A Bush Christmas by Margareta Osborn Page A

bike was coming to a halt. Jaime peered around Stirling’s broad back to see they were at the gateway into Polly’s Plains. And, my God, what a sight! The overarching metal sign proclaiming the name of the property was lit up with hundreds of tiny coloured budlights. Flicking, spinning, running and jumping, the sequences of the light show were enough to blind. The words POLLY’S PLAINS were picked out in white. It was stunning but that was nothing compared to the house she could see lit up across the paddocks. Stirling’s place.
    The blow-up Santa he had earlier dragged from the shed now sat on the roof, looking like he was about to descend the chimney to leave his presents. A massive tower of lights to the right of house was topped by a brilliant yellow star. Candy canes of red and white spun down the verandah posts while waterfalls of white glittering stars cascaded from the fretwork. It was incredible.
    It was beautiful.
    And because the hundreds of acres in the mountain-ringed valley were otherwise in total darkness, the light show shone so much brighter. It beat every house she’d ever seen back in Ivanhoe.
    Jaime shook herself. Well, that’s if you were into Christmas and all that kind of festive stuff.
    â€˜Amazing, isn’t it?’ murmured Stirling. ‘Your house has lights too. They stay up all year round. I never tire of doing this. My mum and dad did it before me, and now Valerie helps me continue the tradition.’
    Jaime frowned. ‘Your mum and dad did it here ?’
    â€˜Yep, I reckon they did. My sister and I are proof …’ Stirling tossed a grin over his shoulder. ‘And they put up the lights too.’
    Good Lord. The man had cracked a joke. Jaime smiled faintly in return but her mind was still tussling with the idea of his parents. ‘Did they work here?’
    â€˜Yep. Them and my grandparents. They used to own the place.’
    Aha. That’s why he invested so much of himself in Polly’s Plains.
    â€˜My grandmother was Polly.’ His tone was melancholic. ‘My grandfather loved her so much he called the place after her. She was the one who started Christmas in a big way at Burdekin’s Gap.’
    Aw, shucks, what a sweet thing to do. But then, did that mean his parents sold the property to Valerie? How tragic Stirling was still working on the farm that by rights should have been his!
    But she didn’t get a chance to ask anymore, because Stirling started the bike. Over the rumbles of the motor as he readied them to take off she heard him say, ‘But then, I forgot, you don’t do Christmas, do you?’

Chapter 9
    â€˜ Hello! Anybody home?’ There was a chorus of voices from beyond the screen door.
    It was Saturday morning and Jaime was down on her hands and knees trying to coax The Cat out from under the Chesterfield lounge. After flagrantly pulling most of her dry and folded clothes out of the laundry basket, the damn thing had dragged inside a morsel of bird – deceased probably last century – and was balefully staring at Jaime while it chewed. She really was in its bad books for feeding it dried cat food. At least dogs came when you called. Eventually.
    â€˜Coming,’ she shouted to the screen door, backing out from under the couch.
    Plumed like Crimson Rosellas, three women stood outside the flywire. Brightly dressed in all shades of red, green and gold, they shone of Christmas as brightly as Rudolph’s nose. One even had a flashing brooch. Jaime considered slamming the main door shut but then realised by the way the heavy piece of wood was propping it open, the damn thing had probably never been shut. Not in this decade anyway.
    â€˜Hello. How are you?’ she said, hoping her grin was a smile rather than a grimace.
    And that was enough, for in they came, trailing tinsel and baubles (one had balls hanging off her ears, for God’s sake!), and carrying clipboards bristling with