Love Notes from Vinegar House (10 page)

“Not such a good day for chopping down trees,” said Mrs Skelton, standing directly behind me, fresh sheets in her hands.

I think it pleased her when I jumped in fright.

“Why are they chopping that tree down?” I asked.

Mrs Skelton shrugged. “If you ask me, there’re plenty of other things that need doing before chopping down that tree. This house is falling down around our ears. Still, that’s men for you.”

I had often wondered if there had ever been a Mr Skelton, or if the
Mrs
was just a social politeness. I couldn’t imagine Mrs Skelton ever loving someone enough to marry them.

“But that’s ours … the cousins’ tree house. They can’t chop our tree down.”

“Well, I don’t know about that.” Mrs Skelton dropped the linen onto the bed. “Looks like they’ve made up their mind.”

“I’ll make the bed.” I wanted Mrs Skelton out of my room so I could get dressed. I was sure there’d been a mistake about the tree and I needed to talk to Mr Chilvers quickly.

“Suit yourself,” she said, her eyes narrowed. “Your cousin never makes her bed. She–” Mrs Skelton checked herself, smoothed her apron, then nodded. “All right then.”

I made my bed, then dressed in the clothes from the day before and barely stopped to brush my hair. I noticed a zit on my cheek as I looked in the mirror but there was no time to deal with it. I had a tree to save.

Luckily, nothing much had happened by the time I reached Mr Chilvers and Luke. They hadn’t moved from the tree, though I noticed Mr Chilvers was still holding the axe. They both seemed caught up in their conversation.

“What are you doing?” I said, bluntly. I don’t like confrontation. Have I told you that already? But even while my heart was pounding away in fright, my anger gave me the strength to stand my ground. “What are you doing to that tree?”

A part of me heard Luke’s warm greeting, but I was too busy being outraged to care. I hadn’t bothered much with the old tree since I’d arrived, but I knew it well. Knew its canopy in summer. Knew which limbs were good for climbing. I loved the way its roots pushed through the top of the soil and radiated out from the trunk like the thickened veins of an old man. This was a forever tree. And now they were going to chop it down.

“Hello,” said Mr Chilvers. “Come to help?”

“You can’t chop down that tree. You’ve … you’ve got no right–”

“Dieback,” interrupted Mr Chilvers.

For a moment I thought he was telling me to get back or die.

“The tree’s got dieback.” He pointed to a large limb overhanging the driveway. “We need to take that off before it falls on someone.”

“You’re not cutting down the whole tree?” I asked, pointing to his axe.

He looked down at the axe as if surprised to see it in his hand.

“This is for Luke.” He handed the axe to Luke. “We need some kindling chopped out the back. We’ll deal with this another day. Come on, Luke,” he said as he turned away from the tree.

I felt foolish, whining about a tree house as if I were a little kid. “Mrs Skelton said …”

Luke waited, but the beads of sweat on his forehead and my need to reach up and wipe them away distracted me.

“How did you get here?” I asked instead.

“Got a lift with Mo.”

Mo Phillips was a truck driver from town who had a reputation for having the messiest rig this side of the equator. The old Freya would have pumped Luke with questions about the trip, but I just scuffed at the ground.

“How’s your grandmother?” he asked. “Have you heard from your parents?”

Luke Hart has the most amazing eyes that change colour – I kid you not. That day they were a dark blue. I was so busy being lost in their colour that I wasn’t paying much attention to what he was saying.

“Nanna,” I said automatically. “She’s about the same. Happy to have Mum there though.”

“How’s life with Grandma Vinegar?” he said.

We used to laugh together about grandma’s nickname. But I wasn’t up for a cosy chat with Luke Hart. Not any more.

“What are you doing here?” I asked.

“Your grandmother offered me some work for the holidays,” he said.

He pushed his fringe away from his face, and I noticed the dirt trapped beneath his fingernails, his hands larger than I remembered.

“Really?”

“When I was here the other day. When we dropped you off.”

“Oh.” I tried to forget that Luke Hart had seen my sleep dribble during our trip to Vinegar House. “Where are you staying?”

“There’s room at the cottage–”

“At the cottage? With Mr Chilvers?” I laughed. “How boring for you.”

He looked down at his hands. “I’m saving for a car. So money’s always handy. We don’t all have rich relatives.”

If Luke Hart had physically slapped me, it couldn’t have hurt more. I remembered why I didn’t want to talk to him any more. I didn’t like feeling hurt. My mind was racing for a smart reply. Something really cutting that would stay with him for days to come. I was sure I’d have the perfect answer sometime tonight. Or maybe the next day. All I could manage right then was, “Right.”

Luke touched me on the shoulder. “Freya–”

“Luke!” bellowed Mr Chilvers as he continued up the drive.

“Better not keep the boss waiting,” I said.

Now
that
I was happy with.

Luke looked like he wanted to say something else, but then he turned and walked away. Movement from the attic window caught my attention, then a flash of light blinded me. I closed my eyes against it. When I opened them, the light was gone.

Vinegar House has all the mod cons – you know – lukewarm and cold running water, a washing machine and even a clothes dryer which is practically like new because Mrs Skelton doesn’t believe in wasting power.

Mrs Skelton insists on hanging clothes out on the washing line near the woodshed, even when it looks like it might rain. Half the time the clothes get a second rinse in a downpour. Still, it never stops her from taking it outside to dry. Which is how I found myself pegging out the washing that morning after my meeting with Luke and Mr Chilvers.

Rumer had actually made it for breakfast that morning. I’d told her about Luke working with Mr Chilvers, and she shrugged like she already knew.

“Could you help Mrs Skelton with the washing, girls?” asked Grandma Vinegar.

Of course, hanging out washing was high on my list of priorities for that day. Only to be outdone by my need to dust the library and polish the silver and maybe poke myself in the eye with a sharp stick.

Another one of my mother’s sayings. I’d rather poke myself in the eye with a sharp stick …

Look, it doesn’t matter. I never thought it was funny either.

Anyway, Grandma asked us to hang out the washing. It was more of a command than a question.

Rumer wrinkled her nose. “We just use the dryer at home,” she said.

Grandma was buttering her piece of toast carefully right up to the edges. She did it in exactly the same way the Colonel did, and I spent some time wondering what strange little habits I’d picked up from my own parents.

“More money than sense,” she quipped.

I never knew what to say when she came out with things like that, so I said, “Good eggs.” And Grandma said, “Don’t talk with your mouth filled with food, Freya. It’s vulgar.”

Rumer rose from the table and picked up her breakfast dishes.

“Don’t forget the washing,” reminded Grandma.

Of course, Rumer had no intention of hanging out the washing, which is how I found myself lugging a basketload of sheets to the washing line by myself.

The sheets weren’t like the ones we had at home. They were heavy-duty cotton sheets that had been made when Adam was a boy.

Another one of my mother’s sayings.

The first sheet was hard enough. I had trouble getting it onto the line without trailing it in the dirt first. By the time I was ready for the second sheet, a wind had whipped up and the first wet sheet was slapping me in the face.

The thought of Luke was like a toothache. I knew it was going to hurt to go there, but I kept going back to probe and poke. I was probing my Luke tooth as I dealt with the washing, trying to imagine what I might say to him if he appeared from out of nowhere.

I reverted to some of my favourite Luke Hart daydreams – the ones I used to have before I realised I didn’t really like him that much any more.

Luke Hart was walking up the garden path dressed in his riding pants and white shirt. He was wet through after having fallen into the lake …

No, wait. That was Mr Darcy.

Luke and I were running towards each other on Bluff Beach. The world was in slow motion. I was wearing a white sundress. Even though I don’t own a white sundress because white really isn’t my colour. It was kind of old fashioned and long and wet on the hem where it had trailed in the waves. Amazingly, I was tanned, and the zit on my left cheek had miraculously disappeared–

The
slap slap
of wet sheets ended that thought.

I was Juliet, and Luke was my Romeo, and I was wearing a floaty kind of dress, not white this time, and my hair was more blond than the horrible nothing-brown that it really is, and Luke was wearing his gardening work boots …

I hated that story. Two dumb kids who died for nothing.

Slap, slap
, wet pillowcase.

I dreamed that Luke Hart marched into the dining room at Vinegar House at dinnertime, pulled me from my chair, and kissed me right then and there in front of Grandma Vinegar and Rumer and Mrs Skelton. I imagined the shock on their faces. I imagined the shock on mine. The clatter of cutlery as Grandma gasped and dropped them in dismay. The shatter of broken glass as Rumer’s drink slipped from her fingers. And Mrs Skelton saying, “That boy really loves that girl, if you ask me.”

Slap, slap
, another wet pillowcase.

I imagined – and this was one of my favourite imagines, so I tried not to use it too much – I imagined that I had become incredibly ill due to the poor cooking skills of Mrs Skelton and the excessive taking of air that Grandma Vinegar had insisted on. I had caught a chill and had to take to my bed. Luke Hart rushed to my side and declared his undying love; that it was me he had loved all along, and Rumer had just been a distraction. And then–

That’s when I noticed that Luke was watching me standing at the washing line getting slapped by wet washing. I wondered how long he’d been watching me. I wondered which particular drama he had arrived at. My body went hot and cold and hot all over as I wondered what I had actually been doing.

Between you and me, sometimes I can get quite involved in my daydreams. I have sometimes caught myself acting out a part or murmuring dialogue aloud. I was hoping Luke Hart hadn’t caught me doing anything strange like that.

Luke was holding a second basketload of washing and he was looking at me with a frown on his face.

“What are you doing?” he asked when he realised that I was watching him watch me.

I pointed to the washing line that was now sporting sheets and pillowcases and a threadbare tablecloth. “Making pancakes,” I said.

Luke placed the basket down at my feet. He ignored my sarcasm.

“Were you talking to someone?” he asked.

“No.”

Slap, slap
, a pillowcase to the face.

“You were talking,” he said. “I saw you. And you were kind of …” He moved his arms about as if unsure about what to say.

“I’m in a play,” I said.

I was pleased with my answer. It was a great answer. I wasn’t usually so quick with great answers.

And then he asked, “What play?”

“What play?” I grabbed a tea towel from the second basket. “The school play, of course. I’m rehearsing my lines.”

“Oh. Great,” said Luke. “Good on you. It’s just … I didn’t think you were into that sort of thing. I mean like–”

“Like Rumer?” By now I had used ten pegs on one tea towel.

“No. Yes. I thought more like your sister. She’s into all that stuff, isn’t she?”

“Isabella? Yes, well, we do share the same genes.”

I was pretty sure this was true. We weren’t up to genes yet in biology.

“So what part are you playing?” he asked.

“Part?”

“In the school play. It’s
Romeo and Juliet
, isn’t it?”

I didn’t even know there was a real school play.

“Yes, that’s right. It’s just a small part. Only a couple of lines.”

I only knew two characters from
Romeo and Juliet
.

1. Romeo

2. Juliet.

“The fight scenes were pretty cool,” said Luke. “Hard to understand what they were saying sometimes. Stupid ending though.”

“It’s a classic!” I said hotly.

He shrugged. “So give me some lines.”

“What?”

“Go on. Practise your lines on me.”

“I … I …” I stamped my foot.

I don’t know about you, but I find that when I am really embarrassed, the best reaction is anger. It’s much better than crying because then people feel sorry for you, and I don’t want to be pitied. So that’s why I let Luke have it.

“You can’t boss me around any more, Luke Hart. And you’re … you’re–”

“Luke!” It was Mr Chilvers from down at the woodshed.