onto the football oval, run around with his mates and shake this sense of unease.
The feeling started to dissipate as soon as he turned his ute into Black Stump—the 5,000-acre property that had been in his family for four generations. As corny as it might sound, he loved the place. He’d been raised on the massive homestead, with board games round the fire in winter and fun in the dams—when they had water—in summer. He belonged to this land and it had a way of calming him like no person ever could. Well, not anymore.
But the moment he walked through his mom’s kitchen door, the strangeness returned. His heart kicked up a notch and he knew he hadn’t been imagining the weirdness in town. In fact, he sensed Saturday was about to get a lot more than strange.
Flynn’s grandmother sat at the family’s big oak table knitting another tea cozy to be sold at the CWA craft stall. Karina, his mother, hovered at the stove stirring something that smelled a lot like her famous crisis-time minestrone.