Maggie found that trying to make sense of her thoughts and feelings regarding her mother’s death was dampening her spirits. Rather than spoil both their day by moping about it, she turned on the radio. Something bright and gay was bound to cheer her up.
Sure enough, like an omen, the Beatles’ latest hit, “I feel fine”, was playing.
“Hey, they’re those uni kids I was telling you about,” Peter said, turning the radio up and causing Maggie to start as she realised the music was no longer playing.
Maggie and Peter listened while the reporter told of a bus load of students making trouble at Moree. Apparently the students had protested against the municipal baths’ policy that no aboriginals be admitted.
“Do you teach any of them?” Maggie asked.
“Nah, I think they all go to Sydney University, but I couldn’t say for sure.”
Maggie thought about what she always told the kids whenever they complained about the injustice of not getting what they wanted. Much to their annoyance, she was constantly reminding them that they should consider themselves fortunate, as there was always someone worse off. “Well, good for them,” she said, passionately. “It’s an absolute tragedy the way those people are treated.”
“Although, one has to ask what good it’ll do them,” Peter proposed. “When all’s said and done, they don’t even have a vote.”
Maggie shook her head in disgust. “What on earth has to happen before people start waking up to themselves? This is their country for Christ’s sake and they don’t even have the vote. Does that sound fair to you?”
Peter smiled. Once Maggie got on her high horse about something, there was no stopping her.
They eventually gave up on enticing an ongoing reception from the radio and spent the next hour or so discussing social injustices facing Aborigines. Being able to discuss a diversity of subjects was one of the things they liked about each other. Despite working in professions that claimed to promote independent thought and intelligent debate on a wide range of issues, Maggie and Peter were often flabbergasted at the number of their friends and colleagues who simply regurgitated everyone else’s tripe and never had an opinion of their own.
For Maggie and Peter, conversation was never as good with others as it was between them. They spent hours at a time discussing everything from the absurdity of the Vietnam War, to more important issues, such as whether the Beatles would outlast the Rolling Stones. Today was no exception. In fact, it was times like this that Peter was thankful that he had spent the extra one hundred and eighty odd pounds on the automatic transmission. It was so much easier not to be changing gears all the time.
Peter's car was his pride and joy. He’d had it for three years now, but he still got as much joy out of it as he had when it was new. Despite the luxuries like the carpet and heater, Maggie still hadn’t forgiven him for the bucket seats. She complained that driving had been much more fun when she could sit close enough for him to drive with his arm around her.
Peter pointed to the sign up ahead indicating the turn off they were to take. As he turned the car into Hue Hue Road, Maggie sat quietly watching the landscape evaporate behind them. She knew that they would be at Martinsville within the hour and she was beginning to feel restless. The old insecurities came flooding back and she wondered for the hundredth time how she would cope with the task ahead.
As the moment of reckoning drew near, a realisation dawned. It occurred to Maggie that she was annoyed with her mother. In justifying her anger, Maggie asked herself what kind of person would remove themselves so completely from their only child’s life, with the knowledge that when they died the burden of dealing with their estate would fall to their sole heir?
Until now, Maggie had dismissed her mother’s righteous intolerance as a symptom of her father’s death, but now she saw it for what it was; blatant selfishness. Why couldn’t she have just left her estate to her beloved church? At least then Maggie wouldn’t be left with the unsavoury task of disposing of it.
“Keep your eye out for Martinsville Road,” Peter instructed, “We need to take a left turn there. According to Mr Harris, the place is about five miles down Martinsville Road, past Wilkinson’s Road on the left. He reckons it has a red letterbox that can be seen from the road.”
Maggie expected the slow drive over the rough corduroy road to fuel her anger, but instead she found that the picturesque landscape had a calming effect. She hadn’t remembered Martinsville being so beautiful. She was right about it being a one-horse town, but what a spectacular one-horse town it was.
The heavy rain of the last couple of days was evident everywhere. They drove past a property whose creek had overflowed into the paddock, creating a large pond of water. The long grass swaying beneath the surface caused the pool to sparkle and shimmer with an infinite number of tiny stars. A lonely pair of Willow trees waded in the shallow water, inviting the weary traveller to take off their shoes and join them.
They passed a small building that claimed to be the public school. The sign above the veranda boasted an age of seventy years, reaffirming Maggie’s notion that they had stepped back in time. The gatepost at the front of the school stood ajar, daring them to cavort like kids in the school grounds.
The magnificent Watagan Mountains provided the ideal setting for the delicious green landscape. Maggie had a sense that Martinsville was a place of rejuvenation. With its rainforest climate and remarkably little evidence of civilisation, it was difficult to imagine the unspoiled wonderland tolerating even the smallest of life’s trivialities or tensions.
As they crossed a shaky bridge, Maggie could see the clear, dark water wind its way through overgrown reeds and make its way under the bridge. She wondered where it was headed and turned in her seat so she could follow its trail under the bridge and out the other side. Instead of solving the mystery, the tangle of plants wrapped the creek in its protective arms until it was no longer possible to distinguish the water from the shrubbery.
Maggie felt the emotional seesaw she was on hit the ground and bounce back up again. Instead of exploiting twelve years of regret to stimulate her rising temper, she fought desperately to dam the last trickle of anger as it got sucked into a vortex of oblivion.
“Look at this place, it’s absolutely glorious.” Peter wound down his window so he could get a better view. “This must be what it looks like in paradise.”
Maggie smiled.
Peter pointed to a red letterbox up ahead.
“My God!” exclaimed Maggie. “Mr Harris wasn’t joking when he said it had a red letterbox, have a load of that.”
Maggie took the impertinent red structure as further evidence of her mother’s misunderstanding of God’s intent and doubted that anyone could have conceived of a more offensive construction to mar the unspoiled landscape.
Peter slowed the car and contemplated the precarious looking driveway. It was barely more than a couple of logs flung across a ditch. He looked at Maggie questioningly.
Maggie spotted her mother’s Morris Minor parked next to a ramshackle shed and was reminded of her dad’s delight at driving it home for the first time. Dismissing the image from her mind, she put on a brave face. “Well, if my mother managed to get that thing in and out using this driveway, I think we’ll manage.”
Taking up the challenge, Peter slowly navigated the rickety bridge. He let out a sigh of relief as he felt the back tyres regain traction on solid ground. He followed the dirt driveway around a clump of Eucalypts before coming to rest in front of an old weatherboard cottage. In spite of the flaking paint and the overgrown weeds, Maggie thought the cottage was far more charming than she had anticipated. Her first impulse was to run around the veranda like a wayward toddler, but she doubted the rotten planks would guarantee her safety.
Peter lifted the Esky out of the car and stood beside Maggie. “Listen to the bellbirds, don’t they sound beaut?”
Maggie stood transfixed by the image before her, “…and s
ofter than slumber, and sweeter than singing, the notes of the bell-birds are running and ringing.”
“Maggie Thompson?”
Maggie shook her head. “Nope, Henry Kendall.”
“Oh. And for a minute there I thought you’d gone all romantic on me.”
With all thoughts of selling the place and paying off their mortgage forgotten, Maggie’s face was as lively as Peter had seen it since her mother’s death. “Can we keep it?” she asked. “We’ll come up on weekends and do it up, it’ll be the perfect place for holidays.”
Chapter 1
Friday, 14 December 1979
“C’mon, I’ll race you home.” Tom took off up the hill faster than I could complain. I hate it when he does that. I can never keep up with him and he knows it. Mind you, I’m better at climbing trees than he is, so I guess that makes us even. Besides, he’s my best friend and Mum always says that best friends should like each other no matter what, even if one of them is being a retard, or can run faster than you.
Mum thinks that because Tom and I have the same birthday, we were meant to be best friends. She’s been saying so ever since Tom moved into our street when I was six years old. She believes in all that stuff about destiny and whatever will be will be. I found out last year that Liam Flannery and Kenny Pritchard have the same birthday and they’re not friends. When I told Mum about Liam and Kenny, she said that it was different. “What are the chances they were both born at the same hospital within an hour of each other?” she asked. “And that they would end up living in the same street?”
I wondered how anyone could know exactly what time they were born, and since most of the kids in my class were born at the Western Suburbs Hospital, I still thought it was no big deal. I was just about to say as much, but then I remembered Liam has a funny accent. I doubt that two babies could be born in the same hospital and only one of them grow up with a funny accent, and since I know they don’t live in the same street, I gave in and admitted that maybe Mum was right after all.
Before Tom could get too much of a head start, I grabbed my school port and raced up the street after him. Mr Drury let us take a whole heap of Christmas stuff home today and it weighed a tonne. I enjoy school the most at Christmas time. Not that I don’t like it normally, I do. I just wouldn’t admit it to anyone, that’s all. Well, maybe to Tom, but not to anyone else. We hardly do any schoolwork and mostly just spend the days crumpling up bits of crepe paper and sticking them onto Santa cut-outs and stuff.
Just because I like making Christmas stuff, doesn’t mean I believe in Santa or anything like that. I’ve known for ages that Santa’s not real. Johnny Woodford said that everyone knows he’s not real. He said only babies believe in Santa, so I had to pretend that I’d known he wasn’t real all along. Sometimes I still pretend I believe, but that’s only for Mum and Dad’s benefit.
With Tom in the lead, we ran up the hill and around the corner to his place, not even stopping to catch our breath. I caught up with him just as he jumped over his mother’s Geraniums and cut across the front yard. He’d done it so many times he’d worn a path in the grass. We pulled up just in time to avoid crashing into Tom’s mum. She walked through the front door carrying a plastic bucket and a pair of gardening gloves. “G’day Mrs Simmons, can Tom come and play at my place til tea time?” I asked.
“Of course he can, dear.”
The house was dark inside after being in the bright daylight. I could just make out the Undertaker sitting in his usual spot in the corner. I couldn’t really see his face, but I could sense him peering out over his can of KB in that strange way that he has. “Hello Mr Simmons, how are you?”
No response.
It was hard to believe that this creep was actually Tom’s Dad. Once I heard Tom’s brother talk about a movie he’d watched with someone in it called the Undertaker. Apparently the Undertaker rode a motorbike and worshipped the Devil. He sounded mean and nasty, and I was sure that if he’d been real, everyone would have been scared of him. I thought it was a perfect name for Tom’s dad, because he was mean, and I sure as hell was scared of him.
The Undertaker is pretty old. He’s much older than the other dads in the street. He never works or does anything. Tom told me that his parents had already stopped having kids when he came along and that he shouldn’t have been born. Tom’s sister was already grown up with a family of her own when he was born. That makes Tom an uncle to someone older than him. Weird huh? Tom’s brother, Jim, is in the Army and Tom hardly ever sees him, so he’s practically an only child.
I asked Tom once what was wrong with his dad, but he just shrugged and said he was always like that. Tom doesn’t seem to like the Undertaker very much either, but he never says anything. Just like I never tell him I call his dad the Undertaker.
There isn’t much I don’t tell Tom. Compared to most of my friends he’s really good at keeping secrets, but Mum always says some things are better left unsaid, and I suppose she’s right. Besides, I do like Mrs Simmons, and that’s the main thing. Mrs Simmons is usually nice to me even if the Undertaker isn’t.
From where she was standing in the front yard, Mrs Simmons must have thought I was Tom standing behind the screen door. “Do you have homework Tommy?” she asked. By now, I knew the drill well. Tom’s never allowed out until his room’s clean and his homework’s done. I think it’s odd how Tom will do whatever his mum asks, but practically ignores everything his dad says. I would get into deep trouble if I did that. Not that I ever would, my dad is way cool and not a bit like the Undertaker.
“Mrs Simmons, you don’t get homework on the last day of school,” I explained, before realising that she was smiling at me in a way that told me she was only kidding and that she knew that already. She likes to mess around like that. Mostly her sense of humour is pretty spastic, but I knew she was just trying to be nice.
Tom rolled his eyes at his mum’s attempt at humour and told me to wait where I was. Then, he dashed across the room and into the kitchen, leaving me stranded with the Undertaker. Rather than speak or make eye contact with him, I studied the photographs on the wall as though I were seeing them for the first time. It wasn’t until I heard Tom re-enter the room that I took my eyes from the pictures and faced the room again.
“Here, catch,” Tom said, tossing me an apple. “C’mon, let’s go play.”
We slammed the door behind us causing Mrs Simmons to look up with a start. “Don’t be late home,” she said.
We got as far as the footpath when she called Tom back. She’d noticed his school port on the front veranda where he’d chucked it and sent him back in to put it away. Tom has a real Globite port. Not like mine, I’ve got one of those daggy brown cardboard ones with plastic corners.
“And change out of your school uniform too,” she shouted after him. My mum never makes me change out of my uniform when I don’t have school the next day, but it was just like Mrs Simmons to do that. Their house is always so tidy and clean. She’s one of those clean freaks. Not like my mum who’s always complaining that the place looks like a bomb hit it.
I often wonder if it has anything to do with God. You know, that whole cleanliness is next to godliness thing? Mrs Simmons and the Undertaker are Catholics and go to church every week, sometimes more if it’s Easter or Christmas. Mum says we’re Atheists, and Atheists don’t go to church or believe in God. I don’t know what else they do, but if it means I don’t have to keep my room as clean as Tom’s then I don’t really mind being an Atheist.
***
I could hear Mum clunking dishes in the kitchen. “Hi Mum, I’m home.”
“Hi Jenny, hi Tom, don’t slam the door?” The door slammed behind us.
Tom gave me an astonished look, as if to say, how does your mum know I’m with you? I just shrugged. I’ve learned not to question how Mum knows the things she does.
Tom flopped back onto my bed and put his feet up. “I thought the last day of school was never gonna get here. It feels like I’
ve been counting down the days for ages.”
Dreary Drury keeps telling us that we shouldn’t wish our lives away, but seriously, what would he know? I bet he doesn’t have a birthday coming up just before Christmas. I bet he doesn’t even count down to Christmas either, for that matter. It must be so boring being a grownup and not have anything to count down to. I’m not even eleven yet, but I will be soon, in just eight more days. I can’t wait. Mum’s letting me have a party and she’s making all sorts of party food like butterfly cakes and fairy bread and she said I could even have some fizzy drink and hand out party bags like all the other kids do at their parties.
“What are you wearing to the party?” I asked Tom.
“How the hell should I know? Only girls worry about that kind of stuff.”
Tom always swears a lot when his mum can’t hear. He thinks it makes him sound tough. I suppose he’s right though, boys never seem to worry about stuff like clothes. Mum’s making me a new halter dress, just like the one I saw at Verdun Hiles. I don’t usually like dresses, but Mum says I should dress more like a young lady and less like a hooligan, especially at my own birthday party. I figured if I had to wear a dress, I might as well pick one I like, so I did. Except, Mum said it was too much money and bought some material to make it instead.
Tom’s face lit up when I first told him I was having a party. It gave me the brilliant idea of letting him share it with me. He was coming anyway, but that way he’d get presents too. I knew he wouldn’t get to have a party otherwise, because even though his mum said he could have one, he didn’t want to. I think he is too embarrassed to have all his friends over with the Undertaker around. Tom told me once that the Undertaker thought it wasn’t right that he had a friend who was a girl. He reckons only sissies have girls for friends.
I grabbed some clothes off the pile on my bed and went to get changed in the bathroom. I never used to care if I got changed around Tom, but Mum says I’m getting too old for that now.
“What do you wanna do?” I asked on my way out.
“Let’s go and see if Ed and Shortie want to go for a swim.”
Summer Page 2