Tilba Tilba and Central Tilba as they slowly made their way up the main street for a mid-morning stop. Tumbling down the hill on either side were quaint wooden buildings, all with corrugated-iron roofs, painted wood spires and deep, shady verandas. The settlement couldn’t have been more of a contrast to the string of flat, sunburnt coastal towns they’d just motored through.
It was dairy country, and that made Annie feel at home. Maybe she’d settle here. There were farms back up in the foothills that had a view of the sea. There were plenty of cafés and restaurants catering for the tourist trade, and a collection of art galleries and shops selling jewellery and hand-made clothes supplied by a tribe of local artisans. The bakery, lolly shop, general store and cheese factory reminded Annie of Tongala when she was a kid—back in the days when those shops were necessities, not just tourist traps.
The only blight on the delightful heritage streetscape was the RoadMaster Royale itself, which was bigger than some of the humble cottages they cruised past. It was as if an alien spacecraft had landed in Bag End, Hobbiton, Middle Earth. Meredith couldn’t take her eyes from the rear-vision mirror, and cringed when she saw the patrons standing on the historic balcony of the Dromedary Hotel hoot and point at the Confederate flag painted on the arse of the vehicle.
For her part, Nina was feeling just fine. She’d retrieved a voice message from Brad from her phone at a servo some way back down the road: ‘Hi, babe. Been trying to call you. Anyway, hope you’re having a great time. The boys got off to Canberra OK. Anton couldn’t find his cap, but I rang and Mrs Bogle’s bringing a spare one from school. Um . . . the dog got out but Jordy caught him in next door’s. Er . . . I’m really flat-out at meetings all day at the club, so you might not be able to catch me. I’ll try again later. Love you. Miss you. Bye.’
One message from Brad and all was now well in Nina’s world. However, she reminded herself, this trip couldn’t just be about absent husbands, sons and fathers—past, present or future. She must remember to mention that to the others. It was about female friends being ‘in the moment’, offering each other ‘a wise counsel and a trusting and deep constancy’. That’s what the article in the magazine had said. Was that happening yet? Were they having fun? Bonding, getting to know each other at a deeper level? Nina wasn’t sure, but by the time they got to Byron she would make it happen.
Nina had spent years organising birthday parties, Christmas dinners, New Year barbecues for the family, school fetes, charity luncheons. She knew that you had to pay attention to the details—the food, drink, lighting, car parking, right down to having enough toilet paper and hand towels in the bathroom. It was all about ‘stage managing’ the occasion. If you did it right, everyone could relax and they’d all be having a great time before they knew it. Nina had observed this many, many times as she was up to her elbows in dishwashing water in the kitchen.
Anyway, Brad seemed to be managing at home, Nina reassured herself. She was looking forward to celebrating with a leisurely trawl through the shops and icing it all with a cake from the Tilba Bakery—a pretty vanilla slice of a building, which held a lot of calorific promise. And, Nina reasoned, she deserved a treat after the stress of last night.
Meredith insisted that they park out of the way in a side street. ‘Imagine all these people coming to visit this National Trust heritage town, and all they can see is Elvis at Caesar’s Palace?’
Nina urged the aluminium eyesore up a steep lane and edged it into a parking place. The effort brought her out in a sweat. Soon enough, however, the three of them were wandering in and out of the shops, Nina and Annie chattering like a pair of rainbow lorikeets: ‘Oh, look at that, isn’t that gorgeous?’ ‘What do you think—does this suit me?’ ‘You have to see this—it’s so you.’
Meredith’s expert eye dismissed most of the stuff she saw. Nanna-ware, she called it. She sniffed with disdain at gumnut earrings, padded coathangers and lavender sachets. ‘Horrid. Awful. Junk. Most nannas I know would rather have white goods, thank you very much.’ She picked up a wooden spice rack