by Brandy Scott
Lou had dug her heels in, surprising her parents, her friends, even herself. She wasn’t getting rid of the baby, or giving it away. She was keeping it and they could all go to hell. Her mother had begged, her father had threatened, but Lou was determined. Why had she wanted the baby so badly? She couldn’t even remember now. A mix of hormones and defiance probably — the automatic position that anything her parents suggested had to be wrong. Not that she regretted Tansy, obviously, but the freedom and opportunities she’d given up? Lou would never tell a soul, but she wasn’t completely sure she’d make the same decision again.
‘There we go.’ The technician swivelled the monitor so they could get a better view. In the middle of the speckled screen sat a small, empty circle. The technician made crosshairs with her mouse, zoomed in. The circle appeared to pulse slightly, although it was hard to tell. Tansy and Lou stared at each other.
‘Great,’ Lou said again.
‘Great,’ said Tansy.
‘That’s the yolk sac,’ the technician chattered, determinedly upbeat. ‘I know it looks like there’s nothing in it, but there is, I promise. And we can see that it’s in the right place, so that’s one less thing to worry about. I think’ — she drew the crosshairs again, measuring — ‘you’re probably around seven weeks. That sound about right?’
Tansy turned away from the monitor. ‘Can I get dressed now?’
The technician nodded, handing her a clutch of paper towels. ‘Someone will be in in a moment to take some blood, just to check everything’s as it should be.’ She smiled conspiratorially at Lou. ‘Shall we head back to reception, give Tansy here some privacy?’
The reception area was decorated with tasteful immunisation reminders and framed photographs of smiling babies with parents who wanted them. Lou shook her head as the receptionist tried to force multiple brochures on her. ‘I have done this before you know,’ Lou said dryly.
‘Of course,’ said the receptionist, still gathering. ‘But the guidelines change. You want to make sure you’re up to date with the latest recommendations.’
Lou hadn’t followed any recommendations. She’d been out of the house before six months and fending for herself, living on toast and tomato soup and cartons of long-life orange juice. Telling herself that women had had babies for centuries without fancy vitamins and tests, that Tansy would be just fine. And she was — huge and healthy and screaming her face off before she’d even left Lou’s body.
‘We can do it all on Medicare, right?’ she asked.
The receptionist glanced down at Lou’s nice shoes, her good dress, worn in honour of Melinda’s launch. ‘You’re not going private?’
‘We can’t,’ she said flatly. ‘Besides, isn’t Australia supposed to have some of the best healthcare in the world? Lucky country and all that?’
The woman looked taken aback. ‘Of course. I just assumed, since you were here —’
‘This was easiest,’ said Lou. ‘Quickest.’ And a good three towns away. ‘But we don’t have insurance.’
The receptionist nodded. ‘Well then. St Margaret’s in Hensley is said to be excellent.’
It was; Lou had given birth there herself. She’d experienced none of the judgement she’d received from her parents, even though she knew several of the nurses went to the same church. There’d been nothing but love — a big private room with a river-facing window, a doctor who kept her in longer than necessary so she could get used to the feeding and the crying and the sheer mind-bending fact of having a baby. Lou had felt properly cared for for the first time in years.
‘Mum, can we go now?’ Tansy stood in the corridor, still in her waitress uniform.
‘We have to speak to the doctor,’ said Lou. ‘She’ll want to see that everything’s okay.’
Tansy twisted in her patent kitten heels. ‘Can’t I wait in the car?’
As though it wasn’t even her baby. Lou and the receptionist exchanged a look.
‘No, Tans,’ Lou said gently. ‘You need to be here for this.’
Aimee tugged down the sun visor to avoid being blinded as she crossed the river. The sun was low, right at her eye line as her four-wheel drive bumped its way over the wooden single-lane bridge. Harrys Bridge, it was known as, although no one was entirely sure who Harry was any more, or ever had been. Locals hated the bridge, which killed both tyres and speed. Tourists loved it. Aimee also loved it, although she pretended not to.
She turned the radio up as she drove along River Road, hills rising on one side, water meandering past on the other. She’d written poems about this road, a secret ode to Harrys Bridge even, buried deep in her hard drive away from the mocking eyes of her children. Some of her poems she entered in competitions. Some of them had won prizes, one a Governor’s Award. She’d published a book the year before, launched at the town hall and stocked in Sam the newsagent’s. More than two hundred copies had been sold. Aimee strongly suspected Nick had bought at least half of them.
Still, it was success of a sort. Nothing like Melinda’s success, of course, her name in the business pages and her face on TV whenever there was a documentary about female entrepreneurship. Melinda was undoubtedly Hensley’s shining star, its most famous citizen. She got asked to draw the meat-tray raffle at the local show, was a regular speaker at school prize-givings. And yet for the life of her, Aimee didn’t understand why Melinda had come back.
Hensley was the type of place where you either belonged, or you didn’t. You were either local, born and raised, or you were forever a blow-in, even if you’d lived there for thirty years. Lou was local. Born in the small hospital, like her daughter, now working for the local council. She had the drawling accent, the bad highlights, the lot. People still referred to her as ‘Lou Henderson, Ken’s daughter’, even after everything that had happened. Aimee knew Lou dreamed of leaving, spoke of nothing else once she had a drink in her, but she also knew that Lou would never get around to it, Tansy or no Tansy. Lou wasn’t the leaving type.
Aimee had wanted to be local since she was eight years old, when her parents had moved them out from Melbourne, ostensibly to be closer to her mother’s sister, but really so her father could carry on his affair with his office manager in relative peace. Yet even with a big house and a decent-sized block, her family was still considered city, her commuting father never invited over for a beer, her mother asked to pay for groceries rather than being invited to start an account. Aimee’s mother had liked being different, with her casual mentions of David Jones and Pelligrini’s, thought it made her better than the other women somehow. She couldn’t see that it just meant she got left out.
Aimee stopped at the Duffys’ house and slid a loaf tin into their mailbox. Gave a toot before she drove off to let Helen know she’d returned it. From her very first day in Hensley, Aimee had been determined to fit in. She’d spent her birthday money on moleskins and R.M. Williams boots, and all her time with the farm kids, the ones whose families had their names on pews and foundation stones. She wanted to feel part of something. To have roots. Nick, apart from being Melinda’s boyfriend, had been perfect in that respect. Aimee would have fallen in love with him anyway, but the fact that he was old Hensley, his great-greatgrandfather one of the town’s first settlers, just made her love him all the more.
She took a right at the vicarage, its sandstone glowing in the setting sun. Aimee had known, even at eight, that she’d never leave Hensley. Lou had wanted to leave from roughly the same age; it was the one thing they’d always disagreed on. But Melinda — Melinda had escaped, as they’d all predicted. And then she’d come back.
Aimee pulled up outside the Nealsons’ place and picked out half a dozen plums from their roadside stand. She stuffed five dollars in the tin, more than the sign asked for, but it had been a tough year and she knew the Nealsons had had to remortgage. As she and Nick might have to. Aimee dropped in another two dollars for luck and headed home.
Melinda had never explained why she’d come back to the town she’d so paten
tly outgrown. Or rather she’d explained, but not sufficiently. I want to get back to basics, she’d told Aimee when she pitched up and rented a cottage on the edge of town, despite the fact that there was nothing basic about Melinda. I want to give back, she’d said when she bought the hotel, ploughing hundreds of thousands of dollars into it, despite the fact that altruism and Melinda had never been on first-name terms. I missed it, she’d said simply when Aimee found her standing on the edge of a family barbecue, everyone ignoring her, even the kids.
Because Hensley could be cruel. It didn’t forgive a slight, and Melinda’s leaving to make something of herself and then returning, cashed up, to buy half the town, hadn’t won her any friends. Hensley liked to roll her out and show her off, but it didn’t love her. People moaned about the loss of the bar in the old hotel, despite the fact they had three other pubs to drink in. Shopkeepers insisted on calling her by her full name; people whispered about how long she’d stay ‘this time’. She didn’t get included in community gossip — she was gossip.
And there was nothing here for Melinda. Aimee wavered at the T-junction, trying to decide: left or right. Even as a teenager, Melinda had been shinier than the rest of them, brighter, more ambitious. Not traits that got you far in Hensley. Hensley was for the stoic, the steady, the slightly old-fashioned. It was also for families. People in Hensley tended to marry young and forget to divorce. Aimee worried about Melinda’s romantic prospects. Hensley was not a hotbed of single older men.
A car behind her honked; Aimee bit her lip and swung to the right. Drove a few hundred metres and did a U-turn. No. She drove back through the junction, then U-turned again. Felt her pulse settle as she headed towards the hills.
Of course, it was hard to tell if Melinda even wanted to get married. She’d had loads of chances, over the years. Lots of relationships she could have taken further and didn’t. And she was gorgeous, Melinda, by far the best looking of the three of them. Lou was cute: blonde and short and curvy with big boobs, although she was starting to look older than she was. Stress, probably. Her crow’s feet were deep and she was beginning to get cleavage wrinkles, not helped by the hours they’d spent in their teens lying in Melinda’s backyard, basting themselves with baby oil and rotating like rotisserie chooks. Aimee looked younger than Lou, or at least she hoped so, quickly glancing in the rear-vision mirror to check. And more natural, keeping well away from the local hairdressers and discreetly popping down to the city to get her greys touched up. No chunky Hensley highlights for her. But she wasn’t stunning like Melinda, whose teenage ginger freckliness had turned into proper Nicole Kidman beauty in her twenties.
Aimee drove on, trying to focus on the scenery, the papery gum trees and dappled shade, rather than where she was going. Well, not going exactly, more passing. Because she wouldn’t stop. She hadn’t, not once all day yesterday. Slowed down maybe, as she drove by on her way to drop off a teenager or a case of wine. But nothing unusual, nothing an ordinary person wouldn’t do.
No, Aimee wasn’t sure that Melinda even wanted a family. She’d never really seemed that interested. Not like Aimee, who the others joked would have stolen a baby if she hadn’t had her own. Not like Lou, who’d love to do it all properly, you could tell, but put Tansy ahead of any new relationship. Melinda always seemed like she had more important things to be getting on with.
Maddocks Clearing appeared on her left, and Aimee slowed down so she could see who was there. Just so she knew. The same police car, which hadn’t moved in twenty-four hours. A dirty cream-and-brown truck she’d also seen before. And a little red hatchback, which looked familiar, as did the well-dressed woman standing next to it. Aimee dropped to a crawl and recognised one of the journalists from Melinda’s launch.
The woman waved and Aimee pulled over, guiltily relieved. Because it was a perfectly normal thing to do, wasn’t it? Stop to say hello?
‘Everything all right?’ Aimee asked. It was the journalist Melinda had been particularly excited about, the one who’d flown in from Sydney. ‘What are you doing all the way out here?’
‘I’m doing a story on the plane crash,’ the woman said, passing her a business card through the car window. Stacey Manning, from one of the big papers. ‘Two birds with one stone and all that. Can we have a quick chat?’
Aimee got out of her car, feeling exposed. She should have kept driving, headed straight home after all. She leaned against the comforting warmth of the car door. ‘Are the nationals really interested in this?’ she asked. ‘It’s only a small accident.’
‘Yeah, but it’s a good story,’ Stacey said. ‘A dad and his son, New Year’s Eve, a town in shock. Raises a lot of questions about how these planes are maintained, what kind of training these pilots get. And the boy’s in intensive care, apparently. So it could be an even bigger story.’
‘Right,’ said Aimee, feeling faint.
‘I’m normally business and finance, but with cutbacks and everything, the editor said to take a look while I’m down here, so I’m going round talking to people,’ Stacey chattered on.
‘And what are they telling you?’ Aimee forced herself to look normal.
‘Well, they don’t know much,’ said Stacey. ‘About what caused the accident, I mean. But they obviously think something did, or else those guys wouldn’t be out there.’ She pointed to the orange- vested officers crouched in the tall grass. ‘So that’s interesting.’
Aimee looked out into the clearing, at the blackened aircraft and the men buzzing around it like high-vis flies. In the centre stood an older man, his hat tipped back on his head as he gave them directions. ‘Is that Arthur MacKenzie?’ she asked.
‘Yeah, he’s in charge,’ said Stacey. ‘At least till the air transport guys get here. So, can you give me a couple of quotes?’
‘Sorry?’
‘For my story. Reaction from locals, impact on the community. Do you know the pilot and his son?’
Peter Kasprowicz had sat on a couple of committees with her, years ago. Aimee’d sent a card after his wife passed away, but she couldn’t remember the last time they’d had a conversation. ‘Not really,’ she said. ‘Knew of them.’
‘I understand he’s a widower?’
Aimee nodded. ‘Julia died four or five years ago. Cancer. Used to sing in the church choir, took Sunday School. She was really lovely.’
‘So how’s the community reacting?’ Stacey had her phone out. ‘Can I video you?’
‘Video?’
‘For the website.’ Stacey pulled a face. ‘Sorry, we have to.’
Normal. Aimee nodded, looked into the little lens. ‘Um, everyone’s really upset, obviously. It’s a small community out here, we take care of our own. And Pete’s well known, he’s deputy principal of the local secondary school. So everyone’ll be very concerned about him and Lincoln.’ The boy’s name was Lincoln, right? ‘But they’ll be looked after. I’m sure there’s already more food in their fridge than they’ll ever get through.’ She gave a stupid, nervous laugh that surprised them both. ‘And we’ll find out who caused this. I mean, if someone caused this. There’s no suggestion anyone did, of course. Because it might be — look.’ Aimee reached out and lowered Stacey’s phone. ‘I haven’t seen them in years. They moved over to Meadowcroft, the kids went to school over there. I don’t really have much to say.’
‘No worries,’ said Stacey. ‘That was fine.’ She dropped her phone in her bag, turned towards her car. ‘I have to get back, dump this thing at the airport. But I appreciate your time.’
‘Stacey.’ One of the search team turned his head as she called; Aimee walked quickly over to the little red car and lowered her voice as she crouched beside it. ‘Could you maybe not use that last part? It wasn’t really what I meant to say.’
‘Sure.’ Stacey shrugged as she buckled up.
‘And the boy?’ Aimee tried to sound casual. ‘You said he was in intensive care.’
‘Not just intensive care.’ Stacey was searching for the airport in he
r GPS. ‘He’s in a coma. Head injuries. Doctor wouldn’t go on the record, which is often a sign that they’re not sure he’ll make it. In my experience, anyway.’
Lou sat on the back step and lit her first cigarette in more than a decade. The action seemed alien, the snapping of the lighter clumsy, but the smoke filling her mouth and leaking down her throat wasn’t foreign at all. It was gloriously familiar, bringing with it the same old sense of ease. The feeling, for just a moment, that everything was going to be okay.
Lou relaxed against the cobwebby brick and breathed out a stream of artificial relief. There was no danger of Tansy catching her, because Tansy had reverted to her old self as soon as they’d got home. The childish uncertainty, the fear that had seen Tansy grasp her hand while waiting for the doctor, had vanished the moment they back were in the house. She’d pulled on a miniskirt and those awful open-toed boots and announced that she was going into town.
‘It’s the holidays,’ Tansy had whined, when Lou suggested that she might want to stay in. ‘We could just hang out,’ Lou had said. ‘Make popcorn, play a board game or something.’ Tansy had looked at her with barely veiled contempt. ‘It’s not like my whole life has to stop,’ she’d muttered as she’d flounced off to call whoever and complain about her unreasonable mother. Lou had given in in the end. What was the point? The worst had already happened.
She took another drag, aware that she could hardly afford to take up smoking again. Followed it with a slug of Cointreau, one of the few spirits magically left in the drinks cabinet. Tansy had no idea. Because her life would stop, just as Lou’s had, her options shrinking, starting with her geographic reach — how far she could realistically get with a pram and a three-kilogram baby bag and no car or money for a bus or train to anywhere better — followed by her educational prospects, her career options, her future partners.
Lou rolled the glass between her hands. She thought of all the crappy minimum-wage jobs she’d slogged at over the years, trying to juggle a few hours a week with a toddler. The credit cards she’d taken out to plug the gap. Her current job had at least pulled them out of debt, allowing her to send Tansy to a better school, even finally save a bit for their future — ha! — but it was hardly her dream position. Lou had to take what she could get.