A Place of Her Own

by Deborah O'Brien

  ‘That’s not on my agenda, Blake. Not ever. I was married to your dad. He’ll always be my husband.’

  ‘But it would be nice for you to have someone to share things with. We both worry about you being on your own.’

  ‘I’m not alone. I have a circle of friends. We look after each other.’

  ‘I know that, but I was talking about a man.’

  ‘I don’t need a man to make me happy, Blake.’

  ‘All I’m saying is that Tim and I would be delighted if you and Richard were more than friends.’

  ‘Impossible. He’s spoken for.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘His ex-wife has come back to town and reclaimed him.’

  ‘Oh. How have you coped with that?’

  ‘Well, actually, I’ve been seeing somebody else. Only for lunch so far, but I really like him.’

  ‘Is he a farmer?’

  ‘No, he’s a solicitor. About your dad’s age. In fact, he reminds me a lot of him. He makes me feel safe.’

  ‘Hmm,’ was Blake’s response.

  To Angie it sounded condescending. Then again, Blake often sounded that way.

  ‘I’m not a child, Blake,’ she replied haughtily. ‘I’m a mature woman who knows how to look after herself.’

  ‘That may be true, but vulnerable people of any age can suffer from substitution syndrome.’

  She knew he was waiting for her to ask for an explanation. When she remained silent, he supplied it anyway. ‘It’s a tendency to endow someone new with the qualities of the person you’ve lost.’

  ‘So that’s what you think I’m doing?’

  ‘It’s possible.’

  ‘Couldn’t there be a simpler explanation? What if I’m attracted to a certain type of man – the decent, loving, good-looking ones?’

  ‘You’re probably right. I just want you to be aware that you might be turning this man into Dad.’

  ‘Maybe you think I’ve turned my alpacas into substitutes for you and Tim.’

  ‘I wouldn’t be surprised, Mum.’ Fortunately he was laughing. ‘This solicitor guy is single, isn’t he?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ Did Blake know about Mr Songbird?

  ‘How old did you say he is?’

  ‘Early sixties.’

  ‘And he’s never been married?’

  ‘He’s divorced.’

  ‘So there’s baggage.’

  ‘Yes, he has a lot of that. Actually, he’s been divorced twice.’

  ‘Poor track record.’

  ‘I’m not intending to be Wife Number Three, Blake.’

  ‘Well, as I said before, watch out for a tendency to substitute. Better go.’

  ‘Phone me anytime, sweetheart, if you need to talk.’

  ‘I will. Love you, Mum.’

  ‘I love you too.’

  As she pressed the ‘End’ button on her phone, Angie felt annoyed. Despite the fact that she’d made a new life for herself, her elder son continued to treat her like a patient, warning about syndromes and disorders, counselling her about relationships, acting like her guardian. Just because she’d lost her husband didn’t mean she’d lost her mind. Why couldn’t he see that?

  ‘This seat free, Ange?’

  She didn’t bother answering. Of course it was.

  ‘Did you enjoy the films on Saturday night?’ he asked.

  ‘Casablanca has always been one of my top ten. But Now, Voyager was a bit of a disappointment. It’s really just one of those stories where nobody seems to notice the woman until she has a makeover. That’s so sexist.’

  ‘Not necessarily. It happens to blokes too. People don’t notice them when they’re scruffy and unshaven. Fallaces sunt rerum species.’ He gave her a wry smile. ‘It’s Seneca.’

  ‘I know. Appearances are deceptive.’ She always enjoyed match­ing wits with Richard. ‘The ending’s good though. When he puts both cigarettes in his mouth and lights them.’

  ‘You know it’s a metaphor, don’t you, Ange?’

  ‘I’m not the village idiot, Richard.’

  ‘What about when Bette Davis says they don’t need the moon because they already have the stars? Is she right?’

  ‘I’ve always believed you should never settle for less, not in matters of the heart.’ She gave him a quick look.

  ‘So you think Bette Davis and Paul Henreid settled for a platonic relationship when it should have been more?’

  ‘I don’t know, Richard. What do you think?’

  At that moment her mobile rang again. Was it Blake needing more support or offering further advice? No, it was Geoff Goodmann. Her cheeks were burning. She hoped Richard would think it was just a hot flush. The problem was those retractable antennae located inside his head. Lately, though, he seemed to be in an area with poor reception, a black hole. He hadn’t even noticed that Angie liked him when she’d made her stupid statement about just being friends. And he’d been taken unawares by Diana. It was strange the way he could be perceptive about certain things, yet blinkered about others.

  ‘Angela, I’m afraid I can’t do lunch on Friday,’ said Geoff.

  It was a relief, but also a disappointment.

  ‘I’ve been asked to speak at a memorial service for a local businessman, Tom Spencer. Your friends might know him. He lived in Flynns Bay all his life. Anyway, I’m sorry about Friday, but would you be free on Saturday?’

  She had guests arriving. ‘Sorry, I have plans for Saturday.’

  ‘How about the following Wednesday? That’s my golf afternoon, but I could cancel.’

  ‘I’m painting on Wednesday.’

  ‘What about Thursday? I’ll switch my schedule.’

  She’d run out of excuses. ‘Thursday’s free.’

  ‘Good. Let’s make it noon. Do you want to meet at the office or go straight to my place?’

  ‘Your place would be fine.’

  ‘I hope I didn’t embarrass you when I kissed you.’

  ‘Not at all. The kiss was lovely.’ As soon as she said it, she knew she shouldn’t have. She felt Richard’s gaze burning into her forehead.

  ‘I’m glad because I thought so too. I’ll see you on Thursday, Angela. Bye.’

  ‘Bye . . .’ She’d almost added ‘Geoff’. If she had slipped up, it wouldn’t have been a disaster. It was a common name. Geoff or Jeff. Still, best not to give any hints to the antenna man, who seemed intent on stirring his tea.

  ‘I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, Ange, but is there a man in your life?’

  ‘It’s early days.’ She searched his face for a change of expression. All she saw was a poker face. Perhaps he’d learnt it from Diana.

  ‘Is he a local?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘From Sydney?’

  ‘I met him when I was out of town.’

  ‘Ange, I know it’s none of my business, but are you aware that younger men can have ulterior motives?’

  ‘What makes you think he’s younger?’

  ‘I just assumed.’

  ‘Because of Mr Songbird?’

  When he didn’t answer, she said: ‘So you think he’s a toy boy who’s only interested in me for my money.’

  ‘No, I didn’t say that. But you are a widow with property.’

  She glared at him. ‘You don’t need to worry, Richard. Because he’s your age. And a wealthy man, not that I care about that.’

  ‘Old guys can be set in their ways, Ange.’

  ‘I’m not marrying the man. I’m just going out with him.’

  ‘Yeah, but he obviously wants more. Why would he invite you to his place otherwise?’

  ‘None of your bloody business.’

  Diana sat in the Millerbrooke kitchen, drinking her second coffee and waiting for Richard to return. He didn’t seem interested in
her any more. Sex had disappeared from their mornings, while at night he kissed her on the cheek, rolled over and went to sleep. This morning he’d said he was going to buy his stupid Danishes and pick up a few things at the stock and station agent. But he’d been gone for two hours. She had no doubt where he was. Visiting his dearest Jennie.

  Angie had been about to walk out on Richard when Bert, Moira and Jennie appeared at the door.

  ‘Come and join us,’ said Richard, moving his chair around the table so there was room for the others.

  Jennie took a seat beside him, while Bert and Moira pushed their chairs close together. Was something going on there? Then Angie’s attention was distracted by Jennie saying, ‘Richard, did you know that our Angie might be standing as a FOTE candidate in the council by-election?’

  Richard looked genuinely shocked. ‘No, she didn’t tell me.’

  ‘I’m not a candidate. It’s just an idea that was mooted at lunch yesterday. It’s not serious.’

  Jennie continued as if Angie hadn’t spoken. ‘I’ve thought of a way of financing your campaign. A range of tea towel designs. We could have them printed with some of your other sketches. The church, the Manse. The tourists would love them.’

  ‘Look, everyone, I have a business to run,’ Angie protested.

  ‘All the councillors have their own businesses. There are even a couple of farmers. It’s not as if it’s a full-time position like a member of parliament,’ said Bert.

  ‘Councillor Angie Wallace. I like it,’ said Jennie.

  ‘Being a candidate would provide an excellent opportunity to promote your cause, Ange,’ said Richard. ‘I wouldn’t worry about the workload. After all, it’s not as if you could possibly win.’

  She turned towards him. Had he just said, ‘It’s not as if you could possibly win’? She was already cranky with him, but now she was furious. Well, she would show him.

  ‘Do you know, guys, I think I might be interested. How do we go about it?’

  ‘The procedures would be online,’ said Moira. ‘We could have a look this afternoon.’

  ‘I’ll get the tea towels organised,’ said Jennie. ‘And we could set up a website to sell them.’

  Already the process was in motion – the Millbrooke snowball effect. Even if Angie wanted to stop it, she couldn’t. Besides, she was as determined about this as she had been about anything in her life. Her friends and family had doubted her ability to settle in a country town and make a new life for herself, and she’d done it anyway. Surely running for council couldn’t be any more difficult. And imagine the look on Richard Scott’s face if she actually won.

  Diana steered her blue sedan down the gravel drive leading out of Millerbrooke and turned right into Brooke Road. Then she headed into town. As she drove along Miller Street, she was on the lookout for Richard’s white ute. The problem was the whole street was packed with utes, all neatly angle-parked. She eliminated the vehicles with signage on the doors and the others with yapping dogs. Richard never took any of the dogs to town. She tried to remember his numberplate. It had an H and an E and maybe a two. Bugger.

  She did a circuit of the town, checking the side streets. Plenty of utes there too. Any one of those houses with a ute in the driveway could belong to Jennie. Finally she drove back to the main street and parked opposite the café with the pottery on display, the one that was going to be turned into a wedding reception place. If she were the owner, she’d demolish it and start afresh. Idly she glanced across to the other side of the road. Seated behind the window of the café were Richard Scott and his blonde bimbo, their chairs pushed close together. The two of them were talking animatedly with the llama lady, the old guy with white hair and stuffy old Moira.

  The sight of Dearest One and her Devoted Suitor taking tea together made Diana’s blood boil. And as she watched them, absorbed in each other’s company, the pieces of the plan that had been forming in her head suddenly fell into place.

  13 SOFT-SHELL CRAB

  On painting day Narelle brought a folder full of printouts about Charles Junior. She could be single-minded when she had a mission. She’d even obtained a photo circa 1916, courtesy of the Australian War Memorial.

  ‘That was my department,’ protested Jennie.

  ‘Why are you complaining? You haven’t done a damned thing yet,’ said Narelle.

  ‘Now, girls,’ Moira interceded. ‘What’s important is that we have his picture. And isn’t he stunning in his uniform?’

  Everyone agreed he could have been a double for his father – almond-shaped eyes, full lips topped by a thin moustache, tall and dignified.

  ‘I’ve found his wife too, from their marriage certificate. Mary Coglin, born in Millbrooke in 1879. They were married in 1900.’ Narelle passed around a copy of the certificate.

  ‘Isn’t it odd she’s referred to as a “Spinster”?’ said Tanya. ‘She was only twenty-one.’

  ‘That’s what they used to do for an unmarried woman. No matter what her age,’ explained Narelle.

  ‘Any children?’

  ‘Give me a break, Moira. I have a real life, you know. I’m raising two kids on my own. I can only research Charles Junior once they’re asleep.’

  ‘Wouldn’t it be wonderful,’ said Angie, ‘if we could track down the modern-day descendants? I wonder if there are any left.’

  ‘You could invite them to the opening of Amy’s exhibit at the museum,’ said Tanya.

  ‘That’s a good idea,’ said Angie, ‘but it’s going to be a low-key event, if we even have an opening at all.’

  A timid voice from across the table said, ‘I found some information too.’ It was Louise. All heads turned in her direction. ‘It’s an article in the Gazette about Charles going to uni.’

  She held up the printout.

  Millbrooke Man Wins Scholarship

  Mister Charles Chen Junior of Paterson Street, Millbrooke has been awarded a scholarship to the University of Sydney to study for a Bachelor of Arts degree. While he is undertaking his studies, Mister Chen will be residing with his great-aunt, Mrs E. Mackenzie in Newtown.

  Following his degree Mister Chen hopes to study at a theological college in preparation for becoming a minister of religion.

  ‘What’s the date, Louise?’ asked Angie.

  ‘January, 1890.’

  ‘He would have been sixteen.’

  ‘There’s another piece too, Angie. From 1917.’

  Angie and Moira exchanged solemn looks.

  King Grants Millbrooke Hero Posthumous Award

  Today the Gazette pays tribute to a great hero, Major Charles Chen Junior, son of Mrs Charles Chen and her late husband, who has been posthumously awarded the Distinguished Service Order for his valiant service as an AIF chaplain in France. Major Chen died on 11 April during the fighting at Bullecourt.

  The citation published in the London Gazette of Friday, 3 August reads:

  ‘Chen, C.A., Major, Chaplaincy, Aus. Imp. Force

  ‘For conspicuous gallantry throughout his period of service as a chaplain. Time and again, while under heavy shell fire, Major Chen has rendered assistance and succour to the troops, while disregarding any danger to himself.’

  The medal will be presented to Major Chen’s widow, the former Miss Mary Coglin, who is well known to Millbrooke residents as the daughter of our farrier, William Coglin.

  The Gazette again offers its deepest condolences to the Chen and Coglin families on the loss of a brave officer and a fine husband, son and father.

  ‘A Distinguished Service Order!’ exclaimed Angie. ‘Why didn’t I pick up on that? It must have been in that printout I downloaded from the National Archives, and I didn’t even see it.’

  ‘It was a hectic time for you, Angie,’ said Moira. ‘Buying the Manse, setting up your business. You could easily have missed something like that among all the p
aperwork.’

  ‘Thank you for uncovering it, Louise,’ said Angie. ‘I feel as proud as if he were my own son.’

  The class always broke up around three when Narelle and Tanya went to pick up their children from school. They wandered out to their cars, with Angie helping to carry painting gear and canvases. Suddenly they heard a scream from the direction of Jennie’s shiny black Audi with its personalised numberplates.

  Jennie had dropped her basket on the ground, scattering brushes and tubes of acrylic paint onto the nature strip. Staring at her car, she was repeating, ‘Oh my God!’ Angie ran over to her and saw it first. Then all the others gathered around, speechless. Someone had run a key along the side of Jennie’s new black sedan, not once but over and over again. Even worse, they’d scratched the words ‘Whore’ and ‘Slut’ into the bonnet. Angie checked the other side. It had been keyed as well. And on the driver’s door was the vandal’s pièce de résistance: the ‘c’ word.

  Narelle and Tanya had to go and collect their children, but the others took Jennie into the house where Moira made her a coffee laced with brandy.

  ‘It’s the same person, isn’t it? She’s followed me to painting. Maybe she even knows where I live.’

  ‘Do you want me to ring Mark?’ asked Angie.

  ‘No, I don’t want to disturb him. He’ll be busy getting his kids onto the school bus.’

  ‘Well, let’s call Sergeant Peters. He’ll know what to do,’ suggested Moira.

  ‘No, please don’t. It’ll be all over Millbrooke by teatime. She must have realised she couldn’t phone me any more, so now she’s done this,’ Jennie said between sobs.

  ‘Everything will be okay, Jen,’ said Angie. ‘We’ll come up with a way of fixing the car before anyone sees it.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘We’ll move it into the drive and give the graffiti a cover-up. We can use a mop brush and black acrylic to cover the scratches. It will only be a temporary measure, but at least you will be able to drive around Millbrooke without people knowing what happened.’

  In half an hour the ladies had covered the damage. If you looked closely, you could see the matt finish of the acrylic paint against the shiny duco, but from a distance it was quite effective. And it would do until Jennie could take the car to Granthurst to have it resprayed. In the meantime, everyone was worried that an angry woman was stalking Jennie, but nobody wanted to voice their concerns in front of her.