House for All Seasons

by Jenn J. McLeod

  ‘Well, if you’re still here when I get back we can work on the garden together. If you want to, that is.’

  He shrugged. ‘Sure.’

  *

  In the Stock and General store, the cashier behind the counter tipped his sweat-lined leather hat and eyed her up and down, reminding Amber she looked very out of place in her tailored wool trousers and the striking black and white Versace sweater. While paying for the gloves and seed packets—a mixed lettuce and a few varieties of cherry and roma tomatoes—she thanked the man for his polite suggestion that a cold snap was no time for spring crops and took the box.

  ‘I thought I recognised the car,’ a voice called out from the pub veranda. Maggie Lindeman stopped dusting the wooden seats and leaned over the railing.

  ‘Hello, Maggie.’

  ‘How’s everything going out there?’ The woman glanced at the gardening paraphernalia sitting on the bonnet of the sedan. ‘Planning on a little gardening? Not the best time of year for tomatoes, though.’ She must have seen the exasperation on Amber’s face. ‘Oh! Guess Joe might’ve already told you that, huh?’ She laughed. ‘Come on in and I’ll shout you. What is it these days? Beer, wine?’

  It had been a long time since a draught beer had passed Amber Bailey-Blair’s lips. ‘When in Rome …’ she said, following Maggie through the near-empty main bar.

  ‘In that case I’ll stick to my father’s traditional shout of a beer and an ear,’ Maggie said with a smile. ‘You look like you could do with both. We’ll sit out the back.’

  Amber nodded, following Maggie past the kitchen, closed and smelling of bleach and disinfectant, and into the courtyard, grateful she chose a table under a gas heater.

  ‘This is nice.’

  ‘Nice when the sun’s out. No choice right now but to sit outside. You don’t want to be anywhere close to Ethne when the woman gets a cleaning bee in her bonnet. Prepare for a chemical wash down if you get yourself within coo-ee of her kitchen.’ Maggie chuckled and ignited the gas. ‘What’ll it be?’

  ‘Actually, a beer does sound good.’

  Two dusty jackeroos crossed the courtyard from the rear car park, headed for the main bar. They ogled Amber and one of them whistled, his mate digging him in the ribs as they disappeared inside, tipping their Akubras as they passed Maggie in the doorway.

  She returned with two middies of beer and a bag of nuts.

  ‘So how is it—coming back, I mean? What you expected?’

  ‘Expected?’ Amber thought about her answer as she swallowed the first cool sip of the amber liquid. ‘Jury’s still out.’

  Having expectations suggested she’d given her return to Calingarry Crossing a reasonable amount of thought. She hadn’t.

  Maggie nattered about the locals and mentioned a few names Amber recognised.

  ‘How did you find coming back, Maggie?’

  ‘Choice wasn’t part of my story. I came back from Sydney with every intention of selling this place. But then I got a taste for it. A bit like the draught beer.’ She smiled. ‘So here I am.’

  ‘Not much chance of that for me, not once the place goes on the market.’ Amber ignored the raised eyebrows. ‘You don’t miss the city?’

  ‘Some things, but that’s what holidays are for. I’m happy with short snatches of city life nowadays. Not so sure Noah agrees.’

  ‘Noah?’

  ‘My son. Fifteen most days. Five when he wants to be. Twenty-five soon enough.’ The woman glowed, parental pride oozing from every pore. ‘You know how boys are.’

  Amber’s lips quivered into her well-rehearsed social pages smile, the one that ensured she looked the same in every shot.

  ‘I have a daughter—Fiona.’

  The silence was suddenly awkward. Thankfully another sip of cold beer combined with the warmth radiating from the patio heater above them relaxed Amber again.

  ‘You’re quiet,’ Maggie said. ‘Not the Amber I remember at all. Is everything all right? I did say a beer and an ear. I meant it.’

  Amber wondered if Maggie was being particularly perceptive or just curious.

  ‘My mother and I … Last night we …’

  Had there been any unshed tears still lingering—leftovers from last night’s yelling match with her mother—the two boisterous blokes bursting through the door of the main saloon and squaring up to each other playfully kept them at bay.

  ‘Oi, Gaz, Louie, take it somewhere else, boys.’ Maggie did a bad job of hiding her amusement as the men disappeared inside again. ‘Sorry, Amber, you know how they can be. Go on. You were saying?’

  Taking a deep breath to renew her composure, Amber tried again. ‘I’m not sure what I expected coming back to town after the crappy situation I created and walked away from. At least Will seems to have forgiven me.’

  Maggie gave a knowing chuckle. ‘Will was always a sweetie. His mother …? Now there’s a different story. Wouldn’t go seeking her out or hoping for any forgiveness there. Caroline Travelli had a conniption over poor Sara coming back. Goodness knows what she’d do if you fronted up on her doorstep.’

  ‘Oh, there’s no chance of that happening. Dealing with mothers isn’t my strong point. My hands are pretty full in that department. Thanks for the warning, though.’ After another sip of the beer Amber asked, ‘What did you mean about Caroline having a fit over Sara coming back? Why? What happened? Who doesn’t love Sara?’ Amber’s interest shifted away from her woes, keen for a little insight into someone else’s stay. ‘Did you see much of her?’

  ‘Nope!’ Maggie laughed back another mouthful of beer. ‘Not as much as Will, I’m thinking. They got pretty tight.’

  ‘I knew Will wasn’t telling me everything when I saw him the other day.’

  ‘Who’d have guessed—Sara and Will, and after all these years. I suppose people can change a lot.’

  Amber refused to let her guard down in front of Maggie. They weren’t that close. ‘Speaking of changing, where’s the nearest clothing store, Saddleton? I didn’t come too prepared for chook poop and cow manure.’ She waved her hands over the designer clothing.

  ‘I see what you mean. If you’re needing a little country comfort, look no further than right here in town. Next door, in fact.’

  Amber visualised the street where she’d parked, her eyes widening with surprise. ‘You don’t mean …?’

  ‘Hey, don’t knock it until you’ve tried it.’ Maggie laughed. ‘Seriously. Val and lilac-haired Lorna run the place. They work in cahoots with Saddleton and swap gear over; not even us country folk want to rock up in the clothes a neighbour threw away the month before.’ Maggie stood and clasped both palms on the small of her back to stretch. ‘Back to work for me. Pop next door, take a look. What have you got to lose? Tell Val and Lorna I said hello. They’ll look after you, I promise.’ She stacked the glasses, cupping them in the heel of one hand before adding another half-dozen from an adjacent table. ‘I’ll see you around, Amber. Don’t be a stranger.’

  ‘Yes. Okay. Thank you.’

  *

  Amber’s mouth twitched into a nervous sort of smile as she paused in front of the op shop, the two women sitting in front of a small bar radiator undeniably scone-baking, jam-making CWA ladies.

  ‘Hello,’ she said teetering in the doorway, not quite in, not quite out.

  The women smiled in return and one said, ‘Hello, dear,’ her face never leaving Amber’s, even though her fingers still feverishly crocheted recycled balls of wool into small squares.

  Amber scanned the racks of clothes from the doorway, the bric-a-brac shelves and an old bookcase chock-a-block with second-hand magazines and novels, all the while sensing Lorna and Val’s intense scrutiny.

  ‘You must be Cheryl’s daughter.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Cheryl Bailey, dear.’

  ‘Oh, yes, I am.’ She smiled and extended a business-like hand, as if she was about to hand over a donation. In a way she was. ‘I’m Amber—Amber Bailey-Blair these days.
’

  The women’s mutual nod suggested they knew already.

  ‘Of course, we’ve heard all about you, dear,’ said lilac-haired Lorna.

  The comment stopped Amber in her tracks.

  When? Today? What had they heard?

  ‘She’s very proud, your mum, and always showing us magazine pictures of you with your handsome husband.’ Lorna jerked her chin towards the bookcase and the messy stack of old glossy mags, the silent but steady rhythm of her crochet hook never missing a beat.

  ‘All very exciting, isn’t it, Val?’ She tittered like an excited teen.

  ‘My mother? She talks about me?’ asked Amber.

  ‘Very much, dear,’ Val chipped in. ‘Now what can we help you with? You’re a tiny thing, aren’t you?’

  ‘I might just look around a bit if that’s okay.’

  ‘There’s a change room at the back.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Conscious of the whispers as she rummaged through one rack, then another, it surprised Amber to find several reasonably new-looking items. This was confirmed when Lilac Lorna nattered about how their shop did very well after Christmas each year when folks brought in all the gear their city relatives had sent them that they had no hope of fitting into. Amber tried two pairs of jeans, two shirts and a hooded sweat-type jacket with a fleecy lining and zipper.

  Amazing!

  *

  The look on the ladies’ faces when she handed over a fifty-dollar note and told them to keep the change stayed with Amber, making her smile all the way back to the Dandelion House, keen to get a start on her project before dark. After changing into her new old jeans and flannelette shirt, she was sitting on the front steps working her feet into the gumboots when she saw Christopher crouched down in the weed-infested veggie patch, his well-worn Akubra shielding his face.

  ‘Where do we start?’ Amber asked as she joined him on the ground.

  ‘With this.’ He raised a hand, a wide-brimmed sunhat dangling between his index finger and thumb.

  ‘My old favourite!’ she gushed, inspecting the straw cowboy hat, with its upturned sides and leather band studded with tiny, gold-coloured horseshoes.

  ‘Your mum said to give it to you. Said you’d be needin’ it to keep your freckles in the shade.’

  ‘She was here? Today?’

  ‘Doh!’ Christopher shrugged. ‘She brought the hat.’

  ‘Did she say anything else? Did she ask where I was?’

  ‘She said you never wore one when you was my age, ’cause hats messed with your hair. She said she hoped you was a little wiser now.’

  Wiser? Amber certainly didn’t feel too wise quizzing a fifteen-year-old rather than facing the music for herself. Last night she’d been nothing short of a tantrum-throwing brat whose mother had refused to give in to the lollies at the supermarket checkout.

  ‘Let’s plant, shall we.’

  The pair worked late into the afternoon until the cool set in, reminding Amber it was autumn even though the daytime temperatures hardly concurred. She stood back, dusted her knees and hands—the image of her mother doing the same flashing briefly through her mind—and admired their progress, pleased. They’d managed to weed and plant out one whole bed and half prepare another, but she’d need more seeds for a second bed.

  Time to wash up so she could drop Christopher back into town, pick up a few more seedlings and maybe grab that coffee she really should have got earlier to avoid the ache once more waging war between her temples.

  *

  After the same grunted suggestion from the man in the Stock and General about autumn crops, they headed back outside, Christopher stopping to read a poster on the door about the Harry Potter movie showing in Saddleton.

  ‘Harry Potter. Cool!’

  ‘Do you like Harry Potter?’

  ‘Who doesn’t? We talked about that once in School of the Air. One of the kids did a book report. I read all the books. I love magic.’ He waved an invisible wand through the air.

  ‘Would you like to see the movie? We can go on the weekend.’

  ‘Nah. Can’t. Next weekend is Easter. Calingarry Crossing Fair Day. Mum-Two and I always go.’

  ‘You do?’ An unexpected pang of jealousy jabbed. ‘I see … well, another day perhaps.’

  ‘You can come with us.’ Christopher strode out in front, turning to walk backwards, his eyes wide with excitement. ‘We can all go together. Hey, maybe you can enter Muddy in the Best Buddy competition.’

  ‘Muddy?’

  ‘Your cow.’

  My cow!

  The logistics of such a task bewildered Amber, but with the boy’s enthusiasm rubbing off on her, she didn’t want to disappoint, changing subjects instead.

  ‘Speaking of Muddy the cow, how about a chocolate milkshake?’

  34

  ‘Hello.’ The word was almost lost in the gasp that escaped Amber’s lips when she as good as walked into Cheryl sitting at a table outside Will’s café.

  ‘Hello, Amber. It’s coffee—yes,’ Cheryl said coolly, obviously interpreting her daughter’s surprise as a criticism. ‘It’s also decaf. Less chance of an addiction that way, or so I’ve been told. Would you like one?’

  ‘I promised Chris a milkshake,’ Amber said, handing the boy her purse.

  ‘We’re going to enter Muddy in the Best Buddy competition,’ the boy piped up before wandering off into the café.

  ‘Wonderful idea.’ Cheryl smiled, her gaze following Christopher.

  ‘Wonderful?’ Amber hadn’t expected agreement from the woman, much less a wonderful.

  ‘Of course.’ She sipped her coffee. ‘I’m hoping to enter one of my orchids if the bloom’s right by then.’

  Jams? Scones? Blooming orchids?

  What next?

  Who is this woman?

  Where was the mother she remembered, the woman who drank her way through Amber’s teenage years, the woman her father said had ruined both their lives?

  ‘Would you at least sit down, Amber?’ Cheryl said in a hushed voice, despite there being very few people around to hear.

  Amber fought to find a reason to say no, to keep moving and get back to the afternoon she’d been enjoying with Christopher.

  Nothing came.

  ‘For a minute, I guess,’ she eventually said, feeling rather pathetic.

  What else did she have to do? Only this morning she’d been so desperate to fill her time she’d started planting vegetables that had little hope of living.

  A burst of laughter rang out and she saw Christopher and Will having some sort of sugar stick throwing contest at the back of the café. When she looked back at Cheryl, smiling at the scene, Amber wished there was a way to make up for her outburst and start fresh.

  ‘Look, about last night,’ she said, remorse grinding her voice flat. ‘I … I wanted to say … I’m sorry. The whole photo thing and Willow’s drawing … I was stupid and childish and … well, I shouldn’t have made such a big deal.’

  Jump in any time, why don’t you! she wanted to add, waiting the few agonising seconds to see how her mother would acknowledge the apology, and for Will to deliver the chocolate milkshake she no longer craved. Amber was drowning in guilt, like the little bug now trying to drag itself to the side of the untouched water glass in front of her, desperate to claw its way out. Cheryl swilled the remaining coffee, placed the cup back on its saucer, and sighed long and loud, enquiring eyes studying the daughter she didn’t know. Amber rescued the flailing bug, flicking it to dry land. A glossy painted nail nudged the little creature to its feet and she prepared herself for another steely-voiced lecture.

  ‘I think we both need time,’ Cheryl said with a barely-there smile, her hands, clasped on the table as if in prayer, now the focus for both women. ‘I know I do. Even though all these years I’ve been preparing myself for the day you’d come home, the truth of the matter is every rehearsed word vanished the moment I saw you. God knows, Amber, I’ve wanted to say so many things to you,
never knowing if I’d ever get the chance. When Gypsy mentioned leaving the house to you girls …’

  ‘What?’ Amber baulked, wondering if her mouth had actually dropped to the table. That would explain her inability to string a sane sentence together. ‘Gypsy told you? You talked to her about this? Before Gypsy died? How come? You two were never close. I remember you and Dad telling me not to go near her place. I don’t get it. What changed?’

  ‘I changed, Amber,’ Cheryl said matter of factly. ‘I was alone. So was Gypsy. A long time ago, when you were very young, she and I … We were friends. We … we shared things.’

  ‘But Dad and Gypsy were—’

  ‘Your father … He had his reasons. It was for the best.’

  Suspicion snaked its way through Amber’s veins. ‘What reasons? And why did she include me in the bequest? I don’t understand. What sort of things could you and Gypsy possibly share? I really don’t know what—’

  ‘Shush, Amber!’ Cheryl bristled in her seat and Amber saw her check Christopher’s proximity. Will was still occupying him, or perhaps it was the other way around. ‘There is a lot you don’t know.’

  ‘But why don’t I know?’ Amber’s gimme-gimme whine sounded like an undisciplined child. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because, Amber …’ Cheryl’s voice thinned, shook, gouged its way out. ‘You and your father gave up the right to know anything about my life when you left.’

  Smack!

  Discipline dispensed.

  The brat wanted to strike back. Instead, Amber held out both hands in surrender.

  ‘Okay, okay! You’re right. I’m sorry.’ This was not the fresh start she was looking for. ‘I don’t want to fight again, please.’ She tried to calm her breathing, knowing her apology could easily escalate into yet another interrogation if she didn’t choose her words carefully. She was just so totally wired seeing her mother like this—the sober, self-confident person looking lovingly at the young boy now sitting with Will’s young son, Jasper, and playing some sort of hand-held computer game. Cheryl had never attempted to contact Amber in all these years—no letters, no calls, nothing. Clearly being angry was much easier.