Standard Country-Folk Attire

"Some people wear their happiness like gum boots — practical, a bit muddy, but it gets them through the day."

The drive south took longer than it should have.

Not because of the fog—that had lifted once I got past Kingston, burning off into nothing as the sun finally decided to show up and do its job. The grey blanket that had smothered the valley simply dissolved, as if it had never existed, leaving behind a sky the colour of washed-out denim and air that felt clean and cold in my lungs.

No, it took longer because I kept zoning out. Missing turnoffs. Having to double back when I realised I'd sailed past the road I needed. At one point I realised I'd driven a solid three kilometres without any memory of the road I'd just covered—no recollection of the curves, the signs, the other cars. Just a blank stretch of time where my body had operated the vehicle whilst my mind was elsewhere entirely.

Get it together.

But getting it together felt impossible when every spare moment of thought circled back to those seventeen letters. Jamie Nigel Greyson. The name sat in my head like a splinter, impossible to ignore, impossible to extract. I'd think about the road, about the delivery, about the weather—and then I'd be back in that kitchen, watching Mum's face crumple, watching the truth spill out of that yellow envelope like something that had been waiting nineteen years to escape.

The Huon Valley opened up around me as I drove, pulling me out of my thoughts with the sheer force of its beauty. Green paddocks stretched away on either side, impossibly vivid after the recent rain. Hills rose in the distance, covered in bush that looked blue-grey from this far away, their slopes dotted with the occasional cleared patch where someone had carved out a life for themselves.

Proper country, this. The kind of place where people still waved at you from their tractors as you passed, raising a hand in that unhurried acknowledgement that said I see you, you see me, we're all just getting through the day together. Every second property had a hand-painted sign advertising firewood or free-range eggs or raw honey or some other thing that city people paid too much for at farmers' markets, treating rural produce like exotic artefacts from a simpler time.

I checked the manifest again at the next intersection, pulling over onto the gravel verge to squint at Garry's handwriting. Grant Woolley, 247 Nicholls Road. The GPS on my phone was useless—no signal out here, just the little "searching" icon spinning endlessly like it was mocking me. So I was relying on Garry's scrawled directions on the manifest and the faded road signs that appeared every few kilometres, their lettering bleached pale by years of sun and rain.

Nicholls Road, when I finally found it, wasn't really a road.

It was more of a suggestion. A dirt track that wound off the main route with no fanfare, no proper signpost, just a faded wooden post with "Nicholls" carved into it in letters that might have been legible once. The track was rutted and uneven, the kind that made the truck rattle like it was falling apart, every bolt and panel vibrating in protest.

I slowed right down, taking it careful, watching puddles from yesterday's rain spread across the low points like small brown mirrors. The last thing I needed was to get the truck bogged out here and have to call Garry for a tow. I could picture his face already—the disappointment, the frustration, the unspoken calculation of how much this was going to cost him. And I could picture the conversation that would follow, the one where he finally said the words I'd been expecting for weeks: We need to talk about your future here, Joel.

Twenty minutes after leaving the main road, the track opened up.

The landscape transformed from dense bush and overhanging branches into something almost pastoral—a clearing that seemed to have been carved out of the wilderness by sheer human stubbornness. I navigated the truck onto the narrowing path, the tyres crunching on the uneven surface, until the property revealed itself.

A large, two-storey house stood proudly amidst a sprawling green paddock, its white weatherboard walls practically glowing in the morning sun. The setting was picturesque in that way that makes you suspicious—like a photograph that's been filtered and adjusted until it barely resembles reality. A stark contrast to the urban sprawl I was used to, to the cramped streets and close neighbours and constant noise of Glenorchy.

The house was the kind of place you see in real estate ads with words like "character" and "renovation opportunity"—which usually meant half of it was held together with hope and fencing wire. Two storeys of weatherboard painted white but peeling in places, revealing grey timber beneath like old wounds. A corrugated iron roof going rusty at the edges, orange blooming through the original galvanised silver.

A veranda wrapped around the front, cluttered with the accumulated detritus of rural life: gum boots in various sizes and states of decay, a broken chair missing one arm, what looked like half a motorbike leaning against the railing. Beyond the house, the paddock stretched away towards the bush-covered hills, divided by post-and-wire fences that sagged in places and stood firm in others. I could see a few sheep in the distance, white dots against the vivid green, moving in that aimless way sheep have.

A Hills hoist clothesline stood in the yard near the house, laundry hanging limp in the still morning air. Men's work shirts, faded blue and checked flannel. Towels that had seen better days. What looked like children's school uniforms, small and bright against the larger garments.

A ute was parked off to the side, jacked up on blocks with its bonnet open, clearly awaiting repairs that might never come. The whole scene screamed "rural Tasmania" so hard it could have been a tourism poster. Or a warning, depending on how you felt about isolation and mud and the kind of quiet that presses against your eardrums.

I pulled the truck up near the house and killed the engine.

The sudden silence was weird after the constant rumble of the road. My ears rang slightly in the absence of engine noise, adjusting to a world that wasn't vibrating. I could hear birds—magpies warbling their liquid song, something else I didn't recognise calling from the trees. The creak of the cooling engine. The whisper of wind through grass.

And then, as I jumped down from the cab, my boots hitting the soft ground with a muffled thud, another sound entirely.

Bleating.

The playful bleating of a pair of young goats greeted me, a sound that brought an involuntary smile to my face despite the early hour and despite everything else going on in my head. They appeared from around the side of the house like they'd been waiting for me, all gangly legs and floppy ears, their horizontal pupils doing that weird rectangular thing that goats have going on.

They seemed curious, their small heads tilting as they followed me closely, their hooves padding softly on the damp ground. One was larger, brown with white patches. The other was smaller, white with brown patches—like they'd been designed as a matching set but someone had got the colours backwards.

"Right," I said to them, moving around to the back of the truck. "You two just stay over there, yeah?"

They didn't stay over there. Of course they didn't.

They followed me like I was the most interesting thing they'd seen all morning, which, to be fair, I probably was. Out here, the arrival of the delivery truck was probably the highlight of the week. The smaller one—the white one with brown patches—started nibbling at my jeans, working at the denim with surprising determination.

"Oi," I exclaimed, a mix of surprise and amusement in my voice, as I felt a gentle nudge against my bum. Not nibbling anymore—actually pushing, like it was trying to herd me somewhere. I turned around quickly, playfully scolding the inquisitive animals. "That's sexual harassment, mate. We've only just met."

The goat looked at me with absolutely no remorse. Those horizontal pupils gave nothing away—no guilt, no shame, no recognition that boundaries had been crossed. Then it tried to eat my shoelace, tugging at the frayed end with determined little teeth.

"Lulu! Mexi!" a loud voice called out, cutting through the crisp, cold air. The sound seemed to carry with it a sense of warmth, despite the frostiness of the morning.

I looked up, grateful for the intervention.

A woman had appeared on the veranda—middle-aged, maybe late forties, with greying hair pulled back in a messy ponytail that suggested she'd done it quickly, without the benefit of a mirror. And she was wearing... Right. Okay. This was happening.

I reached inside the truck, my arms straining slightly as I pulled out the first heavy box. The physical exertion was familiar, a routine part of the job that I had come to find oddly satisfying. Muscle memory taking over, giving my brain something to focus on besides the endless loop of birth certificates and fathers who weren't dead and mothers who lied.

Also a welcome distraction from thinking about those things. From the way they kept circling back no matter how hard I tried to push them away.

The box was heavier than I expected—always was, somehow, no matter how many times I lifted identical parcels. It made that shifting sound inside that meant whatever was packed in there wasn't packed well enough, things sliding around with each movement. I hefted it against my hip, trying to get a better grip, feeling the cardboard dig into my forearm.

"They don't bite," a woman's voice said suddenly, close enough to startle me.

I nearly dropped the box.

She'd come down from the veranda without me noticing, silent in her... I looked properly this time, trying not to stare, failing at trying not to stare.

She was wearing a floral nightie. The kind with little pink roses printed all over it in a pattern that probably hadn't been fashionable since the eighties, ending just above her knees. And on her feet: black gum boots. Proper farm gum boots, the kind that had seen actual farm work, mud caked in the treads and splashed up the sides.

The combination was... something. It was definitely something.

Sure, they don't, I thought to myself, a hint of sarcasm in my internal monologue as the smaller goat tried to eat the corner of the box, its little teeth working at the cardboard with single-minded determination.

I looked up, and my eyes met those of the woman.

She stood there in her floral nightie, adorned with a pair of black gum boots, an image of rural simplicity and comfort that felt almost staged in its eccentricity. Despite the chill of the morning—and it was properly cold, frost still sparkling on the grass in the shade, my breath still visible in small clouds—she seemed unfazed. Her attire was perfectly normal for her environment, or at least she wore it like it was.

"Standard country-folk attire," she commented with a light-hearted tone, a smile playing on her lips. "We don't get many visitors this time of the morning."

Her words, delivered with an effortless grace that suggested years of greeting strangers whilst wearing questionable outfits, coaxed a genuine smile onto my face despite everything.

The scene before me was like a living painting, a vivid illustration of the diverse tapestries of life that coexist in our world. There I was, a city boy—well, suburban boy, but close enough—standing amidst this rural idyll, with goats for company and a woman in her nightie and gum boots treating the whole situation as completely normal.

It was so far removed from the kitchen in Glenorchy this morning.

So far from Mum's tears and the birth certificate and Jamie Greyson's name typed in official letters on cream-coloured paper. It felt almost surreal, like I'd driven into a completely different universe where the main concerns were goats and deliveries and whether it was appropriate to greet the courier in your nightwear.

It was a brief escape from the complexities of my own life, a momentary glimpse into a simpler existence that was both foreign and oddly comforting. These people had problems too—the broken ute, the peeling paint, the fences that needed mending—but their problems seemed manageable. Solvable. Not the kind that rewrote your entire understanding of who you were.

"Delivery for Grant Woolley," I announced, trying to maintain a professional demeanour despite the whimsical setting. A part of me longed to linger, to soak in this different world a bit longer, but the practical side reminded me of the warmth waiting inside the truck. Also, the goats were getting more aggressive with the shoelace situation—the smaller one had managed to untie my left boot entirely.

"Yeah, that's us," the woman replied, her voice carrying a hint of rural warmth. She had that particular Tasmanian country accent, the vowels stretched out like taffy, the consonants softened by generations of isolation from mainland influence. The casual confidence of someone who'd lived on the same property for decades and wasn't bothered by much.

I hefted the box, feeling its weight shift as I set it down on the edge of the veranda. The wood creaked slightly under the load. I pulled the manifest from my back pocket, uncreasing the paper slightly where it had folded. The corner was damp from where I'd been gripping it, nervous sweat despite the cold.

"Just need your signature here," I said, offering her the paper and a pen—the cheap biro that lived in the truck, half-chewed at the end from nervous drivers over the years. I pointed to the designated spot for her signature, a small blank space beside the name that seemed almost inconsequential in the grand scheme of things.

She took the pen and scrawled something that might have been letters. Hard to tell—the signature was more abstract art than handwriting. Then she added something else, her pen moving with deliberate care.

"There you go," she said cheerfully after signing, adding a playful smiley face beside her signature. The small act was a whimsical touch that felt perfectly in tune with the surroundings.

I looked at the manifest.

The signature was illegible, but the smiley face was clear as day. Big circle, two dots for eyes, a curved line for the smile. Unmistakable. I'd never had anyone draw a smiley face on a delivery manifest before. Usually people just scrawled their name as fast as possible so they could get back to whatever they were doing—back to their lives, their problems, their private worlds that I glimpsed for thirty seconds and then never saw again.

Her humour was infectious, and I found myself chuckling softly, appreciating the light-heartedness that seemed to come so naturally to her. The sound surprised me—I hadn't expected to laugh today, hadn't thought I had any laughter left in me after this morning.

"That's a first," I said.

"Standard country-folk attire this," she quipped again, playfully tugging at the corner of her mouth, indicating the smiley face. "Never forget to add it when you get up."

Wait.

Was she... was she saying the smiley face was standard country-folk attire? Like the nightie and gum boots? Part of the ensemble? I looked at her, trying to work out if she was taking the piss or being serious. Her expression gave nothing away—just that same pleasant smile, those same amused eyes.

"The smiley face?" I asked, just to clarify.

"The smiley face," she confirmed, nodding sagely like she was imparting ancient wisdom passed down through generations of Tasmanian farmers. "Very important. Otherwise people think you're grumpy. Can't have that in the country. Everyone talks."

She lifted the heavy box with a practised ease that made me feel slightly inadequate—I'd struggled with it, arms straining, cardboard digging into my hip, and she just hoisted it up like it was full of feathers rather than whatever dense objects were actually inside.

She turned towards the house, already dismissing me in that friendly way of people who have things to do and not enough hours to do them in.

"I'll remember that," I responded, my smile lingering. Her words were a gentle reminder of the importance of finding joy in the small things, a lesson that seemed all too easy to forget in the hustle of suburban life. Though I wasn't sure I'd start adding smiley faces to things. That felt like a bridge too far for a nineteen-year-old bloke from Glenorchy.

"Lulu! Mexi! Breakfast time!" Mrs Woolley called out, her voice carrying across the frost-covered grass with the confidence of someone who'd been summoning animals for decades.

The young goats, their curiosity about me now forgotten in the face of a more compelling offer, eagerly followed her back towards the house. Apparently breakfast trumped harassing the delivery driver. Good to know where I ranked in the hierarchy of interesting things.

I watched them go—woman in nightie and gum boots, goats trotting behind like obedient dogs, the whole procession disappearing around the side of the house towards whatever feeding area awaited.

The smaller goat—Mexi? Lulu? I'd already forgotten which was which—looked back at me once, as if considering whether I was more interesting than breakfast. Those horizontal pupils assessed me with unsettling intelligence. Then it decided I wasn't and kept going, its little hooves clip-clopping on the hardened ground.

I stood there for a moment longer, watching them disappear, a scene of pastoral bliss unfolding before me like something from a children's book about farm life.

The morning sun was properly up now, burning off the last of the cold, warming the air until it felt almost pleasant. The paddock beyond the house was bright green, that vivid emerald you only get after rain, when the grass has drunk deep and the world feels renewed. Birds were still calling their morning songs. Somewhere in the distance, a tractor started up, the sound carrying across the valley—that familiar diesel rumble that meant someone else was already at work, already tackling the endless list of tasks that farm life demanded.

It was peaceful. Properly peaceful.

The kind of peaceful that made you forget, just for a minute, that your entire life had been turned upside down a few hours ago. The kind of peaceful that let you pretend, briefly, that you were just a delivery driver having a normal day, meeting normal people, doing a normal job.

The kind of peaceful I couldn't trust, because I knew what waited for me beyond it.

Then my phone buzzed in my pocket—must have found a tiny pocket of signal, just enough bars to let the outside world back in—and the moment broke. Probably Garry wondering where I was, why the Huonville run was taking so long. Or Mum, wanting to talk about this morning, wanting to explain, wanting to apologise.

I didn't check. Didn't want to know. Whatever it was could wait until I was back in the truck, back on the road, back in motion where standing still wasn't an option.

With a small sigh, I climbed back into the cab. The seat was still warm from before, holding the shape of my body like a familiar embrace. The truck smelled like dust and cardboard and the faint hint of diesel, all the accumulated scents of days spent on the road.

I turned the key in the ignition and the engine rumbled back to life, loud in the quiet morning, shattering the peace I'd briefly borrowed. As I turned the truck around carefully—the turning circle was shit on these dirt tracks, requiring a three-point manoeuvre that felt more like seven—I watched the Woolley property shrink in my mirrors.

The image of Mrs Woolley and her goats stayed with me as I navigated back down the rutted track. A gentle reminder of a world where simplicity and warmth still thrived, where problems were physical and solvable, where happiness could be worn like gum boots—practical, a bit muddy, but getting you through the day.

A world where the biggest concern was whether the delivery driver appreciated your smiley face signature.

A world where women wore nighties and gum boots to greet strangers and nobody thought twice about it.

A world very, very different from mine.

The truck bumped back down the dirt track, suspension groaning at each rut and pothole, and I watched the house disappear in the rear-view mirror. First the veranda, then the roof, then the Hills hoist with its limp laundry, until there was nothing but bush and the winding track ahead.

Back to the main road. Back to the route. Back to reality.

Next stop: Berriedale.

The word sat in my head like the address it was—just another destination, just another delivery. But something about saying it, even silently, made my stomach tighten. Berriedale was north. Back through Hobart. Back towards the parts of the world where my problems lived, where birth certificates existed and mothers cried and fathers had names they'd hidden for nineteen years.

And suddenly the peace of the Huon Valley felt very far away.

Already fading. Already becoming a memory, like a dream you try to hold onto after waking but can't quite keep solid.

The main road appeared ahead, black tarmac cutting through the green, and I indicated left even though there was no one to see it. Habit. Routine. The small rituals that keep you moving when everything else feels uncertain.

Berriedale, then.

Whatever that held.