Season of Shadow and Light

by Jenn J. McLeod

  Despite telling herself he wasn’t having a go at her plate poking in the pub’s dining room that first night, the heat prickled her cheeks, so Paige busied her hands in the box of salad vegetables: cucumbers, tomatoes warm enough to have been freshly picked, and onions with dirt still embedded in the skins.

  ‘Case in point,’ Aiden said, picking up a blemished cucumber and what Paige could only think of as a two-headed tomato. ‘I love that nothing goes to waste in this town. Supermarkets won’t have a bar of something that fails to meet their strict specifications. These might not be pretty and they might not be uniform or meet the contractual requirements forced on farmers, but the stuff you find that eventually makes its way onto city supermarket shelves won’t taste quite the same either. Try this.’ He snapped a carrot in two. ‘Even sounds fresh, doesn’t it? Try doing that with one from your city store. I’m not saying they’re all as bad as each other, and . . .’ He stopped, grinned. ‘Maybe I should get off my soap box and back to the job.’

  ‘I agree—about the supermarkets.’ Obediently, Paige munched down on the chunk of carrot, feigning rapture and agreeing that Aiden was indeed right about the crunch factor, while trying to remember when she last tasted fresh anything.

  At least she could tell Alice he fed her something tonight.

  ‘Something funny?’ Those blue eyes of Aiden’s were staring at her again.

  ‘No, I . . . I’ll get these platters out on the tables so we have more room.’

  She ferried more food than she thought possible through the growing throng, each time shifting the bowls and plates to make room for the next. But with each new delivery she noticed Brenda reposition the bowls again, sometimes nothing more than a shift to the left or to the right, but a move nonetheless. Then she’d deliver Paige a smile, await the next delivery, and nudge the bowls into straight lines. Brenda clearly missed organising rowdy children during school assembly.

  The hall was now pulsating and packed, the neat row of folding metal chairs previously bordering the room turned into several intimate circles around the food tables.

  ‘Hungry?’ Aiden asked. ‘You’d best get over there quick before they start heading back for seconds.’

  ‘You know, I’m really not that hungry. I snacked while working. But you go ahead. I might try calling Alice to check everything’s okay.’

  While waiting for Alice to answer, Paige wandered out the front to watch kids playing a game of cricket on the road, the makeshift stumps as ad hoc as the rules by the sound of the jeering that followed a ‘HOWZAT?’ In the dirt to her left, girls and boys played marbles, their concentration a stark contrast to the raucous cricketers, their tiniest of marbles casting elongated shadows to stripe the earth in the dying moments of daylight.

  After a glance at the screen on her mobile to check she’d not misdialed, Paige waited until the phone went to message bank, not bothering to leave one as Alice was about as good at retrieving messages as she was at navigating from the GPS.

  No need to worry, she reminded herself. Taking care of Matilda was one of the many things Alice Foster did perfectly. With that thought, Paige slipped the phone back in the pocket of her jeans and returned to the kitchen.

  ‘Bloody hell, that was more work than I figured.’ Aiden slapped the sixth sodden tea towel on the counter, gathered the base of his apron and bent over to wipe the sweat from his brow. ‘You can see why the flies don’t hang around too long. No chance with that hungry bunch.’

  ‘And I don’t know that they’re finished yet.’

  ‘Did you get onto Alice earlier? Do you need to go?’

  ‘No and no. The one thing I never have to worry about is Matilda when Alice is on the job. I’m happy to stay until they call stumps.’

  The crowd had thinned by about fifty per cent, the hanger-oners broken into three groups: the men gathered in a circle of chairs, a big blue esky at its centre; women in dresses and a variety of footwear—even boots—gathered around the hot water urn with scones; and a small group of mostly European-looking men drinking from white disposable cups and playing some sort of card game on the floor.

  ‘Looks like secret men’s business over there,’ Paige said.

  ‘The ladies will be dragging them all out by the ears in about half an hour. You can head off if you need to. Or I could shout you a drink.’

  ‘No, thanks, I don’t often—’

  ‘Aw, c’mon, it’s my way of saying sorry. I owe you an apology. One little drink won’t hurt.’

  One can’t hurt, Paige said to herself. Can it? It had been a while. On the advice of her doctor, mostly due to the effect of combining alcohol and her pills, drinking these days was generally confined to special occasions: birthdays, anniversaries, that sort of thing, and rarely more than a glass. But she’d earned a spell and there was no rush to get home. What she’d told Aiden was true; Matilda would be safe and sound with Alice on the job.

  No, one drink would not hurt at all.

  17

  Alice

  Alice was jolted back from her thoughts by the sound of zoom, zoom, squeals and excited barks from the veranda as Toto, the Shih-tzu-trying-to-be-kelpie, chased down Mati and Liam, both children circling the house on bikes. At least Matilda had recovered from her hysterics over the book earlier. Alice would be sure to deliver an extra big hug later. For now she’d let the child have her fun, but carefully. There’d be no scraped knees on Alice’s watch, especially after insisting she relieve Sharni of her child-minding responsibilities for the evening. Sharni hadn’t argued, and too easily—in Alice’s opinion—left her son with a stranger. The fact that Paige had seemed happy to leave Mati with Sharni did not sit well at all with Alice either and was quite out of character, as if small town communities were inherently safer than the city.

  ‘Not so fast, you two,’ Alice yelled, her head dizzy with memories, her tea untouched and stone cold on the kitchen table alongside with the little book that had left her panic-stricken not too long ago—foolishly, she now realised. That this book, or this house, might have any connection to Nancy was too much of a coincidence to have any validity at all.

  She stood, walked to the kitchen and flicked the button on the kettle so it would boil again, then topped up the half-empty teapot with water. Or should that be the half-full teapot? Maybe that was Alice’s problem; everything was worst-case scenario. Wasn’t that the gist of Sharni’s horse analogy? That humans spend too much time worrying about comfort zones and fighting change? Alice was certainly outside her comfort zone in this town, and she was growing more uncomfortable with Paige being so obviously keen to impress Aiden.

  Alice had barely noticed the pub’s cook that first night, too exhausted to think. Since then she’d seen his shadowy figure by the horse paddocks a couple of times. She’d not met him the day he’d picked Paige up in that abominable motor car, her daughter driven away in a jalopy named The Beast. Maybe she should have gone along with Paige on that occasion. Maybe even tonight. Something about the change in Paige’s mood, especially when Aiden was involved, had little warning bells tripping Alice’s brain, her protective instincts on high alert. But how did she protect her daughter sitting here?

  Sharni had said a threatened horse runs. A cornered one fights. If they continue to feel a need, or should water and grass become scarce, they’ll pack up the family and go in search of new, greener pastures. Moving on becomes an adventure, something to enjoy—not resent. Alice decided she’d remind Paige of that tomorrow as they prepared to move on from this town.

  Alice Foster wasn’t against change. The idea of something new quite excited her, but only as long as she had control. Any lack of enthusiasm came from the weariness of too many years spent alone, too many years pretending to be something she wasn’t. Despite increasing social acceptance of people ‘like Alice’, living a lie for so long in public had her now craving the comfort of the familiar. It wasn’t all that long ago that people were reluctant to use words like ‘gay’ in public, whispering
it if they had to say it out loud. Many still did. She had deliberately avoided the term all her life, the word sitting like a lump in her throat. Labels did that with Alice.

  Even if Paige had been right, and small towns like Coolabah Tree Gully embraced change, tolerance didn’t make all people—especially those of Alice’s generation—automatically accepting; nor had that acceptance been tested enough for Alice to open herself up to more hurt by coming out to strangers. She’d suffered enough in her lifetime. Even so-called friends—straight friends—who’d vehemently claimed ‘equality for all’ to her face, had talked about ‘people like Alice’ behind her back, even leaving her out of Sunday get-togethers because there was no bloke. And two women . . . ? Well, that apparently made seating arrangements awkward. Whenever she did manage an invitation, there was often lively discussion around the topic; a bunch of stuck-up Freuds arguing nature versus nurture as if she was invisible. Was homosexuality nature or nurture? Despite ample research on the subject, not one dinnertime debate had managed to answer that question.

  Alice huffed, rinsing out her cup and the teapot a little ferociously under the tap. Some people suggested parents, genetics, or a person’s past were the keys to understanding. Some seemed adamant being gay was a choice. Alice knew one thing for certain. Everyone was different and, just like Nancy said, for every pot there was a lid. Nancy had been her perfect partner, and for each of them, independently, loving a woman was the most natural thing in the world. Alice had needed someone to need her, someone she could teach and protect, someone to care for, who wanted to be loved softly and would love her the same way in return.

  From her first sighting of the young woman in the waiting room outside the emergency department, Alice’s protective instincts had kicked in. She’d known there was something special the minute she passed by the oncology ward and saw the pretty dark-haired woman and her child. Even through the weariness and the jaded complexion most chemo patients wore, the young pony-tailed woman had a rare beauty, the wistful kind that transcended normal prettiness despite the tattiness of the faded Corfu jeans and chamois halter neck—a midriff style with beaded tassels that brushed the high-waisted jeans. No matter what time of day Alice saw her the clothes never differed; neither did the child’s, unlike a young Alice who’d had Sunday best for church, Saturday best for shopping with Faye, and Friday best on those nights the Fosters entertained at home.

  Alice soon found herself fitting her work routine around the waiting room at the end of the corridor, casting a professional eye over the occupants, but offering the child and her mother a small smile. Over time she added a wave, then a ‘Hello, munchkin’ as she walked by the child’s play area in one corner. One Friday on her way to lunch, alarmed by the punch in the gut she’d experienced when passing an empty waiting room, Alice had barged into the nearest toilets to splash water on her face and, if she was smart, splash some sense into the rest of her.

  As she slowly dragged a paper towel down her face and was about to lecture herself, the reflection of a small girl staring back through the soap-spotted bathroom mirror startled her.

  ‘Oh, hello, munchkin,’ she said to the dark-haired darling leaning protectively against one closed cubicle door. ‘Everything okay?’

  ‘My mum’s medicine makes her sick,’ the girl replied.

  ‘Sweetie? Are you all right?’ The woman’s voice sounded soft but panicked. ‘Mummy won’t be a minute. Bend down, like Mummy’s shown you, and show me your hand. Come on, sweetie.’

  Alice should have gone about her business, but something in the frantic fingers wiggling under the door to the toilet cubicle, and the way the bright-eyed young girl crouched, clinging them tight, made her stay. Within a minute, as if true to her word, the cubicle door opened and Alice found herself staring at a striped bikini top, breasts hoisted high and gloriously tanned. She shifted her gaze to the Pocahontas-inspired halter-neck scrunched into a ball at the end of the woman’s arm.

  ‘Hi,’ Nancy said, turning the tap on full and slushing the top under the flow of water, the blue beads clanging on the bowl. ‘Puke,’ she explained, probably wondering why Alice was idling in the bathroom.

  ‘Yes, it happens.’

  ‘At the worst possible time. I’m prepared most days. Sweetie, pass Mummy the plastic bag.’

  The girl dug around the straw carryall to produce a shopping bag and without being asked, as if she’d done it many times before, held the bag’s mouth wide to receive the soaking top.

  ‘Chamois tops! Gotta love ’em. Also handy for washing car windows on my way home to pick up some cash,’ the woman joked.

  ‘Can I do anything for you?’ Alice asked.

  She looked up smiling, a hand lost in the depths of a busy bag. She was possibly around the same age as Alice, maybe a bit younger. Age was hard to pick when a person was sick.

  ‘A T-shirt would be good. Something to stop the codgers on the 469 bus gawking. Alas, I’m not as prepared today as I thought. Never mind. Come on, sweetie.’

  ‘Wait! I . . . I have a T-shirt. It’s not quite . . . Well, it’s not the best . . .’

  ‘How bad can it be?’ The woman threw both arms wide, her breasts bursting over the one-size-too-small bikini bra. ‘Whatever you’ve got, I’ll take it. I’m here every week.’

  ‘I know.’ Alice regretted her words, but the woman simply smiled.

  ‘I mean, I can return the T-shirt next week.’

  ‘How many weeks into your treatment are you?’

  ‘Long enough to wonder if it’s all worthwhile. It is. Most days.’ She pulled her daughter into her legs as she answered and Alice knew then the small person in the pink polka dot dress, clinging tight to skinny legs, was that reason. ‘Anyway, I’d best get home before I throw up again. The T-shirt?’

  As promised, the woman returned the borrowed item of clothing, even though it was hardly necessary. It was a silly T-shirt Alice had kept in her locker from the bed race a team of nurses had competed in a few months before, raising money for the oncology unit. Their team had arranged screen-printing, both front and back, with the slogans: Nurses Do It All Night and Nurses Do It with a Tender Touch.

  ‘The T-shirt was good, thanks. I think one woman on the bus thought me unfit to be a mother, but other than that . . .’ She shrugged, smiled.

  Alice laughed, not knowing at the time that Nancy had once thought the very same thing about herself. Only much later in their relationship did she discover the truth behind Nancy’s shrug, the self-deprecating tendencies, and that her obsessive hand-holding was the fear of losing her daughter.

  Nancy remained afraid of everything, her reclusiveness challenging Alice. But she also could understand her fear: of her ex-husband finding her, of Paige growing to resent her, of Alice leaving her.

  ‘I’m not leaving you,’ Alice would be forced to say. ‘I’m going to work. We’ve got bills to pay.’

  ‘Because of me. If I wasn’t sick—’

  ‘Well, you are sick, and you didn’t bring that on yourself. Stuff happens, but we’ll get through this—together. Remember what you always call us?’

  ‘I’m the yin to your yang?’

  ‘Yes.’ Alice smiled.

  A child had been a bonus and Alice easily and willingly fell into the role of the other mother. All these years later, she had a granddaughter in her life who was young enough to appreciate Alice as protective, not controlling; a word Paige threw around all too frequently these days.

  So like her mother.

  Paige and Nancy were so similar it hurt to watch, even though Paige had not had the chance to see it for herself: the shrugging, the constant fluffing of hair to make it appear fuller, talking while laughing so their words gurgled out, like when a child chatters through the jiggle on a father’s knee. Mother and daughter had also shared a slight sibilance—that recognisable speech pattern that put a hiss in every ‘es’ and made Nancy and Paige laugh as they played She sells seashells tongue-twister games.

  Ali
ce silently hoped nurture did play a role, so there’d be a bit of her in Paige somewhere too: brave, resilient, cautious.

  Nancy’s yin and yang—the theory of opposites—had merit, although Alice preferred the term complementary. Nancy had been night to Alice’s day. In fact, Nancy had been plain needy, her nervousness hidden behind humour. The only thing more contagious than her personality was her laugh. She loved telling jokes, playing jokes, and putting people at ease. Once she started to laugh there was sometimes no stopping, and the more she tried the funnier everything seemed, until both she and Alice would cry real tears and hold aching jaws and bellies. Often they laughed to deflect the hurt, like the time Alice had recounted her coming out to a shocked and inconsolable mother and father.

  Sixteen-year-old Alice hadn’t expected champagne and streamers on that occasion. Such trimmings remained a farewell ritual for her parents’ annual pilgrimage, cruising around the Pacific Ocean. The next trip would be the Caribbean on the Queen Mary, or was it the Caribbean Queen and . . . Well, none of that mattered once their daughter’s announcement rocked a much bigger boat.

  For four days after her daring declaration over dinner Alice had cried in her room, condemning herself, calling herself stupid and selfish for thinking the news would not upset her parents. But after three years of being so certain of her sexuality—maybe longer—and to be in love, finally, made her busting to tell. It was a matter of come out to her parents or live a lie and pretend for the rest of her life, and Alice hated liars.

  Saying ‘I’m gay’ aloud had been liberating, empowering and honest—for about two seconds. Little did she realise back then, as a result of her parents’ response, living a lie was exactly what she’d do all her life. If only sixteen-year-old Alice hadn’t blurted everything all at once that night. Her announcement was meant to instil her parents with pride; that they’d raised someone strong enough to make the difficult decisions. They were meant to be happy for their only daughter.