‘Pippa,’ he said, grudgingly.
‘Phillippa Donohue?’ Four sets of eyes nearly started from four heads. ‘The woman on Kettering’s farm,’ one of them exclaimed. ‘I didn’t think she had a boyf—’
‘He’ll be a friend from when she was nursing,’ another interrupted, digging her friend in the ribs. ‘Maybe he’s a doctor.’
Four sets of eyebrows twitched upward and he could almost see the assembling of symptoms. ‘Are you a doctor?’
‘No.’
Four sets of brows drooped in disappointment, and they turned their backs on him. ‘Maybe he’s a friend from university,’ one said. ‘That’s where Gina met Donald. He was doing a course on farm bookkeeping. One weekend was all it took for them to fall in love. Wham.’
‘Did Phillippa go to university?’
‘Of course she did. Nurses have to go to university these days. She went and so did Gina. Not that Gina ever worked as a nurse. She married Donald instead. I remember just after they were married, Phillippa came to visit. Gina was really excited. She said Phillippa was clever. She could have been a doctor, Gina said, but of course there wasn’t any money. But she had a really good job. In operating theatres, Gina said. Mind, you wouldn’t think she was clever now, holding on to that farm against all odds. Stupid girl.’
The lady giving the information was wearing hair curlers and some sort of shapeless crimplene frock. She had her arms crossed across her ample bosom in the classic stance of ‘I know more than you do’. She practically smirked.
‘She should go back to nursing,’ she told her friends. ‘Why she insists on keeping that farm…It’s just an impediment, that’s what it is.’
‘But she likes the farm,’ another objected. ‘She told me so. That’s why she won’t sell.’
‘Honestly, would anyone like that dump? And she’s standing in the way of progress.’
‘She says it feels like home.’
‘It might be the children’s home,’ Crimplene conceded. ‘But if Phillippa wasn’t there they’d be put up for adoption. Which would probably be for the best, and the sooner she admits it, the better. They’ll be starving soon.’
‘But if she’s got a boyfriend…’ They turned as one to inspect him again. ‘If she’s got a boyfriend then maybe she’ll have support.’ It didn’t seem to be an idea they relished.
‘You’re French,’ one of them said, obviously replaying his voice and discovering the accent.
‘No.’ He might be interested in what they had to say about Pippa, but the last thing he wanted was an inquisition about himself. He redirected his attention to his list. Bread, pasta, dog food. Ha. And the thirty-two dollars and fifty cents had to be a joke. Good coffee was eight dollars a pack. Three packs, he decided, and tossed in another for good measure.
What next? Tea? Surely. And the kids really should have decent hot chocolate—not the watered-down stuff they were drinking now. If Marc was to end up where he hoped, it was time he learned to appreciate quality. He found tubs of chocolate curls with pictures of decadent mugs of creaming hot chocolate on the front. Two tubs landed in his trolley.
He’d turned his back on his audience. They didn’t like it.
‘Phillippa can’t afford that,’ the lady behind the checkout snapped. ‘Her vats are contaminated.’
‘My vats aren’t,’ he retorted, inspecting the range of chocolate cookies and choosing four packets before moving on to confectionery. What was hot chocolate without marshmallows? Would six packets be enough?
Then there were more decisions. Did they like milk chocolate or dark? Three blocks of each, he decided, but the blocks looked a bit small. Okay, six of each.
On then to essentials. Dry pasta. Surely she wasn’t serious about wanting much of this. It looked so…dry. The meat section looked much more appetising. The steaks looked great.
But then, this wasn’t just about him, he reminded himself. The steaks looked wonderful, but maybe kids liked sausages. He replaced a couple of steaks, collected sausages, and then thought of Dolores and the great big eyes. He put the steaks back in his trolley.
Then he discovered the wine section. Australian wine. Excellent. And fruit? He wasn’t as sure as Pippa about the scurvything. That meant fresh produce. Bananas. Oranges. Strawberries? Of course strawberries. Would they have their own cream or should he buy some?
But there was more to shopping than food.
‘I need wood,’ he said, and discovered the ladies were staring at his trolley as if they’d never seen such things. ‘Where can I find fuel for a woodstove?’
‘You can’t cut wood in weather like this.’
‘That’s the problem,’ he said patiently. ‘And Pippa has a bad back.’
‘We know that,’ one of the ladies said, starting to sound annoyed. ‘She hurt it last week. The doctor told her to be careful. I expect all her fires are out by now.’ She sounded smug.
‘They are,’ Max said shortly. ‘No locals thought to help her?’
‘She’s not a local herself,’ another of the ladies said, doubtfully now, maybe considering that they might be considered remiss. ‘She only came here when the children’s parents died. And she won’t sell the farm. We all tell her she should sell the farm. It’s a huge problem for the district.’
‘Why?’
‘We want to put a new road in. There’s ten outlying farms—huge concerns—that have three miles or more to get into town. If Phillippa agreed to sell her place we could build a bridge over the creek. It’d be a lot more convenient for everyone.’
‘I see,’ he said slowly. ‘Would that be why her vats have been found to be contaminated?’
‘Of course not,’ Crimplene snapped, but she flushed. ‘But it’s nothing more than we expected. She has some stupid idea of keeping the farm for the children. As if she can ever keep it as a going concern until they’re adult. It’s ridiculous.’
‘So she doesn’t qualify for help when she’s hurt?’ He caught himself then. What was the use of being angry—and what business was it of his? Pippa was nothing to do with him. He just needed to do what he had to do and move on.
It was just she looked so…slight. David against Goliath. Or Pippa against Crimplene. He’d prefer to take on Goliath any day, he thought. Crimplene made him feel ill.
‘Where can I buy some wood to tide us over?’ he said, trying very hard to keep anger out of his voice.
‘We have barbecue packs,’ the checkout lady said. She also seemed unsure, casting a nervous glance at Crimplene as if she was bucking an agreed plan. ‘We sell them to tourists at a big…I mean for premium prices. There’s ten logs per bundle at five dollars a bundle.’
Max thought back to the enormous woodstove and he thought of Pippa’s fingers, tinged with blue from the cold. He looked at the four women in front of him. They stared straight back and he felt the anger again. Sure, he was a stranger, and it was none of his business, but he remembered the shadows under Pippa’s eyes and he couldn’t stop being angry.
Anger achieved nothing, he told himself. He was here on a mission. He had to focus.
‘How many bundles do you have in stock?’ he asked.
‘Forty maybe.’
‘If I buy them all will you deliver?’
There was a general gasp. ‘That’s wicked waste,’ Crimplene started but the checkout lady