Summer

by Michelle Zoetemeyer

  Standing in the kitchen pouring the tea, Maggie could hardly contain her anxiety. What the hell did she want, turning up out of the blue like this? How long had it been seen she had last seen Michelle and Stephen? Maggie did the sums in her head. Marjorie had left the day after Stephen’s second birthday and Stephen turned eighteen in July. That meant that Marjorie had not seen her children in over sixteen years, so why now, Maggie wondered. Not knowing the answer made Maggie uneasy. She couldn’t explain what she felt or why, she just had a hunch that Marjorie’s sudden appearance meant trouble.

  Maggie considered changing out of the kaftan she wore and putting on something more sensible. For the first time ever, she felt uncomfortable dressed in her hippy attire. Even though it was her preferred style of dress when she was at home or on holidays, she felt decidedly drab next to Marjorie. In the end, she decided that changing would cause more interest than not changing, so she resisted the urge to do so and took the tea out to her unlikely guest.

  “So, I take it you must be Peter’s wife.” Marjorie appraised Maggie, not too discreetly.

  “You take it correctly,” Maggie handed her the tea, “I’m Maggie.”

  “Pleased to meet you Maggie.” Marjorie said, sounding anything but pleased. She took the tea from Maggie and continued to eye her critically as she sat down. “I’m Marjorie, by the way.”

  “I know.”

  Marjorie faltered at Maggie’s directness. “I’m sorry to turn up unannounced like this, but I was in the area and I wanted to see if Peter and the kids still lived here.”

  “Well, now you know,” Maggie said.

  Marjorie laughed as though what Maggie had said had been genuinely funny. It was then that Maggie realised just how uncomfortable Marjorie was with the situation. Knowing Marjorie was as nervous as she was had a therapeutic effect on Maggie, and she regained some of her usual confidence. “Michelle lives in Newcastle now. She goes to the technical college there.”

  “Oh, I see. What is she studying?”

  “Engineering.”

  Marjorie sounded surprised. “Oh, I see.”

  Maggie doubted that she saw at all. She suspected that Marjorie must have conceived that she could simply turn up and all would be right again. Well, thought Maggie, if she got her way, things would prove far more difficult for Marjorie than that. “When did you get here?” Maggie asked.

  “A couple of weeks ago.”

  Maggie responded by raising her eyebrows. Realising what Maggie must have been thinking, Marjorie quickly added that she would have dropped by sooner, but it had taken her this long to find the courage. For a fleeting moment, Maggie wondered if Peter had known that Marjorie was back in town. That would explain his preoccupation with whatever it was that was bothering him lately. The timing certainly lined up with Marjorie’s arrival, it had been a couple of weeks since she had first sensed that something was troubling him. She had broached the subject a couple of times now, but Peter kept insisting he was fine. A little fed up with work, but otherwise everything was okay, he said.

  Maggie was surprised by Peter’s reluctance to discuss his problem with her. Nothing was sacred between them; they had always been able to talk about everything. On this occasion; however, and for reasons she didn’t understand, Maggie did not follow her natural inclination and interrogate him. Rather, she let him be. She knew that if she gave him enough space, he would eventually tell her what was bothering him. In the end, he always did.

  Maggie studied Marjorie’s face without her knowing. “How long are you staying in…sorry, where did you say you were staying?”

  “I’m staying with a friend in Darlinghurst.”

  Maggie frowned. Somehow the image of this well presented person staying so close to the riff raff that wandered the streets of Kings Cross just didn’t fit. Kings Cross had always been such a fascinating place for Maggie, but she couldn’t imagine someone like Marjorie being comfortable so close to there. “And how long are you staying for?”

  “Oh, I’m not sure yet, probably just a couple more weeks. I have to get back to Melbourne. My husband runs a club down there.”

  This time it was Maggie’s turn to be surprised. “So, you’ve remarried also?” Maggie realised as soon as she asked the question how redundant it was.

  Marjorie didn’t seem to notice. “Yes, we’ve been married for two years now. What about you and Pete, how long have you been married?”

  Maggie felt a twinge of jealously at the familiar use of Peter's name, but was determined not to let Marjorie see it. “We’ve been together for almost sixteen years, and married for nearly thirteen,” Maggie said with more composure than she felt.

  Marjorie was taken aback. “Oh, I see. You’ve been together a while then?”

  “Forever,” Maggie confirmed.

  “Do you have any kids?”

  Maggie flinched. There was no way she was going to confide her disappointment at not being able to fall pregnant with this stranger, Peter's ex-wife no less. Rather than let Marjorie see that she had touched a raw nerve, Maggie smiled deceptively. “Uh huh, we have two; their names are Stephen and Michelle.”

  “Oh, I see.”

  Maggie was becoming inpatient with Marjorie and her procession of I sees. How dare she just waltz on in and expect to have a jolly old discussion with her ex-husband’s wife. What was it that she wanted anyway? Maggie suspected that she just wanted to have a happy reunion with her children, convince herself that she had done the right thing by leaving them with their father, and go back to Melbourne with a clean conscience.

  “Perhaps I could come back another time when Stephen is home?”

  Maggie considered Marjorie’s request. She decided that it wasn’t really up to her. Stephen was a big boy and could make up his own mind. “Why don’t you leave me your number and I will give it to Stephen. If he chooses to call, then all well and good, if not…well, that’s his choice.”

  “Oh, I see, alright then.” Marjorie fumbled in her bag for a pen and paper. She scribbled her name and number on the back of an envelope and handed it to Maggie. “Here, he should be able to reach me on that number.”

  Maggie took the paper from her without looking at her details. She folded it up and slipped it into the pocket of her kaftan. “I’ll pass it on when he gets home.”

  “I’d better be going,” Marjorie put her cup on the table and stood up. “Thanks for the tea.”

  Maggie stayed seated. She watched as Marjorie turned and left the back yard. She waited for the sound of her car’s engine to fade before getting up and going inside.

  Chapter 6

  Saturday, 15 December 1979

  Tom watched Fat Albert in the lounge room while I finished my breakfast. Mum reckons he gets up with the roosters; he’s always the first one to knock on our door every Saturday morning. I put my gym boots on and grabbed the bag of stuff I’d collected for the cubby. It was mostly bits of string and material torn into strips, but it was bound to be useful for something. I told Tom to put his dad’s saw in my room til we got back. When we got outside, Shortie was sitting on the edge of the gutter waiting for us. He looked like he’d just got out of bed. His red hair was sticking up all over the place and his clothes were all crumpled. That’s Shortie for you, Dad always says he looks like nobody owns him. “Where are we going?” he asked.

  Tom and I had already decided to get the car seat later. “We thought we’d scrounge around the new house and see if we can find anything for the cubby,” I explained.

  “Which one?”

  “The house next to the Grainger’s place.”

  There are still a couple of houses being built in our area. Most of them look the same as what’s already there. Our place and Shortie’s place are the same, only opposite. His lounge room is on the left side of the front door and ours is on the right. The same goes for the bedrooms. All up, there are probably only about ten different types of houses in the whole area.

  The Graingers live around the bl
ock from me and the house next door to theirs is still being built, which makes it fair game for us kids. We’re not supposed to play in the new houses, but we always do. You can find all sorts of stuff lying around if you’re lucky. There are usually bits of plaster everywhere, which is really good for writing on roads and drawing hopscotch squares with. It works just like chalk.

  Shortie cursed for forgetting to call in at Ed’s on his way to my place. I told him it was no big deal; we’d stop on the way and get him. “I better go and see if Dianne wants to come too,” I added. “Stay here, I’ll be back in a minute.”

  I ran the short distance to Dianne’s place, taking extra care not to knock over any of the awful garden gnomes leering at me from her front veranda. One day, I’d love to just skid straight into them and watch them explode like a bunch of bowling pins. Of course, I’d have to pretend it was an accident, but at least I wouldn’t have to look at them every day when I walk past.

  I knocked on the door and waited for a response. Nobody answered. I knocked again, still nothing. Then, resisting the urge to kick the gnomes’ smarmy faces in, I gave up and ran back home.

  ***

  Whenever I see an empty house, my first impulse is always to run around and make as much noise as possible. Tom must have had the same idea, because he tapped me on the shoulder and yelled, “you’re in,” and bolted. The others followed his lead and left me there alone. There was no point arguing about why I had to be the one that was in, so I chased after them without giving the matter a second thought.

  I ran through all the rooms a number of times until I finally caught Shortie hiding in a broom cupboard. “You’re in!” I poked him in the arm and ran away.

  The four of us spent the next hour chasing each other around the house, trying to outrun one another and not get tagged. Our footsteps in the empty house made an awful racket, but we were having too much fun to remember we weren’t supposed to be there. Whenever one of us got caught, we’d squeal loudly and run off after our next victim. Shortie was the loudest by far. We had to tell him to shut up or else we’d have the whole street on to us. Tom even threatened to gag him a couple of times, but it made no difference.

  Running around so much puffed us out. After exhausting all the possible hiding places, we plonked ourselves down on the bare floor and lay back breathing loudly. Tom reached across and poked me in the ribs. “Let’s go build the cubby.”

  We had so much fun playing catchies that we almost forgot to scrounge. Determined not to leave empty handed, I grabbed a selection of plaster off-cuts and shoved them into the bag. I claimed a box of nails that the builders left behind and quickly inspected the room for anything else of value. Then, making sure no one saw us come out, we snuck out through the back window. Tom sprinted up the side of the house and squatted beside the fence. Satisfied that the coast was clear, he waved to let us know it was safe to join him.

  ***

  We built the cubby under the fallen tree like I suggested. We leaned two sheets of tin against each side of the tree trunk, kind of like a tent, and then we made it longer with bits of wood and sticks. Dad gave us an old tarp to cover it with so we don’t get wet when it rains. I used the nails I got from the new house to keep the tarp and tin in place. We put some rocks against the sides for when it gets windy and covered the sheets of tin and tarp with branches, making it look like it was just part of the tree. We could still walk along the tree trunk and everything. Shortie’s dad gave us a milk crate to use as a table and Mum said I could have one of her old tea towels for a tablecloth. We still haven’t worked out what we’re going to put on the floor. Ed reckons we should put newspapers down, but I think they’ll get soggy when it rains.

  Tom and I arranged an extra layer of branches over the outside of the cubby while Ed covered the top from where he was standing on the tree trunk. Shortie stood admiring our efforts. “What a ripper.”

  Ed walked down the tree trunk and landed with a deliberate thud behind him. “I’ve gotta go.”

  Shortie gave him a crow peck. “Already?”

  “Ouch.” Ed rubbed his head. “Mum said I have to mow the lawn today.”

  “Fine, we’ll get the seat without you then.”

  We walked out the front to say goodbye to Ed and headed towards the barbed-wire fence at the end of the street that marks the beginning of the bush. We took it in turns holding the barbed wire up so that we could climb through without snagging our clothes or flesh. I’ve done both many times, and neither is pleasant. Mum goes bonkers if I tear my clothes and it hurts like hell when the bits of sharp metal dig into my skin.

  Deefie’s Hill is a fair walk from my place so it takes us a while to get there. Not that we let that stop us, we go there all the time. There’s not even much there, but we really like it anyway. Probably because it’s so big and there’s lots of places to explore and loads of cool trees to climb. There’s a huge blackberry bush right in the middle of the hill that’s so big you have to climb up on the old cars to reach the ones at the top. Sometimes we put a log or some tin over the bushes so we can reach further without getting scratched. Mostly though, we just leave the ones that we can’t reach easily.

  We joined the dirt track that goes all the way to Deefie’s Hill. It’s been walked on so often it’s smooth and dusty. It’s so smooth I can walk on it barefoot without getting sore feet, but Mum won’t let me play in the bush without shoes on. I love playing in the bush. I can stay out all day and never run out of things to do. I like the way it smells, especially the Wattle trees. There are caves along the back ridge, up behind our block. You have to walk through the paddock and climb lots of steep rocks to get there, but when you reach the top, you can see for miles. You can even see the wreckers all the way over at Awaba.

  Everybody reckons that the aborigines used the caves when they lived in the area. Mr Drury said aborigines used to live all around Toronto and Lake Macquarie. There are lots of aborigines in our school now, but they live in houses like ours. Our school is even named after an aborigine. It used to be called Toronto West, but it changed to Biraban last year. The school had a competition to pick the best aboriginal name. Mum looked through the World Book Encyclopedia and came up with a whole list of aboriginal words for me. I even won the competition, but the school ended up using the name Mr Hallinan chose instead. I did get my name on the news though, and the school gave me a big book of fairy tales, so that was okay. Besides, I didn’t really pick the names, Mum did.

  “Guess what I’m getting for Christmas?” Shortie asked.

  Tom threw a handful of gumnuts at a Magpie. “What?”

  “A slot car set and a model Torana just like the one Peter Brock won the Hardie Ferodo in.”

  Tom was impressed. “Deadset? How do you know that?”

  “I saw them in the top of Mum’s wardrobe. She always hides our Christmas presents there.”

  Shortie was mad on anything to do with racing cars. His bedroom wall was covered in pictures of Peter Brock and his shelves were lined with model cars he’d made. Lucky his brother didn’t mind, because he had to share a room with him.

  There was no one around when we got to Deefie’s Hill. Shortie took off in search of a seat he reckons he and Ed saw last time they were here and Tom and I said we’d have a look along the creek. People sometimes dump old cars near the creek where there’s lots more shrub to hide them in. They’re usually burnt out or smashed up, but sometimes the seats are still good.

  There were two cars hidden under a mass of Lantana. Tom cleared a patch so he could have a better look. One of the cars had a fallen tree on it, but you could see inside it well enough. The front seats were no good, but the back one didn’t look too bad. There was a big rip in the upright section, but the bottom half was still intact.

  “Go get Shortie,” he instructed, “he can crawl in under the tree and push from the other side while we pull from this side.”

  I left Tom clearing Lantana from the doorway of the old car and walked bac
k along the path in search of Shortie. I couldn’t see him anywhere, so I called out. I waited a second or two and headed off in the direction I’d seen him go earlier. I walked around the bushes cautiously, half expecting Shortie to be hiding there, ready to pounce. At first, I thought the place was deserted, but a couple more steps brought me face to face with something far scarier than anything Shortie could drum up.

  Chapter 7

  Wednesday, 13 November 1968

  Peter walked up behind Maggie, threaded his arms through hers, and wrapped them around her middle. “See ya babe, I’m gonna miss you.”

  Maggie stopped washing up and turned around to face him. With her wet hands outstretched so she wouldn’t drip on him, she kissed him languidly before escaping to find a hand towel. “Do you think she’ll come back?” she asked

  He knew that she was referring to Marjorie. They’d been up half the night talking about her. He thought about their late night discussion and immediately felt bad for arguing with Maggie. When she was convinced that something was up, she was usually right. Worse still, she always confronted everything head on. Unlike Peter who was always the peacemaker and didn’t like conflict of any sort, Maggie would not give up until she had every detail of whatever it was that was bothering him. While he could not really blame her for concluding that it had been Marjorie that was on his mind, he could hardly confess that the truth was much worse than that. If having Marjorie turn up unexpectantly could throw her out of sorts so much, he could only imagine what impact knowledge of his recent antics with Jane would have.

  Luckily, it was no longer an issue, he reasoned. That was all behind him now. He hadn’t seen Jane in almost a week and was unlikely to again, given exams had started and classes had finished for the year. The fact that this was Jane’s final year gave Peter a sense of relief, knowing that their paths were unlikely to cross again.

  As much as he knew he had no right to, he felt decidedly proud of himself for not letting things get too far out of hand with Jane. He looked at Maggie and wondered how he could have ever contemplated such a thing. When Maggie dried her hands on the hand towel and wrapped them around his neck, Peter knew without a doubt that he was a lucky man. He pulled her closer to him. “No, I don’t think she’ll come back, do you?”