Page 2 of Feeding the Grump

CHAPTER TWO

DAVID

The next afternoon, I come home from drafting ewes and their lambs into different mobs to find a fresh-baked peach loaf on my doorstep.

I know without tasting it that the peaches will be Golden Queens from my orchard last summer. Benji must have bottled the excess ones I gave him.

This is how Benji has always repaid me for the fruit and vegetables I give him, by baking or cooking something for me in return.

He must’ve spotted my microwave dinners at some point because once or twice a week, he gives me casseroles, pies, or stews, things I can easily freeze in smaller portions and then reheat.

Our food exchange is almost wordless now, completely unrelated to how we argue over everything else.

But tonight, I don’t need to reheat one of Benji’s meals because I’m grabbing dinner at the pub.

Before I get ready, I’ve got one chore still to do.

The orphan lambs are waiting by the fence, bleating their impatience.

“Keep your wool on,” I tell them gruffly as I measure the milk powder. They’re getting stronger every day, which means they’re also getting more demanding about their feeds.

The smallest one, with the black spots around her eyes, still needs some encouragement, so I settle on an upturned bucket, letting her lean against my leg while she drinks. Her soft wool is warm against my calloused palms.

Lambs fed, I head into the house and jump through the shower, grimacing as the hot water hits the fresh scratches on my arms from wrestling with those bloody brambles in the north paddock.

I drag my razor through three days’ worth of stubble, nicking myself twice because I’m rushing. My good jeans are folded in my drawer, the ones without any fence wire tears or stains. They feel strange after a day in work clothes, like they belong to someone else.

For some reason, as I get ready, the conversation I had with Lance the night before his and Emma’s wedding creeps into my mind.

We’d been having a few whiskeys in the back room of the Royal Hotel—the same place our father had taken us for our first legal drinks—when Lance had started talking about how Emma completed him.

It sounded like something from one of those romance movies Mum used to watch, but Lance had said it with such conviction that I didn’t take the piss like I normally would.

I’d let his words wash over me while I stared into my glass.

“What about you, big brother?”

His question had forced me to jerk my head up.

“What about me?”

“Don’t you want to date, get married? I mean, I don’t think you’ve had a proper girlfriend for a decade now. And you’re not that hideous. It’s definitely not due to lack of trying by the women around here.”

He was right. Ever since I hit puberty and grew to be a replica of my dad, six foot one, broad shoulders, dark hair and eyes, I’d never had a shortage of female attention.

I’d taken another gulp of my drink, but the whiskey couldn’t wash away the familiar feeling of somehow being broken. Watching my mates at school fall in lust at first sight, hooking up with strangers at parties, while I never understood the appeal.

“I can’t be bothered with that nonsense,” I’d replied.

“Maybe you just need the right person to come along,” he said.

I’d made a noncommittal grunt and then moved the conversation on by asking about his plans for rotating the winter feed crops. Farm talk was safer than examining the hollow feeling his words left in my chest.

The memory of that conversation rattles in my head as I grab my keys from the hook by the door.

Country pubs in New Zealand are all cut from the same cloth.

The Royal’s got its share of wobbly tables held steady by folded cardboard, walls covered in faded photos of local rugby teams, and regulars wearing grooves into the barstools.

It’s the sort of place where your beer appears without you having to order it, and everyone knows whose dog is sleeping under which table.

I arrive and head over to the table where Lance is already deep in conversation with Pete the stock agent and Doc Wilson.

Doc’s the local GP who’s been patching up farmers around here since before I was born.

Given the number of times he’s stitched me up after farming accidents, I reckon he knows the scar pattern on my hands better than I do.

“’Bout time you showed up,” Lance says as I pull out a chair.

There’s the usual shuffle of chairs and lifting of pint glasses as I join them, everyone automatically shifting to make room for me.

Tilly the barmaid has barely got my pint in front of me when I spot him.

The sight of Benji’s frame in the doorway hits me like an unexpected southerly, only this is something that leaves me somehow both cold and hot at the same time. I take a quick gulp of my beer.

Pete’s already standing to shake Benji’s hand.

“G’day mate,” he says. “You want to join us?”

Benji’s green eyes scan the table, and when they meet mine, the usual spark of mischief in them makes my collar feel too tight.

“Sure, I’ll join you,” he says.

He chooses the seat next to mine. Of course he does.

He smells like the land after rain, mixed with whatever fancy shower gel he uses. I’m sure the weird flip my stomach does is just my body preparing itself for whatever argument we’re bound to have when we’re in such close proximity.

“You’re looking all dressed up, Benji? You meeting someone?” Pete asks.

I stiffen, my hand clenching around my glass.

When Benji first turned up, it wasn’t just his city-slicker ways or farming techniques that caused the gossipers’ tongues to work overtime.

It was the fact he openly dated both men and women, which wasn’t something our little corner of rural New Zealand had seen much.

Even though he started off dating with gusto, Benji seems to have slowed down lately, like a tractor that’s run out of diesel. From what I’ve seen, he hasn’t dated anyone for the past two years.

Not that I care.

My house is on a slight hill that looks down over his place, so I’m aware of the comings and goings on his farm. Same as I notice when his sheep are ready for crutching, or his hay needs baling. Just being a good neighbor, that’s all.

Maybe he’s simply worked through all the eligible men and women and is waiting for fresh blood to move into the district.

Though the thought of someone new catching Benji’s eye makes my stomach clench in a way that has nothing to do with my anticipation of the meal the pub is cooking for me tonight.

“Nah, I’m not meeting anyone. I just thought it was time to retire the sheep-dip-stained look,” Benji says.

His shoulder bumps mine as he reaches for the beer Tilly puts on the table for him. My muscles lock up tighter than a new fence wire.

What the hell is going on with me?

I scan the room for something to distract me.

A replay of the final of the Supreme rugby competition is playing on a screen above the bar, showing the Auckland Greens losing to the Stallions. I nod at it.

“This must bring back some bad memories for you,” I say to Benji. “Watching your team get annihilated in the final.”

“At least my team made it through to the finals. Remind me, when were the Marauders knocked out?” he asks with an arched eyebrow, knowing full well the local team, the Canterbury Marauders, hadn’t even made the semis this year.

“Talking rugby, who do you reckon they’re going to start for the first Australia match. Jones or Bannings?” Pete asks.

This debate has been dominating sports media for the last few weeks.

Aiden Jones is a legend in New Zealand rugby, one of the greatest players we’ve ever produced.

He’s had a lock on his starting position in the New Zealand rugby team for the last six seasons.

But Tyler Bannings is a young Greens player who’s had a phenomenal season, and there’s lots of speculation that the uppity hotshot might be named to start ahead of the veteran.

Bannings has a raw talent that makes spectators forget to breathe, but he’s about as predictable as the spring weather.

“They gotta pick experience over the flashy upstart,” Doc Wilson says.

“I think they should start Bannings, actually.” Benji says the words with wicked intent, like he knows exactly how much that will irritate me.

I snort. “You’d pick style over substance? Why doesn’t that surprise me?”

He slides a look at me. “Sometimes you get both style and substance together in a package.”

Fuck. It feels like another one of those Benji comments with a double meaning.

“Is that what you tell yourself when you look in the mirror each morning?” The words slip out before I can catch them, and I immediately regret how they sound. Like I’m admitting I’ve thought about what he sees in his mirror.

Benji goes still, his glass halfway to his lips.

“Bannings is all flash, no follow-through,” I continue quickly. “Man can’t hold a defensive line to save his life.”

Benji’s throat works as he swallows a hefty gulp of beer, and I have no idea why I’m so focused on watching, fascinated by the way his Adam’s apple bobs.

He sets his glass down with deliberate care, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

“What Bannings lacks in discipline, he makes up for in vision,” he says, leaning toward me slightly like he’s sharing a secret. “Besides, have you seen his sidestep? He could dodge raindrops in a thunderstorm.”

The debate about whether Bannings or Jones should start continues well into our second round of beer, voices getting louder and opinions getting stronger with each empty glass until Pete sets up player formations with the salt and pepper shakers and other condiments on the table.

This is serious.

This is rugby.

What none of the guys here know, not even Lance, is that Aiden Jones is actually one of our neighbors.

Six years ago, I sold off the five acres of land that held the old farm manager’s cottage. When I’d gone to sign the contract and seen the purchaser’s name, I’d almost dropped my pen.