The Blue Gum Camp, page 1
Praise for
Léonie Kelsall
‘Léonie Kelsall is not afraid to tackle some of the darker sides of human nature in a way that adds depth and emotion to the storyline. With complex and endearing characters who will steal your heart away, these unputdownable books will have you turning the pages long into the night.’ Karly Lane, author of Time After Time
‘Unafraid to strip characters bare, delving into their psyche and motivations, Léonie Kelsall is my go-to when I want a gutsy rural fiction read.’ Darry Fraser, author of The Prodigal Sister
‘Léonie Kelsall is a consummate and unique writer of rural romance in that she is not restricted by genre expectations and bravely addresses darker and socially urgent themes in the reality of some of her character relationships.’ Irish Scene Magazine
Praise for
The Blue Gum Camp
‘Léonie Kelsall’s authentic rural voice shines as she explores some of life’s bigger challenges in The Blue Gum Camp. The combination of realistic, relatable characters and a stunning South Australian setting will no doubt captivate readers and have them turning the pages long into the night.’ Lisa Ireland
Praise for
The Willow Tree Wharf
‘Léonie Kelsall has a deft hand when it comes to writing romance. From the moment I started reading The Willow Tree Wharf, I was hooked … I have always enjoyed Kelsall’s novels, but this one was really a standout for me.’ Beauty and Lace
‘This was an incredible read … Léonie Kelsall really delivers on these rural novels with a slightly darker, grittier edge to them … I can’t wait for her next one.’ All the Books I Can Read
‘A story of restoration, acceptance, new starts and the healing power of love, The Willow Tree Wharf is a rewarding read. It’s another more-than-pleasing outing for rural fiction supreme Léonie Kelsall …’ Mrs B’s Book Reviews
‘A truly entertaining book with a pinch of dark and a handful of romance … This book will earn a place on your reading pile and embrace your heart.’ HappyValley Booksread
Praise for
The River Gum Cottage
‘Léonie Kelsall has a way of writing that makes you feel as if you are a part of the town, and that the characters are people you know and care about … a delight to read.’ Beauty and Lace
‘Léonie Kelsall has done it again … a beautiful and emotional story that dug deep, not to be missed.’ Family Saga Reviews
‘Intriguing and beautifully written … an emotional story filled with alarming secrets, betrayal, courage, heartbreak, misunderstandings and romance.’ Ms G’s Bookshelf
Praise for
The Wattle Seed Inn
‘Written with warmth, humour and sincerity, offering appealing characters and an engaging story, The Wattle Seed Inn is a lovely read, sure to satisfy fans of the genre.’ Book’d Out
‘With a wonderful message about letting go, seizing the day and embracing all experiences on offer, The Wattle Seed Inn is an encouraging read I highly recommend.’ Mrs B’s Book Reviews
‘[The Wattle Seed Inn] is a meditation on the city/country divide, as well as a salutary tale about the importance of finding community. It’s also a rollicking good read.’ Australian Country
Praise for
The Farm at Peppertree Crossing
‘Kelsall is a bold and fearless writer who is unafraid of presenting her readership with a plethora of darker style themes … authentic, insightful and sensitive in the right places.’ Mrs B’s Book Reviews
‘Léonie Kelsall’s skilful portrayal of life on the land and the people who live it comes alive. An absolute gem of a book!’ Blue Wolf Reviews
‘… moves from foreboding, funny, breath-holding, sad and sweet. I loved the way Kelsall unwrapped the secrets slowly throughout the story—little teasers that kept me glued to the pages.’ The Burgeoning Bookshelf Blogspot
‘It’s a mark of Kelsall’s unique storytelling ability that she is able to combine both the dark and light elements of this story to create something so appealing.’ Jackie Smith Writes
‘A fantastic tale with relatable and loveable characters.’ Happy Valley BooksRead
‘… told with plenty of heart and humour … a charming book full of strong, unforgettable characters that you’ll fall in love with.’ Glam Adelaide Magazine
‘A thoroughly delightful read that had me thinking of the characters long after I’d finished the book.’ Claudine Tinellis, Talking Aussie Books
Raised initially in a tiny, no-horse town on South Australia’s Fleurieu coast, then in the slightly more populated wheat and sheep farming land at Pallamana, Léonie is a country girl through and through. Growing up without a television, she developed a love of reading before she reached primary school, swiftly followed by a desire to write. Pity the poor teachers who received chapters of creative writing instead of a single page!
Léonie entertained a brief fantasy of moving to the big city (well, Adelaide), but within months the lure of the open spaces and big sky country summoned her home. A registered wildlife rescuer and carer, she now divides her time between the lush Adelaide Hills, the location of her professional counselling practice, and the stark, arid beauty of the family farm at Pallamana, which provides both the setting for many of her stories and a refuge for the rescues that can’t be released. Follow her social media for an overload of the fluffy, fleecy, furred and feathered inhabitants of her home and heart.
Also by Léonie Kelsall
The Farm at Peppertree Crossing
The Wattle Seed Inn
The River Gum Cottage
The Willow Tree Wharf
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
First published in 2024
Copyright © Léonie C. Kelsall 2024
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or 10 per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to the Copyright Agency (Australia) under the Act.
Allen & Unwin
Cammeraygal Country
83 Alexander Street
Crows Nest NSW 2065
Australia
Phone:(61 2) 8425 0100
Email:info@allenandunwin.com
Web:www.allenandunwin.com
Allen & Unwin acknowledges the Traditional Owners of the Country on which we live and work. We pay our respects to all Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Elders, past and present.
ISBN 978 1 76106 787 7
eISBN 978 1 76118 820 6
Typesetting: Midland Typesetters, Australia
Cover design: Nada Backovic
Cover photos: Getty Images (model); Surroundings Photography/Kim Miller (dawn); iStock (dog and sheep); Unsplash (background clouds)
For Taylor …
My co-pilot along hundreds of kilometres of highways and byways as I researched and wrote this book—including a memorable (and accidental) foray into vampire territory.
And for Sam …
Who moved to the south-east, giving me ample excuse to visit the area. Research and grandbabies: what more could any writer want?
Contents
Prologue
1 Lachlan
2 Charity
3 Lachlan
4 Charity
5 Lachlan
6 Charity
7 Lachlan
8 Charity
9 Lachlan
10 Charity
11 Lachlan
12 Charity
13 Lachlan
14 Charity
15 Lachlan
16 Charity
17 Lachlan
18 Charity
19 Lachlan
20 Charity
21 Lachlan
22 Charity
23 Lachlan
24 Charity
25 Lachlan
26 Charity
27 Lachlan
28 Charity
29 Lachlan
30 Charity
Epilogue Charity
Author’s Note
Prologue
‘Mum won’t eat the apples if they’ve got blemishes,’ Dad said.
Is her life anything more than a blemish now?
Charity recoiled in shock at the betrayal of the impermissible thought. It was the end of an exceedingly long term spent trying to engage thirty less-than-enthusiastic middle-primary students and she was exhausted.
She snatched up the paring knife and neatly trimmed the odd spot or two from the organic apples she’d bought at the market that morning. Forced herself to focus on the honey-strawberry scent of the fruit, as though the purity of the fragrance would erase her treacherous thoughts. But the truth was that Saturdays were always spent this way: guiltily wishing for the end, even as her heart broke with each day it drew inexorably closer.
‘Don’t be persnickety, Dad.’ Her sister, Faith, tried to lighten their father’s mood by throwing in one of Mum’s favourite words. At least it had been a favourite, back when Mum remembered
‘And don’t you give me cheek,’ Dad grumbled, but his voice held a tone of fondness Charity rarely heard directed toward herself. Faith couldn’t compete with effervescent Hope—the youngest of the three Farrugia siblings—but still she had a way with Dad that Charity had never managed to emulate.
Charity held up the tea plate. ‘Do you want to take her apple in?’ A hopeful inflection lifted her words. The plate, bordered with cheery yellow roses, was one of many pieces her mother had collected from op shops over the years. Dad once made the mistake of buying a full set from an antique store, but Mum had promptly donated them to the local Salvos; she said that, while she appreciated his thought, there was no challenge in finding that which had already been found. Charity wondered whether Dad had appreciated that thought. He’d reacted only with gentle amusement, her parents’ affection for one another always more evident than for any of their three children. Amid the celebration when Hope was born more than a dozen years after Charity, Mum had shared that, while she loved her three daughters, they were her duty, whereas she chose to be with Dad. For twenty years, Charity had nursed the words as a secret hurt, occasionally taking them out of hiding and re-examining them to dissect why she was considered less lovable. But now, shamed by the way her obligations threatened her own ability to love, she understood the work it took to combat the relentless erosion of love by duty. No doubt Mum had felt the same when comparing what she saw as the thankless work of raising children to the unquestioning adoration of the man who had fallen desperately in love with her when they were teenagers.
Charity’s guilt might be lessened if either of her siblings stepped up to share the responsibility of caring for their mother. But her sisters kept their love intact by rarely visiting the home they’d grown up in. When they did, they’d be treated as guests, while it fell to Charity to provide the regular support their parents needed far too early. She was by turns honoured by the position and crushed by the responsibility. Sometimes it was hard to remember what life had been like five years ago, before their family was forced to pretend each hello wasn’t a prelude to a permanent goodbye.
‘Apple?’ she repeated hopefully around the index finger in her mouth. She was careful not to single out her father or her sister; she would be equally grateful if either of them took the plate into the bedroom.
‘Oh, you cut yourself,’ Faith exclaimed, sighting Charity’s bleeding finger.
‘Let me see.’ Dad sprang into action, hitching up his too-loose jeans beneath the fleecy jacket Hope had given him last Father’s Day. Although he was rarely demonstrative, Dad could always be relied on in a crisis. At least of the minor kind. With early retirement from his teaching role at the university, he had drifted, in the manner of so many middle-aged men, into being contentedly untidy. It was hard to reconcile him with the man who had, not so long ago, shaved carefully each day, polished his shoes and chosen his clothes for a style that suited academia, not comfort.
The slide into commonplace always seemed to be harder fought by women, Charity thought. Until the last few years, Mum had been a regular at the hairdresser and the nail salon, and her wardrobe would never have featured elasticwaisted Millers pants and stretchy tunic tops. Charity hated herself for buying those items, but they were far more manageable for Dad on the increasingly frequent occasions when her mother rebelled against dressing.
‘The apple is oxidising,’ she said as Dad rummaged in a kitchen drawer for his first-aid box.
Silence ruled the room. No one wanted to take the apple—browning or otherwise—into the bedroom. Charity sighed. It would be her. It always was. And she had no right to complain: they had some respite care for Mum during the week, so it was only evenings and weekends that were consumed by the slow torture of the long goodbye.
‘Thank you, love,’ Mum said as Charity entered the bedroom. It was bright and cheerful, despite the pervasive autumnal gloom beyond the window. Yellow walls, fluffy white bedcovers and pastel cushions: a false promise of joy, like Christmas decorations in a palliative care ward. The table was crowded with photographs of family and friends in a way Mum would never have chosen, and Charity knew the arrangement was a relic of a well-intentioned visitor months earlier. ‘Is it a Pink Lady?’
Sudden hope surged through Charity. ‘Would I dare give you anything else? The season’s finishing up, though. This is the last of them.’ Her fingers tightened on the plate. She should have turned the apples into a crumble. Mum had always done that when the fruit began to soften. It would only have taken her an extra hour or so.
As she moved aside the book that had rested on the bedside table for the past two years, Mum’s hand closed around her wrist. Her grip was tight, fingers claw-like, bony—it seemed her brain had forgotten to tell her body to take sustenance from food.
‘Can you take a message for me?’
‘Of course,’ Charity said warily, hypnotised by her mother’s piercing gaze. ‘Who to?’
‘To whom,’ her mother corrected, and Charity’s heart leapt with joy.
‘To whom,’ she agreed eagerly.
Mum pressed a scrap of toilet paper into Charity’s hand. ‘To the police,’ she hissed. ‘I’m being held against my will.’
1
Lachlan
‘Seriously, bro, you need to get out more.’
Lachlan MacKenzie grunted, though it was with the effort of hefting a bale of barley straw from the tray of the ute, rather than agreement with his younger brother. He hoped Hamish would take the hint and shift the twenty-kilo bale closer to the calves’ paddock while he unloaded the others. But Hamish was evidently on a mission.
‘Dude, you’re turning into Dad.’ Hamish leaned back against the cab, arms folded across his chest, staring into the distance as though he could make out the far boundary of the three-hundred-hectare property. The MacKenzie farm lay in the rain shadow of the Adelaide Hills, near Settlers Bridge, where even a cloud between early spring and mid-autumn was a rare occurrence.
‘That’s a bit rich, mate,’ Lachlan said, jumping from the tray of the ute. He slapped his jeans to remove some of the dust and straw, then lugged the bale toward the paddock, adding a new layer to the grime that had seemed to infiltrate his pores during the extended dry season. He took a moment to let his gaze range the undulations of the paddock, gilded with deceptively soft-looking golden summer stubble. Mum was wrong. Whether he counted to ten or a hundred, it didn’t banish his irritation. Hamish’s attack was a low blow, given that their father had added to his regular level of sullenness by becoming enough of a hermit to be the subject of gossip around Settlers Bridge since cancer had taken Mum just over a year back. Not that the small-town grapevine needed much fertiliser to help it flourish while stalwarts of the CWA, Lynn Lambert and Christine Albright, commanded the local grocery shop or, in Christine’s case, seemed determined to take over the running of the cafe, Ploughs and Pies. ‘You know if the old man didn’t share the property with me, he’d be happy not seeing another living soul from one fortnight’s end to the next.’
‘Least he talks to you.’ An unusual trace of bitterness crept into Hamish’s tone. Though they shared the family trademark red-tinged blond hair, blue-eyed Hamish was the spitting image of their mum, and it was no secret that, for the past year, Dad had found it hard to set eyes on his younger son.
‘Doesn’t, if he can avoid it,’ Lachlan replied brusquely. On a property this size it wasn’t hard to dodge one another. Particularly as Lachlan lived in the old caravan, rather than share the house where he’d been born—and where Mum had slowly died—with his father. ‘Anyway, my point is, I get out. I’m not as bad as the old man.’
He strode off the track and through the thigh-high wild oats that formed a softly waving border around the well-grazed paddock. Gripping the nylon strings, he swung the bale backward for momentum, then tossed it over the fence. They needed to change out the wire-and-post cockies’ gate, which sagged like an old man’s trousers and was harder to close than a pub door.
‘Says you.’ Hamish had followed him and now leaned both forearms on the fence between the barbs. He narrowed his gaze on the cattle as he folded his hands, thumbs linked, like Mum had taught him to stop his fidgeting. Even though Hamish had chosen not to farm, the knowledge ran through both of them like blood, the urge to check stock, crops and weather ingrained and habitual. ‘You’ve been a sad shit since Em did the dirty on you.’
