Page 17 of The Side Road (Love Chronicles #3)

He regarded his daughter. ‘I’m sorry that happened. You know why I stayed. I was under contract. Allen had no one else to run the tours. We also get a bonus at the end of the season. I want us to have a good life. The best I can offer. And a better one than I had.’

‘I hate my life. So you failed. You’re also not providing any edible food. ’

He rubbed his hands over his face. After weeks of steak and sausages served with salad, Oliver was also tired of the monotonous meals. If he served Tash one more lamb cutlet, he thought she might leave home. They had reached a breaking point.

In the supermarket, he had combed the aisles of frozen convenience meals.

Why bother preparing fresh food when there was another way?

A cheaper, easier, faster option. The urge to quit cooking altogether had been powerful, but he had persevered.

Nutrition was paramount. He owed this to himself and his daughter.

He had to learn how to cook and increase his nightly repertoire.

Elsie’s cookbooks were still in the kitchen cupboards.

After taking one down, he skimmed the recipes.

He knew how to marinate and fry food. He understood what blend and beat meant.

Bake was obvious. He thought braising was probably another term for slow cooking.

But what the fuck was blanching? How was he supposed to caramelise, poach, baste, parboil or julienne?

Why did the recipe say deglaze? What did that even mean?

Closing the cookbook, he returned it to the cupboard.

Still seated at the kitchen table, Tash looked up from her knitting and stared expectantly at him.

‘I’m working on it,’ he said.

Re-visiting the pantry, she came back with a pre-cooked rice cup and studied the packaging. ‘It says here: “Serving Suggestions”. There’s a QR code.’

Oliver handed her his phone. Deemed too young for social media, there were no apps installed on her phone.

Making calls to her father was the extent of her mobile activities.

Taking Oliver’s phone, she scanned the code.

Countless food choices became available.

The app rated the recipes for success and difficulty .

‘Okay,’ Tash said.

‘Right.’ Oliver leaned over her shoulder and stared at the screen.

‘Easy fried rice,’ Tash said. She pointed to the recipe. ‘This one has a 4.7 rating and over three hundred reviews.’

‘I’ll give it a go.’

It took twenty-five minutes. Studded with vegetables, it also included eggs. Relief washed over Oliver. The internet was fantastic.

After the meal was over, Tash logged back into the website and gave the recipe a score of 4.7 for consistency.

‘Do you think Elsie took the money with her in the coffin?’ she asked.

‘It’s possible,’ Oliver said. ‘If I carry the shovel, can you handle the torch?’

‘You can count on me.’

Neither of them moved.

‘I guess we’ll never know,’ she said. ‘That’s the worst part. But it doesn’t sound like something Nan would want. Being buried in a coffin filled with money.’

She picked up her knitting and counted the stitches on her needle.

This was her second attempt at making socks.

She was using the pink wool that Mia had given Oliver.

He could tell the stitches were tighter than a rusted bearing.

Her tension was terrible. If this continued, the socks would be the size of a rabbit’s paw.

With force and persistence, she knitted a few stitches.

Then she nodded at the dusty wine bottles on the bench. ‘You going to drink all that wine?’

‘Eventually, yes.’

‘With the money you’ve saved on wine, we could get a rabbit.’

‘Your birthday is in November. If you do some extra chores, you could start saving. ’

In seven months, she would be thirteen, a teenager.

Where had the years gone? What delights were the next few years going to bring besides periods, boyfriends, bad fashion, mean friends, breasts, and pimples?

Her hair was already problematic. She was also plump, a few kilos over a healthy weight for a girl her age.

But she could drive a car and ride a bike.

He felt relieved to have dealt with that so early. If only she could knit.

From across the table, she gave him a cross look.

Chores were the blight of her life, and by default, they were also a misery for Oliver.

He was adamant that she had to contribute.

She hated housework and at times appeared to be simultaneously bored and lazy.

This mystified him. He came from a family that had always worked hard.

On a cattle station, boredom was never a problem. Tash had the other kids to play with. She was sporty. She knew how to catch a football, wield a cricket bat, and shoot hoops. Exhausted, she would collapse into bed, sleep ten hours, and bounce back up in the morning.

Oliver knew how to take care of Tash when she was a toddler.

Her whiny voice told him she was overtired and ready for bed.

A sandwich would silence her hungry cry.

A hug from him could fix a scraped knee.

He could fix a glum mood with a ride on his shoulders.

A tummy tickle stopped a tantrum, and a chocolate biscuit distracted her from just about any minor crisis.

These days, he had no idea how to placate her sullen moods.

The art of parenting his daughter was like a game of chess, one that he was losing. And he didn’t like to lose.

‘Is it okay if Mary comes over tomorrow?’ Tash asked. ‘She has to get out of the house. Her mother is not talking to her father because he’s threatened to take the family camping on the school holidays. ’

‘Sure,’ Oliver said. ‘As long as you finish your chores.’

The following day, Oliver’s motorbikes and belongings arrived from the Kimberley.

A removal company had carried the container to Perth, then on to Melbourne and via Sydney, it finally arrived in Eagle Nest. Travelling five thousand kilometres wasn’t the most direct route, but at short notice, it was the quickest.

Amongst his possessions were two toolboxes and three motorbikes. Oliver smiled. The bikes were like old friends. He owned a Triumph Tiger Cub. Not a fast bike, but a fun ride. It had a quiet, two-stroke, single-cylinder engine, and the frame was painted baby blue.

He still owned the old Postie bike, which he had ridden across the country in the ‘Postie Bike Challenge’ when he was sixteen.

From Brisbane to Darwin, 4,000 kilometres on a tiny Honda CT110, dual-sport motorcycle.

Mia was right. It was a big country. A charity ride, he had raised $20,000 for men’s mental health.

The last bike to come off the trailer was a Kawasaki H2 750 three-cylinder two-stroke from the 1970s. The original Widowmaker. In its day, it was the fastest thing on two wheels. Unnecessarily wild and hard to control, it was the bike Oliver learned to ride on. It was his dad’s bike.

A dozen helmets, leather jackets, and various pairs of riding boots had accompanied the bikes across the continent. He was happy with the familiar smells of oil, petrol, paint, and dust. The garage, waiting to be brought back to life.

Two days later, the new furniture he ordered arrived. A good night’s sleep followed.