by Fiona Lowe
Primrose rolled her eyes. ‘Darling, you’ve never been sweaty in your life. Fortunately, I love you, otherwise I’d have succumbed to jealousy of the Mannerings’ Midas touch years ago.’
The guilt that was inexorably tied up with their long friendship, and which lay mostly dormant these days, suddenly flared, scorching Edwina as if it was the summer of 1968 all over again. She was eighteen—beautiful and poised on the outside, dying on the inside, and standing on a white and purple agapanthus–lined gravel driveway, expanding the lie to her friend that had started the year before.
‘Rosie, it was just a car.’
Primrose shook her head with the certainty of someone who clearly saw the absurdity of the statement. ‘It was freedom. I never understood why you didn’t take what it offered and drive far away. I would have.’
It wasn’t the first time Primrose had expressed her confusion but it had been many years since Edwina had last heard her speak of it. Her reaction however, hadn’t changed and her chest tightened with a familiar twist. She wanted to yell, It wasn’t freedom, it was a shackle without a key, but she swallowed the words. One didn’t shout in public or private and today wasn’t the day to change the habits of a lifetime. Or tell Primrose the truth. Instead, she fell back on the lie that had served her for forty-eight years.
‘I met Richard.’
‘Richard and his bloody yellow Triumph,’ Primrose said with the unmistakable hint of regret. She’d never been overly fond of Richard and in true Primrose style, she’d never bothered to hide it. Edwina appreciated that her friend, unlike other people in town, hadn’t suddenly started speaking of Richard reverently now that he was dead. ‘You know, Edwina, there’s a yellow Triumph Spitfire here today.’
‘Is there?’ Edwina mustered some enthusiasm. Richard really had gone to a lot of effort in the weeks before he proposed. There’d been fun and laughter in that old Triumph. Sadly, it hadn’t lasted. ‘I should show the boys.’
‘See you at six then?’ Primrose asked, referring to the CWA breakfast the next morning.
‘God, it’s a crazy hour.’
Primrose, who’d married a dairy farmer forty years ago, laughed as she walked away.
The yellow Triumph Spitfire’s gleaming chrome shone dazzlingly bright in the afternoon sunshine. It was while Edwina was chatting with the owner that Steve arrived to collect the boys.
‘Daddy!’ The twins threw themselves against their father. ‘Gramps asked Mardi to marry him in this car.’
Surprise lit up her son-in-law’s stubble-covered face as if he was having trouble aligning his taciturn father-in-law with the man who’d once owned a canary yellow racing car. ‘Really? This car?’
‘Not exactly,’ she said with a half smile, ‘but one very similar.’ The initial memories that had been unlocked by the presence of the car were being followed thick and fast by many more. They buffeted her like waves pounding against the golden sands of the surf coast. ‘He loved that car. I’m not sure he ever forgave me when we had to sell it for the far more practical station wagon once Harriet was born.’
‘I can understand that.’ Steve grinned as he ran his hand lovingly over the sleek sporting lines of the vehicle. ‘I had no idea Richard was into sports cars. What other secrets did he have?’
‘Far too many to mention, dear,’ Edwina said lightly, hoping the smile on her face hadn’t cracked, fallen and opened her up to more questions.
‘Daddy!’ the twins implored. ‘We’re hungry.’
‘Now why doesn’t that surprise me?’ Steve pulled the brims of the twins’ hats down. ‘Edwina, do you want to come and have some wood-fired pizza with us?’
It was kind of Steve to include her but then again there was nothing about Steve Paxton that wasn’t kind and considerate. She could understand why Xara had been drawn to him from the very first time she’d met him. Why she’d stood up to Richard when he’d asked her if she could bear to live a life where she out-earned her husband and where the farm would come first in every one of their marriage transactions. Edwina had thought that question particularly rich given Richard’s surgical practice had taken precedence over their marriage. Actually, to be fair, that wasn’t strictly true: she’d known from the start she wasn’t just marrying Richard but the practice too.
As her father—glass of whiskey in one hand, pipe in the other—had so succinctly pointed out, Richard needed her name and the leg up her social standing in town provided and she needed the respectability of his career. He’d talked of a practical match, warned her that even the best-kept secrets had a way of coming to light at the most inopportune times and really, she had no choice but to accept the up-and-coming doctor. Then he’d eyed her from beneath his bushy grey eyebrows and said, ‘Given what you’ve put your mother and me through this last year, it’s the very least you can do. It’s time to grow up and live a life worthy of a Mannering.’
Edwina found herself shaking her head against the memory as if the action would shift it and its bitter legacy from her mind. It had been decades since she’d thought about that conversation and yet one small yellow Triumph Spitfire seemed to have brought it all rushing back.
‘Another time then.’
Steve’s matter-of-fact voice broke into her thoughts and she realised he’d taken her headshake as a refusal of his invitation. That hadn’t been her intention at all; pizza with the twins and Steve was something she’d enjoy. But given the barrage of memories she was currently wrestling it was probably better if she spent the evening in the sanctuary of Glenora.
She opened her purse and pressed a five-dollar note into each boy’s palm. ‘That’s for ice cream and I want to you to call me tomorrow and tell me all about the other cars.’
The boys agreed and kissed her goodbye, as did Steve, and she watched them walk into the sizeable crowd. It might be a Thursday night during the school term but like any country town, Billawarre embraced events that gave people a chance to ease the isolation of rural life and help put some money into the civic coffers. A folk group had replaced the high school band and the sounds of a miked fiddle swam through the warm evening air, making her toes twitch. She crossed the crowd, dodging between couples and families, dogs and strollers, and made her way to the opposite side of the median strip.
‘Edwina!’
She turned and paused, watching Harriet slip her arm from James’s. If he was aware Harriet had pulled away he didn’t show it as his concentration remained firmly on his conversation with two men wear driving hats. They were probably the organisers of the car rally and James was schmoozing and thanking them for their choice of making Billawarre an overnight stop.
Harriet hurried over to her. ‘James is about to do the official welcome and then we’re going to Lemongrass for dinner. You’re welcome to join us.’
The idea of making polite conversation with car enthusiasts all evening wasn’t enticing. Your life’s been one long polite conversation. The thought struck her as hard as a clenched fist against bone and she automatically sucked in a surprised breath.
‘Are you okay?’ Harriet’s forehead creased in an impatient frown. This daughter was frequently irritated with her. Sometimes Edwina thought that Harriet had stepped in to take on Richard’s role now that he was no longer around to grind his teeth or sigh at her.
‘I’m fine, Harry, just a bit tired.’ She gave a faint laugh. ‘I’ve had the twins for the last hour.’
‘Oh, God, really?’ Harriet looked horrified. ‘Xara should know better.’
‘I’m sixty-four, Harriet, not ninety,’ she said rather more waspishly than she’d intended. ‘According to recent articles in the Women’s Weekly, I’m a woman in my prime. I’m more than capable of giving your sister a hand now and then.’
Harriet’s blue eyes flashed silver. ‘I work full time, Edwina, and I lend Xara Charlotte in the holidays.’
Harriet’s snappish reaction surprised Edwina and once again she was faced with the unerring fact that despite forty-five years o
f being her mother, she didn’t understand Harriet at all. Even if Harriet did have time to spare she was so uncomfortable in the company of children that any attempt at child minding was a disaster. There was an odd irony in the fact that Charlotte was a counterpoint to her mother in this regard: she was a natural with kids. With all the talk of Charlotte pursuing medicine as a career, Edwina had wondered more than once if she’d specialise in paediatrics.
Edwina had an urge to reach out her hand and give her daughter’s arm a squeeze as if to reassure her that Xara didn’t expect her to mind the twins, but she didn’t. She and Harriet didn’t have that sort of mother-daughter relationship, so she tried words. ‘We all help the best ways we can. Could you have a word to James and get him to find out what the hold-up is for the respite-care house money?’
Harriet gave one of her annoyed sighs. ‘I’ve already done that. Honestly, the power-hungry pen pushers in that council need a bloody great bomb under them. James deserves a medal for what he’s taken on as mayor.’ As her brief rant came to an end she seemed to remember her original purpose. ‘Are you coming to dinner?’
It was a duty offer and a knot of sadness tightened inside Edwina at the thought that duty was the only thing she and Harriet had in common. ‘Thank you for the invitation, but I think I’ll pass. I have to be up before dawn tomorrow for the CWA breakfast.’
‘It’s good you’re involved again,’ Harriet said briskly and approvingly as if Edwina had just given her one less thing to worry about. ‘You’ve locked in family dinner at Miligili Saturday week?’
‘Yes, darling, it’s in the diary.’ She almost said, Thank you for not organising a big birthday party, but she changed her mind at the last minute, not totally certain it wasn’t still on the cards. ‘I’m looking forward to seeing Charlie. I talked to her at Georgie’s last week and she seemed a bit low.’
Harriet pursed her lips. ‘I’m still cross with Georgie for not taking Charlotte straight back to school on Friday night. It doesn’t look good when the rowing captain goes AWOL just because she’s not picked for the eight. Yes, her shoulder was a problem but she knows better than that. I’ve had a long and serious telephone conversation with her, explaining that we all have to learn to live with disappointment, be a team player and soldier on.’
Edwina wasn’t certain Harriet had ever truly experienced disappointment in her life. ‘She sounded exhausted to me.’
‘Yes, well, Year 12’s a big year. If she’s tired she needs to wait until the holidays to sleep,’ Hilary said crisply. ‘Fortunately, I was able to smooth things over with the coach and it helped that Georgie got her back in time to be seen at the regatta. Thankfully, she avoided being stripped of her captaincy and tipped out of the team altogether.’ A visible shudder ran through Harriet and her hand gripped her handbag just that little bit tighter. ‘Thank God, she’s put it all behind her now. She’s training hard for Head of the River and we’re driving up to Nagambie tomorrow.’
Edwina remembered the huge weekend of socialising that accompanied the regatta, starting with the Friday-night cocktail party and ending with the school rowing luncheon. She was glad those days were behind her. ‘You’ve got a very busy weekend.’
‘We have. Do you want to know what I’m looking forward to the most?’ It was uncharacteristic for Harriet to even pause to ask; generally she just assumed people were interested.
‘Seeing Charlie?’
‘Well, yes, obviously, although I’ll have her at home for two weeks soon.’ A wistful expression crossed her face. ‘Actually, I’m really looking forward to the three-and-a-half-hour drive to Nagambie, because it means I’ll have James to myself.’ Then as if she’d said too much, she leaned in and quickly air-kissed Edwina’s cheek. ‘I’d better go and do the mayoress thing.’
Harriet strode away over the grass, the uneven ground not daring to cause any upset or mayhem with her high heels. It made Edwina think of Primrose’s earlier comment about the Midas touch of the Mannerings. She didn’t believe in it but when she thought about Harriet’s life she was tempted to be swayed by the argument.
Stepping down from the raised median strip onto the road, she found herself standing between two cars. One was a sparkling blue EJ Holden station wagon with its distinctive white roof rack and side venetian blinds and the other was a stunning red E-Type Jag.
She blinked to clear the image, convinced that she must be imagining those two particular vehicles side by side, because what were the odds of it actually happening? Her eyes came back into focus but the cars remained unchanged. It was as if the day was conspiring to keep her pulled firmly back in the past she’d spent so much time not revisiting. Part of her wanted to walk away but another part stayed her feet, urging her to stop, sit and remember.
The Holden was in far better condition than the one she’d laid under in 1967. This one didn’t reek of oil and dust and its engine was so clean as to be unrecognisable. Her hand lingered on the door-frame as she peered into the all-blue interior, remembering how she’d sat on the bench seat, her hot skin sticking to vinyl as she’d bounced over the paddocks struggling to conquer the column shift.
‘You can sit in her if you want, love,’ a portly man called out from where he was seated on a folding chair under the shade of an elm.
‘Are you sure?’
He dragged in hard on his cigarette. ‘You’re a pretty good bet, love. Doubt you’d be able to handle the column shift to make a quick getaway.’
Edwina’s chin shot up despite herself. ‘I could give you a run for your money on handling that shift. I learned to drive in a car just like this one.’
He gave a husky chuckle. ‘Bet you learned more than just how to stroke the gear shift.’
The crude inference made her shoot him her best cool and withering stare—Richard had called it the Mannering putdown. ‘I learned that European engineering lasts longer,’ she said icily and with perfect diction before walking away. But the exit line didn’t stop the hairs on the back of her neck from rising, nor did it prevent flashes of memory—kisses in the moonlight, fumbles in the dark and later, much later, hot and burning tears.
Edwina, when it all gets too much, you need to concentrate on the present. The words of the counsellor she’d seen after Richard’s death somehow managed to penetrate the cacophonous noise in her ears and the choppy images in her mind, all of which threatened to overwhelm her. Had overwhelmed her. Her heart hammered hard against her ribs, beads of sweat formed at her hairline and once again she was fighting against the pull of the dark. Fighting against the forces that had conspired against her for forty-eight years, turning her life into a warzone of unending loss and leaving her permanently stranded in no-man’s land.
Her head spun, perspiration glued the lining of her linen frock to her skin and she pressed her hand against the Jaguar to steady herself. She refused to faint in the main street of Billawarre. That would cause a fuss and she hated fuss. Hated being the centre of attention, hated inquisitive eyes and never-ending questions. Hated the risk of her carefully constructed life falling down around her.
‘Here.’ A male voice reached her through the thumping noise in her ears. ‘Sit.’ She felt a hand on her shoulder and then she was being gently pushed backward. The edge of a seat pressed behind her knees and she sat, automatically swinging her legs sideways. The familiar scent of leather enveloped her.
‘Drink this.’
A plastic bottle of water was pressed into her hands and she greedily drank the icy contents before pressing the bottle against her cheeks, welcoming the cold droplets of condensation on her skin.
She didn’t know how long it took but eventually the suffocating heat that had burned every cell of her skin faded and the booming noises in her head quietened.
‘Feeling better?’
The deep and solicitous voice should have been soothing, but it shot along her veins like a flame licking gunpowder. Her hand closed hard around the almost empty water bottle, crumpling it with a loud c
rack. Dear God, but she knew that voice. Surely, it couldn’t be … She turned her head, the movement so sharp and fast that it sent her hair flying and sticking to her lips.
A pair of chocolate brown eyes set deep in an aged, sun-spotted face and framed by wiry salt and pepper hair gazed back at her with concern in their depths.
Edwina’s breath shortened as her mind raced. You’re being ridiculous. She was letting her imagination run wild and conspire with the memories those blasted cars of her youth had dredged up. It couldn’t possibly be him. There was absolutely no reason for her to even think it might be. Apart from the bulk of 1968, she’d always lived in Billawarre and in forty-eight years he’d never once tried to contact her. She’d never once tried to contact him. Well, not for a very long time. No, this man was a stranger; a kind man doing what kind men do when faced with a woman who was about to faint.
Logic and reason lengthened her breathing. ‘I am feeling better. Thank you.’
‘Are you up for standing?’ He stretched out his work-worn hand and she caught sight of neatly clipped nails with half-moon cuticles faintly stained with oil.
A clanging started in her head and she fought to silence it. It’s not him. All car enthusiasts have hands like that. ‘Absolutely,’ she said, ignoring his hand and rising to her feet. ‘It’s a beautiful car. Did you restore it yourself?’
‘It’s been a labour of love or an old man’s folly. It depends on your point of view.’
She laughed. ‘Well, it was certainly a car most young men coveted back in the day, as my granddaughter would say.’
‘I only ever wanted two things back then; this car and a beautiful girl.’ His head dipped in a self-deprecating nod and his face creased into a soft and well-worn smile. Memories bracketed his mouth in the deep folds and creases. ‘Both were out of my league.’
Edwina felt a tug deep in the pit of her stomach for a boy with a cheeky smile who’d loved a girl he still remembered decades later. She covered it by quipping, ‘I’m sure the car’s aged better than the girl.’ Before he could reply she hurried on briskly, ‘Thank you again for the water.’