Season of Shadow and Light

by Jenn J. McLeod

  ‘I remember Mum saying she grew up with sand and seawater in her veins, which supposedly transferred to me. You said I was the Gidget to Robert’s Moondoggie and that’s why he and I were meant to be together.’ Paige placed the teacup on the table, leaning over to peer closer, as if the answers she sought lay somewhere in the grainy image. ‘She never told you anything about living in the country before you met?’

  ‘Your mother and I didn’t submit resumes to each other at the time, so no Paige, I don’t recall any such thing.’

  Paige’s raised eyebrow—a family trait—told Alice that she hadn’t missed the sarcasm.

  ‘Do you reckon the baby she’s holding is me?’

  ‘Your mother’s very young in that picture, Paige. Before my time.’

  ‘Muuuuum,’ Mati whined, frustrated arms waving. School was educating her granddaughter in lots of areas, with an A+ for impatience, it seemed.

  ‘Well, of course she’s young,’ Paige said, handing the iPad back to Matilda, mouthing ‘Go’ and pointing to the rumpus room. ‘She was young when she had me.’

  ‘Young, yes, but I’m quite sure that photo would’ve been a school camp,’ Alice offered, careful to hold back the emotion. ‘Yes, that’s it. I remember now. An excursion to a family-run property, equivalent to what people call farm-stays these days. Your mother was very clucky and loved children, even then. And as you say, very allergic. I suspect that would’ve made her more interested in babies than animals. More importantly, Paige,’ she lowered her voice, ‘I’m not sure you should be encouraging Mati to upload her grandmother’s pictures for anyone to see. Who knows what happens once it’s online. As for them being shown on national television . . .’

  ‘You worry too much. Mati’s entry would have to be in the top ten and that’s unlikely to happen. Stop being such a worrywart. One thing though,’ Paige said, her tone tripping a small warning signal in Alice, ‘I was googling, and while there was nothing about Saddleton Campdraft, I did find a place called Saddleton. I want to take Mati.’

  The clamour of Alice’s heart as it pounded against her ribcage took her breath away. She gasped a little, although to Paige it probably sounded like a scoff. ‘Ridiculous, Paige! You’re in no fit state to traipse off to some distant dust bowl, much less drag your young daughter along. You’re supposed to be recovering. Besides that, a fuzzy photo is hardly worth a nine hour—or whatever,’ she added quickly, ‘drive to Woop Woop.’

  They’d argued about it and Alice waited for the Fussy Boombah tag. Instead Paige said with a clarity that rendered Alice unusually silent, ‘My mind is made up. I’ve told Robert I want to get away for a bit and he has no problem with me going. So, we’re going.’

  It was Alice’s turn to raise her eyebrow, even though she rarely said a bad word about anyone. ‘Why would Robert mind being left behind? He’ll have free rein to play golf.’

  ‘Alice . . .’ Paige started, stopping just as quickly when she glanced in Matilda’s direction, now stretched over the polished wood floor on her stomach, the iPad in front of her, legs bent at the knees, waving around in the air while ABC for Kids played on the television in the background. ‘Seriously, a touch of country will be a good thing for Mati. Part of me hopes there’s no television and no internet reception and we can all get back to basics. A small country town like Saddleton sounds perfect.’

  In the guest room of the hot pub, Alice tickled the little dog’s tummy, drawing figure eights absentmindedly with an index finger. ‘Only we’re not in Saddleton, are we, Toto? And I have a feeling we’re not in Kansas anymore, either,’ she added, dreading the trouble it would make should this ‘holiday’, or that photograph, prompt more questions from Paige.

  Of all the places to find themselves now, why did it have to be Coolabah Tree Gully? The notion of Saddleton, when Paige had mentioned their intended destination, had been unsettling enough, so after a sleepless night Alice had visited her daughter the next day to try again.

  ‘I worried all last night about this idea of yours, Paige. Why on earth do you want to go so far west at this time of year, and with Matilda in tow?’ Alice looked at her granddaughter setting up her make-believe morning tea on the coffee table in the rumpus room of Paige’s grand house, the still pristine paint-it-yourself chinaware—a Christmas present from Alice—glinting in the morning sun. She’d tried a semi-firm hand yesterday, without success. Changing her daughter’s mind was going to require a different approach this morning. ‘Water World or Sea World on the Gold Coast wouldn’t be much further to drive,’ Alice said, flicking the power switch on the kettle. ‘Somewhere in Queensland or by a beach makes far more sense for a summer holiday.’

  ‘You know she’s too small for most of those rides, Alice. In a couple of years, maybe, when she’s taller and a stronger swimmer.’

  ‘Paige, dear, we know nothing about this Saddleton place. What if it’s . . . I don’t know . . .’ Her exaggerated huff and a heavy-handed closing of the tea canister suggested exasperation more than any words could, while Paige’s expression held that here-we-go-again glare.

  Like most mother–daughter combinations, there was head butting from time to time, which reached a peak during the turbulent adolescent years that followed Nancy’s death. Angst-ridden and angry, Paige had accused Alice of trying to control her. Their arguments back then, although short lived, often tended towards hurtful and Alice was soon made aware of the teenager’s new vocabulary, courtesy of a public school playground. Thankfully, Paige grew up and out of the hurtful reactions and the swear words, settling on an old nickname for Alice that would ease the tension and break the ice after an argument—Fussy Boombah.

  Alice was fussy, but in her book, over-protective wasn’t the same as controlling. Not that she’d had the luxury of choosing what sort of a mother she might be. With the role thrust upon her, there’d been no option but to take charge and learn on the job.

  ‘What about one of those Club Med resort places?’ she asked Paige, slipping a teacup and saucer across the kitchen counter. ‘You can have a rest and Matilda can—’

  ‘Stay in a kiddy club looked after by strangers? I’m bonding with my daughter, Alice. I want to watch her discover things.’

  ‘It will be so dusty and hot and—’

  ‘What if it is dusty? Mati can eat dirt for all I care. I ate beach sand—remember? You made me brush my teeth afterwards. That’s when Mum first called you Fussy Boombah.’

  It was true, but the endearing nickname that had once served as a truce flag to end angry times had more recently become code for Alice, you’re being over-protective—and not just in relation to Matilda.

  ‘My daughter has to experience everything every other little girl does—within reason. I’m certain eating dirt would be less harmful than some of the supermarket stuff we buy these days. ’

  ‘Paige, you’re being a bit dramatic.’ Alice deliberately lowered her voice a notch. ‘Her experiences are not lacking.’

  ‘Then I want her to have more, be more resilient, more secure within herself. Do you remember I told you I had coffee with Jane before end of term last year and she fussed over her baby the entire time? Dummy in. Dummy out. Blanket on. Blanket off. We ended up cutting our chat short so she could get back to the air-conditioning because, apparently, the baby isn’t used to being outdoors.’

  ‘That’s ridiculous.’

  ‘I’m glad we agree. Kids need to get dirty and build resistance to germs and we all need to worry less and let them—and I’ll worry a lot less away from the city. Aren’t you always spruiking: “Worry often gives a small thing a big shadow?”’

  Alice had been tempted to suggest Paige look in her own backyard. The postage stamp-sized yard with its formal garden construction of stone paths and intricate, manicured hedges resembled a miniature Garden of Versailles. And, yes, Matilda did ride to school in an air-conditioned car, play on rubberised asphalt, sit on synthetic, non-slip grass, and learn the naughty numbers on food nutrition labels, i
ncluding 621, 633 and 950. But Alice couldn’t stop worrying. She knew, too well, life’s cruelties and uncertainties.

  What was wrong with protecting those we love from the things we could control?

  That very sentiment—keeping a watchful eye over Paige on this trip—is what had landed her in a country pub in the middle of nowhere. Despite Alice keeping up a good argument about the intended destination, Paige had made up her mind.

  So like Nancy.

  ‘Besides, Alice,’ she’d said, ‘What if this Saddleton place is the same one as in the photo? And so what if I want to fill in unknown pieces of my mother’s past and see a different part of the country at the same time? Better that than some expensive tourist resort. Mati does need to know about her real grandmother, doesn’t she?’

  That stung. Alice wondered if Paige noticed the hurt.

  ‘Of course, sweetheart, I’m not real family.’ Alice turned to the sink, picked up the cloth and clenched it tight in her fist, scanning the expanse of stone countertop for food crumbs to mop up. ‘Perhaps it’s better that you have this adventure alone—the two of you,’ she said, her cloth homing in on an imaginary liquid spill, her voice maudlin. ‘Although I’ll miss you both terribly.’

  ‘Oh, Alice, I’m sorry . . . ’ The stool Paige pushed back from the breakfast counter scraped the ceramic tiles. ‘I . . . I didn’t mean—’

  ‘No, of course you didn’t, Paige. I’m being a Fussy Boombah again,’ she said, strategically, sensing a small victory. Paige hugged her tight from behind and regret gouged out a gaping hole in Alice’s heart. She hated manipulating, but she’d try anything to avoid this road trip to Saddleton, just as she’d done anything and said anything to keep their precious family unit together all the years following Nancy’s death.

  The two of them embraced, something Paige and Alice seemed to do less these days. While they said ‘Love you’ every day—in passing or on the phone—no words could make Alice experience the same calm that Paige resting her cheek in that curve of Alice’s neck, arms locked tight, made her feel.

  ‘You know going away wouldn’t be the same without you,’ Paige mumbled. ‘We’ll make it a mother–daughter adventure.’ Then, spurred on by genuine excitement, Paige pushed away, the embrace over, leaving Alice cold where her daughter’s body had pressed warmth against her seconds before. ‘Imagine! Three generations travelling the wide open spaces.’ Paige spread both arms. ‘That’s settled. Now you have to come. I know you think it’s folly and that I’m crazy, but now you just have to come.’

  ‘Well, I suppose I could.’ Alice said reluctantly. If the girl was so determined—and she seemed to be—Alice would at least be there to share the driving and take control, no matter what they might stumble upon in the process.

  ‘If only Mum was here. If only we’d shared more when she was alive. If only I’d realised . . .’ Paige said, melancholy dousing her excitement. ‘Why does it sometimes feel like there was so much about Mum I don’t know, so much she never told me? She never said anything about the country and she certainly never told me about riding a giant horse.’

  ‘I’m sure she did and you don’t remember. You were young.’

  ‘And she knew she was dying. Why not make sure your daughter knows everything about your life before it’s too late?’

  ‘Why didn’t you ask more questions, then? You’re certainly full of them at the moment.’ Alice knew the hurtful throwaway line dumped a bucket-load of guilt on Paige, and while it was hardly fair, it was the quickest way of shutting down the conversation. Alice justified the tactic by reminding herself it was also partially true. Paige hadn’t meant to be selfish. She’d been young—too young to comprehend the finality that a terminal illness brings. One minute they were three; the next, only two. Two people desperately holding on because the fear of losing each other was too great.

  Still.

  ‘I’m not sure why I have this urge to understand things. Maybe the last two years have made me see how tenuous life is and, well, you know, we’re getting closer to that time of the year.’

  ‘Yes.’ Alice nodded. She knew that date, dreaded it every year.

  ‘And I think because that anniversary is so close, our being somewhere together might . . .’ Paige shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I just hope that my getting away will . . .’

  ‘Will what, dear?’ Why did Paige’s sudden stop leave a gaping hole of doubt, as though there was another, unspoken reason? Things had seemed tense between her and Robert of late.

  ‘My strongest memories of Mum are of hospital waiting rooms and being shushed when I made too much noise. I only ever remember her as sick. Even when she was well, there was a sadness I never understood. Do you know that?’

  Alice nodded. She knew. She knew too much. As a nurse, she’d been in charge of Nancy’s care. As a partner, she’d been in charge of Nancy’s lie. After all these years, that one little photograph that she should have burned along with the rest—now immortalised on, of all things, Paige’s iPad—had the power to change everything with the truth.

  ‘And that’s how we’ve ended up in the middle of Woop Woop, little fella. A little too close for comfort.’ Alice patted the still panting dog. ‘Some secrets are best kept for the sake of others. Wag if you agree,’ she said, smiling when the dog’s tail twitched. ‘Good enough.’

  Alice struggled out of sticky travel clothes and into a lightweight nightie. She was certainly no stranger to lies; she’d been lying most of her life one way or another, with little choice during earlier decades when a person’s sexual preference mixed with some professions the way oil mixed with water. In those days, when the ‘Grim Reaper’ ad first appeared on TV, nursing had been one such profession. While barely sixty seconds long and running for only three weeks, the AIDS awareness compaign had educated many, frightened some, and forced many homosexuals in the medical profession to conceal their sexual orientation from patients.

  Certain circumstances warranted lies, but did that make some lies more acceptable than others? Telling Paige she didn’t know the history behind the Saddleton Campdraft photograph had been Alice’s latest lie. It wouldn’t be the last, not now they’d found themselves in Coolabah Tree Gully. If only today’s detour had taken them somewhere else. Anywhere else but this town. Had Alice stopped sulking and lifted her head from her Sudoku book more often she might have spotted a Coolabah Tree Gully road sign or a welcome signboard. She could have made Paige turn around before they reached the town.

  With her mind too active for sleep—too busy working out what she’d say if put on the spot about Nancy’s past—Alice pulled a chair over to the window. There was no open-air balcony to escape the stifling heat of the guest room. Some brains trust had thought boarding up the veranda and putting in a pathetically small aluminium-sliding window would suffice.

  Wrong!

  The hot flushes Alice had thought were gone were back and about as welcome as the mosquito buzzing in close proximity to her left ear. The window with its frayed fly screen overlooked the dark and mostly deserted street below, although with no moon—as the publican had predicted—it was impossible to see too far beyond the ghostly white limbs of a nearby gum tree. Despite there being little breeze, the constant brushing of branches on the hot fibrous sheeting tinged the air with the unmistakable scent of eucalyptus. The noise unsettled the dog trying to nestle on Alice’s lap, the animal’s occasional low growl matched by a distant rumble of thunder.

  ‘It’s okay, Toto. The storm will pass and we’ll all be fine.’

  The day had ended with a heavy blanket of menacing clouds and now the forecast rain was starting out as heavy plops on the tin roof above her. In the distance, a black sky sparked with lightning like silver veins, reminding Alice of folklore: ‘Forked lightning at night, the next day clear and bright.’ She hoped it was true and that nothing would stop them making Saddleton by road tomorrow. Alice could get far away from this town, Paige could get this country adventure thing out of her system, t
hey could all get back to Sydney, and Nancy’s secret would stay safely stored away.

  Alice knew the township of Saddleton posed no threat. She’d Googled the place after hearing Paige’s plans, only to discover the small town of forty years ago was now a major regional centre. Finding a local who remembered a young girl called Nancy, who’d lived briefly in another small town kilometres away, was unlikely. During Alice’s own feeble attempts to navigate her way around Matilda’s iPad that day, she found that Coolabah Tree Gully hadn’t even rated an inclusion on Google Maps, so she had had no major cause to be concerned.

  Clearly her internet surfing technique needed work.

  Nancy had only spoken about the town a few times early on in their relationship, and once in the final stages of her illness. Any other time, talk of life in the country remained off limits, as did most of Nancy’s past.

  A flicker of light from the hallway illuminated the corner of the closed-in alcove and a cobweb in the path of a constant ceiling drip glistened wet. Buffeted by an occasional puff of warm air, the web’s occupant seemed intent on a meaty, moth-like morsel. As Alice blinked through the brightness, fixed on the insect entangled in the spider’s web—trapped—a terrible thought came to her. Could it be that the light Alice had switched on earlier had drawn the poor winged creature to the balcony and into the spider’s lair?

  ‘Oh what a wicked web we weave,’ she muttered, ‘when first we practise to deceive.’ Alice scooted the dog from her lap and secured the lead to its collar. ‘Time for sleep, Toto.’ After a final pat, she wandered back into the tight little room to the sound of footsteps in the hallway, a creaking door and Paige’s gentle coercing.

  Alice eased her weary body onto the bed, picturing the nightly routine in progress next door. Within minutes Paige would be fussing with Matilda, wrestling her latest book—or the iPad—from her daughter’s grasp and tugging a brush through her hair. Much whining and complaining over the simple task of teeth cleaning would follow before Bean, the little fabric pony, would find his place under Mati’s pillow and mother and daughter would kiss goodnight. Memories of the same nightly ritual when Paige—Bean and all—had been young, warmed Alice’s sixty-year-old heart, while in the guest room—bleak and suffocatingly still—she pondered her single-bed existence.