‘Huh, tell that to Will’s mother. The woman questions everything, even the darn dress I’m wearing tomorrow night. But …’ Sara’s gaze dropped to her lap.
‘But what?’ Maggie asked, tentatively.
‘But I guess grandmothers question everything, especially when there’s a new bub on the way.’
‘What? You mean …? You’re pregnant?’
Sara nodded. ‘Found out when I came back from Sydney.’
‘Oh, Sara.’ The pair leaned into each other and hugged. Maggie could feel her eyes welling up as she sat back to fish out a tissue from her trouser pocket. ‘And the doctor is sure everything is …?’
‘I’m fine. Will’s fine. Obviously he’s more than fine.’ She giggled. ‘Talk about against all odds.’
‘Love prevails, eh?’
‘We’re not telling anyone else yet, just in case, but I know you can keep a secret—even in this town.’
‘Not easy, but yes. The joy of small-town living, until you have a secret you want to keep, that is.’
‘Tell me about it. Now, what about your outfit for tomorrow? All organised?’
‘I’m not sure whether to be excited or terrified, although I confess getting out of the same old work gear has a sense of Cinderella dressing for the ball, don’t you think?’
‘I’ve got a wicked mother-in-law. That’s close. I’m happy to lend her to you.’
Maggie was probably looking forward more to dressing up than anything else. A chance to feel feminine, appreciated, admired—none of which she’d felt in a long time, but she didn’t mention that to her friend.
‘My outfit is organised. Easy decision really.’ Maggie shrugged. ‘The joy of an unexceptional wardrobe. I’ll pass on the wicked stepmother alternative, but should you come across a fairy godmother who’ll turn a pumpkin into a carriage and a rat into a footman, send her my way.’ Both friends were laughing in hushed tones now. ‘Oh, and I wouldn’t say no to a prince to sweep me off my glass slippers.’
Maggie instantly regretted the throwaway line, aware of Sara’s inquisitive stare.
From the moment she’d arrived in Calingarry Crossing, Maggie had hidden behind a careful smile, one she’d been confident she could comfortably maintain for the short time needed to settle her dad into the home, sell the pub, and go again. She’d be in and out before anyone got to know anything about her or her small, uneventful life. As time went on, however, friendships formed and that careful smile soon turned into a series of lies, each carefully contrived cock-and-bull story necessary to paint a picture of happy domesticity. Lies might have covered the cracks in her relationship, but they also highlighted the smallness of her life now, like a snow globe she was standing outside of and looking in, examining the miniature landscape of her life with Brian. The trouble with a snow globe existence was the tiniest shake could whip up a storm. With Maggie’s storm not looking like settling any time soon, the lies couldn’t stop.
‘Maggie?’ the softly spoken Sara quizzed. ‘You do know if there’s ever anything you want or need to talk about …’
‘You’re a sweetheart, Sara, thank you for offering.’
Talking to someone like Sara might be good. The woman knew how to put a positive spin on anything. She’d been doing it all her life, even giving breast cancer the credit for helping her and Will get together. Maggie could tell Sara about her stagnant marriage, her guilt as she watched the Rev’s deterioration, her lack of honesty with Noah about his father, and her not wanting to sell the pub any more. But simply talking to a person about the weight of responsibility, even when that person was someone like Sara, wasn’t the same as having a partner to share that burden with you. That’s what Maggie missed the most. She was tired of carrying the load alone while Brian squandered their savings chasing shadows. But these were her problems. She’d deal with them in her own time and in her own way.
‘I’m fine, really. You’re probably best to check on those blokes and get a good night’s sleep. You’re carrying precious cargo now.’
‘You’re right. But the offer is always there.’ She bent down and kissed Maggie on the cheek. ‘Good job tonight. See you tomorrow, Cinderella.’
21
Maggie
No glass slippers had magically appeared by the side of her bed the next morning. Instead, Maggie shoved her not-so-delicate size nine feet into her fluffy pink scuffs and glanced out the window at the rolling grey storm clouds.
‘Not today. Not today. Not today,’ she chanted, while slipping into work gear and heading downstairs. This morning she’d start with carting glassware and catering equipment to the school hall.
The school was a hive of activity when she arrived with the first load of equipment. A group of students attacked stacks of classroom chairs and began lining the perimeter of the assembly hall in a way that reminded Maggie of school dances and wallflowers. A couple of teachers were helping some primary students adorn walls with paintings. The primary school students had attempted a collage project examining what the Centenary celebrations meant to them. There would be some proud parents here tonight.
Outside, Maggie glanced up at the sky. ‘You can be proud, too, Amber.’
And it would be great if you can do something to hold off the rain until Monday.
Fiona had made some surprisingly effective last-minute contributions to the event. The media release the girl had sent out as a regional interest story about the oldest known ex-student, Charlotte Gilbertson, attending had sparked a good response, resulting in some eleventh-hour interest. Additional ticket sales resulted from other ex-students seeing the Calingarry Crossing Facebook page Fiona had set up. Unfortunately, the additional numbers had sent the CWA ladies overseeing the catering into a flap, until Maggie came to the rescue, offering to drop the pub’s commercial-sized bowls and platters in to the canteen. No sense paying for things the hotel held in plentiful supply. Hiring the portable cool room now chugging away outside the canteen’s back door had already put a big enough dent in the event budget.
‘G’day, girlie.’ It was Barnacle Bill.
Maggie slammed the cool room door closed and waved back.
‘Ya haven’t got a cold one in there for three hard-workin’ men, have ya?’
Maggie laughed, feeling sorry for Barney and his mates stooped over red-hot coals and lamb carcasses in this heat.
‘I’ll see what I can do later,’ she called back.
At least the workers had shade; a brand-spanking-new awning over the quadrangle. Combined with a marquee, there was ample space and protection for 200 ticketed attendees and it was certainly better than cramming everyone into the musty school hall—home of uninspiring assemblies and cacophonous renditions of ‘Advance Australia Fair’ for twelve years of Maggie’s life.
The lingering aroma of three whole lambs cooking on homemade drum spits took Maggie back to her mother’s Boxing Day roasts and stinking hot summer days in a house made hotter still while whole onions, peeled potatoes and home-grown pumpkin sizzled in the oven. Maggie’s job had been turning the baked vegetables to ensure the crispiest golden colour all over. Then, while the Rev carved the meat, Maggie would turn the pan juices into a rich, thick gravy. First, a sprinkle of flour and hot water turned the meat dripping into an insipid goop, followed by a good serving of Vegemite to adjust both the colour and the taste. The memory of those meals, as wonderful as they were at the time, was now making Maggie queasy, but she put that down to nerves about tonight.
‘Oi! Maggie!’ Barney called as she walked back to the car. ‘While you’re at it you might want to check on your young visitor.’
‘You mean Fiona?’ Maggie winced. ‘What’s the girl up to now?’
‘Lookin’ a bit green around the gills when we saw her earlier. Not a fan of meat, I don’t reckon.’ All three men laughed as Barney did a re-enactment of Fiona’s vegetarian frenzy after she’d inadvertently stumbled across the trailer loaded with lamb carcasses.
‘Oh, I see. Thanks for
the heads up.’ Maggie laughed. ‘How about one of you gives me a hand with the load in my boot and I’ll see if I can rustle up those few beers. Then I’m off to make myself look eighteen again. That could take a while.’
‘Nah, love, you’ll knock ’em all dead just the way you are.’
‘Oh, you really are desperate for a beer.’
‘Ta dum!’ Maggie twirled for her audience of two, the pirouette intensifying the bilious sensation that had been lurking in her stomach since this morning. ‘Well, how do I look?’
‘Like you’re gunna chuck your guts up,’ Noah offered after a cursory glance.
‘Oh my God, do I really?’ Maggie abandoned the sophisticated pose and slumped against the wall, both arms cradling her sucked-in stomach. ‘I feel positively sick.’
‘What have you got to feel sick about, love?’ Ethne chuckled. ‘Belle of the ball. Very classy.’
‘I might have to stand all night.’ The little black dress—a favourite—hadn’t been off the hanger for a while. Five years was Maggie’s best guess. ‘Are you sure it doesn’t look too tight?’
‘Warning, Will Robinson,’ Ethne droned, arms flailing in a crazed robotic dance. ‘Your mum’s about to ask that question, and if you haven’t learned already, Noah Henkler, there’s no right answer you can give a woman when she asks, “Does my bum look big in this?” ’
Noah laughed so hard he almost spat his mouthful of sandwich.
‘Very funny, you two. I’m being serious.’ Maggie adjusted the shoestring halter straps for the umpteenth time and fiddled with the string of pearls sitting a little too snugly around her neck, accentuating every nervous gulp. ‘The pearls aren’t too much, are they?’
‘They’re okay on someone your age,’ Fiona said, joining Noah at the table and helping herself to the last piece of toast from his plate.
‘Hey, get your own,’ Noah grumbled, trying to snatch the triangle back, but Fiona moved away too quickly and was now circling Maggie.
‘Don’t you want to at least wear makeup?’ she asked.
‘I am.’
Two. Wrong. Words.
Ten minutes later, Maggie’s dried-up mascara had been revitalised with Max Factor’s Maximising something-or-other, fresh kohl eyeliner drawn on and smudged off again, mineral powder dusted on and brushed off again, and her natural lipstick blended with a glossy Siena Sunset.
Strangely enough, Fiona’s final tick of approval did reduce Maggie’s anxiousness a little. It reduced even more when the girl announced her decision not to attend the reunion.
‘I’ve decided I’ve got better things to do,’ she said when asked why.
Maggie thought about asking her to clarify. Were those better things just about tonight, or generally speaking? Did that mean she was reconsidering the idea of finding her real father, or was this nothing more than a ploy to put Maggie off the scent? Maggie could only hope that their conversation the other night had influenced the change of heart and that she genuinely did not want to cause trouble tonight.
Fiona continued, ‘Noah and I were talking the other day and, well, we decided we’d stay here and work on a song idea together. Right, Noah?’
Ethne muttered a blasphemous alternative to praising the Lord, smiled, and announced she would be leaving for her own big night out soon, her first Saturday night off in years. For all her outspokenness, the long-time barmaid remained intensely private, rarely volunteering information about what she did in Saddleton on her days off. While curious, Maggie never asked.
Ethne offered to drop Maggie at the school on her way out to save her a walk in the impressive but impractical high heels Fiona had insisted she wear. Maggie had to admit, while the strappy shoes were not glass slippers, they did make her feel a bit special; slimming her ankles was a bonus. That had to be worth a bit of pain. Besides, it was only one night and probably an early night. Maggie would make an appearance, make sure everything was going to plan and make an exit.
First though she’d have to make an entrance.
Maggie might have taken up Ethne’s offer of a lift had the light afternoon sprinkles of rain not stopped in time and had she not had a continuing sense of nostalgia from last night. The desire to start the evening by walking the same path she’d taken as a schoolgirl had been a nice idea until …
Bloody hell, her feet seemed to scream as she neared the school’s front gate. Where, oh where, were those comfy Clarks school shoes now?
Behind the pitched roof of the stark white marquee, the blackening western sky bled layers of orange and crimson. To the left were columns of sunlight ascending fan-like from a gap in the clouds, while to the right one distant and ominous cloud in the shape of an anvil loomed particularly low, firing occasional sprays of lightning like sparks from the strike of an old smithy’s hammer.
Looking at the number of cars parked nearby, many people had chosen to drive. The dirt paddock adjacent to the school accommodated the overflow from an already packed bitumen area and a steady but straggling line of partygoers tiptoed across the dirt like an unwavering line of ants keen to find shelter from the impending storm. Everyone seemed to be arriving in groups, while Maggie braved the red-carpet walk solo, further rattled by the eager crowd fussing at the entrance.
Her mouth was dry, the single strand of pearls tightening around her neck with each anxious swallow. Matching pearl earrings, the Mikimoto design her mother had worn on her wedding day, added a touch of sophistication to the dress’s simple sweetheart neckline. Fiona the Fashionista had confirmed as much as she’d swept Maggie’s hair into a proper French twist and secured it in place with her favourite turquoise clip, plus about a million bobby pins that would probably take four hours to find.
The old school looked wonderful, the slightly overcast conditions perfect. Had the sun been pelting down like it had the last few days, the front gate wrapped in flickering fairy lights would not have been nearly as effective. Coloured strands of bunting that would be stripped early in the morning and reused to line the street parade now laced the pathway to the assembly hall—the same path Maggie had scampered along as a girl when running late, usually because she’d slept in. At the entrance to the main building, someone with a camera was taking pictures, hustling handsome couples in front of a backdrop banner that included the old school emblem and the words ‘100 Years’.
Why hadn’t Maggie thought to volunteer for that job? Hiding behind a camera lens was the perfect school reunion survival tactic.
Damn!
With a deep breath to suck in her stomach and lift her chin, she smoothed the snug-fitting black dress with both hands and strode towards the entrance—all smiles.
‘My, my, if it isn’t the publican’s daughter,’ shrieked a voice at the end of the reddish-coloured carpet that was possibly the old runner rug from the church hall. ‘Maggie Lindeman. Don’t you look a-maze-zing! How the heck are you?’
Maggie flashed her best Colgate grin, stopping long enough to offer her cheek for the first inescapable air kiss of the evening.
‘Why, Genevieve Genford,’ she mimicked her tone, taking in the familiar jet-black hair, pasty complexion and predictably plain long-sleeved black jumper. ‘You don’t look any different.’ And she meant it. Could it even be the same black jumper Genevieve wore every day at school—and in this heat? At least these days the Gothic look might be considered a fashion statement. Back in school they’d nicknamed her Genevieve Jumper, and if there was ever a time to ask about the girl’s predilection for long sleeves it was tonight, especially given the temperature. Maggie was tempted; what good were reunions if they didn’t satisfy all those childhood curiosities?
‘Are you here alone tonight?’ Genevieve asked.
Not even in the door and there was awkward question number one.
‘Tonight … yes, I am,’ she said, hoping to sound like travelling solo was a once-off, an exception to the rule. ‘Hard enough getting myself organised,’ she quipped, deciding indifference and humour were her best
defence for the tough questions. ‘By the way, it’s no longer the publican’s daughter. These days it’s just plain publican. I’ve been running the pub since Dad moved into the home in Saddleton.’
‘I heard about that,’ a voice cut in. ‘Hello, Maggie, darling.’ Kimberly Freehill had appeared from nowhere, wrapping wibbly-wobblies around Maggie and squeezing so tight she inhibited the next breath. There was almost a pop sound when Maggie managed to extract herself. ‘Imagine you running the pub,’ Kimberly gushed. ‘But it’ll always be the Rev’s to me. He was the best. Say hello when you see him next.’
‘Will do,’ she said, genuinely delighted at hearing her father described as ‘the best’.
After passing her just-in-case brolly to the spotty-faced young boy Jennifer had roped in to man the makeshift cloakroom, Maggie slipped in behind two other couples to follow them through the assembly hall, past the bejewelled DJ happily partying all by himself under two short towers of coloured disco lights, and into the food marquee. A table of welcome drinks sat just inside the big-top tent and, with Houdini-like stealth, she snaffled a glass of champagne.
Fiona’s Memory Wall looked to be attracting plenty of attention and a few well-meaning sniggers. Even Maggie had to smile at the old class pictures: bumbling boys with big ears, graceless girls with centre parts and pigtails. A much smaller collection of photographs and memorabilia, one she hadn’t seen before, separate from the main display, caught Maggie’s eye.
So this was what had occupied Noah and Fiona today. The rather bleak high school obituary, a tribute to those whose lives had been cut short, seemed an incongruous addition to a night of celebration. Photographs, yellowing newspaper clippings, emails and handwritten notes from sad relatives adorned a small section of the wall. While respectfully done, the morbid display took Maggie by surprise, especially when she saw that at its heart was a stunning photo of a sixteen-year-old Amber Bailey above a small printed sign: We Miss Them.
Fiona was turning out to be a complex young woman and not as difficult as Maggie had initially thought. Perhaps she needed to give her a little more credit. The girl was clearly hurting more than she let on. She was, after all, her mother’s daughter and Amber had hidden her sadness from everyone, even those closest to her.
Simmering Season Page 17