House for All Seasons

by Jenn J. McLeod

  ‘Not anymore, and sure, go crazy.’ Cait popped the hood, grateful when Derek used a rag to protect her silver duco—dusty as it was—from his greasy paws.

  ‘Towies and their toys.’ Alex winked.

  ‘You were good to his Fluffy?’ Cait whispered, barely containing her snigger.

  ‘All in a day’s work,’ he replied, winking again.

  Caitlin watched Derek muttering indecipherably as he swooned over her car, head shaking in disbelief.

  ‘So, what exciting things have you got planned for today?’ she asked Alex.

  ‘Ah, that would be bed. I need to sleep. You?’

  ‘Ah, that would be grocery shopping. I need to eat.’

  ‘Speaking of food, let me shout you dinner at the pub tonight. Food’s good. Wine’s cheap. So’s the company.’

  Cait’s first thought was to say no, happier to wade cautiously back into country life, starting with a toe in the water at the clinic. Calingarry Crossing pub on a weekend would be more like flinging herself off a rope swing into the deep end of the river.

  ‘Geez, Doc, you look like I’ve just asked if I’m going to live or die. It’s just an invitation to have dinner at the pub. You did me a favour yesterday. What do you say?’

  ‘Sure, why not.’ Cait decided quickly to cover her embarrassment. ‘But no need to shout me. Let’s call it square. I did what anyone would have done in the circumstances.’

  ‘Yeah, right. Anyone would’ve gone off in a car with a stranger on a wild horse chase—pardon the pun. Even country folk aren’t that courteous anymore. You didn’t see Wolf Creek?’ He laughed.

  ‘You expected me to help, otherwise you wouldn’t have asked.’

  ‘You always so compliant? And hey, don’t get me wrong. Being agreeable is a nice quality. It means you say yes to things like dinner. Seven okay? I’ll meet you there.’

  Alex was like a kid with too much red cordial in him.

  ‘Seven’s good for me.’

  Derek the towie closed the hood and gave Alex a quick wink, the kind that said, Onya, mate. Yer gonna score some tonight, the kind that made Cait consider reneging. The thought didn’t linger.

  Everybody eats, she told herself. Besides, it’s a bistro meal in a pub with a not-half-bad-looking bloke.

  Caitlin Wynter could handle herself just fine.

  41

  ‘So far so good, Karma.’ Cait heaved two green enviro grocery bags onto the kitchen bench. ‘Food at last.’

  With her few living and eating essentials put away in cupboards, Cait figured she’d need to get into a routine of checking the property and the animals each morning and night. She’d looked around for instructions, finding only a pile of old scrapbooks and photo albums, a temptation to distraction.

  ‘I guess we don’t need any instructions,’ she said as her dog followed her out the back door.

  It was simply a matter of locating the food stores—which she assumed would be in the shed out the back—checking the gates, and making sure the paddocks had fresh water. She’d give the animals a quick once over to check for ticks, not that it was tick season, but it was an excuse to get her hands dirty—a change from the sterile world of medicine. Karma stayed close at her heel, not quite sure what to make of the raggedy-looking wool on the Dorper sheep, a bit like an ugly, oversized wool jumper worn half on, half off. She’d tried to Google ‘Dorper sheep’ but the intermittent connection frustrated her more than informed her. The bit she did read confirmed they required no shearing, their wool simply falling off as it snagged on bushes and fences. The breed’s other qualities described the perfect daughter: hardy, adaptable, low maintenance, highly fertile and with great mothering instincts.

  Maybe Mum should have given birth to a Dorper!

  She watched Karma eye the sheep like a kookaburra eyes the ground, waiting to pounce, then tried a command like the one Alex had given his blue heeler to make him back away.

  ‘That’ll do, girl.’

  To her surprise and delight, Karma flopped down on her stomach, although her back haunches still looked spring-loaded and ready for action, the dog’s eyes not missing a beat as the sheep bleated in a nervous huddle. Disappointed there were no longer horses on the property, Cait wondered what had become of little Ruby. The adorable miniature pony had been left in Gypsy’s care after retiring from the circus, delivered by the most eclectic troupe Caitlin had ever seen. They’d had to leave the horse float on the other side and transport Ruby on the punt. Cait laughed at the memory of Willow squealing on the shoreline as they waited, Gypsy’s old dog, Scarlett, barking at what probably looked like a big brown dog walking on water.

  ‘It was the Dandelion House’s very own dog and pony show,’ Cait quipped, her mood light as she set about readying herself for dinner at the pub tonight.

  Plugging her iPod into the docking station, she turned the volume up loud. Vivaldi had to be loud. No doubt the composer would again be surprised to know that as well as making great country driving music, his compositions were now the perfect accompaniment for the how to dress for dinner dilemma currently confounding Caitlin. She told herself that any angst about tonight was to do with dressing to impress the locals in general, given she was to be the town’s temporary doctor.

  There you go again, meeting everyone else’s expectations.

  She inspected her linen pants and shirt in the mirror and grumbled, ‘All wrong.’ She sorted through the yet-to-be-unpacked suitcase, deciding she needed something more casual, more comfy, more … country. ‘Get a grip, girl, it’s only Calingarry Crossing pub. A blue singlet and thongs would be overdressed.’

  Re-inspecting what she could see of her stonewashed jeans in the small bathroom mirror, satisfied that the slim-fit legs and the highness of her polo neck jumper would make her look leaner and taller, she nodded in approval, wound a scarf around her neck and grabbed her down-filled coat, hoping the pub still had the outdoor fireplace. The temperature tonight warranted a good fire.

  *

  In case the dank smell of hops, sweat and sickly aftershave wasn’t enough of a sign, the three massive cream-coloured letters painted across a red corrugated tin roof—PUB—had pinpointed her destination from a distance.

  Alex was paying for a round of drinks in the main bar when Cait arrived.

  ‘Hey, Doc, good timing. Hope you like beer.’

  It had been a while.

  ‘Come on and I’ll introduce you to some locals.’

  They left the handful of patrons in the main bar: the four truckers playing the pool table in the back corner and a gathering of young girls surrounded by wedding gift-wrap and boxes. They stepped out into the covered outdoor area and Cait scanned the patrons for recognisable faces. She thought she saw one or two and they looked her way with curious half-smiles.

  The beer garden seemed smaller than she remembered. Possibly smaller than any pub she’d been to back home, especially in nearby Penrith, west of Sydney, where big was generally considered better. Someone had tried to liven up the place, adding a feature wall and hanging baskets, only most of the containers were empty or had dead or dying plants. Several high tables surrounded a central fire. Not the same open fire Cait remembered, but big enough and warm enough for them to join the three blokes gathered around it. Alex did the introductions.

  ‘Fellas, this here is Caitlin Wynter. She’s a doctor.’

  Blast! She should have thought to ask Alex to ditch the dreaded doctor label for the night. Such announcements at a gathering nearly always resulted in someone bailing her up in a corner and confessing to a ghastly sounding and unfortunately placed rash, and these three sure looked like your typical rash candidates.

  Gaz, young and pimply faced, seemed barely old enough to be drinking beer. Clipper, an old shearer, looked a lot like, well, an old shearer. And Louie, nicknamed the Fly, who Alex explained worked for the local council, and with fingers for quotation marks added, ‘in waste management’.

  To Cait’s delight, there was n
o quizzing and no medical talk. The trio launched back into the conversation she assumed they’d been having before the interruption. Football was the subject on every man’s lips at this time of year and Gaz was loudly defending the ref’s call on last weekend’s NRL match in Sydney.

  ‘That moron wouldn’t know a penalty kick if it kicked him in the balls.’

  Louie agreed. ‘Doesn’t take a genius to know he screwed that call up, and the one before.’

  ‘You blokes are blind,’ Clipper growled. ‘I’m twice your age and with half the eyesight and I saw the knee going in, followed by the elbow and the not-so-subtle bloody eye gouge. The ref was right, I say.’ His sideways wink at Cait suggested old Clipper enjoyed stirring his young companions. ‘What about the hammy call with five minutes remainin’. If that wasn’t a bleedin’ con … A hamstring wouldn’t bring down a bear like Higgins.’

  ‘Yeah, what a pussy.’ A kick in the ankle put young Gaz on the defensive. ‘Oh, yeah, ah, I mean wanker. Sorry ’bout the swearin’, Doc.’

  Cait laughed to herself and waved off the apology; had she known how to hawk up a good spit she would have, if only to make them feel comfortable in her presence.

  Instead she said, ‘I have to agree. I’ve seen some lesser players hold up better than that.’

  Silence.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Cait laughed, deciding there was no harm sharing the next bit of information. ‘I’m fill-in team physician with the Penrith Pythons. Now they’re a tough bunch o’ blokes.’

  Louie looked so excited at the news Cait feared he might wet himself, and Gaz looked like he had a mouthful of unspoken expletives he wasn’t game to say aloud.

  Alex must have seen the same reaction as Cait, jumping in with, ‘Sorry, fellas, I’m stealing the good doctor for myself. We’re here to eat. See you jokers later.’

  Alex hooked his arm through Cait’s and led her away, laughing at the look on all three faces.

  *

  They ordered meals from the counter. Cait liked the look of the roasted vegetable stack with fetta cheese and pesto, and to her delight Alex didn’t order a big fat steak, opting for the smoked salmon pasta special. Locals buzzed their table before and during their meal, curious to know who the new face was, and Cait learned Alex wore the grand title of town larrikin—as if she hadn’t picked that already. Locals who knew about Doc Wynter’s passing offered their sympathy when they realised this was Caitlin. Those who didn’t know were genuinely shocked and asked to be remembered to her mother.

  One face Caitlin did recognise, no prompting required. She waved at the woman who’d pushed through the kitchen doors to clean tables, and her return smile said she remembered Caitlin too. Maggie Lindeman hadn’t been a close friend. They were thrown together, their relationship evolving over time because their fathers had a close professional association. In a small town, doctor and local minister would often work together to provide community counselling and support. Even after the Rev—as everyone called Maggie’s dad—bought the pub, the men had worked together professionally, ensuring people, particularly farmers whose struggles pushed them to the brink, had access to the help and guidance they needed.

  ‘Well, well!’ the publican exclaimed. ‘Is there no end to the surprises?’

  Caitlin stood up to return Maggie’s warm embrace. ‘If you’re talking about this thing with Gypsy’s old house, I’m the last one.’

  ‘Then it’s true. They do save the best till last. Good to see you, Cait. Sure has been a long time, not that you’ve changed that much.’

  ‘You don’t look any different either.’

  Not entirely a lie, Cait told herself. There was something—other than the usual age lines. Despite the smile, Maggie’s expression held an intensity that had not been there when they’d been at school.

  ‘I see you’ve fallen into the clutches of our wayward vet. Be careful of this bloke. Before you know it he’ll have you agreeing to some crazy idea, like holding a beach party in a country pub.’

  ‘Oh go ahead and make jokes.’ Alex wagged a told you so finger. ‘Be warned, Miss Maggie, I’m handing you the opportunity to be on the cutting edge of a global phenomenon.’

  ‘What’s all this about?’ Cait asked.

  ‘He wants me to truck in a beach load of sand, turn the pub into a beach party and put it on YouTube.’

  Caitlin was enjoying the banter, watching the friendly sparks fly between Alex and Maggie as fast as their one-liners. They matched each other without faulting, putting Cait a little on edge when for a brief moment she wondered if they were more than just friends. Maybe Alex had a thing for older women.

  Jerked from that thought by a rowdy cheer, what happened next confused her even more.

  A dog barked somewhere in the main bar.

  Maggie stopped talking to call out, ‘Jackpot!’ and another cheer erupted immediately from the patrons.

  Then the place fell back into its pattern of pub talk and Maggie and Alex fell back into their repartee as if nothing had happened.

  Was it Cait’s imagination, or was she the only one to notice?

  A few seconds later, the same thing happened.

  A dog barked.

  Maggie stopped, this time mid-sentence, and shouted, ‘Jackpot!’

  Again the patrons cheered, raising their glasses.

  ‘I’d best go see what’s wrong,’ Maggie said. ‘We’ll definitely catch up soon.’

  ‘Yes, definitely,’ a bemused Cait said.

  They kissed goodbye and Cait turned to Alex.

  ‘What’s with the jackpot cheering thing? I didn’t see any poker machines and I recall the Rev never allowed pokies in the place.’

  Alex hooted. ‘You’re right, there are no poker machines. As I heard it, when a few determined locals didn’t let up, the old Rev called a truce and said he’d install something in the pub to calm their jackpot craving. He got a Jack Russell and called it Jackpot. Now every time the little bugger barks, someone calls out Jackpot to shut him up and the pub cheers.’

  Cait laughed for the umpteenth time that night. ‘This place really hasn’t changed.’

  *

  With Alex at the bar ordering another glass of red and a jug of iced water, two more people strolled by and said hello to the familiar face.

  ‘I’ve never had dinner with such a popular person,’ Alex quipped when he returned, pouring the cold water into two glasses. ‘And I think the town knows you better than I do. Time you brought me up to speed. Who are you, Caitlin Wynter?’

  ‘No one terribly interesting, and as my dinner is now stone cold, I say you go first while I eat.’

  ‘You mean talk about myself? No problem,’ Alex chuckled, settling comfortably in his seat. ‘Here goes. Hope you can keep up.’

  ‘I’ll try,’ Cait giggled.

  ‘I’m named after—and don’t you dare laugh—Alexander Graham Bell because my mother said when I first cried my father had heard it four suburbs away. I’m thirty-one—until September—which makes me a Virgo. Again, no laughing. I love my blue heeler, cows, my car and music, and in that order. My mother has never forgiven me for coming to live and work so far away, which is why I have to ring her every Sunday at six o’clock without fail or endure a whole month of no talkies, which tends to make every other phone call in the meantime bloody tricky.’ He stopped for a laugh, a breath, a sip of wine, and to gulp down the last mouthful of pasta.

  By now, Cait was doing her best not to laugh too loud. Never had she been so entertained, so relaxed—and on a first date.

  ‘I know why she’s like that,’ Alex started again, still smiling but with his tone a little less upbeat. ‘Since my father died five years ago, she gets lonely.’

  ‘Sorry about your dad.’

  Alex shrugged. ‘I couldn’t stay living in the city, which I absolutely loathe anyway, just to make my mother happy. So when I got the chance to come here …’ A shrug, another swig and a smile. ‘Where was I? Oh yes … my list. Okay, when
I die I want to come back as a blue heeler. I feel blessed that Tom—Calingarry Crossing’s old vet—passed away in his sleep one night and I was in the right place at the right time to grab the position. And I can tell you now that I intend sticking around here and going the same way as Tom—in my sleep and surrounded by animals. There. I’m done.’

  ‘Wow! Is that all?’ Cait giggled while dabbing a serviette at the tears in her eyes.

  ‘And I’m gay.’

  ‘Oh!’

  Alex snorted. ‘Not a bad reaction. Had worse.’

  How Cait had managed to put so much disappointment into a minuscule word like ‘Oh’, she didn’t know. Had he noticed?

  ‘What’s not a bad reaction, Alex?’

  ‘Your response. It wasn’t bad. I’ve had some people splutter their wine. Hence the patterned shirt I’m wearing tonight. Red wine is a bastard to get off.’ He leaned back, balancing the chair on two rear legs, and locked eyes on Cait. ‘But is your Oh an Oooh yuk, or an Oh, I couldn’t give a continental?’

  ‘Hmm, hang on.’ Cait picked up her wine and took a pretend swig. ‘Nope, no splutter factor. Must be that I don’t give a continental. Unless of course there is something going on between you and Derek.’ She laughed at Alex’s expression. ‘Well, you were apparently very good to his Fluffy.’

  The vet almost fell off his chair, his raucous whooping enough to grab the attention of men in the adjacent bar area.

  ‘I’ll have you know Fluffy is a rabbit. And while Derek is a nice bloke, the idea of … brrrrr!’ He shuddered, pulling a face as if he’d eaten worms, and said, ‘Can we change the subject? Your turn. Tell me something to get that image of Derek out of my head, please.’ Letting the chair slam back down on all fours, Alex checked his watch, rested his elbows on the table and said, ‘Your time starts now.’

  ‘Oh, the pressure.’ Cait took a deep breath. ‘Okay, I’m not sure my telling will be as succinct or as entertaining as yours was, but here goes.’