Young Ava
The massive slab of varnished wood was the biggest tabletop twenty-seven-year-old Ava had ever seen. Still, she almost doubted it could hide the nervous jig in her legs that both hands pressing firmly on failed to stop. She hoped the folder’s contents would be enough to convince the lady of the house that she was perfect for the position.
‘I did say on the telephone that the role is a varied one and not all cookery and not only when we have guests staying. No one on a property like Ivy-May can afford to be picky or precious about their jobs.’ It was fifteen minutes into the interview and the woman’s expression had yet to shift into anything close to a smile. ‘Your time off is your own, but we all do our share.’
Marjorie Tate paused before slowly rolling up her sleeves, as if driving home the point. The action offered Ava a glimpse of hardworking hands: stubby and tanned with a simple gold wedding band and bitten-down nails. Somewhere around forty or forty-five, the B-and-B operator wasn’t old, just plain, as though all her effort went into something other than herself.
‘I do consider myself versatile, Mrs Tate, and I’m always keen to learn new things. I’d also have little need for days off in a town like Candlebark Creek. There aren’t many places to go or things to do.’
For that careless statement Ava got a raised eyebrow and a minute of the clock ticking above the stove.
‘You seem young to have had so many jobs, although you have provided an impressive CV and an extensive portfolio of dishes.’
‘Thirteen years in the workforce.’ Ava sat straight and proud. ‘The last eleven in hospitality.’ She could see the woman mentally subtracting eleven from twenty-seven. ‘And I was never fired from a job,’ she added, sounding a little too enthusiastic. ‘Some were set contracts, some seasonal. Hospitality can be like that.’
‘Ivy-May B-and-B might be small and out of the way, but I’m aware of the industry’s many facets.’ Marjorie Tate flicked through the plastic sleeves of the folder. She stopped again on the résumé at the front. ‘You have no school certificate listed.’
‘I left school when I turned fifteen.’
‘Before exams?’ Another raised eyebrow, another flick through the folder’s many photographs.
Never before had Ava’s lack of formal qualifications been an issue. Hands-on experience was what landed you a kitchen job, and every role, from waiting tables to making desserts, had added to Ava’s expertise and skills. As confident as she was about her abilities, she still sat with her hands clasped between her knees, fingers crossed.
‘Our son finished high school a couple of years ago and did well. John’s a bit of a dreamer, although there’s no doubting his passion for the land.’ The grazier’s wife with the moon-shaped face – taut, shiny skin, rosy cheeks – reminded Ava of a wooden babushka doll, with its rotund face and multiple hidden layers. The unexpected softness in her voice when she’d spoken her son’s name revealed one. ‘Naturally, he was keen to finish studying early to work with his father. John’s very capable and quite mature for his age. Children in these parts tend to grow up quickly,’ she added. ‘No choice out here. Operating heavy machinery and working bulls requires a sensible head on robust shoulders. But as much as the property had needed more hands at the time I insisted John stay on at school.’ She peered over the top of thick black spectacle frames. ‘The value of a proper education should not be underestimated. Dreams are more achievable with a thorough education, and it shows discipline. Smart employers insist on such qualities.’
Ava nodded, forcing a smile. Was the woman telling her she was no longer a suitable candidate? Should she try speaking to her feminine side and explain what had happened to drive her from the city to hide in an out-of-the-way country town? Marjorie Tate was more likely to find fault because Ava had allowed herself to be put in such a position in the first place. Unfortunately, Zac had not come with a warning plastered on his forehead. At least he couldn’t find her here and affect her employment chances.
Could he?
‘I said, you must have a dream, Ava.’ Marjorie Tate stared.
‘Me? A dream? I, umm…’ Gosh, what was she supposed to say?
‘Yes, a dream. Something other than cook and Jill-of-all-trades on an out-of-the-way property like ours.’
Never in all her job applications had she ever been asked such a thing. Why were her dreams important, unless it was to demonstrate ambition in lieu of education? She decided to offer a list. ‘Yes, I have dreams. Lots of them. I want to study cooking overseas, work in a French patisserie, harvest Italian olives and prepare high teas in London. And that’s just for starters.’
Marjorie Tate’s laugh was a lot like she looked – jaded. ‘Grand plans indeed.’
Had Ava warmed to the woman in the slightest she might have told her about Marco’s dream to show his daughter his hometown in Italy, but her last image of her father – pinning the dragonfly brooch to her collar, shoving a suitcase into seventeen-year-old Ava’s hand then shooing her from the house – still brought tears to her eyes. That first night, crying herself to sleep on her aunt’s sofa, was the moment Ava had stopped being a teenager. No choice for her either if she was to make her dad proud and achieve all he’d hoped for her. She’d had to grow up fast, too.
Having examined every photograph for a second time, Mrs Tate was reading the last of several handwritten testimonials when the fly-screen door at the far end of the kitchen annexe creaked and a man burst into the room. He whistled his way to the refrigerator and flung open the door. Then he swung around, kicked it shut, and stopped dead with a green apple in his hand, about to take a bite.
He stared at Ava with the biggest, most beautiful brown eyes. His face was suntanned or perhaps just dusty, his hairline already receding, and his scruffy curls the colour of crisp shortbread. ‘Oops!’
‘My son,’ the woman said. ‘John.’
‘Apple!’ He raised the fruit in one hand. ‘Can I tempt you?’
‘No, thanks,’ Ava replied.
‘You know what they say about an apple a day?’
‘Keeps the doctor away?’ she offered meekly.
‘Keeps anyone away if thrown hard enough.’
His wink and wide smile made Ava want to laugh, but in keeping with Marjorie Tate’s interviewing technique she quashed the urge and hid the grin behind a hand.
‘John, we have our first replacement cook to trial.’
Elation lifted Ava’s spirits, but ‘first’ and ‘trial’ soon wiped it away. Were the words a warning? If she didn’t perform to Marjorie Tate’s exacting standards were cooks two, three and four waiting in the wings?
‘The job comes with a modest weekly salary, plus room and board. Not quite Paris, but before Tuscany or London calls we can use your experience here, at Ivy-May.’ The woman pinched back a smile. Maybe she wasn’t going to be a bad boss after all. ‘When can you start?’
‘Straight away.’
As Ava reminded herself that a trial job was better than no job at all, she considered the good-looking young man with the mischievous glint in his eyes. He was the stocky type who wore dust and denim the way some chefs wore arrogance. He straddled a chair at the end of the table to study her, head cocked to one side.
‘John, I assume you’ve done clearing out Quentin’s things from the cook’s cabin, as I asked three days ago?’
‘Too easy, Mum,’ he replied, with a grin. ‘All ready to go.’
‘I hope so. Quentin left an awful mess behind and Eva is starting immediately.’
‘It’s Ava, actually.’
The room paused, the correction slipping out before Ava could stop herself. Another wink from John, and the crunch of a country apple pressed play.
‘I’ll put sheets and blankets on the veranda,’ Marjorie continued. ‘The publican dropped Eva out here today, John, so you’ll need to drive her back to town to collect her bags. Your father’s busy spraying the orchard, which he was supposed to do last week.’ Marjorie let out another sigh and Ava guessed she should get used to hearing such from her new employer. ‘Come on, John, the sooner you get going, the sooner Eva will be settled and on the job.’
Ava!
‘And there’s a shoulder roast in the fridge for dinner tonight – if you can get back here in time. It’ll be only us, no guests. We’ll see how you go with all that.’ The woman’s fingers splayed on the wooden table under the pressure of levering herself out of the dining chair. Large in stature and disposition, it was clear she wielded the whip around Ivy-May and that there would be numerous kitchen tests for Ava to pass – and pass she would. The prospect didn’t keep the self-congratulatory smile from her face as she reassured Mrs Tate she wouldn’t let her down.
After running away from the city there was no going back, so losing this job was not an option. If she was to stay as far away as possible from men like Zac and stand on her own two feet she could not afford to be fussy about a job. Her boyfriend had raised a fist to her just once, and when Ava had heard herself using the demands of a five-star restaurant to justify his temper, she heard her father excusing her mother’s abuse. When fuelled by a blend of alcohol and anxiety, Zac’s temper could be unpredictable. Ava couldn’t be around when his pressure cooker blew, and with him constantly warning her that she’d never get another job if she left him, there had been limited options in the city. A small country town was ideal.
She knew plenty about food and cooking and what she didn’t know about farm work she’d learn. At the same time she felt a little sorry for Quentin, who’d broken his leg so badly it was unlikely he’d return to work any time soon. His misadventure was her good fortune, and Ava finally felt luck was on her side. Her new post included food and a room so she would save money faster and be closer to fulfilling her father’s wish that she travel.
With her thirtieth birthday three years away, Ava made herself a promise. No matter how much or how little she had in the bank, she’d find a way to spend her thirtieth year making pasta in Marco’s Amalfi, making high tea at London’s Grand Royal, and touring the world, even if she did have to get there via a place called Candlebark Creek.
First, though, she had to survive the journey back into town with Marjorie Tate’s son, who drove way too fast over the corrugated roadway with its ripples and ruts set hard.