Starting from Scratch Read online

  ABOUT PENELOPE JANU

  PENELOPE JANU lives on the coast in northern Sydney with a distracting husband, a very large dog and, now they’re fully grown, six delightful children who come and go. Penelope has a passion for creating stories that explore social and environmental issues, but her novels are fundamentally a celebration of Australian characters and communities. Her first novel, In at the Deep End, came out in 2017 and her second, On the Right Track, in 2018. Up on Horseshoe Hill was published in 2019 and a novella, The Six Rules of Christmas, in 2020. Penelope enjoys exploring the Australian countryside and dreaming up travelling and hiking breaks, and nothing makes her happier as a writer than readers falling in love with her clever, complex and adventurous heroines and heroes. She loves to hear from readers, and can be contacted at www.penelopejanu.com.

  Also by Penelope Janu

  In at the Deep End

  On the Right Track

  On the Same Page

  Up on Horseshoe Hill

  The Six Rules of Christmas (novella)

  romance.com.au

  To my children, Philippa, Tamsin, Ben, Michaela, Gabriella and Max,

  who listened avidly to the stories I told them at bedtime.

  CONTENTS

  About the Author

  Also by Penelope Janu

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Acknowledgements

  Excerpt

  CHAPTER

  1

  Most people see colours, but sometimes I think that I see them more clearly.

  I’ve worked at the long timber bench at the farmhouse for the past two hours, pressing crepe paper petals into shapes so they’re ready to form into flowers. Gompholobium grandiflorum. Large Wedge-pea. The petals, in four shades of yellow, are lined up neatly in rows.

  Saffron, lemon, amber and gold.

  When a gust of wind rattles the window and sneaks through a gap in the frame, scores of petals fly into the air and fall to my feet like sunbeams. As I collect the petals and put them into a shoebox, I imagine Gran at her old kitchen table, the surface obscured by reams of crepe paper.

  ‘Don’t be so particular, Sapphie,’ she’d say, as I fussed over shade and sequence. ‘It’s the imperfections that make the flowers perfect.’

  I pack away supplies—glues and tapes, forestry wire and scissors, the yellow-coloured crepe I’ve cut into strips and the moss-green pieces I’ll shape for the foliage. A screech shoots through the silence. Possums in the red gum. I wish they’d eat there every night and leave the orange trees alone.

  Another gust of wind, stronger than the last, rattles the window again. The latch is fastened but the timber is weathered and the screws are loose. One day, when this farmhouse is mine, I’ll replace the windowsill and fill in all the gaps. I’ll hang curtains to keep out the cold, plaster the cracks in the cornices and repair the rotting skirting boards. One day …

  I turn off the overhead lights and lock the front door behind me. A butterscotch moon, low in the sky, throws shadowy light on the gardens—camellia trees, azalea bushes and tangles of bare branched midwinter roses. The trunk of the red gum is palest pink, the low-lying branches heavy with foliage.

  When the breeze catches my hood and pulls it back, the air is cold on my face. I thread loose hairs through my plait and secure it under my collar. My breaths are white as I step through the shadows on the porch. I could walk by road to the school where I teach and live, but I prefer to hike cross-country. High silky clouds, grey and teal, obscure the pinprick stars.

  Tree roots have lifted cracks in the path at the side of the farmhouse and the water tank near the raised bed of herbs is ringed with rusty stripes. Ten empty pots, stacked in a wobbly tower, lean against the greenhouse. Was it Barney who hid the marijuana plants behind the tomato vines and trellis? My heart sinks. I don’t want it to be him, or any of the teens and children who come to the farmhouse to help with the horses or just hang around, but Barney has shown particular interest in the vegetable gardens in the past few months.

  I glance at the compost bin. The plants were mature. Was it safe to uproot them, cut them up and shove them in there? Tomorrow I’ll add worms to the bin and fill it up with horse manure.

  Skirting around the mandarin and cumquat trees, I bypass the horses napping near the yards and slip between the rungs of the wide metal gate. The track through the paddock is fairly straight and the grass is low and scrappy. More difficult to navigate is the scrub that borders the creek; I push back the branches, jump over a ditch and skirt around thistles. The creek is low and the meandering flow, black in the shadows, is interspersed by ridges of rock. I jump over two shallow crevices before leaping over the band of deeper water to land on my feet and scramble up the incline.

  I’m still crouched low, my hands on the ground, when I see a man walking through the paddock from the direction of the school. He’s dressed in city clothes. His shoulders are broad. He’s tall. If I stand, he’ll see me. Does it matter? Horseshoe Hill is my home. I haven’t done anything wrong.

  As I push myself upright, I touch a dandelion weed, the long, fleshy leaves soft on my fingers. I recall the marijuana. Barney is only fourteen. I don’t think he smokes or drinks. Was he cultivating the weed for somebody else? This track leads directly to the farmhouse. Is the man sneaking in to check out the crop?

  I scramble back to the creek bed, running along the bank before tackling the incline again. There’s little cover on this side of the creek, only two gum trees. The closest tree isn’t very tall, but there’s a much larger tree next to it. I stand on a boulder and leap to the first tree, taking hold of the branch and swinging a leg over the bough, before hoisting myself onto it and sitting astride. I wriggle to the trunk, wrap an arm around it and stand. The adjacent tree’s lowest branch, narrow and straight like a bar, is higher than the one I’m on, and only a metre away. I bend my knees and jump, grasping the branch with both hands before looping my legs around it. The branch, bowing under my weight, tilts towards the ground. Yikes.

  Hanging by my legs and arms, I shuffle towards the trunk. It’s too wide to wrap my arms around, but the knobbly remnants of a long dead branch provide a handhold. I grasp it as I pull myself up and sit, legs dangling beneath me. I check my phone. Almost ten o’clock. I peer through the leaves.

  The man is only twenty metres away. His coat falls past his thighs; the collar is turned up. I can’t make out his features, but I think that he’s young with short dark hair. He doesn’t have the look of a teenage druggie and, as he’s not shady and
thin, or thickset and threatening, he looks nothing like the dealers I’ve seen. But … there’s something familiar about him.

  When he stops at the end of the track and looks in my direction, I hold my breath. He shouldn’t be able to see me. My hair is dark brown, I’m dressed in black and grey and obscured behind the tree trunk. But just in case, I yank up my hood, pulling the toggle tight so it sits above my mouth.

  I hear steps through the undergrowth, branches pushed aside. Silence. My heart thumps hard against my ribs.

  ‘Hello!’

  His voice is deep. Does he know I’m close? Why else would he call out? Should I answer? If he’s walking around in the dead of night with criminal intent, I have no interest in talking to him. He might not know exactly where I am and even if he does, my branch won’t hold his weight. I feel for my phone again. Reception isn’t great, but I can threaten to call for help if I have to.

  He scrambles down the bank to the creek and walks alongside it, his eyes on the ground until he reaches my tree. He stops, turns and looks up. The moon sneaks through a crack in the clouds and shines on his face. My breath catches.

  Matts Laaksonen.

  A strong jaw, high Nordic cheekbones and deep-set, intelligent eyes. A crease through his brow when he frowns and a twitch to his lips when he smiles. A scar on his chin.

  It’s a face I could never forget.

  ‘Who are you?’ he asks.

  A wave of unhappiness tightens my throat.

  The girl who loved you a lifetime ago.

  ‘Come down,’ he says.

  The school is hundreds of metres away, securely locked up for the night. The old schoolhouse where I live is even further. In the distance, I see headlights: a truck on the loop road. It’s probably Freddie, who’s often late home from the markets.

  Matts scrambles up the slope and pulls a phone from his pocket. When he activates the light, the bright silver beam triples my heart rate. Should I stand on my branch? It would hardly make a difference.

  ‘Sapphire?’

  His shoulders are broader than they used to be. The stubble on his face is even and neat.

  I sit taller and loosen the toggle on my hood. I draw it back, pulling out my plait and flicking the long end down my back. I blink against the glare. ‘Turn off the light, Matts.’

  He puts the phone in his pocket. ‘Why are you up there?’

  ‘Why are you down there?’

  ‘I came to warn you.’ He crosses his arms.

  ‘What about?’

  ‘Not now,’ he says. ‘Get down.’

  One of my hands is on the tree trunk. The other is on the branch near my leg. I wriggle my fingers, stiff with cold. I want to get down, but—

  ‘How did you know I was out here?’

  ‘I looked for you at the school. I was sent to the farmhouse.’

  ‘By who?’

  ‘The hotel barman.’

  When I’m teaching children to sound out words, I draw out the letters. I elongate them. Ba … aa … rr … mm … aa … nn. Matts does the opposite when he speaks. His native language is Finnish. He’s fluent in English, but his words are short and sharp.

  ‘Did my father send you?’

  He can’t reach the branch, but steps as close as he can. ‘How did you get up there?’

  When I don’t answer, he looks from my tree to the other tree, then speaks through his teeth. ‘Still taking risks?’

  ‘Calculated ones.’

  ‘You can’t go back that way.’

  I glance at the ground, three metres down. It falls away steeply. I’ll have to swing wide, and drop to higher ground. Even so …

  ‘I’ll manage.’

  ‘You’ll hurt yourself.’ He takes a few steps down the incline and braces himself. ‘Jump, Sapphire. I’ll break your fall.’

  ‘Leave me alone, Matts.’

  ‘You haven’t changed, have you?’

  ‘It’s been eight years. How would you know?’

  There’s a rustling in the leaves above me. A ringtailed possum scampers headfirst down the tree trunk. When I yelp and pull back my arm, he freezes. His coat is speckled grey, his startled eyes are bright.

  I put my hands on the branch either side of my legs as I inch away. ‘I’m on your tree, aren’t I? It’s okay. I won’t hurt—’

  The branch dips sharply and I lose my balance. I fall.

  If I’d jumped, I would have landed on my feet. Matts would have stopped me falling down the slope. As it is, my arms flail in midair as I try to right my body. But I don’t have time. I don’t—

  I’m moving too fast for Matts to catch me so I land on my back and tumble helter-skelter down the slope towards the water.

  ‘Sapphire!’

  Pebbles and gravel dig into my skin. My chest burns and I fight to suck in air. My eyes water then tears trickle down my cheeks and into my ears.

  He crouches by my side and runs his hand, barely touching, up my arm. ‘Are you winded? Take small breaths. Fill your lungs slowly.’ He puts a hand on my shoulder and frowns. ‘Don’t move.’

  He takes my wrist and feels for my pulse. When he looks at his watch, his breaths are steady. His eyes are dark like storm clouds. He smooths hair from my face and it sticks to my cheek.

  ‘Ow.’

  He frowns again. ‘I’m sorry. It’s grazed.’ He shrugs out of his coat and lays it over my body, tucking it closely around me from my neck to my toes. ‘Breathe, Kissa.’

  Kissa is Finnish for cat. When I was a little girl, he said I was a pest, but tolerable. Only he wouldn’t have said tolerable. What did he say? That allowing me to follow him around was far less trouble than forcing me to leave.

  ‘I want to check nothing is broken.’

  I squeak a response.

  He carefully presses down the right side of my body—shoulder, ribs, hip, knee and ankle—his touch impersonal and clinical. His hand goes to my left side. He feels down my shoulder and arm. I flinch.

  He frowns. ‘What? Did I hurt you?’

  There’s scar tissue on my inner arm. And other scars as well. ‘No,’ I croak.

  When he’s finished looking for broken bones, he sits back on his heels. The shadows shift. I shudder. I suck in tiny breaths. His shirt is long sleeved, but cotton. He must be cold.

  ‘Can you move your hands?’ he says. ‘Your feet?’

  I feel the weight and warmth of his coat as I stretch out my fingers and rotate my ankles. ‘Yes,’ I whisper.

  ‘Your head. Your back and legs. Do you feel pain? Numbness?’

  ‘Just … winded.’

  He watches as I draw air into my lungs, and bend and straighten my legs until they feel like mine again. When I attempt to get up, he puts firm hands on my back and waist and shifts me onto my side.

  ‘Stay there.’ His phone buzzes. ‘Laaksonen.’ He speaks in Finnish, just a few words.

  I roll, without help this time, onto my hands and knees. I smell eucalyptus, dust and leaf litter.

  Matts stands easily and holds out his hands.

  I shake my head. ‘I can get up by myself.’

  ‘Prove it.’

  We’re at the base of the slope. The creek gurgles next to us; the trees tower above us. Where is the possum? I dig my heels into the ground, draw up my knees and rest my forehead on them—as if I’m lightheaded, as if I need to think. I do need to think.

  ‘Give me a minute.’

  The air is cold on my cheek. I tentatively touch it; sticky with blood. The children in my class range from seven to ten. I’ll tell them I climbed a tree because I had to … what? Spy on someone? I could have stood on the ground and hidden behind the tree trunk. That would’ve been adequate. Sensible. Why go to so much trouble?

  I look up, straight into his eyes. Slowly shaking his head, Matts kneels, rearranges his coat around my shoulders and fastens a button.

  ‘What a stupid thing to do,’ he says, as he unclenches my fingers and brushes stones from my palms.

  ‘Ow!’
I snatch my hands back and press my palms against my knees. He frowns and, muttering under his breath, he stands again, undoing the buttons of his shirt and shrugging it off. He’s wearing a white T-shirt underneath. I blink when he grabs the hem with both hands and pulls it off.

  ‘Matts? What are you—’

  He’s slender but strong. Even in the half-light, his pectoral and abdominal muscles are clearly defined. Holding the T-shirt between his knees, he slides firmly muscled arms back into the sleeves of his shirt. I look away.

  ‘Wait here,’ he says.

  His coat hugs my back as I rest my head on my knees again. His footsteps crunch on the gravel. Within a minute he’s back and holds out his T-shirt, wet but neatly folded.

  ‘Clean your hands and face.’

  The fabric is soft. When I hold it to my cheek, it smells fresh. His shirt is buttoned again and neatly tucked in. My skin is suddenly warm.

  ‘Thank you.’

  Besides the wind in the trees and occasional movement in the undergrowth, it’s quiet. I take care with my hands, ignoring the stinging as I brush the dirt away. The fabric is smudged with blood. I don’t want to give it back but I don’t want to hang onto it.

  As if he reads my mind, he takes it from me. I clumsily undo the button and hold up his coat. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Keep it.’

  A shiver passes through me. ‘I’m okay.’

  After shoving the T-shirt into a pocket, he puts the coat back on. He holds out his hands and I take them. I wait for my hands to hurt again, but all I’m aware of is the press of his palms against mine. A second passes. Or is it a few? Our hands have grown. We’re adults now. His touch feels the same, yet different. Slowly and carefully, he pulls me to my feet. He’s still much taller, but our height differential is far less than it was. When I tug to free my fingers, he tightens his hold. He checks that I’m steady on my feet before he lets me go.

  I nod stiffly. ‘Thank you.’

  The clouds shift. They’re thinner than they were—gossamer sheets of iridescent pearl. Light catches his hair and turns the tips gold.

  There are golden eagles in Finland.

  Kotka is Finnish for eagle.

  That’s the name I gave him.