This experiment in fiction started as a loosely interwoven collection of short stories, dialogues, monologues and fragments set around Corio Bay in Victoria, Australia. As I write, however, I’m finding that the concept is taking firmer, tighter form.

Like most tales, it is growing in the telling. Episodes which seem inconsequential in themselves may take on a larger significance with hindsight. Plot strands and characters will develop, perhaps in ways that will surprise you – and me.

If you enjoy the tales, it would be nice to hear from you. You may have your own ideas about what might happen next, or why a character did or said a certain thing. I’d love you to share those. In all events, happy reading!

1 – The Pickin’ Chickens

Taking time out from playing, Tony (guitar), Anna (fiddle), Nigel (double bass), and Hugh (banjo) gathered around Loz’s (vocals and mandolin) dented and scarred baltic pine kitchen table. The early evening sunlight, still warm, fell in slantwise through the open back door. In the backyard, hens clucked and pecked under the baleful glare of Porgy, Loz’s fat, elderly tortoiseshell cat. Out on the bay, an unseen jetski pounded and revved.

Loz returned doggedly to the vexed question: ‘So, what are we going to call this here band, then?’

‘I dunno,’ Tony shrugged. ‘The Bellarine Dirt Band?’

‘Doesn’t that sound a bit grungy for a bluegrass band?’ wondered Anna.

‘Not really. Think of the Nitty Gritty Dirt Band …’

Nobody seemed keen or convinced.

Nigel chimed in. ‘Ooh, I know! We can be the Bloody Wassernames.’

‘What?’ puzzled Anna.

‘So if the MC forgets our name, it won’t matter. “Next on stage, the … err … bloody whatsernames.”’

‘Be serious, hun,’ sighed Loz.

‘I was!’

Hugh emerged from deep thought: ‘What about this – the Front Porch Pickers?’

‘That sounds familiar to me …’ mused Loz. ‘Didn’t we see them at Mountaingrass two years ago?’

Tony googled the name. ‘Yeah, Melbourne band … Bugger it!’

‘“Bugger it”? Not exactly kid-friendly, and maybe more punk than bluegrass?’ offered Nigel.

Loz smiled weakly at her ex-husband. ‘Any other suggestions?’

‘Okay, then, the Back Porch Pickers?’ Hugh was reluctant to give up the game entirely.

Loz and Anna weren’t convinced. ‘Sounds a bit rude, doesn’t it?’

Hugh drawled in a husky voice: ‘You can pick my back porch any time, baby …’

‘Ooh, I love it when you talk dirty,’ countered Nigel. ‘Is that a banjo – or are you just pleased to see me?’

Anna snorted. Loz sighed: ‘Honestly! Behave yourselves, you two.’

The five would-be band members sat for a few minutes in silent contemplation.

‘Got it! A flash of inspiration …’ announced Nigel.

‘Ye-e-e-s?’ Anna was sceptical.

‘The Bellarine Youth Orchestra. BYO for short.’

‘Nigel, we’re all over fifty,’ Loz objected, laughing. ‘And we’re a five-piece band, not an orchestra.’

‘Yeah, but it’s a neat acronym. And we might even get a grant!’

Anna sighed: ‘Look, we’re getting nowhere. Maybe we should just play some more.’

Hugh had been gazing around, bored, singing Do do do, lookin’ out my back door under his breath. ‘What breed of chooks are yours, Loz? They’re so cute … little balls of feathers …’

 ‘Yes, look at that one,’ pointed Anna. ‘She’s completely spherical …’

‘They’re Pekin bantams,’ explained Loz. ‘Bless their little fluffy bums!’

‘Look at ’em,’ mused Hugh. ‘Picking away …’

Anna perked up. ‘Hey … listen to this, guys: the Pickin’ Chickens! How does that grab you?’

‘Nice!’ enthused Loz. Tony googled it. ‘Yeah, no, we’re good, looks like.’

Nigel pumped the air: ‘Yessss! Result!’

‘The Pickin’ Chickens it is then. Excellent!’

2 – Flotsam

Port Phillip is a very large body of water with a narrow entrance, in a part of the world with a modest tidal range. Currents at the bay’s entrance from Bass Strait, the fearsome Rip, are ferocious, but the further into the bay one ventures, the weaker and more ineffectual they become.

At Point Lonsdale and Portsea, the water scours the shoreline; at St Leonards, it doggedly gnaws away at Edwards Point.

By the time we get to Corio Bay – a bay off a bay off a bay, off a strait – the feeble longshore current gently licks the sandy, silty margins.

Still, the waters of Corio Bay spit the occasional surprise ashore. Monty, my black lab, loves to nose them out on our morning walks at Point Henry.

Flotsam of an organic, preferably stinky kind is his main focus. The rest he leaves to me.

This morning is no exception. Monty is enthusiastic about the putrescent stingray and the bedraggled pelican carcass.

A fluorescent orange tube, on the other hand, receives brief consideration as a possible throwing stick for Mum. Apparently the mouthfeel is not quite right and Stick is dropped, with an apologetic tail-wag. 

I stoop to pick it up. The gaudy orange plastic is faded and chalky from long exposure to sunlight, salt water and abrasive sand. A mouthpiece reveals the original purpose as a snorkel.

The other end of the snorkel is missing, a shattered stump. Not the easiest object to break: it must have taken a fair force. A boat’s propellor or a ship’s massive, churning screw, perhaps?

The mouthpiece isn’t in good shape, either. It looks chewed. By teeth much larger than Monty’s.

Tasha’s Journal, 2 February

The mouthpiece isn’t in good shape, either. It looks chewed. By teeth much larger than Monty’s.

3 – Al fresco

‘Can you move over a bit? The sun’s starting to get me.’

Hugh stood up and stretched while Anna rearranged herself.

‘That better, darl?’

‘Great, thanks. Let’s get into it.’

‘I feel a bit exposed here.’

‘Don’t be silly. There’s hardly anyone around. I come down here and play all the time.’

‘Okay, so. Blackberry Blossom, then? In C?’

‘I’d prefer it in G.’

‘Alright, then. Banjo players, psht …’

A false start, then the music lifted and soared around the Dell, puzzling a lone dog walker down on the beach. The Dell was a natural amphitheatre, a half-moon shaped bite out of the cliff line formed by an ancient land slip.

The little timber gazebo where Hugh and Anna sat clung to the steep, wooded slope, largely hidden from passers-by but offering a grand view out over the bay.

‘Ow! Bastard.’

‘What? I didn’t touch you.’

‘Not you. Mozzie.’

‘Sometimes we have to suffer for our art, Hugh.’

‘Why do they always go for me? I’m a bloody mosquito magnet.’

‘Stop complaining, darl. Cripple Creek.’

‘In B flat.’

‘B flat? Hugh, really? Why B flat?’

‘So I can sing it.’

‘Are you sure that’s a good idea? Some of the lyrics are very … hillbilly.’

‘It’s a song about a Kentucky brothel. What do you expect?’

‘Hmm, you sure the good residents of Clifton Springs are ready for this?’

‘Ready as they’ll ever be.’

‘As you wish.’

The late summer afternoon progressed, the music swelled and echoed around the Dell, the sharp metallic patter of banjo arpeggios intertwined with the bittersweet song of Anna’s fiddle. Shadows lengthened and a small, curious knot of walkers gathered at the lookout, craning and peering in vain after the hidden musicians.

4 – Rock my boat

Salty.C.Dog    Thursday
Hello. Couldn’t help noticing your photo. It’s … intriguing.

Jessica2941     Thursday
Intriguing? Why do you say that?

Salty.C.Dog    Thursday
Looks a little fierce. That mask. A lot sexy. That tight black dress. I could come over and help you unmake that bed …

Jessica2941     Thursday
You’re funny, Salty. I’m not that fierce.

Salty.C.Dog    Thursday
You’re just a li’l pussycat, then? Riiiight …

Jessica2941     Thursday
Mm but watch out for the claws. And the sharp little teeth 🙂

Salty.C.Dog    Thursday
Noted. Sweet dreams, Pussycat.

Jessica2941     Thursday
Good night, Salty.

Salty.C.Dog    Friday
Mornin’, Pussycat. Dreamed of you. Feeling a little bit … aroused.

Jessica2941     Friday
That’s perfectly natural. Men wake up aroused. soz, didn’t dream of you 😘

Salty.C.Dog    Friday
Darn. I’ll have to try harder.

Jessica2941     Friday
lol please do.

Salty.C.Dog    Saturday
Morning, Pussycat. So according to your profile, your sexual preferences include adventurous sex and skinny dipping. I’ve got a few ideas to run by you.

Jessica2941     Sunday
Oh yes? I’m interested.

Salty.C.Dog    Sunday
Well, you know how my profile says ‘Come and rock my boat’? I meant it kinda literally. I’ve got a boat in the marina in Geelong …

Jessica2941     Monday
soz Salty. Had to go out. Boat, that sounds like fun …

Salty.C.Dog    Monday
Could be a lot of fun. We go out for a sail one sunny weekday morning. It’s warm and there’s just a light breeze. We anchor off Eastern Beach. Just far enough from the beach to be safe from prying eyes.

Jessica2941                 Monday
Okay, I’m a little interested. Maybe. Tell me more.

Salty.C.Dog    Monday
We strip off, still a bit bashful, and slip into the cool water. Can you feel the thrill as it reaches your … private regions?

Jessica2941 Monday
lol, maybe. So we swim around for a bit, then what? I’m worried about *your* ‘private regions’ and the cold water 😜

Salty.C.Dog    Monday
Don’t worry about that. After a brief kiss and cuddle in the water, you head up the boarding ladder s.l.o.w.l.y.

Jessica2941     Monday
I’m starting to get turned on. Carry on.

Salty.C.Dog    Monday
Tomorrow, Jessica. A salty ol’ dog needs his sleep.

Jessica2941     Monday
Mr Dog, don’t you dare!

Salty.C.Dog    Monday
Night. Jess 🙂

Salty.C.Dog    Tuesday
Good morning, Jess. Sweet dreams?

Jessica2941     Tuesday
Morning, Salty. My real name’s Tasha.

Salty.C.Dog    Tuesday
Pleased to meet you, Tasha. I’m Tony. But I’m getting to like Salty. Want to carry on with our little scenario?

Jessica2941 Tuesday
Sure. So we’re on your boat. Naked. What next?

Salty.C.Dog    Tuesday
You sit in the cockpit and dry your hair. I crouch down between your knees and …

Jessica2941 Tuesday
Cockpit?

Salty.C.Dog Tuesday
It’s what it’s called. Anyhow, you use your towel to cover our dubious modesty (bit late for that?) while I explore. I taste the cool salty water running off your belly in little rivulets …

Jessica2941 Tuesday
What if my husband comes by on his jetski?

Salty.C.Dog Tuesday
Wow, Tasha, you know how to spoil the mood 😦

Jessica2941     Tuesday
😜

5 – A man of leisure

Photo by dapiki moto on Unsplash

The boisterous chatter of lycra-clad elderly cyclists echoed around the café, bouncing off the polished timber floors and the white walls hung with pallid watercolours. Chairs scraped, cutlery clashed and the coffee machine hissed.

Alice leaned in closer, elbows on the table. ‘So … How’s Tony these days?’

‘Oh, you know,’ Kate shrugged, surveying the room over the rim of her coffee mug. ‘Tony’s … Tony.’

‘Meaning?’

‘He just seems so … directionless. Like the rudder has fallen off his little boat.’

‘Bless him. Do you think he regrets selling the business?’

‘Difficult to tell. He says he’s enjoying being “a man of leisure”.’

‘He plays music, doesn’t he?’

‘Yes, guitar. He’s pretty good, actually. He’s trying to get a band together with some friends.’

‘Oh, yes? Anyone I know?’

‘Not sure. Do you know Loz – Loretta – Swift?’

‘Know her? We were practically besties at school, then we kind of lost touch, you know how it is. She married very young. The bloke’s name was Neil …’

‘Nigel.’

‘That’s the one.’

‘They got divorced a couple of years ago.’

‘Good move. I always thought he was a bit of an arse.’

‘He’s in the band too, apparently.’

‘Okaaaay … Sounds interesting. Anyway, we were talking about Tony.’

‘Yes. So, he’s got a few things going on, but nothing he seems really … passionate about. You know how he lived for that business.’

‘Yes, I do, I do,’ sighed Alice. ‘Poor Tone … Do you think he struggles with you being the main … breadwinner, I guess?’

‘He says not, but, well, Tony … I’m never quite sure what’s going on in there, these days. He always seems preoccupied.’

‘I wish mine was like that, sometimes. Oversharing is more Ben’s style.’ Alice poked pensively at her slice of carrot cake. ‘You don’t think that Tony’s … up to something, do you?’

‘An affair, you mean?’

‘Shit. Sorry, I was waaay out of line there. I didn’t mean to –‘

‘No, no, it’s okay, Al. It had crossed my mind but …’

‘But?’

‘Well it sounds a bit mean, but … I don’t think he has that much initiative, you know?’

Alice snorted almond chai across the table.

6 – Unstable cliffs

Nigel eyed the warning sign thoughtfully, then stepped over the low chainlink fence. It wasn’t as if the cliff was that unstable.

The steep path down to the beach had deteriorated since his last visit – a year ago, or two? – but was still passable with a little care. At one point a long fissure cleft the sugary marlstone, leaving jagged, crumbling edges. Hopping between secure footholds, Nigel soon found a gentler gradient and arrived in the thick, chest-high kikuyu grass at the foot of the cliff.

The path was now level but overgrown. He trod slowly and heavily, not wanting to surprise an Eastern brown, tiger, black snake or copperhead. Brushing between grey saltbush, he trod on a thick, spongy carpet of dry seagrass, then was on the beach. Deserted. The only signs of human life were an angler pottering in his tinny 500 metres off-shore, and a mussel boat working the distant aquaculture farm.

The tide was on the ebb: perfect, he thought, for completing the 12-kilometre walk to Portarlington without needing to wade.

He stripped off his shoes and socks and set off, padding along, relishing the wet firm sand underfoot.

Humming cheerfully to himself, he stopped now and then to examine a piece of flotsam: a dead toadfish, a blubbery jelly or a chunk of sunbleached driftwood. Crickets chirped, tiny waves lapped and the sun blazed down from a cloudless sky. A perfect summer’s morning by the bay.

For a while he amused himself dribbling Neptune balls along the shore – round, oval or cigar-shaped orbs which the wave action had rolled from dead seagrass. He gave one of them an enthusiastic punt – then yelped in pain: not all Neptune balls are made alike, and this one was wrapped around something heavy. A piece of brick, maybe?

The brief pain was soothed by walking ankle-deep in the clear, cool water. Soon he was padding along happily again, gazing up at the clifftops, looking forward to passing the next modest, crumbling headland and discovering the next little secluded beach – always near-identical to the ones before. He passed more curios that the sea had thrown ashore, scratching his head over a child’s bright blue pedal car – had it arrived on the beach route, floated ashore from parts unknown or been thrown over the cliff top?

From time to time there was a track leading up from the beach, which he briefly explored. Usually the exploration was unrewarding, yielding only a view of dusty paddocks and the rusty wreck of a tractor.

It was on the third such diversion that he heard dogs. The barking was distant, and seemed unlikely to have been provoked by his presence. All the same, he retreated to the beach a little faster than he would otherwise have done. He liked dogs well enough, but the prospect of meeting a mob of farm dogs alone didn’t appeal much.

By the time Nigel was on the beach, the barking was louder and closer. It sounded like at least two dogs, possibly more. Keep calm and think. Nigel looked around. Nothing much to use to fend them off, just that rotten bit of stick. No rocks. Anyway, best not to provoke them: there’s no going back once you’ve done that. Just stay calm.

Closer. Sounds like they’re at the top of the track now. They’ll be here in seconds.

His heart pounding, Nigel retreated into the water up to his knees, gripping a piece of driftwood – more a plank than a stick, and uncomfortably short.

A fox terrier shot out of the undergrowth onto the beach, yipping wildly. A deep, sonorous belling indicated that it had companions.

‘What’s all this about, then, eh?’ offered Nigel, in a gruff but friendly voice. The foxie continued to yip, but didn’t enter the sea, running up and down the waterline.

There was a crashing and two large mastiffs erupted from the saltbush. Holy fucking shit. Nigel retreated to waist depth. Don’t look directly at them. Nothing that could be construed as a challenge. If one comes at you, brain it and hold it under. Hope they don’t come together. Don’t lose your footing or you’re dog meat.

The mastiffs bounced and lumbered at the water’s edge, psyching themselves up to tackle the intruder.

‘Oi! Get here!’ roared a voice from up the track, followed by a shrill whistle. The dogs hesitated. ‘Get here, now!’

A stocky man in his 30s emerged onto the beach, wearing board shorts and a singlet and squinting from under his baseball cap. ‘Sorry, mate!’ he said. ’They wouldn’t hurt ya. Lick ya to death, maybe …’

’Okay, thanks mate,’ said Nigel, struggling to keep his voice steady. ‘I must admit, I was just a little bit worried there.’

‘You alright?’

‘Yeah, yeah,’ he grinned weakly. ‘I’m fine, thanks. No worries.’ This is a public beach, you stupid sod …

‘kay. See ya then. C’mon, you mongrels!’

The dogs and their owner disappeared up the track.

Nigel stumbled along the beach, rounded the next headland and fell to his knees in the sand, his breath coming in big sobs.

7 – That old roo-in-the-dam trick

‘That’s terrible. You could have been seriously injured.’ Sophie the German WWOOFER leaned across Loz’s kitchen table earnestly.

Nigel shrugged. ‘I would have waded deeper and used the old “roo-in-the-dam” trick, if things had got serious,’ he said, cryptically. 

‘Ruined damn trick, is what?’ asked Cristóbal, Sophie’s Chilean boyfriend.

‘Well, you see, when a big old roo gets chased by dogs or dingoes …’

‘Ah, a kangaroo?’

‘Yes. So the dogs are going to chase him down, but he goes into a dam or billabong, see. If the dogs are stupid enough to follow him in, he pushes their heads under water with his front paws, and holds them there, until …’

‘Until they are drunk.’ concluded Sophie.

‘Drowned.’

‘Yes. And you have seen this?’

‘Err, no, not exactly … .’ Nigel’s bushman act wavered.

‘Very risky, then, I think. What if …’

Loz had listened to Nigel’s bulldust since he was a skinny, acned plumber’s apprentice. His willingness to show off for a pretty girl hadn’t diminished with age, she reflected. Actually he really hadn’t grown up much at all. Men so often didn’t.

Still, she retained enough weary affection for her ex to rescue him from the forensic questioning which she knew, from bitter first-hand experience, was to follow unless Sophie was distracted.

‘So that’s how your phone got ruined, hun?’

‘Yes, it was in my jeans pocket and took a bit of a dip.’

‘And you had to walk all the way back from Port in soaking wet jeans? It must have chafed a bit.’

‘No, no. I got the bus. The driver wasn’t too keen to let me on, but he said as long as I stood up and didn’t drip on his seats …’

‘You must report this incident to the authorities, I think,’ continued Sophie. Cristóbal nodded vigorously.

‘Nothing happened. My phone got wet, is all.’

‘Yes, but what will happen if one day a young child will walk along the beach and …’

‘Speaking of dams,’ interrupted Loz, ‘I need you to look at the pump in the top dam before you go. It’s not drawing properly and I need to keep the water up to the tomatoes.’

‘Good crop this year?’

‘Best ever. Reckon we’ll get two hundred kilos. The Romas are almost ready for picking, the Amish Paste have another two to three weeks to go.’

‘Wonderful. Yeah, I’ll take a look right now. Thanks for the tea and sympathy, love. See you, Soph and Cris.’

Loz walked out to Nigel’s ute with him. ‘You okay, hun?’ She could see that behind the Crocodile Dundee swagger, he was shaken.

‘Yeah, I’m okay, but it scared the crap out of me, to be honest, love.’ Nigel’s lip quivered. ‘Don’t think I’ll do that walk again – not without a bloody big stick.’

‘You poor darling,’ murmured Loz as she wrapped the tall man in a motherly hug. ‘Now get your arse over to the dam and fix my pump.’

‘Yes, ma’am!’

8 – Trouble on the way

‘Bad Moon Rising is not a bluegrass tune,’ objected Anna. ‘It just isn’t.’

‘But it’s a crowd pleaser,’ persisted Loz. ‘Remember, this is a market gig. They’re not bluegrass fans, necessarily. They don’t care. We could grass it up a bit, too. A fiddle break, maybe?’

‘Do not attempt to bribe me with fiddle breaks, lady. And “grass it up” is not a thing.’

‘Where’s your sense of adventure, sweetie?’

‘It extends as far as Clinch Mountain Backstep and Cherokee Shuffle and no further.’

‘Come on, darl. Be a sport!’

‘Oh, all right, then …‘

Ten minutes and three attempts later, the Pickin’ Chickens lapsed into bemused silence.

‘I think it’s still lacking something,’ pondered Tony.

‘Any sort of musical merit?’ suggested Anna.

‘What about if we played it in three-four time, as a slow waltz?’ suggested Nigel. ‘I-see-a bad-moon-a risin’ … I see trouble-on-the waaay … I see earthquakes-and lighting … I see bad-times-to daaay.’

‘Ouch. Some things can’t be unheard, mate.’

‘The thing about a crowd pleaser, hun,’ Loz pointed out, ‘is that it’s a song that the audience knows and loves. Not something completely unrecognisable which happens to have the same words.’

‘I’ve never been so insulted,’ Nigel huffed theatrically.

‘Then you probably don’t get out enough,’ said Hugh. ‘Let’s take a drinks break.’

‘Bloody good idea!’

They put down their instruments, retrieved their glasses and stubbies from the table and filed out onto the terrace. Night had fallen and the three-quarter moon, bad or otherwise, had indeed arisen. A gentle breeze stirred the casuarinas, silhouetted in silver.

‘Lovely evening.’

‘Sure is. Though the forecast was for storms.’

‘BOM gets it wrong again.’

‘So it would seem.’

A few minutes of desultory chatter and laughter followed. Old friends easy in each other’s company.

‘Looking a bit interesting over there to the north, but.’ Tony pointed to an impenetrable black wall advancing over the bay, suddenly blotting out the three peaks of the You Yangs. A silent slash of light split the cloud from top to bottom.

‘Ferk!’

‘Ferk is right. Look at this.’ Tony handed Loz his phone. The BoM radar showed a thick mottled band of blue, green and yellow scything downwards, spattered with red amoebae, some centred with black. A textbook line squall with intense thunderstorms embedded in the vanguard, likely hailstorms.

Loz clapped her hands to her face. ‘My tomatoes!’

9 – Green tomatoes

Soft fresh leaves underfoot, the fruity, spicy tang of crushed tomato foliage as she made her way between the tall vines. Her boots crunched through little drifts of hail still unmelted on the damp ground, shuffled fallen fruit aside.

The pumpkins had copped it big time, the large parasol leaves shot holed or broken.

As far as she could see, the polytunnel was intact. Slightly askew, maybe? Her torch shone on a gaping rent in the solarweave. Loz was momentarily impressed with the evidence of the storm’s violence. That woven plastic was pretty much indestructible. The eggplant and capsicum bushes within looked a little windblown, but otherwise fine.

She found Cristóbal at the bush tomato patch. It was flattened, a mat of crushed leaves and stalks. The young Chilean was picking gingerly through the detritus.

‘How’s it looking? Very bad?’

‘Not good,’ he stood up, clutching a handful of pink oblong fruit. ‘I’m very sorry, Loretta. Lo siento mucho.’

‘Don’t worry, hun,’ she tried to keep her voice level, without tremor. ‘As soon as it gets properly light, we have to pick what we can.’ She glanced at the eastern sky, already a pale, washed out blue, white at the horizon, foretelling the dawn. A busy shadow in gumboots, Sophie clattered and clumped around the shipping container tool shed, preparing wheelbarrows, secateurs and long-handled loppers.

By eight o’clock the sun was high in the clear blue sky and they had a full assessment of the damage. All of the Roma tomato plants were broken and had to come out. About a quarter of the fruit, already ripe, was trashed, broken and needed to be composted. Half was pockmarked by hail or otherwise lightly damaged, the rest, mostly the greener, harder fruit, was intact.

The big, pear shaped Amish Paste, a beautiful juicy cooking tomato with a rich taste and a smooth delicate skin, had fared even worse, even though most of the fruit was hard and green. The tall vines had received the full force of the hailstones, some of them marble-sized, driven by hurricane force gusts. At least half of the fruit lay on the ground.

By eleven they had been working for five hours non-stop, and Loz called a coffee break, handed round a packet of biscuits in lieu of breakfast. They sat on upended buckets in the barn, contemplating the fruit on the tarps, triaged into three piles for each variety: sound ripe or nearly ripe, sound green or with a blush, damaged but salvagable. Along one wall, whole tomato bushes hung upside-down from the rafters; their green fruit would ripen naturally as the plants slowly withered.

A crunch of tyres on gravel announced Nigel’s arrival. Moments later his long, spare form appeared in the doorway. ‘Sorry, I couldn’t get here earlier. Emergency call-out. How’s it looking, love?’

‘Well, it could be worse, but it could have been a hell of a lot better. We’ve lost about sixty kilos of ripe tomatoes.’

‘Oh shit.’

‘Quite. We’ll still have enough Romas for bottling, and a few Amish for sauce. But what the hell to do with all this green fruit, I just don’t know. A lot of it is too green to ripen, and with the skin damage, it will probably rot soon. This was going to be a good cash crop, and now look at it …’ her voice quavered for the first time that morning.

‘Salsa verde,’ suggested Cristóbal. ‘Mi yaya, grandmother, she make a good salsa verde, very delicious. With tomatoes, not tomatillos, olive oil and garlic. Chili.’

’Nice one, mate.’ Nigel turned to Loz. ‘What do you reckon? Extra labour, of course, but it will sell for more than raw fruit. It will keep a lot longer, too.’

‘But we don’t have a licensed kitchen,’ objected Loz. ‘You can’t prepare cooked food for sale just anywhere.’

Nigel considered this. ‘What about Anna’s café? That’s got a commercial kitchen.’

‘But she needs it to run her business, hun.’

‘Not today she doesn’t. The café doesn’t open on Mondays. I’ll get on to her now.’

‘It will be a hell of a lot of work. We need at least a hundred new jars. This afternoon. We’ll be working till midnight.’

‘No probs. I’ll get on to Ben while I’m at it. He has pallets of jars stacked in his shed, for his honey. Yaya’s Salsa Verde. It has a ring to it. Gotta be worth ten bucks a jar, of anyone’s money!’

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