She lay on her bed in the dark for a long time, staring at the bright red numbers of the new digital clock radio she’d unwrapped that morning. She must have fallen asleep because the little LED numbers read 11.30 pm when she looked again. They kept turning over, until at 2 am all the familiar night noises changed and a curious, curved beam of light travelled over the foot of her bed. The white glow illuminated the bedside table, passing over the walls and the ceiling until the room fell into blackness again. A car door banged and the front gate clanged back against the old milk can mailbox. Feet shuffled over the gravel path and a fist pounded on the front door. The crickets that chirped unfailingly each night suddenly stopped, as if they wanted Maggie to hear the voices. The only night noise that continued was the muted and ominous oom-oom, oom-oom sound of the tawny frogmouth with its bird’s-eye view of the porch from the big, old tree out front.
Sneaking a peak through a gap in the louvres, and under a full moon, the police car was easy to make out in the street, the sight of it speckling Maggie’s neck and arms with goose bumps, despite the warm September night air. The bare bulb on the porch flickered, illuminating the uniformed figure at the front door. As daughter of the local minister she’d been woken plenty of times by either a late-night visitor to the Manse or the shrill of the telephone. She didn’t need to hear the policeman’s words tonight to know a visit at such an hour generally meant bad news. Someone, somewhere in town, or on one of the properties further out, needed consoling or counselling. Any minute her father would invite the policeman in while he quickly changed out of his pyjamas and into the clothes he customarily laid out each night, kind of like a fireman’s outfit, ready to slip into when time was of the essence.
Only her father didn’t swing into action at all. Rather, he sank back into the darkness of the doorway, and she heard a sound she had never heard before, an inconsolable roar. ‘Not my boy! Not my Michael!’ The cry rose from the shadows, ripping through the early morning calm and sending a flurry of squawking birds from their perches.
The silence that followed was deep. Maggie fell back onto her bed, covered her head with the sheet and sobbed silent tears, scared that her life would never again be loud.
To this day, when she closed her eyes, Maggie could picture the policeman walking away from the little church residence, once her family home. He’d stopped to stare at the glass louvres as if sensing her there and Maggie saw his face. It was one of those sad, tired faces. Tired of being the bearer of bad news.
The aftermath of Michael’s funeral tore the town, and Maggie, in two. Half the folk were left shaking their heads in disbelief, while the other half vehemently and openly condemned one young man.
That memory from long ago wouldn’t allow Maggie to close her eyes tonight. The little pub bedroom was no longer dark, the combination of moon shadow and pressed tin on the ceiling creating strange shapes and playing with her mind. Maggie’s life had changed forever on that sixteenth birthday. The only thing to help her get through it then, and now, was telling herself Michael was with Mum.
God had had them both for so long.
And what did Maggie have? An absent, fame-obsessed musician husband, a stagnant marriage, an ailing father, a dwindling bank account, and now an all too alluring twenty-two-year-old female occupying a room not far away from an increasingly restless seventeen-year-old son.
8
‘Uh-oh!’ A grinning Will Travelli poked his head around the side of Big Bertha. The big red shiny coffee machine had been the love of his life, until the day Sara Fraser came home to the country. ‘Now, that is a give-me-the-strongest-coffee-you’ve-got look if ever I saw one.’
Maggie loved Will’s coffee, but maybe not so much today.
‘Not sure about this morning, Will. It may exacerbate my mood. I hardly slept last night.’
‘New guest giving you grief already?’
‘Have you seen my new guest? She’s her mother all over again.’
‘You mean trouble?’ Will laughed.
‘I mean too bloody gorgeous. When I wasn’t asleep having nightmares about female praying mantises eating their unsuspecting mate after sex, I was wide awake and ready to pounce the moment I heard Noah sneaking down the hallway.’
Will seemed amused. ‘They say dreams and reality are never far apart.’
‘You’re not helping and that’s not funny.’
‘Hi Maggie, what’s not funny?’ Sara appeared in the doorway of the café kitchen, a plate of muffins in her hand.
‘You know you married a joker?’
Sara laughed. ‘Sit down. Jennifer will be here soon. She’s found another marching band. You know the first band bailed. They figured the event had been called off when Amber didn’t return their messages.’
Maggie slid along the bench seat that ran the length of the café, admiring as always the difference Will’s makeover had made to Nick the Greek’s old takeaway from their youth. No more speckled laminate tables trimmed with chrome, no more vinyl-covered booths that stuck to your legs so badly in summer that you had to slowly peel your flesh away or else treat it like a Band-Aid and suffer the sting.
Will’s Wheely Great Café was undoubtedly the best coffee in town, better than the filtered variety Maggie served up at the pub. The café’s exterior was like most other shopfronts in the street: scarred facades, some thick with multiple layers of old paint and all with the same drab corrugated tin awnings. Inside was a different story: fancy spotlighting, all-stainless-steel countertops, and a long, fabric-covered bench seat running down the side wall with a dozen or more multi-coloured cushions as ad hoc backrests. Maggie shoved a blue oblong pillow in the small of her back.
‘Did Jennifer explain to the band people that the person who was organising the event died?’
Sara shrugged. ‘They said they’d booked another gig.’
‘You talking about that lousy band?’ Jennifer sighed and let her notebook drop heavily onto the table. She slipped into one of the wood and chrome chairs across from Maggie and hooked the heel of one foot on the edge of her seat, hugging a knee to her chest. Jennifer always sat the same way. The woman was almost the same age as Maggie, but like a string of spaghetti—and about as supple. ‘Can we have the meeting after work next time? I don’t do mornings.’
‘Nine o’clock is hardly early morning, Jen,’ Will chimed. ‘Most of the locals have done half a day’s work by now. Sara’s even baked muffins.’ He said the words with such pride, anyone would have thought his wife had single-handedly grown, harvested and stone-ground the wheat.
‘Okay, everyone, let’s get on with it. Jennifer, you’re taking notes this morning I assume?’ Sara took charge. Maggie noticed her friend did that a lot these days, quite a change from the girl constantly ribbed at school for having an annoying don’t-make-me-cry whine in her voice. But if anyone was allowed to moan Sara was, and if anyone deserved a happy ever after together, it was Sara and Will.
‘We have a week, folks. So far we’ve confirmed the following with regards to the fair day.’ Sara referred to some handwritten notes on papers in front of her. ‘We’ve received another float entry for the street parade and I’m waiting to hear back from another couple of Saddleton businesses. I’ve had confirmation from the school that every class, except Year 12, will be entering a float—or something that resembles a float. Some senior boys have put together a band. Both Saddleton and Rainbow Ridge schools are sending some kids out and Glen Innes is sending a marching band.’
‘Really? Glen Innes? Wow. That’s a trek for them. What sort of band?’ Will asked.
‘Umm, that would be bagpipes!’ Jennifer snorted. ‘What else would come from the Celtic capital of New South Wales? We were lucky to get them, too. Turns out they’re on their way home from an event on the Saturday. Twenty men in kilts might not be all bad, although it could be more excitement than the CWA ladies can handle if it’s a windy day.’
‘Okay people,’ Sara tried speaking over the cackles. ‘Minds out
of the gutter please.’ She was keen to curb the conversation’s latest turn due to the arrival of said Country Women’s Association ladies—two of them, at least.
‘Hi Val, Lorna.’ Jennifer waved at two empty seats. ‘Thanks for coming so early.’
The two women looked at each other as if to say what Will already had: Nine o’clock is hardly early.
‘Good morning, lovely ladies,’ Will said, slipping a coffee in front of his wife. ‘Your presence is a delightful addition to what is already a bevy of beauties.’
Sara shoved Will’s wheelchair so it rolled away, her stern look lasting all of the two seconds until he winked at her.
‘Ignore my husband,’ she said. ‘We were just about to discuss the family fun events scheduled for the sports ground. The Lions Club is running a cow pat bingo throughout the day. The school hall will need to be set up to accommodate artworks. We’ve already started accepting pieces. They’re stored behind the stage in the assembly hall. Outside we’ll have the tractor pull set up and hay bale hurdles in the afternoon.’
‘Shouldn’t we have the tractor pull in the morning before it gets too hot?’ Maggie suggested, wishing she’d thought to suggest they schedule the fair day for the Saturday, not Sunday, after the reunion night. ‘It doesn’t matter so much about the kids’ stuff in the afternoon. They’ll all hit the swimming hole afterwards anyway.’
‘Good idea. The tractor pull boofheads won’t be so full of brew before the event that way.’
‘You wanna bet?’ Will contributed from the back of the café.
‘Fine.’ Jennifer let out an exaggerated sigh and scratched several lines through her carefully typed event schedule. Then she huffed, in case no one had noticed the sigh and the frantic scribbling. ‘I’ll take it from here, thanks Sara. The street will be closed from seven in the morning so the stallholders can set up. We’ve got four tables allocated for jams and pie baking entries. The CWA ladies will judge them and Cheryl Bailey is happy to arrange that part. If it’s raining, they’ll shift into the school hall. There are two tables for the Lions Club sausage sizzle. That leaves one, two, three … about four spare.’ Jennifer’s finger ran over the paper in a double check. ‘Yep, four. The bottom end of the main street is where we’ll set up the farmers’ market.’
‘Having the farmers setting up fruit and veggie displays on the back of tray-top trucks is a great idea, but shouldn’t we keep them under the trees in the main street? At least then there’ll be shade. If these temps keep up we could end up with roasted pumpkin.’
More sighs and excessive scribbling by Jennifer.
‘Might go with roasted pig if you race them in the open sun.’ Will added, a deathly silence ensuing.
‘What are you on about?’ Jennifer asked. ‘What pig race?’
‘The one Charlie and Cricket were talking about at the pub the other night. The Pork Crackling Cup and the Ham and Bacon Stakes.’
‘Ignore him. He’s joking,’ Sara said.
‘Sorry, just pulling your leg, but I have arranged the bucking bull ride, Jen,’ Will added as if he’d somehow single-handedly scored a one-on-one interview with America’s talk show queen. ‘And so far three players from my old footy team are keen to come out and do a teaching clinic. Brashnee, Fitzi and Gilbertson.’
Jennifer finally stopped scribbling. ‘You mean Paul Brashnee will be here? In the flesh?’
‘Yep! Here we go, lovely ladies. Two Earl Greys.’ Will squeezed his chair in between Lorna and his wife. ‘And I do know Brash will be particularly keen to try out a bucking bull or two while he’s in town, Jen, so … Ouch!’ The crack of Sara’s hand against Will’s shoulder made Maggie smile.
‘Okay, can we get back to business?’ Sara said.
‘Good morning everyone. Noah said I’d find you all here.’
Maggie looked up to see a fresh-faced Fiona standing in the doorway. She’d obviously experienced no problem sleeping last night.
Confused by her arrival, Maggie couldn’t get her tongue around the girl’s name. ‘Ah, good morning, I, umm … the café’s not actually open yet. Is there something wrong?’ A problem at the pub was always Maggie’s first thought these days.
‘I don’t know. I’m here for the meeting.’
The girl’s matter of fact tone silenced everyone except Jennifer, who suddenly resembled a meerkat on high alert.
‘Meeting? What do you mean by meeting?’ she asked.
‘You are the planning committee for the centenary, aren’t you? I’m taking my mother’s place. I’ll be taking over the reunion event,’ the girl clarified, no doubt having interpreted the open-mouthed silence as confusion.
‘That part of the centenary is pretty much taken care of already,’ Jennifer insisted, quickly staking her claim as chief organiser of everything. ‘Your mum and I started on that a while ago and—’
‘Yes, Mother always knew how to throw a good party, and as I’m her daughter—as far as I know,’ she added for effect, ‘I’m sure I can be of assistance. Maggie did say you needed help. Perhaps we can start with introductions. You can tell me which portfolio you’re each in charge of.’
Portfolio? Maggie sat straight-backed as if the class teacher had called on her for the homework she’d left on the dining room table. ‘I, ah, okay, everyone. As you no doubt can tell, this is Amber’s daughter, Fiona. Fiona, this is Will and Jennifer and, ah …’ she stammered, feeling a million darts launch from Jennifer’s eyes. Last night, within Fiona’s earshot, Maggie had asked Ethne to cover a couple of her shifts as the committee was in need of as much help as possible during the final stages. Now the committee had more help than it had bargained for.
‘The reunion is organised,’ Jennifer repeated, her tone as firm as the pen tip now gouging lines through the notes on her sad, scribbled-over page. ‘Everything is absolutely under control. Ticket sales are covering catering costs. There’ll be drinks and canapés on arrival. After that, all other grog will be from the bar, manned by some SES blokes who’ve got their responsible service of alcohol certificate. We have a DJ. He comes with his own sound system, of course. I even negotiated disco lights and a mirror ball—no charge.’
Fiona seemed unperturbed, as if she hadn’t even heard Jennifer. ‘Well, my father … I mean Phillip—of course we all know by now that he’s not my real father—told me I had to make myself useful. So here I am.’
‘I believe he meant at the pub or helping your grandmother,’ Maggie said as plainly as possible. She’d told Phillip she’d be glad to let Fiona help out at the pub for the experience. While they already had additional help on the weekends, during the week Ethne often both cooked and delivered the meals while Maggie flitted between the dining room and the bar. Having another pair of hands would give Ethne a break. Fiona might be inexperienced at waiting tables, given she’d never had to earn a wage to further her education like Maggie had, but to know how to carry three or four plates, especially laden with Ethne’s generous servings, was a skill worth learning, in Maggie’s opinion.
‘I am actually qualified, Maggie. I can call you Maggie, can’t I?’ She didn’t wait for an answer. Maggie had a feeling that happened a lot. ‘I work in marketing, you know, and I’m very experienced with product launches and the media. You’ll know my work, I’m sure.’
The girl hardly paused for breath. Ethne was right. Fiona was like a windstorm sweeping through the town, taking everyone by surprise and spinning them around until they no longer knew which way was up.
‘You know the television commercial with the cat and the talking goldfish …?’ Fiona continued.
Will chuckled. ‘Not the one with that little ditty about the—’
‘It’s not a ditty. It’s an advertising jingle. A jingle I wrote. It’s what I do. I design advertising slogans and jingles. I’ve done a million launches, so I’m much better equipped for event management than table waiting.’
‘Well, that’s very impressive, Fiona,’ Jennifer quipped. If she was trying to hide
her annoyance, it wasn’t working. ‘As I said, we’ve got the event management side of things pretty well covered, especially given my vast food and beverage experience.’ Jennifer didn’t mention the so-called ‘extensive experience’ was courtesy of Will and his Wheely Great Café, their convivial host this morning. ‘Perhaps you can manage the coat-check table.’
Maggie and Sara both rolled their eyes at each other, while Will snorted, ‘Get real, Jennifer. Have you checked the temperature of late? Who’s going to be wearing a coat? Not me, that’s for sure.’
‘I did a long range weather check. They’re predicting rain.’
‘So what? They’ve been predicting rain in these parts since Noah was a boy.’ Will nudged his wife and laughed. ‘Get it? Since Noah was a boy.’
‘Maybe it’s not such a bad idea,’ Sara said, rubbing her arm. ‘The school has a cloakroom. We could get one of the kids to hand out tickets. Some men,’ she added, her eyes on Will, ‘and I’m referring to the sophisticated ones interested in making a good impression, might wear jackets and take them off once they’re inside.’
‘You mean all those metro males coming from the city? The ones who think the rest of us are lesser human beings because country sweat makes us smell like real men?’
Sara’s ski-lift nose twitched and scrunched. ‘Is that what I can smell?’
‘A man in a jacket cuts a dashing picture,’ Lorna offered, cheered on by Val’s nodding head. ‘I think somewhere they can put hats, or even the lady’s handbag, is a splendid idea, Jennifer. Just splendid. Don’t you agree, Val?’
More nodding. ‘And if it rains they might check muddy gumboots,’ Val added.
‘I’m sure you can add value to our planning, Fiona,’ Maggie said, keen to change subjects and finish the meeting. ‘Let’s get back on track, people.’
‘I agree. Join us by all means, Fiona.’ Sara slid the chair next to her away from the table and patted it. ‘Will can make you a coffee, unless you prefer tea?’
Simmering Season Page 6