Rushworth Country - Tilly
Chapter One
Tilly Ferguson—officially known as Matilda, but if you dared to call her that in the tiny town of Rushworth, she’d never serve you fuel ever again—stood, hands on hips with a pout on her lips as she stared at her reflection inside the service station window. The ceiling fan rattled in the heat at the end of another unrelenting summer’s day, and she turned her back to its brightness, glaring at the run-down premises.
She’d had high hopes in what now felt like a lifetime ago, when her future was before her and she felt no ties to staying in their quiet little town, or keeping her father from his own grave.
‘Dad, have you sorted out the accounts for the month yet?’ she said into the darkness of the hallway, the room off it glowing with a dim light. ‘I need to get them into envelopes and drop them off to our clients before it gets too dark.’ She huffed her impatience. Her round trip to both the local and the neighbouring properties should have been completed by yesterday at the latest. They were due to be refuelled by the end of the week and they needed last month’s payments to help cover it.
‘Sweetheart, I’m doing the best I can, so just hold your horses. They’ll be ready in an hour or so.’ She heard the pained sigh in his words, worried at the weariness in his voice.
‘But I don’t have an—’ hour or so. And she’d heard that line before, more times than she cared to admit. Huff number two rushed from her mouth, and that was just from the last two minutes. She was doing a lot of that lately, her dad either turning a convenient blind eye to most things she brought up about the shop, or completely—perhaps conveniently was a better choice of word—dodging her unmissable hints for them to get back on top of things.
For once and for all.
It had been too long, three years in fact, since her mother—their bookkeeper extraordinaire and family cheer squad—had passed away, a brain aneurysm followed by her heart suddenly giving up at the annual local show where she had been diligently judging the cakes and slices at. Tilly missed her desperately, but her dad had needed her to step up for the business, when, broken-hearted, he’d sheltered in the house for the first few months, too deep in his grief.
‘Alright,’ she said tightly, immediately regretting her tone but not sorry she was making her point clear. They weren’t the only petrol station within cooee—Murchison and Colbinabbin had stations as good as theirs. But being on the main stretch between the regularly used Violet Town to Bendigo thoroughfare, Rushworth was seen as the halfway marker. Tilly was more than aware that their station was frequented far more by outsiders than those of the other towns.
Even so, as she looked at the state of the shop in the dusk lighting, the floor stock, the shelves, the food and drink cabinets. Everything looked old, a bit too dusty, and, dare she say it, dated, behind the times, even ancient if you included the old Marlboro man poster pin-up still hanging on by three tacky pieces of Blu Tack—her Dad’s answer to everything—the original sticky tape having long ago given up its hold. Perhaps the word ancient was more reflective of how she saw everything in the shop these days, but there was no denying the fact that the whole premises was tired, run down, and not likely to attract the attention of prospective new customers.
A lot like her ambitions, really. She’d dreamt of Italy and France, of provincial home-living, recycled wares made into beautiful home pieces worthy of being on display. Her life might not have turned out like she’d planned when she’d been picking her subjects for Year 12, aspirations to become an interior decorator no longer . . . relevant. Yes, she was curious, even admitted to pining every now and again for how her life might have looked. But she didn’t begrudge giving it all up. She was a third-generation petrol station owner, or would be, when her dad formally handed over the reins.
She’d learnt the ins and outs, the tweaks to make when a bowser didn’t want to oblige. She knew all the locals—who had watched her since she’d waddled around the station in nappies—and the wider district including the other fuel station owners. And even better than all that? She knew all the regulars who filled up once a week, once a fortnight, even once a month. They were friends, the ones who had been there for her and her dad. And still were. Dinky-di locals with staunch hearts and fierce words for anyone who thought any different.
The sound of a diesel motor cut through her thoughts and she looked over her shoulder, only slightly intrigued by a slick-looking black ute rolling up to one of her two bowsers. She turned to face the front door, arms crossing her chest.
Definitely doesn’t need my help, she decided, as a guy looking not much older than her stepped out, his shiny R.M. Williams boots causing her eyebrow to lift. Had to be someone on his way through, needing a top-up before heading to Bendigo, she figured. A tank like his should’ve been able to get him there without stopping if he’d travelled from Violet Town. Then again, she reminded herself, she wasn’t here to analyse where someone came from and why they did or didn’t fuel up. What she needed was a wave of his debit or credit card over her EFTPOS machine.