House for All Seasons

by Jenn J. McLeod

  Max huffed. ‘Sounds like a few journos I know.’

  ‘Thank God I grew up.’ Poppy shook her head and grimaced. ‘Lots didn’t, so a whole new generation of kids started calling her a witch, telling the same silly stories right up to the time I left for uni. She wasn’t, of course—a witch, I mean.’

  ‘Glad to hear it.’

  ‘Once I got to know her I could see that Gypsy was just different. Who wouldn’t be, growing up part of a travelling carnival troupe? Her mother was a crystal-ball-brandishing fortune-teller. Not sure about her dad; she used to only ever refer to him as ‘the carnie’. Don’t think she knew much about him. The man kind of floated in and out of her life, a bit like Johnno does with me. I think that’s why Gypsy and I connected, despite her being almost old enough to be my grandmother. That and the idea of running away with the circus.’

  ‘You’re part of the media circus. Doesn’t that count?’ Max quipped.

  ‘Not quite the same thing.’

  ‘So where will you stay in Calingarry Crossing?’

  ‘At her house. I spent a lot of time there, especially after my mum …’ Poppy didn’t finish the sentence. In twenty-five years, she never had. ‘I have no idea what the place looks like anymore.’

  She decided to let him in on the contents of Gypsy’s will, explaining Sara, Amber and Caitlin’s part.

  ‘And how long have you known about this?’

  ‘A while, but, Max, I honestly hadn’t thought about it too much. I figured I’d take a drive out there one weekend, take a look at the place and … Like I said, I hadn’t thought things through. I think I was avoiding it. My first priority was—’

  ‘Last night. Johnno. I know. That’s the sudden urgency to go back home.’

  ‘No, Max, not just him. Going back to Calingarry Crossing might help me face up to a few things.’

  ‘Like?’

  She didn’t say what. She’d never spoken about Willow to anyone, not even Max. She could talk about almost anything, but not that.

  Ten years her senior, Max was still a little bit old school, a fact he liked to exaggerate, calling himself a Luddite and joking about his bafflement at technology. He’d done the hard yards in a cutthroat industry, starting straight out of school in the mailroom of the Australian Broadcasting Corporation and charming his way into positions until he’d learned the ropes enough to justify every promotion he received from then on. There was still a boyish charm about him, when he wasn’t in boardroom battles, negotiating deals or bawling out insubordinate staff.

  Everybody in the industry knew Max Coffey these days. The young girls all wanted to be around him. The young guns in the business wanted to be him. Ten years ago he’d hit BRW’s fastest growing business list. His agency had filled a niche within the television and film industry. With economics forcing networks to consider ways to reduce overheads, contracting production crew helped to reduce staff costs and limit the network’s liability in the event a journo was injured on the job. The Maximilian Coffey Agency provided that alternative. They still led the pack today.

  Max was smart, good-looking and probably fitter than Poppy from all the time he spent at the gym and pounding the pavement before suiting up and coming to work. She’d known about him for years. They first met at a news media function and something had clicked straight away, much to the annoyance of the network’s newest weather girl, who’d been decorating Max’s arm at the time. By the end of the function there was a storm brewing behind Little Miss Sunshine’s eyes, no doubt because her date had spent most of the night talking to Poppy.

  Max had been behind Poppy’s decision to freelance. He’d liked how she was always setting goals, like being at the top of her game before she turned thirty-five. Poppy didn’t shy away from the tough assignments, either. Even though delivering reports with the required skew sometimes went against the grain, she’d still managed to stand out from the crowd. As her boss, Max remained her best mate and mentor. He deserved the truth—well, most of it.

  ‘What else can I say?’ The subtle shake of his head said enough. ‘You know if it was anyone else asking for leave now …’

  ‘I know. I know. Thank you, Max. I’ll leave my work mobile with Kristen.’

  ‘But, Poppy, what if I need you?’

  ‘There’s always email. You do know how to send one of those things, don’t you? That’s the little envelope thingy that sits on your computer screen and beeps every now and then.’

  ‘You think you’re cute, don’t you?’ Max laughed. ‘Do they even have mobile phone reception out there?’

  Poppy hadn’t thought about that when she’d decided to get herself a personal phone from the Optus shop on the way to work. She shrugged. ‘I’ve picked up a pre-paid. Last thing I need is a call from a contact about a job I can’t do.’ She rummaged around her pockets until she found the number; Max took a note of it, handing the slip of paper back.

  ‘Bet you end up ringing me first. You won’t last a week.’

  ‘Oh, is that right?’ Poppy loved a challenge. ‘I might just have to take you up on that bet. And how about while I’m gone you get yourself another bloody sofa. Or is it meant to be this hard getting out of a casting couch? I wouldn’t know.’ She clasped the front edge of the seat and dragged her body forward.

  ‘Casting couch!’ Max bellowed as he grasped her wrist and yanked her up. ‘Whilst the idea of Poppy Hamilton on a casting couch is an interesting one, I do believe I just saw a pig fly by the window.’

  ‘Funny guy.’ She landed a playful punch on his shoulder. Max had understood their relationship for a long time, but that didn’t stop him teasing. Max Coffey could be every bit as tenacious as she could in achieving goals. The difference was she’d only had to break through glass. He’d needed to break down Poppy’s barriers of steel. ‘Now then, Max, do you want to pretend to yell at me a bit before we go out there and tell the others? Maybe you can say you’ve kicked my backside for insubordination and suspended me.’

  ‘Yeah, right, then they’ll think I’m the crazy one.’

  Kristen’s sugar-sweet voice came over the intercom. ‘Max, I’ve had Negus and Ray Martin on the phone already. And oh, wow, you’ll never guess. Two of the biggest bouquets ever have just arrived. One’s a congrats from Grimshaw. It’s crazy out here.’

  ‘Sounds like The Coffey Agency is the hot property,’ Poppy said. ‘I’d best let you get to it.’

  ‘Wait.’ He grabbed her hand, jerking her back to face him, his voice tinged with disbelief. ‘I’m going to say this one more time. You do know all this hype is because of you. This is your time. It’s our time—together. I don’t understand why you have to go now. To be honest, your timing sucks. You are the hot property, not me.’

  ‘You’re better at all this crap. I’m a behind-the-scenes kinda gal. Besides, you got me the winning gig in the first place. I had my moment in the spotlight last night. Your turn. You’ll probably have your hands full with at least a dozen female reporters banging on your door in search of a big break. And they’ll do more than bang on your door, Mr Coffey.’

  ‘Hadn’t thought about it that way.’ He winked. ‘Come on. We’d better get out there and break your news to Kristen before she suffers ear strain from listening at the door.’

  *

  ‘Poppy Hamilton and time off?’ Carlo the sound grip responded to the news as if he’d just been handed a sardine and custard sandwich. ‘Those two things just don’t go together. When?’

  ‘Starting now,’ Poppy said. ‘I’m going away. If you need me, talk to Max.’

  Poppy’s schedule was empty for a change. There was nothing outstanding, nothing to hand over.

  Amazing! Her timing didn’t suck at all. It couldn’t be better.

  The office went quiet and Max forced a smile, his melancholy like a punch in the gut to Poppy.

  Even Kristen looked genuinely sad when she whimpered, ‘So, where you going?’

  ‘I’m going home,’ Poppy said.

/>   ‘Home as in Balmain? Will I call you a taxi?’ Kristen looked confused and Poppy didn’t bother hiding her amusement.

  ‘As in home to Calingarry Crossing.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Oh, just Google it, Kristen. See you all when I see you.’

  19

  Having left the city behind five hours ago, Poppy was feeling relaxed behind the wheel. The man at the car hire place had given her a good deal on a new Nissan hatchback, an automatic; a good thing for an occasional driver like Poppy. Living in Sydney’s inner west, a stone’s throw from the city, she didn’t require a car, especially since she wasn’t in the country for a good portion of the year. Cab Charge was easier, allowing her to sit and work while someone else battled the traffic jams and the road rage.

  Constant overseas travel was both a benefit of the job and a bore. Worst of all, being away stopped her from owning a dog. Poppy would have liked a loyal companion, one who loved her unconditionally, never asked too much and never argued back. Two years ago, she’d settled for a more practical pet, one the little girl in the terrace next door to hers could look after whenever Poppy travelled. Not this trip, though. For the first time in his soggy little life, Rocky the axolotl sloshed around on the passenger seat.

  Destination—Calingarry Crossing.

  Poppy liked that Rocky was different.

  A fish with legs.

  An underwater lizard.

  A rare and special survivor of another place and another time. Kind of how she’d felt growing up in Calingarry Crossing. She felt the same going back today.

  Her reputation as a teenager had been as the local tomboy, always bossing everyone and calling the shots.

  ‘I called the shots that muck-up day, Rocky mate. So busy bossing everyone around. So full of myself and my need to get the year over with and get out of that bloody town.’

  A car came from out of nowhere and overtook them, blasting its horn. Poppy jerked the steering wheel, the car swaying hard left, water sloshing from the fish tank and spotting the pale blue seat fabric a murky navy.

  ‘Sorry, Rock,’ she said, casting a quick glance at the tank’s tiny tsunami. ‘I’ll be more careful. Almost there.’

  Hopefully!

  It had been ages since she’d seen a road sign for Saddleton. There’d been an Armidale turn-off a while back, a small sign crafted by a local to indicate a back road, and probably not a good one. Off the highway, away from the mind-numbing white lines and the stink of baking bitumen and diesel, a new sound replaced the rumble of semi-trailers, four wheel drives and caravans. Like rapid machine-gun fire, small stones—loose gravel from the unsealed road shoulder—sprayed the undercarriage of the low-slung hatchback, the sound bringing a different set of nightmare images, and Poppy wished she’d thought to take a four wheel drive vehicle option.

  With the road’s serpentine curves unsettling the McDonald’s lunch she’d gobbled down an hour earlier, she pulled over for a quick roadside stop in one of the old stock crossing areas from which Calingarry Crossing got its name.

  ‘Time to stretch our legs a bit, eh, Rock?’

  Unfolding one long limb at a time, Poppy emerged from the compact car. She stood tall and reached her arms above her head, fingers linked and palms facing skyward, pushing as hard as she could until she felt her shoulders ping. Then she dropped her arms to her sides and rolled her shoulders in full circles.

  With the day disappearing, Poppy quickly circled the car, eyeing each tyre before falling back into the uncomfortable little driver’s seat and accelerating out of the dusty roadside rest area, leaving a plume of crimson-coloured powder in her wake.

  At least they’d sealed the road surface. Twenty years ago, the dirt corrugations would have rattled the teeth off a comb. The unpredictability of country driving had taught a young Poppy that things were not always as they seemed on the surface. Unsuspecting travellers could easily find themselves smack-bang in a dirt-filled pothole, thinking What the hell? as a choking red mist of bull dust slowly settled around their vehicle.

  The past decade of drought had not been good to the flat fields on either side of the road. The sun-baked long grasses looked brittle and brown, yet spasmodic patches of wildflowers—pink, purple, yellow and her favourite flannel flower—somehow survived, littering the roadside like confetti. Besides cattle grazing in a distant paddock, the only other visible sign of life as the hatchback streaked along the road was a flock of galahs, about one hundred of them, looking like pink leaves on tree branches. Soon the road would turn and she’d start following Calingarry Creek—one of the multiple tiny tributaries that fed into the main river—and the empty paddocks would gradually fill with vegetation, growing thicker and greener as she neared town. While properties further out still relied on dams and God’s good graces, farmers closer to town, on the banks of the Calingarry Creek, enjoyed rich, fertile land.

  How ironic that the same life-giving river had so easily taken a life. Poppy wiped the image of Willow away with a quick swipe of her fingers over both eyes.

  Bloody dust!

  Unaccustomed to driving long distances, Poppy’s shoulders and neck cramped, with a very different tension knotting her stomach as she saw the first Calingarry Crossing signpost. With the Dandelion House located east of town, she would not have to drive through the main village. The plan, if such a word could be applied to a snap decision like this one, was to avoid town as much as possible. She wasn’t sure what she’d do while stuck out at the house all day and night, but she knew she didn’t want to drive smack-bang into her past. By bringing supplies with her she could avoid town until she was ready. Other than that she figured she would hide out for as long as she could, fulfil her part of the deal—or some of it at least—get over her anger with Johnno, and get back to work, a new and improved Poppy Hamilton, ready to kick butt again. Staying out of town suited Poppy just fine. The Dandelion House had kept Gypsy away from the town’s scrutiny. It would do the same for her now.

  ‘If we ever get there, Rocky mate.’

  The other good reason to stay away from town was the Calingarry Creek Bridge, which sat on its outskirts, near the old swimming hole. Poppy again tried to block out the image of Willow from that day. If she thought closing her eyes would help she might have, even at eighty kilometres an hour.

  ‘I sure wish you could talk, Rocky.’ She drummed her fingernails against the side of the fish tank, then flicked on the radio and tried tuning it to the local station, looking for a distraction from the driving and memories.

  Nothing.

  ‘There’s one thing left to do. Come on, boy, how about we have a sing along. Maybe that John Denver song, the “take me home, country roads” one. That’s pretty appropriate right now.’ She eyed the axolotl accusingly. ‘What’s that look for? You prefer “Rocky Mountain High”, I suppose.’

  The next thing Poppy heard was her own laughter. First, she was talking to a fish. Now she was laughing. Max had been right; coming back was sending her nuts.

  Poppy let out a long sigh, already regretting her decision. Jesamiah Huckenstead’s vague responses had been reminiscent of the election campaigns Poppy had covered over the years. She had suggested that returning to Calingarry Crossing was all about getting reacquainted with the house. Why that was important when all they were going to do was sell up, Poppy didn’t know. She’d only been half-listening at the time, too busy planning how she’d get out of the conference room and the whole arrangement. If she’d realised the inheritance meant going through this reconnecting with her country roots thing, she would have interrogated the woman until she’d got answers, like any good journo. Her attempts to telephone the number on the Madgick & Associates business card Jesamiah had handed out brought no response. So here she was, a minute away from her long-forgotten childhood: happy, sad, confusing, painful.

  ‘That Jesamiah woman was an odd one, but then old Gyps was a bit Addams Family too—all mysterious and kooky.’ Poppy snapped her fingers in the air tw
ice and snorted. ‘Good ol’ Gyps. She would’ve loved you, Rocky-boy. Gypsy embraced different. One of her favourite sayings was, Let different delight and define, not divide.’ Remembering that surprised her.

  Since learning about the inheritance, Poppy had been curious about how Gypsy had died. At something like eighty years of age, death could come from just about anything. Poppy just hoped she hadn’t suffered. Gypsy had endured enough.

  Like you cared. You didn’t even stick around.

  She slapped both hands hard against the steering wheel, planted her foot on the accelerator and burst into another chorus of John Denver’s signature song. Flanked by fields of yellow, the little blue car spearheaded an orange dust trail that spewed out behind it, slowly evaporating into the dusky sky. Once, the land had been mostly wheat, barley and feed crops for the cattle and sheep that had dotted the landscape. Now it appeared canola might be the crop of choice. Soon native grasses and the grey-green haze of eucalypts and scrubby swamp oaks replaced the crop fields, prompting Poppy to slow down. If her memory served her, the roadway ended at the riverbank just over the crest, where the old punt would be waiting.

  She drove straight onto the unmanned and neglected floating platform, thinking it seemed smaller than she remembered, barely wide enough for the small hatchback. Then she slipped out of the driver’s door and a breeze, cooled by water and the late hour, whipped several wavy black strands of hair across her face. After engaging the safety gate, she leaned over the railing to press the big—now faded—red button under a weatherproof flap. The wooden boards immediately shuddered under foot as the submarine cable grabbed hold, yanking the car ferry into motion, dragging it towards the opposite riverbank. A thick line of shrubs, now twenty years taller, bordered the river’s edge, and an avenue of liquidambar trees in full summer foliage flanked a long curved track and almost completely cloaked the house.