Unexpected Delivery Page 3

  Men with tattoos usually accompanied anger issues and macho ideals, in her experience anyway, but strangely, she’d found his alluring, and this made him irresistible and all-man. From her observations thus far, she was confident that Daniel Beckett didn’t suffer in that regard. Those ripped arms had kept her safe; made her feel secure and stable when they had her in their grip, like they would never let her go. Every man with a tattoo wasn’t like her father. After eating another tasty corner of bread, she shook her head at her own ridiculous thoughts.

  She didn’t even know the man. One encounter in a barn did not equate to, well, anything. And she was sure, yesterday, she’d been trapped in an embrace not of her own initiative. She should be outraged, offended at least. But Vivienne didn’t feel either of those things. Her interest in the man had been piqued.

  With her hunger sated, she settled down to read the file.

  Unable to stop, Vivienne devoured the information, turning each page in quick succession to find out more. She had a private window into his world, and while interesting, it didn’t sit comfortably with her. It seemed wrong to know all his personal information, particularly in these circumstances.

  The enormity of her situation struck her.

  Daniel might be the first victim, but there were three others. In this role for McGuires Metropolitan Bank she had to deliver four default notices.

  How did Suzanne do it? Even though she didn’t know her well, Vivienne thought she appeared to be a nice, friendly person. How did someone with a bubbly personality deal with the devastation caused by the delivery of the news that you had thirty days to pay the arrears on your mortgage? If you didn’t your matter would be escalated and the bank might foreclose on your property. Even the thought of that conversation sent shivers crawling up her spine. At least, as a contract lawyer, she helped people. When she drafted mortgages, it made people happy because it enabled them to purchase their dream home or make a sound investment or buy a new car. It created customer satisfaction, despite the debt, of course, but that was part of the deal.

  Just when she thought she’d shifted through all the material in the folder, a newspaper article stuck to the back caught her eye.

  FARMER GOES NEW AGE WITH RADICAL ROBOTIC FARMING read the heading of a clip from the local rag. It was dated a few years back but Daniel appeared in the foreground of a photograph taken at the dairy. He stood in front of a large metallic machine, his smile wide as he hugged a black and white cow. Like fireworks, a mixture of emotions erupted within her. Everything about this guy unsettled her. He conjured up excitement, yet fear and dread all at once. Why did he have to be so damn attractive?

  Vivienne read the article in seconds. It all made more sense now. Of course, the bank information had been about facts and circumstances, but this was real life. It painted him as a man of true conviction who was following his dream, but the vision had never paid off financially. It spoke of the high cost of implementation and little return but did rate his products amongst the best in the local region. Critics said his range of products was too limiting, others complained it wasn’t normal milking practice; some said it simply didn’t work.

  A dead weight sat in Vivienne’s stomach and suddenly, she shivered and wrapped her arms around herself. She shut the manila folder and pushed it away; a bleak attempt to shut this dirty business out of her mind. As if.

  When did Suzanne return from maternity leave?

  She leaned back in the new chair and for the first time and examined the antique desk she sat at. Even though in poor repair, it was still beautiful with its leather top and solid timber footing. She rubbed her hand over the grains and its curled edges; her mother would have restored this one to its former glory.

  Despite not being hungry, Vivienne nibbled on the remaining crumbs scattered around the desk and opened the next folder. With a heavy heart, she read the life story of another defaulter. She kept reminding herself that once she had delivered these notices, she would return to her comfortable job at the bank in Brisbane. Out of the country and far away from the rugged dairy farmer whose image she could not get out of her head.

  Chapter Three

  Andersons Garage sat positioned at the far end of the main drag of Rosebrooke.

  Vivienne had walked past the Rainforest Café, continuing down the slope along the wide road. She had passed the butcher with a vast array of cuts of meat displayed in the window. Beside it was a bookshop with shelves overflowing with second-hand books and other sundry items such as pencils, stationery, maps and notebooks. Vivienne stopped to stare at the colourful window with its collection of items on display. What a fascinating shop.

  Next was an art gallery combined with a shop selling organic tea. She spotted Rooibos, Echinacea, Matcha and Jade Mountain varieties. The far back wall was covered with a large mural of bright and summery flower bunches watching over the patrons as they drank their tea. As she passed the hairdresser, a lady with a pink tinge to her high-sitting bouffant hair, swept the path.

  “Morning, love. How ya doing?”

  “I’m well, thanks,” Vivienne answered with a slight wave.

  “Gorgeous hair. Where’d you get that colour?” she called as Vivienne kept moving.

  “It’s all natural!” Vivienne yelled back over her shoulder. The woman laughed, waved her on and kept sweeping.

  Vivienne spied a timber furniture store on the other side of the road. Perhaps she’d find something unique in there to add to her collection. She could see polished timber products for sale such as outdoor settings and desks. She was sure it would be great craftsmanship, but most of it looked new and too shiny for her. Still, she’d take a better look when other matters didn’t occupy her mind.

  A large sign emblazoned with the words Andersons Garage told her when she’d arrived at her destination. Two cars waited in the drive for service as an elderly gentleman pumped fuel into a vehicle stationary at one of the pumps. In old-fashioned style, the man wiped the windscreen clean and engaged in rapid conversation with his customer as the car drank its petrol. A yellowed and ratty rag hung from the back pocket of his faded overalls and he whipped it out to clean the side window.

  The service spoke of the good old times but it caused a sinking dread to overcome Vivienne. She should blame her city roots unused to quality customer service, but she knew her misgivings stemmed from more than that. This time she had read the file on the garage. Off to the side, a pair of legs stuck out from under a Land Rover motor vehicle being serviced in one of the garages. Rattles and clangs and bashes came from somewhere out back and the unmistakable, pungent odour of gasoline filled the air. The whole scene was a bustle of morning activity. The smell of fuel triggered a childhood memory of Sunday outings with the compulsory stop at the petrol station to fill the old Kingswood station wagon before the long day trip ahead—the journey always filled with unknown promise. The smell planted her right back in her youth, made all around her seem normal and usual in an otherwise complicated and stressful world.

  Were they better times or simply just different? She pictured her beautiful mother upfront of the Kingswood, her feet on the dashboard and a smile on her face and her father with an unlit cigarette in his mouth ignoring the calls of those around him to not light up.

  The heavy slam of a car door brought her back to the present. Vivienne moved around the cars and tanks to enter a diminutive cashier area, the shelves filled with only a few sparse commodities to tempt the consumer. No one stood at the counter and a quick glance around did not reveal a person. Vivienne tinkled the small bell on the counter next to the sign that said, ring for service in faded black ink. On cue, a tiny lady of advanced years stood up from behind a rack of magazines to the left. Three-quarter glasses perched on her nose and a face surrounded by hair as curly and white as fairy floss peered at her. She carried a pile of magazines that she promptly dropped and particles of dust drifted into the air.

  “Mrs Anderson?” Vivienne offered a too-broad smile, showing off her w
hite teeth.

  “Yes, hello love. How can I help you?” Standing now, the woman barely rose above the counter. This time the envelope remained securely tucked inside Vivienne’s bag. She reached for it along with her business card before she spoke. Holding the envelope in one hand, Vivienne proffered her other hand for the lady to shake, stretching across the counter. “My name is Vivienne Greene and I’m from McGuires Metropolitan Bank. I’m pleased to meet you.”

  The woman’s pixie-like face fell, her lips downturned and her smile slipped. Her body had stiffened. She did not take Vivienne’s hand as her eyes diverted, quickly scanning the small shop. Mrs Anderson fingered her curly hair. But then, a figure came into Vivienne’s vision at the left and Mrs Anderson’s face paled and her eyes bulged.

  Hold your reserve Vivienne, job to do, justice to be served, people must pay their debts; the mantra rang in her ears as a headache started to throb at her temples.

  The man who’d been busy outside pumping fuel had entered the tiny space, filling it up with his large presence. Where Mrs Anderson was small, he was a giant.

  “Love, can you process number two, petrol worth five dollars and they want to pay on credit card. Can you believe it? No wonder we aren’t making any money,” he said. Mrs Anderson’s forehead creased with lines and her eyes moved between him and Vivienne.

  Unaware and wiping his hands on his rag, he continued. “Then I think I’ll take a break, have a cup of coffee. I’ll get Jerry to cover out front. Should be quiet anyway, this time of day.” He turned toward the woman. “Violet?” he scratched his head and then his eyes narrowed and he turned to Vivienne. “Hello there, is Violet helping you?” he said.

  “George, this is Ms Greene from the bank.” If Mrs Anderson’s body language had been noticeable when Vivienne declared where she came from, his was undeniable.

  George looked from Vivienne to Violet. He shoved that cloth back in its place. His eyes darkened and he scowled so hard the lines deepened on his already creviced face. “What the hell do you want?” he said as he stood up full height.

  Mr Anderson was at least six feet tall and he towered over her. The years had not been kind to him. Dark circles sat under his hooded eyes, his sun-ravaged skin hung loose on his cheeks and skin cancer spots dotted his bald head.

  But, Vivienne wouldn’t be intimidated. In response, she drew herself to her full height and let his words wash over her. She tried to slow her beating heart.

  “I’m here to talk about your missed repayments. You’ve failed to make quite a few in recent months and I’m informed,” here she paused, taking a deep breath, “that you’ve already had two warnings and now I’m directed to deliver a default notice.” She remained confident that between the three of them they could sort this situation out.

  The customer wanting to pay for his fuel entered the tiny space. He paced on the spot blowing impatient breaths in and out. Mrs Anderson moved across to serve him. “Sorry love, here let me have it. Oh, yes a MasterCard, thank you.” She took his card and punched in details to the EFTPOS machine. With his fists balled at his sides, Mr Anderson moved next to his wife but glared at Vivienne.

  “Can’t I just pay wave it?” the customer said.

  “No, dear, I’m sorry we don’t have that facility. You’ll have to sign the receipt. You never know who might have your credit card. It’s always best to be on the safe side.” Mrs Anderson smiled up at him, all soft featured. Dressed in her pink cardigan and wool skirt, she looked like everyone’s favourite grandmother. “It just seems to be taking several minutes. It’s a bit slow today. With lots of use the cables collapse occasionally. . .” Now, she shifted uneasily from foot to foot.

  The customer swiped the screen of his phone and exhaled, and the tuft of his fringe lifted. He snatched the pen out of Violet’s grip when the machine eventually spat out the receipt and scribbled his signature. Vivienne and Mr Anderson watched on; silent, unspoken words shrieking from both of them. The interruption had allowed Vivienne to relax her shoulders. She ruffled her hands through her hair but with nervous fingers, and then picked up a chocolate bar from the stand next to her and turned it over as if was a novelty. The date had expired. She replaced it as if it might explode in her hands. The customer threw the pen on the counter and made his hurried exit.

  Mrs Anderson offered endless thank yous and pleasant greetings as the man left. All perfect customer etiquette.

  They were alone.

  When the glass door slipped silently closed, Mrs Anderson said, “I think it best we go out back. George, tell Jerry you’re on that coffee break.”

  George harrumphed and stormed off and out the door from which he’d arrived, slamming it as he went.

  “Follow me,” Violet said.

  As Mrs Anderson and Vivienne entered the dwelling behind the garage, George came in through a different door.

  “Have a seat, Ms Greene. Would you like a cup of tea?”

  “She’s not having a bloody seat or a cup of tea, woman, she’s here to take the house and garage off us!” George roared.

  Vivienne recoiled as prickles crept up her spine.

  “George, stop it. She’s just the messenger, doing her job.” Impressed by Mrs Anderson’s ability to stand up to his threatening tone, Vivienne relaxed but moved away from him. Mr Anderson remained where he was and stood leaning over a dining room chair, gripping the top so that his knuckles turned white.

  “Look, I’m sorry to do this. I know this is distressing and upsetting, but what I must deliver is a default notice. Do you know what that is?”

  She addressed them both but George spoke first.

  “We pay up or we’re out. You people sell the place under us,” he said without raising his head so the words came out muffled.

  “I guess that is one explanation. It is a formal notice that you have thirty days to pay your arrears and make your mortgage repayments up to date. If you don’t do that, after the thirty days are passed, you will be asked to leave the premises and it becomes the right of the bank to sell your property to recover the amount owing to them.”

  She stopped speaking to let her words sink in.

  As she glanced around, she noticed an old, ripped, leather lounge, on its last legs by anyone’s guess, floral curtains that had lost their print, and brown carpet. The Andersons were either stuck in the seventies or money really was tight.

  Neither of them moved nor spoke. Nerves gathered in the pit of Vivienne’s stomach as the silence stretched on. “Of course, you aren’t required to pay all the mortgage, the total I mean. In fact, you just need to show the bank you’re trying . . .”

  “Trying! What would you know about trying? What do you know about us, Miss Greene?” He sneered at her as if she was a piece of poo on his boot. “We’ve been trying for years!”

  He pushed the chair out of his way; it stumbled and fell with a clatter. “Years of penny pinching, working hard, even making our kids work here on weekends for free. For free! They needed pocket money and small change for the movies. But we needed their cheap labour because we couldn’t afford to pay anyone else. Long dirty hours, filling up people’s expensive, fancy cars with a smile, while I bent over double cleaning their hubcaps and wiping the mud off their fender.”

  He froze.

  “Um, no but of course, you don’t know. We don’t have holidays or go away for weekends, we work all the time. But you work in an office, how clean. Then occasionally you venture out to tell people to fix up their messy lives or else you will for them.” He shook his head. “Do you enjoy your job, Ms Greene?”

  Thinking the worst of the diatribe had been delivered, and now they could talk, Vivienne closed the distance between the two of them. A bad idea as George reacted.

  He grasped the nearest vase, stretched his arm back as far as it would go and pitched it against the far wall. The wall Vivienne stood in front of. The vase careened past her ear so close she heard the whoosh. Instinctively, she ducked down low for cover behind the nearest s
ofa and screamed. Vivienne covered her ears but that wasn’t enough to stop her hearing each piece of China smash as it landed like a rainfall onto the timber floor, rolling into far corners. One chunk landed next to Vivienne.

  “George!” Violet cried.

  Instead of stopping his rampage, George pushed another chair. It clattered to the ground to join the other. Four more sat at the table ready.

  “Please don’t hurt me,” Vivienne said. She reverted to her five-year-old self. The child who had cowered in the corner of a room not unlike this one, from another brutish male also throwing valuable items so that they crashed against walls, and more often, colliding with her mother. Vivienne had been in this room many times before. She waited to hear the stifled moans as objects hit their target; bashing, bruising and crushing followed by swallowed sobs. Those sounds would never leave her. Now, as she trembled, they echoed in her ears, just like it had occurred yesterday.

  Crouched with her knees to her chest, Vivienne’s body was paralysed. Fear planted her to spot. Just like as a child, she waited for it to be over, for it to be safe for her to come out. She would uncurl when her mother had murmured to her in soothing tones that everything would be okay. She’d always believed her but it never had been as pieces of furniture continued to splinter and cries of grief would ring out and fill her childhood memories.

  A soft touch to her shoulder brought her back to the present. Those same words were spoken. As she peeked up through her palms, she saw a vision of fairy goodness standing over her. Despite the image, Violet’s eyes were wide, her jaw locked and lips tight. With one hand cupped in each armpit, Violet lifted Vivienne. For a stout lady, she had disguised strength. Those hands dragged up Vivienne’s dense weight. There was no stopping Violet. She held Vivienne until she stood on her own.