The Artisan Heart Page 12

The single, sealed artery leading into Walhalla was renowned as one of the more challenging motorways to negotiate. It had been cut through the mountainous Stringer’s Gorge over a century ago and had barely changed, save for the addition of bitumen. It was also peppered with numerous precipitous drop-offs and had earned a reputation for claiming many an errant driver.

  “There have been several rock falls recently,” Max said as they crossed over a bridge. “Big ones, too. Council is doing a good job erecting barriers and maintaining the surface but it’s a constant battle against nature. The growing tourist presence has helped, though. The increased patronage has meant we’ve been able to secure more funding for road maintenance.”

  “Encouraging,” Hayden responded with a hint of bitterness as he thought of the town being overrun with crowds of people. He realised his reaction right away and glanced over apologetically. “For you, of course. For the township.”

  “It is,” Max agreed. “We’re gearing up for the Annual Vinter Ljusfest in August. We’ve finally got it up and running again.”

  Hayden noticed the downturn in Max’s voice at the end of his sentence. “You don’t sound confident.”

  Max shrugged. “I’m dealing with a pretty fractious organising committee at the moment. Can’t seem to find consensus on how things should be run.”

  “Ah,” Hayden said, amused. “Small-town politics. A hotbed of ideological skirmishes?”

  “Something like that.” Max chuckled.

  The white weatherboard bakery building came into view as the road angled to the right. A lazy trail of smoke rose from the chimney and a single light shone from a window high up in the gabled roof. As they approached, he thought he detected the faint scent of bread in the night air.

  “I take it someone is attempting to resurrect the old bakery.”

  “Hmm,” Max confirmed. “Been at it for a while now. Even went as far as restoring the original stone oven. Using it to bake loaves the way they did in the old days. Your pumpkin and poppy seed loaves come from there.”

  “Oh?” Hayden replied. “I have to admit, they have been a definite bright spot since I arrived. Lightly toasted with lashings of butter—I’ve utterly destroyed the ones I’ve had so far.”

  “Well, you must pass your compliments to the baker,” Max mused. “She’ll welcome it. Ah, here we are.” Max picked up his pace.

  “If I ever meet her, I’ll be sure to,” Hayden said, although Max, several steps ahead, showed no sign of having heard him.

  A view of the Walhalla Lodge Hotel had emerged through the branches of a cherry tree. The quaint weatherboard building, styled like other heritage buildings around the town, had the appearance of a homestead rather than a public house, with a wide wraparound veranda, curtained windows, and a chimney that hinted at a cosy fireplace inside. Bordered by a timber post-and-rail fence, the hotel garden was populated by a few outdoor tables and bench seats. A handful of patrons mingled and chatted on the veranda underneath a glowing gas heater.

  As they passed through the front gate, Hayden slipped back a step as a few of those patrons turned and greeted Max, who dipped the brim of his hat. They regarded Hayden with polite nods.

  Inside, there was a fresh round of greetings from those standing and sitting around the front bar and lounge. Hands were extended along with slaps on the shoulder. There were a handful of faces he recognised but most of them were unfamiliar. Not that it mattered. The warm greetings and friendly handshakes extended to him as much as they did to Max.

  A squat wood heater on a brick hearth cast inviting warmth throughout the lounge. A group of rough-looking men stood in front of it, warming their backs as they chatted and held beer glasses close to their bellies. The bar was carpeted in a muted burgundy and furnished with comfortable tables and chairs. On the salmon-coloured walls, framed photographs were displayed—a comprehensive visual history of Walhalla’s mining past, from sepia-imbued prints of the gold rush days to more colourful scenes from recent times. There were images of bearded miners standing before the entrance to one of the town’s most famous mines, the Long Tunnel. There were numerous Victorian scenes of the township itself, a vibrant mountain metropolis at the end of the nineteenth century. And there were framed photographs of Walhalla’s famed steam train arriving at a bustling station building sometime before World War I.

  As Hayden’s attention drifted between the photographs around him, he tuned in to the babble of conversation that competed with the raucous blues music playing from speakers stationed over the bar.

  That bar, a timber-panelled centrepiece to the lounge, ran the width of the room. A group of men, dressed in muddy jeans and thick woollen shirts, stood to Hayden’s right, and he noticed a couple of them had taken off their footwear and were standing before the bar in their socks.

  Hayden recalled an old dictate, issued by the publican.

  Muddy boots will be left at the door.

  Approaching the bar, Max greeted the men. Chas Kraetzer was there, grinning through rosy cheeks. Hayden noted the Frenchman was swaying back and forth, using the bar to prop himself up in an attempt to conceal the severity of his inebriation.

  When the Frenchman’s eyes met Hayden’s, Kraetzer flipped a jaunty salute. “Bonjour, Doc Luschcombe! So good to see you, mon ami!”

  Hayden returned his welcome with a nod. “Charlie.”

  “Don’t you concern yourself with that fence of yours, Doc,” Chas beamed, holding his glass up. “I have materials in the back of my truck. I will have it fixed for you tomorrow. Tout sera bien, mon ami.”

  Hayden smiled in spite of himself. “Thank you, Charlie.”

  Emerging from a door behind the bar came a bear-like man standing well over six feet tall, with a shock of wild, silvery hair tied up in a topknot. Ivan Rumph commanded a considerable presence, even in comparison to the intimidating group of mountain men by the bar.

  Sporting huge, tattooed arms, meaty hands, and fingers adorned in ostentatious gold and jewels, Ivan Rumph issued an intense gaze through chiselled features that could burn through lead. And yet he was dressed in attire that stood in complete opposition to his demeanour. A crisp, white cotton shirt—Oswald Boateng from Savile Row—was opened at the neck to reveal a chunky gold necklace. A pair of tailored black trousers and a barman’s apron completed the ensemble.

  Ivan turned in their direction and, all at once, his stony expression melted away, revealing a smile of generous warmth and surprise.

  “Dr. Hayden Luschcombe!” he exclaimed in a gravelly voice as he reached across the bar and grabbed Hayden’s hand in his own massive one. His vice-like grip caused Hayden to wince, though he covered it up by biting his tongue. “I heard a whisper you were in town!”

  Max held up two fingers. “Two. Thanks, Ivan.”

  For as long as Hayden could remember, Ivan Rumph had owned and operated Walhalla’s pub. As a child, when he used to come here with his father, Ivan’s powerful hands would lift young Hayden up onto this very bar and set him next to a large bowl of salted peanuts. A tall glass of fizzy raspberry with a colourful bendy straw poking out of the top duly followed.

  In those days, a record player occupied the shelf behind the bar, along with a voluminous collection of vinyl, chiefly consisting of early 1970s Australian blues and rock. Though the record player had been replaced with an iPod dock that transmitted music to the speakers wirelessly, the music itself remained the same.

  Ivan poured two glasses and set them down in front of the men. “Are you here for long, son?”

  Hayden raised his glass. “I have some time away from work,” he said. “The cottage has been neglected. I felt I should come across and tend to it before it falls apart.”

  “Ah…” Ivan beamed. “The Luschcombe cottage—the prettiest in the township. Certainly, she’s the oldest. What your parents did there was exquisite. They were her proudest owners. It was always like passing by a living artwork. Good and decent people, your parents. I miss them dearly.”

 
; Hayden felt a painful twinge at the back of his throat, but he concealed it with a smile. “They were. I miss them, too.”

  A quiet passed between the trio, which was broken when Max cleared his throat. “Business good tonight,” he observed. “I wasn’t expecting a packed house, what with the weather closing in.”

  Ivan wiped the bar with a cloth. “Oh, well, with the new menu, I’ve managed to entice them in. You’d be surprised how far some people will go for good food, regardless of the weather.”

  “True, true,” Max agreed. “Of course, having the new help has made a difference as well, I’m sure.”

  Ivan smiled. “That it has. Word is travelling fast. Even down as far as the highway. She’s become something of a lucky charm.”

  Hayden listened to their conversation as he sipped his beer. When it trailed off again, he noticed that Ivan was looking at him awkwardly, as if there was something he wanted to say.

  “It’s all right,” he offered resignedly. “I’m sure you and Max have spoken.”

  As though an elastic band had been cut, Ivan whistled and regarded Hayden. “It must have been a kick in the guts. I don’t know what to say.”

  “I don’t know myself, Ivan,” Hayden admitted. “It’s not something I thought would happen. Anyway, it turns out the cottage needs a lot of work and now I’ve got plenty of time to devote to it.”

  “Well, there is a lot to be said for useful distraction.” Ivan offered a smile. “Helps clear the head.”

  One of the men in the group to their right signalled to Ivan with a wave of his glass, and the publican gave Max a subtle wink. “Excuse me a moment, gents.”

  Max saw a couple getting up from a table in the corner of the lounge and he nudged Hayden’s shoulder. “Let’s go and get warm. Looks as though Ivan’s gonna have his work cut out for him with that lot.”

  “Agreed,” Hayden said, following Max.

  Taking up their seats in two plush lounge chairs, Hayden set his glass on the table and stole a look through one of the windows. A light drizzle had begun to fall.

  “You know I don’t like to pry, Hayden, but…have you at least thought about contacting Bernadette? Talking to her?”

  Hayden steepled his fingers in his lap and shrugged. “I wouldn’t have the slightest idea of what to say, Max. I mean, how does one discuss the fact they watched their wife in the throes of sexual ecstasy with another man?”

  Max appeared as if he might choke, and Hayden, unexpectedly, began laughing. Surprised as he was by the younger man’s reaction, Max joined in with a hesitant chuckle of his own.

  As his laughter trailed away, Hayden became contemplative. “I have thought about it,” he said. “To be honest, I don’t think there’s anything to talk about.”

  Max ran his thumb around the rim of his glass. “It’s not…unheard of, for couples who have experienced this kind of thing, to work through it.”

  “Perhaps. But I suspect Berni had been restless for some time, and I wasn’t as attentive as I should have been. I just—” Hayden reached over to raise his glass and sipped from it. “I don’t know, Max. I mean, it’s been nearly a month already, since I left.”

  “You’re still in shock,” Max observed. “It’s understandable.” He leaned forward in his seat. “I’m sorry if we were talking out of turn back there.”

  “It’s a small town,” Hayden replied. “I know how it goes.”

  Max squirmed, and Hayden offered a smile. “It’s fine,” he reassured him.

  Max nodded once, relieved that he could at least report back to Annette that he’d sounded Hayden out about things. He didn’t need to hear any more.

  The song playing over the speakers ended and a new track began, a raucous country number that prompted a few whoops and whistles from several in the bar who called out for Ivan to turn up the volume. As an elderly couple got up and began dancing in the centre of the lounge, Hayden glanced at the wall beside him. Above an old image of a group of gold miners hung a framed black-and-white photograph. He blinked at the two men in the image, one of whom was standing before a large lathe, holding a chisel and smiling at his companion, who leaned in opposite. The wiry frame, the muscular arms, the salt-and-pepper beard. Hayden realised he was looking at his father. His more rotund companion, sporting a rather more generous beard, was Max.

  Max watched Hayden gaze quietly at the photograph, detecting an air of discomfort settling around the younger man, the longer he stared. “He loved you, you know,” Max ventured.

  Hayden sat straighter in his chair. His features tightened as he realised Max had been looking at him. He fingered the beer glass in front of him. “Once, that might have been the case,” he said, unable to look at Max. “After Mum died, there wasn’t much love left.”

  “Surely it was never so bad,” Max countered, his voice betraying his doubt in those words, even as he spoke them.

  Max saw barely concealed anguish flash in Hayden’s features then, a pain, he suspected, that ran as deep as the pain of Bernadette’s betrayal.

  “As much as you’d like it not to be, Max,” Hayden said, his voice cold. “It was.”

  Max felt unable to respond. He fidgeted in the subsequent quiet and wished he hadn’t raised the subject, knowing that to burden Hayden with more reminders of his past was unfair.

  Draining his pint, Max became aware of a presence over his shoulder. He twisted in his seat and looked up to see Isabelle, armed with a tower of empty glasses balanced against her chest. She flicked her chin at the two on the table. “You happy if I take those?”

  Relieved for the interruption, Max gathered up the glasses. Hayden turned in their direction, his expression blank at first, because he almost didn’t recognise her.

  The white T-shirt, bib-and-brace overalls, and dusty work boots were gone in favour of a curve-hugging red T-shirt, a pair of fitted black pants, and a bar apron. Isabelle had styled her short hair across to one side and held it in place with a pretty clip, and her lips were shaded a glossy pale pink.

  “How are you, love?” Max greeted, passing the glasses to her.

  Balancing the glass tower deftly in one hand, Isabelle gave Max’s shoulder a squeeze. “All right. Earning my keep tonight. Biggest Friday crowd we’ve had for a while.” Hayden caught the scent of her perfume. It was a pleasant fragrance, characterised by notes of jasmine and citrus.

  “Word is travelling fast about the baked goods you’ve been supplying Ivan,” Max was saying. “People can’t resist them.”

  Hayden’s brow flickered.

  Baked goods?

  Isabelle scrunched her nose. “I hardly think my breads and cakes are the reason for a full bar—but I’ll take all the compliments I can get. I hope Ivan doesn’t get used to me pulling taps for him, though. I’m firing up Agnes on Sunday morning. First delivery run on Monday. If all goes well, I’ll be cutting back my hours here.”

  Glancing at Hayden, Max lifted his thumb. “Your pumpkin and poppy seed loaf you were waxing lyrical about? Courtesy of Isabelle here.” He flashed a lopsided grin. “Isabelle is resurrecting the bakery and she’s doing it old-school. Finest artisan baker in the district.”

  Isabelle gave Hayden a curt nod. “Another beer?”

  “Please,” Hayden replied. She shrugged the stack of glasses in her arm and addressed Max. “Let me offload these and I’ll bring you a couple of fresh glasses.”

  When she was out of earshot, Hayden motioned sideways through the window. “Looks like we’re going to be here for a bit. Rain has settled in.”

  “Ah well,” Max mused. “I don’t have to be anywhere in a hurry tonight. You?”

  Hayden thought about that. “I guess not. Thankfully, the beer is numbing my dislike of crowds.”

  Hayden’s attention drifted towards the bar, where Isabelle was depositing the glasses into a dishwasher.

  “I do know her,” he said, matter of fact.

  “Oh?” Max replied as casually as he could.

  “When we were kids
. She’d come up here and stay with her grandparents. She used to get around with a few local children, creating all sorts of mischief. She was a terrible bully.”

  “A bully? Can’t imagine Isabelle bullying anyone.” Max turned in the direction of the bar.

  “Well, I was an awkward child, Max. You know that. I was easy to make fun of.” He wiggled his finger in front of him. “And Isabelle Sampi dished it out handsomely.”

  Max appeared perplexed. “Have to say, I’m surprised to hear this. She has done it tough in the past but Belle Sampi is honest, hardworking, and generous. She’s really trying to make a go of it up here.”

  Hayden was about to respond, but paused as Isabelle approached, armed with two fresh beers. She set them down before the men as each reached into his respective pocket. Hayden fished out a twenty and held it up, waving Max away. “I’ve got this.”

  Isabelle took the note, regarding him coolly. “I’ll bring you some change.”

  Hayden averted his gaze. “Thank you.”

  “So, you’re all set for next week?” Max queried.

  “Think so,” Isabelle replied. “I just need to get the van running and I should be good to go.”

  “Well, here’s to the first successful delivery run of Walhalla’s Sampi bakery, come Monday,” Max enthused, raising his glass.

  Isabelle blushed. “Cut it out, Max. I’m not running an Olympic marathon.”

  She hesitated, glancing at Hayden as she backed away from the table. The group of men standing in front of the fireplace caught her attention. One of them, a tall, sandy-haired individual with prominent front teeth, piped up. “Oi! Love! How’s about bringing us a round?”

  Without stopping, Isabelle looked in their direction with a derisive grin. “You’ve got a working set of legs, Andrew Parton. Get yourself over to the bar and buy your own bloody drinks.”

  The men responded with a series of jovial hoots and snorts.

  Hayden’s gaze drifted around the lounge. A calm settled within him. The people here—men and women and children—were real, lacking in pretence. Warmth and familiarity weaved itself among the laughter and the conversation.