by Evans, Ilsa
‘You dropped in to borrow my drill, and you, Pet, only came by because you got stood up.’ I took the glass of wine she was proffering and then ushered her from the kitchen. ‘You both just happened to be here when I was serving up tea so I offered you some. That’s called coincidence.’
‘Coincidence … or tradition?’
‘Coincidence.’
‘What is for tea?’ asked Lucy. ‘Don’t forget I’m vegetarian.’
‘And I’m not,’ said Ruby.
I regarded her thoughtfully, and then transferred my gaze to her sister. I had five daughters, of which these were numbers two and four respectively. The eldest, Scarlet, was a police officer in Melbourne, while the middle one, Bronte, more commonly known as Red, had recently deferred university to take up a public relations internship in South Yarra. Tertiary studies were not proving particularly adhesive with my lot. Lucy had abandoned her own course last year in favour of finding herself, while Ruby was making a career of commencing degrees and diplomas only to discover her aspirations lay elsewhere. So far she had collected varying portions of librarianship, nursing, psychology and primary-school teaching. If anybody was in need of a partially qualified teacher who knew how to put a book away, a bandaid on, or spot the difference between a psychopath and a sociopath, she was all set.
Both girls were now temporarily employed by my mother, who owned a bookstore-cum-cafe in the centre of town. I had no idea how Lucy intended to go about finding herself, nor was I conversant with Ruby’s latest aspirations. In fact, these latter were being studiously avoided in all our current conversations, probably because the merest mention reignited my bitterness. It remained the elephant in the room. The perennially uneducated elephant, who had taken all the opportunities offered and then pissed them up against the wall.
‘That reminds me,’ said Petra, sitting on a bar stool and swivelling to face the girls, ‘will one of you two be home tomorrow around six? I need someone to let the shower-screen guy into my place and I’ve got another appointment.’
‘I’ll be there,’ said Ruby. ‘Just tell him to honk and I’ll come over.’
‘Thanks.’
Petra living in the area was an unusual occurrence, but the unusualness was compounded by the fact that the house she was now renovating was on the same road as a house our mother was also renovating, which she had arranged for her two itinerant granddaughters to housesit. And both these houses also happened to be in the same road where she herself lived. So that currently my mother was living at 5 Small Dairy Lane, next door to her youngest daughter at number 3, who was next door to her two nieces at number 1, on the corner. It was like a bad soap opera for which I do not recall auditioning.
Quinn came into the room, followed by the dog. She was carrying a rectangular gift box, patterned with ninja turtles. ‘What’s for tea? And why’s everyone here?’
‘Apparently it’s tradition.’
‘Fair enough.’
I opened the fridge even though I knew there was no miracle waiting within; not even the odd loaf or fish with multiplication potential. There was, however, a lump of mince. I did some quick calculations regarding use-by dates.
Quinn cleared her throat, but still nobody asked her what was in the box. She put it on the counter and made a show of peering inside. ‘Auntie Pet, do you know anything about Petar Majic? Like his background?’
‘Just the sunset story. Why?’
She closed the box, ran a finger around the edge. ‘I’ve got to do a project about him that includes something unusual. Like his favourite colour, or the name of his horse, or –’
‘The fact he had a secret family no-one knew about,’ I interjected, turning on the electric frypan. ‘All of whom might be buried in the crypt with him.’
‘I did not say that!’ She turned back to her aunt. ‘But the situation is suspicious. Listen to this – his grave thing had an inscription that said he was beloved, which had been covered by a plaque that just had his name. Like, what’s that about?’
Petra raised her eyebrows. ‘You know this how?’
‘By vandalising the grave.’ I leant over to push the box towards her.
After glancing curiously at Quinn, she opened it. Her eyebrows shot up even further.
‘What is it?’ asked Ruby, pushing the rug away as she leapt to her feet. She came up to peer over her aunt’s shoulder. ‘That doesn’t say beloved.’
‘No, the other one does,’ said Quinn eagerly. ‘This was the cover-up.’
‘So you stole it?’
‘It fell off.’ Quinn avoided my gaze. ‘I’m going to get it fixed.’
‘So what’s your theory?’ asked Petra as Ruby laid the halves on the bench, fitting them together.
‘I think he had a secret wife who’s buried in there with him. Together forever.’ Quinn paused to let the romanticism of this concept permeate. ‘That’s going to be my fact.’
‘But didn’t he leave all his property to the –’ Petra glanced across at me fleetingly ‘– Sheridans? Why would he have done that if he had his own wife?’
Lucy twisted around. ‘I remember Mr Emerson coming to talk to us at school about him. I’m sure he said something about a woman. Hang on, let me think. No, I think she was someone else.’
‘Breaking news,’ said Ruby.
‘Maybe they weren’t married.’ Quinn’s eyes widened. ‘Maybe they were lovers, and their wedding was all planned. But he died first. Tragically.’
‘Or maybe the Sheridans were so happy about their windfall that they put the beloved bit.’ Ruby rearranged the two halves so that they now read JIC PETAR MA. ‘Then everyone was jumping to the wrong conclusion so they changed it.’
‘How did he die?’ asked Petra.
‘Fell off his horse.’ I was certain of at least that much. I was also happy to have the conversation move away from the Sheridans, who were not my favourite family. I took a sip of wine, then put a large pot of water onto the stove and stirred the mince. A search of the freezer yielded half a French breadstick, so I balanced that on the side of the electric frypan to defrost. Perhaps we could attach some conditions to this fledgling tradition, like guests bring something along. Or help.
Quinn gingerly laid her ill-gotten prize back inside the box. ‘Anyway, why would you have a huge crypt thing just for yourself?’
‘Maybe he was just a big man,’ said Lucy. ‘Or fat.’
Petra shrugged. ‘Or maybe he was planning ahead. Thought he’d get married one day in the future. After all, he wasn’t that old when he died.’
‘Thirty-eight,’ said Quinn, rather doubtfully.
‘And that sort of forward planning doesn’t really sit with his other actions,’ commented Ruby. ‘Like the sunset ride and all that. He sounds like he was more into spontaneity than deferred gratification. Personality types don’t generally change without a significant life event. It’s basic psychology.’
I opened my mouth and closed it again. Took another sip of wine instead.
‘Can I help?’ asked Ruby, now watching me.
‘No, all under control.’
‘Mate!’ exclaimed Lucy. ‘I remember now! He had a friend called Mate, and he was the one with the woman. I remember because it was so funny. Having a mate called Mate.’
‘Handy,’ said Petra. ‘Nell, are you teary?’
‘Onions,’ I said shortly, tipping the offending items into the frypan and then blowing my nose. Gusto ran into the kitchen and stared at me. I opened the fridge and removed his alfoil-covered can. It was empty.
‘Did you tell Red we were having a family tea tonight?’ asked Lucy, staring at her laptop. ‘Because she sounds a little pissed.’
‘I didn’t even know we were having a family tea tonight! How could I tell her?’
‘Good luck explaining that.’
‘I’ll set the table.’ Ruby looked at me as if waiting for praise, and then headed over to the dresser for placemats.
I poured a jar of bolognaise sauce over
the mince and stirred it in, taking an obscure pleasure when the mixture turned blood-red. I wondered whether Petar Majic had died immediately or if he had lingered for a few days. I didn’t subscribe to Quinn’s theory, that there was a Beloved hovering over his deathbed, lace handkerchief clutched to heaving bosom. It didn’t fit with the other facts, such as him leaving all his possessions to his friend, the first of those damn Sheridans who now figured so large in our small town. And our lives. But perhaps the ‘beloved’ reference had been from the other people then living in Majic. Perhaps Petar had just been enormously popular, enormously missed. Even though he, himself, was actually alone.
I wondered how it must have felt, to have achieved so much, riches from the goldfields, a town named after him, a crypt the size of a small cottage, and yet have no-one to share it with. I glanced across at my tribe and it occurred to me that I was the exact opposite. No riches, or town, or crypt, but with people aplenty. Invited or not. In other words, I needed to count my blessings.
‘Mum, can you pick me up during lunch tomorrow and take me over to the community centre?’ Quinn leant across the bench to wave her hand in front of my face as if I was mentally deficient. ‘Can you?’
‘Don’t do that. And you’ll be in school.’
‘No, it’s curriculum day. Did you forget?’
I blinked, tried to ignore my sister’s grin. ‘Of course not.’
‘C’mon, it’s for my homework. And how long will tea be? I’m famished!’
‘If I take you there, then you can bring along the plaque and explain what happened.’
‘Famished actually means to endure severe deprivation,’ said Ruby, laying out cutlery. ‘Which is also a motivational state. Both of which I suspect are alien to you.’
‘Mum, did you remember that I’m a vegetarian now?’ asked Lucy, hoisting herself up to peer at the frypan. ‘Which means I don’t eat meat?’
I took a moment to inhale the smell of bolognaise and chardonnay and company, while trying to get back to counting my blessings. Unfortunately I’ve never been very good at maths.
Chapter Two
Loved your comment that the movie Home Alone should be remade as a middle-aged fantasy. And I totally identify with wanting to be a hermit. Where can I sign up?
My primary job was as a columnist, which necessitated the production of around five hundred pithy words per week. These words needed to be a mix of wisdom and wittiness, with the occasional topical allusion, aimed at a target audience of mainly women. The best columns, according to my editor, were the ones that generated the most feedback – both for and against. I wasn’t as convinced, not just because I had no desire to be controversial, but because I had to answer most of the mail.
In addition to my weekly column, I now had a blog titled The Middle-aged Spread. The topics were varied: work–life balance, spare tyres, cosmetic surgery, menopause, empty nests, full nests – a cornucopia of midlife-related issues. This had been driven by my editor also, intended to ride a surge in publicity following two horrid murders that had occurred last year, in which I had become inadvertently entangled. So now each week I had to find those five hundred pithy words, plus a corresponding blog entry, plus behave like someone all interactive and extroverted. Instead of someone who didn’t even enjoy conversations on the phone.
On Mondays, however, all that was put aside when I spent the day working in my mother’s bookshop, Renaissance. This was a practice of long standing, not just because the money had been invaluable in my early career, but because this way I was forced to get dressed and be sociable once a week. Another advantage was the book club I ran in the afternoon, where we selected a female author more successful than I and then generally ripped her to shreds. It did wonders for my self-esteem.
Sharon, my mother’s offsider, had already opened up the shop by the time I arrived. She was a small but buxom woman, whose penchant for purple and orange meant that her appearance was as vibrant as her personality. We exchanged greetings and then I detoured through the communal door into the cafe to order coffee. It was breakfast-noisy there, with a dozen conversations punctuated by scraping chairs and cutlery. I could see Ruby in the back, toasting slabs of focaccia, wispy threads of smoke suggesting she was not totally committed to the task. I read the noticeboard while waiting, learning, among other things, that the Caldwell family had lost their black dog yesterday while Grace June Rae had found one. Which seemed a little serendipitous.
With coffee in hand, I crossed back into the bookshop and headed for the back room, along the way grabbing a copy of Abracadabra: The Makings of Majic from its display box tucked away near History. There were actually two back rooms connected to Renaissance, one which was quite open plan and used for book clubs and special events, while the other was tucked away behind a door marked Strictly Staff Only. It was the latter room that was my destination this morning, where the chances of being disturbed were relatively low. I made myself comfortable and opened up the slim volume. Abracadabra was quite well-known locally, having been written by a Phillipa Sheridan many years ago and updated by the Historical Society on a regular basis. After which the local council would launch the latest version with great fanfare and take most of the credit for themselves.
I took a sip of coffee and flicked the book open, being immediately faced with a sepia image of Petar Majic himself, along with a fellow named Mate Dragovic and a dog. The two men were seated on wooden chairs, staring stiffly at the camera. Petar looked uncomfortable, as well he should, dressed in check pants and a mismatched vest, along with a shirt collar that indented his chin. But he was handsome in a burly fashion. Sitting squarely, with hands planted on his knees and a hint of amusement behind his copious facial hair. I liked him instantly.
‘Hello there.’ I ran a finger over the image. ‘So who was your beloved then?’
The booklet began with a tedious explanation of the goldfields and the lay of the land in the mid-nineteenth century. Finally Petar made his entrance on page six, when he and his shipmate Mate arrived in Melbourne aboard the Weidemann and promptly jumped ship to make their way up to Bendigo and join the gold rush. Rather fortuitously, given there appeared to be no Plan B, they struck gold in 1856 and then sold their claim the following year. The photo was taken around that time. Thereafter the two friends followed divergent philosophies, with Petar investing heavily in alcohol supply and Mate working on demand. In 1862, Petar made the famous sunset ride and his house was completed in 1865, by which time an embryonic town had sprung up around the site. He died two years later, leaving everything to his friend and overseer, James Sheridan. That family featured largely in the town from then on. In fact, it seemed that whenever something significant occurred, there was a Sheridan nearby. I knew the feeling.
‘Taking a break, are we?’ asked my mother, holding the door open. ‘I can see how you would need one, having started – let me see …’ she consulted her watch, ‘twenty minutes ago. Would you like me to leave you in peace?’
I closed the booklet. ‘No, that’s fine. And don’t jump to conclusions.’
‘Who’s jumping to conclusions? I’m trying to be considerate.’
‘If you must know, I was just checking Abracadabra –’ I lifted Exhibit A ‘– for inspiration regarding a window display. To mark the hundred-and-fifty-year celebration. I was thinking we could paint some stones gold, have a pick and shovel, then scatter around some gold-rush books, souvenirs, that sort of thing.’
My mother paused. ‘That’s not a bad idea. Not a bad idea at all.’
‘Thank you.’
‘I’ll get Lucy on to it. She’s more creative.’ She closed the door before I could respond and then opened it again quickly. ‘While you’re back here, can you go through the lay-bys and ring those due? Excellent.’
The door closed once more, then reopened. ‘And do something about your hair. You’ll scare the customers.’
I put the booklet down as the door closed for the final time. I finished my coffee
while leaning back and surveying the ceiling. One of the polystyrene tiles had an inkblot-like stain that looked like the type used in psychiatric tests. Actually, it looked like a splattered person. Female, possibly older; which probably said more about me than the stain. Woman who pushed own mother off cliff takes Rorschach inkblot test. Fails.
The door opened again and Lucy poked her head through. ‘Mum, do you have a pick and a shovel? Grandma wants to borrow them.’
‘Not on me.’
‘Ha ha. Are they in our shed? Hey, is everything okay?’
‘Hunky-dory.’ I tossed my empty cup into the bin and rose. ‘Tell Grandma I’ll get them. I’m also going to pop up to the community centre and borrow some other props.’
‘But she said –’
‘Tell her to ring me on the mobile if she’s got any issues.’ I put the booklet in my bag and fished my mobile out, turning it on to ring Quinn briskly to inform her that I would be early. I then switched the phone off again. It annoyed me.
There were several customers in the shop now, all tourists. Lucy was helping a man who wanted something to read while on holidays, something interesting, like A Clockwork Orange. I made crazy eyes at her behind his back and then slipped outside before my mother could interfere. Forty-seven years old and I was still avoiding her.
Ten minutes later and I was honking the horn in the driveway. I left the car and ducked through the side gate up to the shed. This building had been as neat as a pin during my long marriage, surface-sprayed each quarter and with every piece of equipment allocated a particular spot, marked by Dymo tape. Since our separation around eighteen months ago, however, things had become somewhat neglected. I sympathised.
This last thought gave me pause as I mulled over the possibility of using the metaphor for a column. I nodded, pleased, and pushed my way past a jumble of whipper-snipper and chicken wire to the back wall where the tools hung. I unhooked the pickaxe and stared at the painted shadow of an absent spade. A few minutes’ searching finally located it by the door, liberally covered in spider webs and dog poo. The car horn sounded.