Summer

by Michelle Zoetemeyer

  She stayed like that for a short span, before straightening up and resuming her activities. She cursed Peter for making her cry. She had intended to save her tears for when she got to the cottage. Until then, she needed to stay focused for the long drive ahead. She picked up the box of books and carried them out of the room. As she entered the hallway, she spotted Jane coming in through the back door and stopped. “I’m surprised to see you still here,” Maggie barked. “Little trollop,” she added more quietly.

  Jane actually had the common sense to look embarrassed. “Stephen’s not back yet; he’s got my car.”

  Maggie turned her back on Jane, disgusted. “Well, when he does, I think you should leave.”

  “Um, I…”

  “Save it Jane,” interrupted Maggie, “I don’t want to hear what you have to say.” She stomped outside, slamming the door behind her. Next, she all but threw the box of books and newspapers into the boot before banging it shut and stomping back inside. Jane was still standing where Maggie had left her. She was about to turn and leave until the sight of Maggie storming through the front door made her pause. Maggie walked straight up to her and stopped half a metre short of her face. Jane flinched, obvious discomfort showing on her face. “On second thoughts Jane, I think I would like to hear what you have to say,” she invited cruelly.

  Jane took a step back. “Huh?” she had no intention of explaining anything to anyone, “I was just going to say that I was going to wait out front for Stephen.”

  “Is that right?”

  “Uh huh?”

  “And why, may I ask, would you do that; things getting a little awkward in here?”

  Jane squirmed. She clearly didn’t want to discuss the preceding events, but Maggie was making it difficult for her to escape. “I just thought I should wait outside, that’s all.” She knew it was a weak retort, but she didn’t care; she just wanted to get the hell out of there.

  “I’ll tell you why,” Maggie offered, apparently dissatisfied with Jane’s response, “because, you thought that you could just traipse in here and make god damn fools out of everyone, and then breeze back out again when you were done.”

  “Um, not quite,” said Jane, plainly eager to get away.

  “Well, let me tell you, young lady, it won’t work.” Maggie stood in the doorway, blocking Jane’s exit. “If you think I’m going to stand by and watch you use my son the way you are, you’re sorely mistaken. And…” she pointed her finger in Jane’s face, “he will get to know just what a nice girl you are. You mark my words.”

  Jane challenged Maggie with a stare. “What? So, I trust you’ll tell him what a great guy his daddy is too, huh?” she added.

  “You little bitch! I want you out of my house, right now!” Then, without waiting for a response, she heaved the box of items from the hall cupboard up onto her arms and blasted through the front door with a crash.

  “My pleasure,” Jane spat back.

  “Hi Mum; is Jane up yet?” The box Maggie was carrying blocked her view and she almost collided with Stephen. “Shit, Stephen, I didn’t see you.”

  “Sorry,” he felt obliged to say. Then, with more interest, “What are you doing?”

  She shoved the box onto the back seat and slammed the door shut. “Packing.”

  Now he was really confused. His mother was never this organised. “But we’re not going for a couple of days.”

  “Wrong,” corrected Maggie, “I’m going today.”

  “Huh? Why?” Stephen raised his voice from where he stood, watching his mother storm past. Maggie was about to re-enter the house, but stopped just long enough to explain, “It might be best if you ask your father about that one.” She let the door swing open behind her.

  “Mum?” Stephen followed her inside, “Is everything okay? Did something happen?”

  Maggie opened her bedroom door and stuck her head out, “Better still,” she said, as though she hadn’t finished speaking, “why don’t you ask Jane instead. Oh, and you better be quick; she’s just leaving.”

  Stephen put his foot in the door to stop his mother closing it. “Mum? What’s up, tell me?” He studied his mother’s face as though it might give him the answers she was unwilling to provide. “Is everything alright between you and Dad?”

  Maggie really didn’t think she could cope with recounting all the sordid details, but she felt she owed Stephen something, no matter how brief. “Not at the moment,” she admitted.

  He looked at her, confused. “Why; what happened?”

  She was aware that he was just as much affected by the situation as she was and felt selfish for her brevity, but she genuinely believed that he should hear the news from Jane, not her. “I’m sorry love,” she explained, “but I really don’t want to go into the details right now. Let’s just say that your father and I had an argument about something and I want to be alone for a spell so that I can figure out what it all means.”

  Stephen looked alarmed. “It must have been some argument. It’s not like you to run away.”

  Maggie flinched at the mention of running away. Is that how it appeared to Stephen? She supposed it did. Still, as much as it hurt knowing that her son thought she was weak, she knew she had to go. Besides, she was sure that he would be more forgiving once he had all the facts. “I’m sorry if it appears that I’m running away, but I don’t see it that way. Anyway,” she lightened her tone a little, “as soon as your dad’s new car arrives, you and he will follow me to the cottage, so it’s not like I’m really running away, is it?”

  Stephen appeared somewhat reassured by her pragmatism, but he never responded. She took his silence to mean that he was not going to delve any further and reached up and gave him a hug. “If you need me for anything, just leave a message with Mr Kildey and I’ll call you back. The number’s on the fridge.”

  He looked at his mum as though she were worrying unnecessarily. “Mum,” he complained, “I’m a big boy and can look after myself. Besides,” he added, less defiantly, “you’re the one with the problem, not me.”

  How she wished that were true. She felt bad for what he was about to learn and found it difficult not to say something reassuring. Maggie had no idea what Jane’s true feelings for her son were, but she was almost certain that they did not mirror his feelings for her. She felt a mother’s love for her son, knowing he was about to be hurt, but unable to do anything to prevent it.

  She grabbed the handful of stuff off the bed and closed her bedroom door behind her. She dropped the items on the floor outside of her bedroom and reached up and gave him another quick hug. As an afterthought, she leaned in and kissed him on the cheek. “Just remember; the number’s on the fridge if you need it.”

  Stephen gave her a perplexed look as he watched her pick up the remainder of her things and leave.

  When she got outside, Jane was perched against the front fence, with her back to the house. She made no effort to turn around at Maggie’s advancing footsteps and Maggie made no attempt to approach her. “You better make sure you tell him,” Maggie warned, without looking back, “because if you don’t, I will.”

  Chapter 46

  Saturday, 14 December 1968

  With her knees forced up under the steering wheel, Maggie used both hands to tie her hair back in a rubber band. She wound the window the remaining way down, and let the breeze dry the sweat on her face. She calculated she only had another fifteen minutes before she’d arrive. She really should have paid more attention to the verdant surroundings, she told herself. She knew that the drive always filled her with a sense of excitement and anticipation equal to that of a child at Christmas, but today, she felt that she was entitled to her misery and she was reluctant to let it go.

  Thinking of Christmas, Maggie wondered what it had in store for her this year. A week ago, she could have listed the festive ingredients with certainty; lots of laughter, good food, more good food, wonderful weather, and most importantly, her family, whom she loved dearly; but today, she was n
ot so sure. She still loved her family dearly, that had not changed. She still loved Peter too, despite the anger she felt towards him, but following the day’s proceedings, she doubted that Christmas would ever be the same again.

  She mulled over the events in question for the hundredth time since leaving Sydney. She tried to make sense of everything and failed. Thinking about it only made her gloomier and did nothing to quell the dull ache she felt growing in her stomach. She needed to stand up and stretch; the emotional strain coupled with sitting in the car for almost three hours was taking its toll.

  Ignoring her discomfort, Maggie turned the car into Martinsville Road and automatically slowed down in anticipation of the gravel road ahead. The bumpy surface and clouds of dust were there to greet her as usual, only this time, without ceremony. Under normal circumstances she would have been thrilled to reach this advanced stage of her journey, or the almost there road as it had affectionately been named by the kids, but today she barely noticed the texture of the road, or the beauty that graced its flanks. Sights that had previously delighted her senses; the picturesque countryside, richly coloured in every shade of green, despite the scorching sun, the clear, cool creek that trickled underneath the road and off into the bush, its destination unknown. Such a vast array of wonders, all of them left to drift by, overlooked by Maggie. Even the eventual appearance of their letterbox, styled in the fashion of a birdhouse, and the memory of its ghastly red predecessor could not coax a smile from her. She turned Morrie into the driveway and drove the remaining distance with a grim face.

  Maggie brought the car to a stop out the front of Bellbird Cottage. Instead of seeing its usual charm, which was partly generated from the natural beauty and tranquility of the surroundings and partly from the warm memories that the dwelling incited, she only noticed the abundance of weeds that had returned in her absence, and the bird’s nest in the rafters of the veranda. It had been a number of months since she and Peter had snuck away for a romantic tryst, and instead of delighting her as it usually did, Maggie growled at the idea that she would be spending the first couple of hours brushing cobwebs from ceilings and wiping dust from bench tops, and the like.

  Eager to get out of the car and shake off the layer of dirt that had formed as punishment for refusing to wind up her window, Maggie stepped out of the car and gave her clothes a good shake. The back of her skirt and blouse were damp from being trapped between hot skin and vinyl for so long, but the breeze created by flapping her clothes soon left her dry. She walked up the front steps to unlock the house, noticing as she did so that her skirt was still stuck to the back of her legs. She reached around to lift it from her skin, wafting it out and filling it with air to dry away the dampness. She unlocked the front door with one hand, and pushed on it with the other. As the door opened inwards a red smear across the white paint caught her attention and she instinctively reached up to touch it. Expecting the stain to remain, Maggie was surprised when it rubbed off on contact. It took her a second or two to realise that the smear was actually a set of prints made from blood, her blood.

  A cursory study of her hand confirmed that her fingertips were indeed sticky with blood, although she was unable to see the source. On closer inspection, her bloodied fingers revealed that she had not cut herself as she had expected, or if she had, the wound was too small to see with the naked eye.

  Baffled, she stood for a moment, halfway across the threshold, considering the possibilities. Before she could get her second foot in the door, she doubled up in pain; clutching at her stomach, she lost her balance and landed on the floor with a thump.

  “Christ almighty,” she managed through clenched teeth, before the next cramp seized her. By the time it hit, the pain was so intense it took her breath away. She tried to stand, but soon realised that it made the pain worse, so she stayed on the floor and watched in horror as the blood trickled down her thigh and onto the linoleum.

  After what felt like hours, but was in fact no more than a couple of minutes, Maggie considered what to do next. The pain was still quite sharp, but not so bad that she could not stand. As much as she wanted to sit on the floor and bury her head in her hands and cry, she found the idea of sitting in her own blood nauseating. She dragged herself up, cursing, “Fuck! God damn! Shiiittt…”

  Her last curse became a scream of frustration as another spasm hit and she doubled over once more. She sank to the floor in misery, no longer caring where she sat or what she sat in. When the next contraction came, milder than the previous one, but significant enough to cause her body to tense in anticipation, her concern gave way to anger.

  Anger was good, she told herself; it dulled the ache in her tummy and gave her strength – strength enough to know that she had to do something. She considered dragging herself upright and getting some help, but swore again when she contemplated where the hell she would go. There was no phone at the cottage and the closest neighbour was at least a mile away.

  Besides, what would she do; call for a doctor? Maggie didn’t need a doctor to tell her what was happening. She already knew.

  She was miscarrying Peter’s child.

  Chapter 47

  Tuesday, 25 December 1979

  Dad stood up and tapped his fork on the side of his glass. “Can I have a bit of quiet please?”

  Everyone looked at Aunty Sharon who kept talking. She was too busy giving Uncle Dave a hard time to realise that everyone else had stopped. They’d only been here a short time and they were arguing already.

  “That’s crap and you know it. I told you last week that we were having…” she realised everyone was looking at her and stopped mid-sentence.

  “Looks like the honeymoon’s over,” Uncle Mick said smugly.

  If looks could kill, Uncle Mick would be dead. “Why don’t you mind your own business,” she snapped.

  “Ooh, she bites.”

  Dad was quick to interrupt. “Alright, that’s enough; let’s not forget it’s Christmas.”

  Dad was always trying to keep the peace between Uncle Mick and Aunty Sharon. They haven’t got along since Aunty Sharon accused Uncle Mick of trying to crack onto her at Uncle Dave’s twenty-first. Uncle Mick reckons it was the other way around. He said that she’d been giving him the eye and flirting with him all night. Aunty Audrey called Aunty Sharon a slut and they had a catfight, which Dad had to break up. Afterwards, Aunty Sharon threatened to bar them from her wedding, but Uncle Dave invited them anyway.

  We all looked expectantly from Aunty Sharon to Uncle Mick. Dad had to compete for our attention by raising his voice. “I just want to wish everyone a merry Christmas and a happy New Year,” he said.

  Everyone immediately wished him merry Christmas in return. “Hang on,” he shouted over the top of everyone, “I’m not done yet.”

  He waited for the noise to stop before continuing. “I also want to say thank you to all you lovely ladies for the scrumptious food.” He patted his belly and put on a posh accent. “I don’t know about everyone else, but I’m stuffed.”

  Everyone clunked their glasses together and drank a toast.

  Mum stood up and playfully pushed Dad back down onto his seat.

  “Thanks, Dan,” scoffed Uncle Dennis, “look what you’ve started now.”

  Mum cleared her throat. “Ahem,” she said, ignoring Uncle Dennis, “if you don’t mind, I’d like to say a few words also.”

  “Sorree,” he said, giving her a bow.

  Mum put on the same posh voice as Dad. “I’d like to propose that since we ladies did such a grand job with the cooking, the blokes get the job of clearing up.”

  “I’ll toast to that,” Aunty Joanne called.

  “Hear, hear!” added Clare.

  Despite some good-natured whinging, the men got up and followed Dad inside. Uncle Dave started to get up, but the look on Aunty Sharon’s face dropped him back in his chair. “Come on Shaz, you heard Mel; the blokes have to clean up.”

  She wasn’t letting him off the h
ook that easily. “God David, why do you have to help; we didn’t even eat here.”

  “Well, we would have if you hadn’t insisted we stay at your parents’ place all day,” he shot back.

  “Jesus Christ, you don’t let up do you? I told you weeks ago that we were having Christmas with Mum and Dad.”

  “And did I complain? No, I bloody well didn’t. I sat there like a good little son-in-law and listened to your dad’s stupid jokes all afternoon.”

  Aunty Sharon started to pout. “You know I’m all they’ve got.”

  “Fair go Shaz, they were at least a dozen other people there today.”

  “So?”

  “So, you’re obviously not all they have.”

  “You’re a bastard; you know exactly what I’m talking about.”

  “I do? You could’ve fooled me.”

  Her bottom lip started to quiver and her eyes filled up with tears. “I’m talking about Scotty.”

  What a drama queen, her brother died when she was sixteen and she’s in her twenties now. However, Uncle Dave understood that to continue the argument would be a disaster. Even I was smart enough to realise that once she got teary-eyed, things got ugly fast.

  “Don’t be like that Shaz,” said Uncle Dave, “I didn’t mean it; it’s just that we’re always at your parent’s place and I hardly ever get to see my family.”

  Uncle Mick stood on the top step staring at Aunty Sharon. “You coming Dave?”

  Aunty Sharon shot him a filthy look and crossed her arms. Uncle Mick waited until Uncle Dave wasn’t looking and blew her a kiss. Sharon challenged him to defy her. “No he’s not,” she barked.

  Uncle Mick raised his hands in surrender.

  ***

  Uncle Dennis looked like a spastic. He stood at the sink wearing the red and blue Christmas hat he got out of the cracker and Mum’s apron. He was washing the saucepans and Uncle Mick was drying them. Neither of them heard me come in.

  “…Too right mate,” Uncle Dennis agreed, “now they’re driving our bloody cars.”

  Uncle Mick took the cigarette from where it hung in the corner of Uncle Dennis’ mouth. He took a drag and put it back. “Exactly,” he said, blowing out the smoke, “first our jobs, then our cars; what’s next?”