Not Bad People

by Brandy Scott

  ‘Interesting that you never got pregnant to any of the hoons you were running around with.’

  Lou fingered her little equality pin. It’s Only Fair. ‘That’s bullshit and you know it,’ she said. ‘But you’re not going to embarrass me into silence any more. You’re not going to deny me what you owe us.’

  ‘Like I said, feel free to speak to Matthew.’ He waved a hand, dismissing the whole mess.

  But . . . ‘The contract,’ Lou said, remembering. ‘I want you to tear up that contract. You should never have made me sign it.’

  For a moment, he looked as though he was about to argue.

  ‘It wasn’t fair, and you know it.’ She’d been six months pregnant and crying when she put his heavy fountain pen to the bottom of the thick document, most of which she hadn’t understood. Just knew that she needed to sign it to get the money. Ten thousand dollars had seemed a fortune at the time, and just for not making a fuss that she hadn’t wanted to make anyway.

  It was probably illegal to make someone sign a document when they were distraught.

  ‘You took the money.’

  ‘Ten thousand is nothing,’ she said. ‘I know that now. Not for a child.’ Lou had thought they’d be able to live off it for years, maybe put a deposit on a little house. Ha.

  ‘You seemed happy enough with it at the time.’

  ‘Well, I was young and stupid. We’ve established that.’ Lou picked up her bag. ‘The contract,’ she reminded him. ‘You need to destroy it.’

  Melinda’s father shrugged. ‘I don’t want to make things difficult for you. I’ve only ever wanted to help.’ He pulled himself awkwardly out of the chair; Lou didn’t move to assist him. ‘I just did what I thought was best for everyone.’

  Best for you. Lou snorted as he made his way slowly out the back. But his era was over, she realised, looking around at the old black-and-white footy-club photos, the yellowing newspaper clippings of cases won. The whole Hensley network of old-time locals who ruled the town with antiquated expectations and enforced silence — it was done. It had died out with her parents, maybe long before.

  ‘Here you go,’ he said. ‘Will you do the honours, or shall I?’

  The contract looked slightly ridiculous. Typed — imagine! — on a couple of thin sheets of A4, not the dozens of pages of sub clauses she remembered. Lou reached out and tore it straight in half, then half again, and again, before dropping the pieces on the floor. I’ve won, she thought. I’ve actually won.

  He didn’t say anything. Just stood, his jacket hanging from his shoulders, in the middle of his empty office. Not one person had knocked in the half-hour she’d been there. No one was banging the door down for legal advice from Maxwell Baker LLB, OBE.

  ‘Interesting,’ he remarked, as she headed for the door, ‘that in all these years you’ve never told Melinda.’ He sounded more like himself again: condescending, a touch smug. ‘It sounds as though you are still ashamed of your behaviour after all.’

  Oh, Mr Baker, you really are a dinosaur. An impotent, unimportant dinosaur. ‘I’ve never been ashamed of my behaviour,’ Lou said, chin out, but for the right reasons this time. ‘The only thing I’ve ever been ashamed of was allowing you to pay me off.’

  Melinda kept watching the video, over and over. Aimee pulling at her hair, looking nervously away from the camera. Speculating as to whether the accident was really an accident or not, in the national media. What was she thinking?

  Well, if Aimee was going to start talking, so was Melinda. She bowed her head for a few moments, then pushed herself away from her desk. ‘I’m just going down to the post office,’ she told her assistant as she headed for the door. ‘I’ll be back in half an hour.’

  The young woman looked up from the prototype baby lockets she was fiddling with. ‘You don’t need to go,’ she said. ‘I’ll do it.’

  ‘No, I want to,’ said Melinda. ‘I need some fresh air.’

  Even the Hensley sun felt lighter as Lou made her way back along the High Street. Ridiculous, that she’d allowed herself to be silenced all these years because of a couple of pieces of paper and a few thousand in her bank account. Lou smiled at Sam the newsagent, at Sandra the butcher’s wife standing gloriously unaware behind her display of lamb chops and green plastic grass. She’d won. She’d actually won. No wonder Melinda got so damn fired up about all her empowerment stuff. Lou had never really stuck up for herself before, she realised. She’d wanted things to be different, but never actually done anything to change them. Until now.

  Lou swung into the council building. The weird thing was, nothing had actually changed. Matthew had no money, she knew that. She’d watched Melinda write out dozens of cheques, rolling her eyes as she did so. Cash cheques. She couldn’t even put the money in his bank account, because it would get swallowed up by his overdraft the moment it landed.

  No, she’d get bugger-all out of him, and there’d be nothing more out of his dad. Lou probably wouldn’t even tell anyone; getting pregnant to Matthew Baker wasn’t anything to be proud of. But what she’d gained instead was more important. Fronting up to the man who’d threatened her, tearing up that damn document — it was worth more than money. That’s how she’d explain all this to Tansy. The importance of not being pushed around. Maybe the equality women would invite her to come and speak.

  Lou waltzed into reception, unfazed by the phalanx of Post-its she knew would be stuck all over her computer. Heaven forbid Rex should deal with a phone call himself. But that was okay as well. She’d just spend the afternoon meandering through them instead of doing any real work.

  There was only one Post-it, smack in the middle of her monitor. PLEASE SEE ME. Lou looked at it and laughed. Had the printer jammed and sent him over the edge? Had they run out of toner? (Lou was the only one who knew where the toner was kept; the secret gave her an astonishing amount of power.) Surely he couldn’t be annoyed that she’d left the front desk unattended. It was January; most of the council — most of Australia — was still on holiday. Lou had volunteered to come back early, for the money. Really, she was doing him a favour. He should be grateful she was even here.

  She didn’t bother knocking, just pushed his door open and poked her head around. ‘I was only gone forty-five minutes,’ she said. ‘The shire isn’t going to come grinding to a halt because there’s no one here to hand out dog tags.’

  But the mayor wasn’t smiling. ‘Close the door, would you, Louise.’

  Lou had had enough of old men calling her by her full name. ‘Just tell me,’ she said. ‘I’m busting to go to the loo.’

  Rex let out a huff. ‘That’s exactly the kind of thing I’m talking about. It can’t continue. Your flippant approach to council affairs. Your insubordination.’

  ‘Insubordination? Is this because I didn’t get you coffee? That’s not insubordination. That’s feminism.’

  ‘It’s intolerable, is what it is.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ But the mayor just stood there, red-faced, not quite making eye contact. ‘What, you’re going to give me a written warning, is that it? Seriously?’

  ‘Louise, I appreciate everything you do here, but the fact is your attitude is showing us up.’

  ‘Is this because I yelled at Father Brian? Because I’m sorry, but he has to wait in line like everyone else. Being a God-botherer doesn’t mean you get to skip queues.’

  ‘There’ve been complaints. I have to take them seriously.’

  ‘Fine, whatever. Write out a warning, and I’ll sign and file it.’ Lou knew the drill. This wasn’t her first time.

  ‘I’m afraid we’re past that point.’ Rex fiddled with his shirt cuff. ‘I’m going to have to let you go.’

  ‘You’re firing me?’

  ‘If you could pack up your desk. I’ll handle things for the rest of the day.’

  ‘You? You don’t even know where the toner is.’

  ‘Louise.’ The mayor took a step forward, obviously expecting her to move as well, to shuffle meek
ly out the door. His voice grew sterner when she didn’t budge. ‘Louise, I gave you this job because your father asked me to. But I think we can both agree your heart’s not in it. Look, at the end of the day, you’ll probably be happier somewhere else.’

  ‘You’re firing me.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Louise.’ He opened the door.

  ‘You can’t do this. I’ll . . . lodge a complaint. With the rest of the council.’ Who were all related to Rex. Lou looked around his office, took in the Rotary crest, the Lions badge, the lovingly framed photos from the footy club. ‘Did you get told to fire me?’

  He didn’t meet her eye. But he didn’t have to. Once again, the people who really ran Hensley were getting one over on her. Lou let out a little sob and pushed her way past him. Once again, it wasn’t bloody fair.

  Melinda’s phone started buzzing as she made her way up the post office steps. She flicked it to silent; let Clint deal with any nervous curators. The changes were his idea, after all. Hang on. Melinda stopped short in front of a row of iron post office boxes. Was she actually delegating, like every life coach and performance advisor she’d ever employed had begged her to? I know it’s hard to believe, Melinda, but the company might actually run better if you didn’t micromanage every piece of it. Melinda chuckled to herself as she pushed open the post office door. Out of adversity came progress. Who knew.

  ‘Well, you look cheerful,’ Sharna said disapprovingly. ‘Practically glowing.’

  The Hensley Festival regalia had disappeared. Instead of children’s paintings and bunting, the post office was now decorated with black ribbon. A book of remembrance stood in the corner, under a picture of Lincoln in his school polo shirt. ‘Just pleased to be out of the office,’ she said, lowering her eyes appropriately.

  ‘So what can I do for you?’ Sharna didn’t really approve of Melinda. She didn’t really approve of anyone who’d dared to leave her precious town, even if they did return. And plough thousands of bloody dollars into it, creating jobs and funding main-street beautification schemes. Sometimes Melinda wondered why she bothered.

  She dropped her envelope on the counter. ‘Just a stamp on this, thanks.’

  Sharna examined it as she reached for her little book. ‘How is your brother doing?’ she asked as she held the envelope up to the light. ‘You should really take out extra cover if you’re sending a cheque, love. Safer.’

  ‘I’ll risk it.’

  ‘Always did think it was a shame he left. Handsome, your brother. A real charmer.’

  But Melinda wasn’t in the mood for bullshit. ‘Sharna, you know as well as I do Mat was up to his eyeballs in gambling debt when he shot through.’ Borrowing to play the pokies mainly, but also the horses. Their father had given him twenty thousand to start over, stay out of trouble; Melinda was still a little bitter. ‘Although he seems to feel safe enough coming back here with his hand out.’ She eyeballed the postmistress. ‘Did Dad pay his debts off, Sharna? You’d know.’ But Sharna just kept carefully writing Melinda’s address on the back of her envelope.

  Melinda wandered around the post office, picking up charity calendars, examining a collection tin next to the book of remembrance. They were planning to build a memorial to Lincoln at the airfield. She rattled the little tin at Sharna. ‘This is a nice idea,’ she said. ‘Yours?’

  Sharna’s chest puffed self-importantly. ‘It seemed like the right thing to do.’

  Melinda stuffed in a couple of twenties. ‘I agree.’

  ‘They’re moving ahead with the inquiry,’ Sharna said. ‘Early next week, I’m hearing. I think they’re keen to give people some resolution. Shut down the old rumour mill.’

  ‘Good,’ said Melinda. The sooner everyone stopped talking about the damn accident, the better. ‘That’ll make it much easier for Pete, I imagine.’

  ‘Much easier for everyone.’ Sharna dropped Melinda’s letter into a bag behind the counter. ‘Whole community is affected, something like this.’ She handed Melinda a receipt. ‘Speaking of which, how’s Aimee doing?’

  And she hadn’t even had to bring it up. ‘Mmmm,’ Melinda said, pulling a worried face. ‘Not sure.’

  ‘Because she really got herself worked up, didn’t she? I know you’d all had a few, but I did wonder if something else was going on.’

  ‘Well,’ said Melinda, dropping her voice. ‘It’s just . . . well, you know how Aimee went to stay with her mum that time. When Shelley was little.’

  ‘I do remember. Just before Patricia got ill.’ Sharna made a cross-like motion. ‘Bless her.’

  ‘And Aimee was gone for ages.’

  ‘Months.’

  ‘And Nick and the kids stayed here.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, the truth is —’ I’m sorry, Aimee.

  ‘Yes?’ Sharna leaned forward in anticipation.

  ‘The truth is,’ Melinda paused. She could picture Aimee on the video, visibly squirming. Aimee in her kitchen, clearly in turmoil, unable to stop going over the story. Desperate for Melinda to reassure her that everything was okay. ‘The truth is, I wish her mum was still alive. My aunt. I feel like it would do Aimee good to have her around at the moment.’

  Sharna looked at Melinda as though she was the one who was slightly crazy.

  ‘You know, to help with the kids and the property and . . . stuff.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Family’s important, especially when people are grieving.’ Melinda was burbling now. But she couldn’t do it. She just couldn’t do it. ‘But Aimee will be fine, she always is. Just sensitive. Anyway, always lovely to see you, Sharna. Good luck with the collection.’ She pulled a note out of her wallet; a fifty, but too bad. ‘Here, stick this in as well. Anything to help.’

  It took Lou less than twenty minutes to clear her desk. To wash out her coffee mug, the one that said WORK IS FOR OTHER PEOPLE, to pack up the photo of her mother she’d nicked from Tansy’s room. ‘I bet you’re bloody enjoying this,’ she told the exhausted woman in the ugly frame. ‘Enough chickens roosting for you yet?’

  Rex watched as she moved around the office on autopilot, logging out of systems, stacking jars of instant coffee and artificial sweetener into the box he’d thoughtfully provided. ‘What?’ said Lou. ‘Are you worried I’m going to steal your precious Post-its?’

  She turned her back, and heard him shuffle off towards his office.

  She would not cry. She would not cry. She rubbed at her eyes, her nose, skin suddenly sensitive, as it always became when she got really upset. She’d hated this job, for years and years and years. She wasn’t going to bloody cry over it. But what on earth was she going to do without it?

  Lou gave the reception area another sweep, just to check there was nothing she’d missed. The room was bare, apart from one last stack of papers Rex had left on top of the photocopier, Post-it firmly attached: PLEASE. Obviously placed there before he decided to sack her. Before he was told to sack her. Lou tore off the Post-it and carried the papers over to the shredder. Hopefully they were really important.

  She’d have to go back on the dole. Lou ripped the plastic binder comb out of Rex’s stupid report. Fill out a hundred forms, prove to some spotty teenager that she was actively searching for another job. She switched on the shredder. She’d fed in half the top page before she noticed the title on the second: COLLISION WITH TERRAIN INVOLVING CESSNA 182, VH-QDK, 12 KM NORTH HENSLEY, VICTORIA.

  And below it: CONFIDENTIAL.

  Lou kicked the shredder’s power cord out of the socket.

  ‘Louise?’ The mayor’s voice floated out from his office. ‘What’s going on?’

  If nothing else, reading it would give her something to do, now she had all this unexpected free time. Lou shoved the remainder of the report into her handbag and slammed the door on her way out.

  Aimee pulled up outside the house, hours later than she’d promised, but she didn’t care. If Nick wasn’t going to respect her feelings about not opening up their home — her sanctuary —
then she wasn’t going to cut her day short by rushing back to make him dinner. She strode inside carrying two big bags from the Thai takeaway in Meadowcroft. Nick was allergic to lemongrass.

  ‘Back,’ she called out. ‘With food. Pad Thai and green curry and extra spring rolls.’ But not even the animals came to greet her.

  ‘What, no one’s hungry?’ said Aimee, as she pushed open the kitchen door with her shoulder.

  The children were in the kitchen. But they weren’t alone. Standing at Aimee’s stove, wearing her apron and expertly twisting her carefully seasoned wok above a high blue flame, was Pete’s stepson. Cameron.

  CHAPTER 30

  Pete lay on his bed and spoke to his dead wife.

  Cameron was still out; Pete hadn’t heard the car come back. Not that he’d care if his son was eavesdropping. It’d probably do him good to hear a few home truths.

  ‘We messed up with that one,’ he told Julia, or at least the ceiling. As always, he imagined her floating somewhere above it, watching him pityingly, but not too pityingly. Julia had never cut him any slack. Cameron, however . . . ‘You were too soft on him,’ he told his wife. ‘Let him get away with too much. It’s all very well having favourites, and I did too, but you mothered him beyond the point a boy needs to be mothered. So when you died, it just blew him wide open.’

  Pete kept a photo of Julia next to the bed. He groped for it, but there was nothing on the bedside table but dust. He rolled back onto the doona, defeated. He could guess who’d taken it.

  ‘I thought he’d grow out of it,’ he said. ‘I thought it was a phase.’ The bullying, the petty intimidation. ‘But he’s started to frighten me, Julia. This isn’t just a teenager behaving badly any more.’

  Pete pictured Suzanne’s scared little face as she loaded up her Suzuki Swift. He’s a stalker, Pete. Well, I don’t know what else you’d call it. He’s behind me in the supermarket, he’s waiting outside my classroom in the morning. I’ve found him going through my letterbox. That’s not grieving, Pete. That’s not acting out. That’s something else. She’d taken a temporary teaching job in Western Australia. He’d written to tell her when Cameron left town, but by then she’d met a nice washing-machine repairman, had made herself comfortable.