by Janene Wood
So That's Where You've Been
November 1966
“Really? You'd give me half of what they're paying you?” asked Kate, wide-eyed at the prospect of earning five whole dollars, just for a few hours of babysitting.
“You'd be doing me a huge favour,” Heather assured her. “Although I've got to warn you, those kids are monsters. It'll take both of us to keep them under control. Please say you'll do it!” she begged.
“Sure,” agreed Kate with an indolent shrug, “I've got nothing better to do tomorrow. What time?”
“I'll meet you out front of my place at twelve-thirty.” Heather grabbed her friend and hugged her fiercely. “Thanks Kate! I owe you big time! See you tomorrow!”
Kate rode the bus the rest of the way into Fiddlers Creek in quiet contemplation. It was months since she'd had any money of her own and she could think of a dozen different ways she could spend such a huge windfall. There was that pair of sandals she'd spotted the other day and fallen in love with, and she could definitely do with a new pair of jeans. Either her old pair had shrunk in the wash or she was two inches taller than the last time she wore them. Then there were books, of course. Having devoured everything the school library had to offer, she was desperate for something new to read. And records...magazines...
But what she really wanted, more than anything else, was a typewriter. Five dollars wasn't enough to buy one outright, not even a second-hand one, but it would be a start. A typewriter would make writing so much easier, and Holly had promised to teach her to touch-type if she ever managed to save up enough money. Writing (and re-writing) in longhand was a hard slog. With a typewriter, she could finish her novel in a quarter of the time it would take her otherwise.
If only money wasn't so tight at home. As it was, she could never justify such a completely selfish purchase when her family barely had enough money to cover the basic necessities of life. Simon tried to hide the seriousness of their situation from her, but she wasn't stupid; she could see through his brave facade and knew exactly how worried he was. He insisted everything was fine, but she couldn't help noticing the holes in his work boots and the frayed collars of the boys’ shirts. They had been washed so often, the material was almost transparent. Jack, too, had had a recent growth spurt, but at least he had his brothers' hand-me-downs, sparing him the humiliation of wearing ankle-breezers to school.
But despite the uncertainty of their finances, there was always food on the table – and good food lately, thanks to Simon's new job. It was criminal how much perfectly good food Cabot's threw out every night – or rather, would throw out if Simon didn't lay claim to most of it and bring it home instead. Fortunately, Claus, the head chef, didn't care what happened to it, just so long as it didn't get served up to his precious customers the next day.
Now that Simon had a regular job, the bills were getting paid more regularly too. Late still, but not so late as before. True, they hadn't been able to find the cost of the phone bill, resulting in its recent disconnection, but unlike other things, like electricity, the phone was a luxury they could do without. So far, they had managed to keep the electricity company happy by paying a little off their account each week.
What hadn’t changed was the absence of things like new clothes or shoes, pocket money, birthday presents, school excursions, Friday night takeaways, trips to the movies... Ordinary, everyday things they previously took for granted. Even trips to the dentist seemed to be out of the question. One of Simon's fillings fell out last week and despite being in great discomfort, he kept making excuses not to get it fixed. He insisted it didn't hurt and that he was far too busy. Kate knew the real reason was there was no money to pay for it.
There was definitely no money for typewriters. And she knew better than to ask.
Instead of going straight home, she hopped off the bus at the end of Creek Road and walked the remaining short distance to Cabot's. Today was one of the afternoons Jack helped Holly out in the shop, and Kate disliked going home to an empty house. She compromised by doing her homework in a quiet corner of Cabot's kitchen and waiting for Sam and Jack to pick her up on their way home from work at 6pm. The meal Simon had prepared for them would be waiting in the fridge at home, and after heating it up, the three of them would sit down in front of the television, eat their tea and pretend everything was normal.
But 'normal' wasn't what it used to be. What it ought to be. If things were normal, Jane would be busy in the kitchen waiting to bombard them with a hundred questions about their day, and the house would be full of the mouth-watering aroma of roast lamb or shepherd’s pie or spaghetti bolognaise. There would be the faint scent of Arpège in the hallway and the clean smell of freshly laundered clothes would greet her as she entered her bedroom. They would eat their tea at the dining room table and the house would be overflowing with conversation and laughter. It wouldn't be empty, cold and lifeless. Kate tried not to dwell on the changes of the past year, and never spoke of them, but she was constantly reminded of them.
The staff at Cabot's knew all about Simon and Kate's domestic situation and Claus, in particular, encouraged Kate's after-school visits. If anything good could be said to have come from Jane's death, it was the new friendships she and her brother had formed, as heart-warming as they were unexpected.
Calling out a general hello as she entered through the back door of the kitchen, she received a variety of responses, varying from enthusiastic to lukewarm, depending on how far along each person's service preparations had progressed. Though few in number, the staff worked well together, from Simon, the lowest man on the totem pole, to Claus, a cuddly bear of a man who was responsible for the smooth running of the entire kitchen. In between was Martin, the third year apprentice, still reveling in his promotion from general dogsbody, but not so insensitive that he didn't remember what it felt like to be told what to do all the time. Then there was Dotty, the sous-chef, a petite young woman who looked about fourteen and was regarded by her colleagues as a sort of baby sister, yet was possibly the most competent and even-tempered of the lot.
Claus ruled them all with quiet authority, never yelling or ranting, preferring instead to inspire industry and excellence with reward and praise, and with a particularly dry sense of humour. With four teenagers of his own, he treated Kate like a cherished daughter, even going so far as to prepare a special plate for her afternoon tea each day.
Which was exactly what he was doing when she walked through the door. But instead of pouring hot water into Kate's usual mug with the chipped lip, he had arranged two elegant china cups and saucers on a small tray, along with a plate of assorted petits fours. Kate knew immediately what the fancy china meant and felt a sudden lightening of her spirits.
“How did the history test go?” Claus asked as she kicked her school bag out of the way under the bench.
Kate shrugged in response. “It was okay. I should do all right.”
“I'm sure you'll get an A after all that study you put in. Tea?”
“Yes, please! Is he back, then?” she enquired eagerly.
“He's waiting for you inside. Off you go now,” he said gruffly, handing her the heavily laden tray.
Kate made her way carefully through the swinging doors into the dining room, and was unable to control the grin that lit up her face when she saw Cabot's owner seated at a corner table, sorting through a pile of mail. Harry Ressic had been away on business for more than a month and Kate had begun despairing he would ever return. “Gramps, you're back!” she exclaimed with unaffected delight.
Smiling at her affectionately, Ressic stood up and took the heavy tea tray from her. “You're a sight for sore eyes, young lady,” he told her warmly. “I thought we'd have tea together if you can spare the time.”
“I think I might be able to squeeze you into my busy schedule,” she said happily, taking the seat opposite him. “It's been so dull here without you,” she reproached him. “I've had no one to talk to this whole time.”
Gramps laughe
d at her obvious exaggeration. “I'm touched, but I'm sure you managed just fine,” he remarked, sitting.
“No, really!” she insisted. “The others are great and all, and I love them to pieces, but all they ever talk about is food. The only books they read are recipe books. Which is fine if you like that sort of thing...”
“Well, I'm back now, so you can talk to me till you're blue in the face,” laughed Ressic.
“So where have you been all this time?” she demanded, eager to hear every tiny detail of his trip. Listening to Gramps' stories of the people and places he visited was almost like being there.
“I was in Paris for the most part,” he replied, “but I spent a few days in Brussels and Amsterdam, with a quick side trip to Barcelona.”
“Not London?” Kate tried hard not to let her disappointment show. London was the ultimate destination as far as she was concerned; she planned to live there one day.
“Not this time, I'm afraid,” said Ressic, chuckling, well aware of her fascination for all things British.
“Did you do much sight-seeing?”
“Not really,” replied Gramps. “I was working most of the time.”
“Working at what? I mean, I know you own this restaurant, but obviously Cabot's isn't the reason you went to Europe.”
“I have investments which need looking in on from time to time, as well as other business interests that have taken a back seat while I’ve been here in Australia. Most of my time was taken up with boring meetings, making sure things are running smoothly in my absence.”
“You spend an awful lot of time in Australia for a man who has so many overseas business interests.”
“That's what managers are for, Kate, to allow me to pick and choose how I spend my time.”
“But how can you stand living in boring old Fiddlers Creek when you could be living in Paris or Amsterdam? Or London,” she added mischievously.
“I'm lucky to be able to live wherever I please, and right now it pleases me to live in Fiddlers Creek. It's people who are important, Kate, not places.”
“Hmm,” said Kate thoughtfully. “That's what Maggie used to say.”
“And who's Maggie when she's at home?” asked Gramps curiously.
“She helped look after me when I was little. You know, on account of me not needing to sleep much. Mum was too tired running her catering business and looking after the boys to sit with me at night, so Maggie did it,” said Kate matter-of-factly.
“I see. How much sleep is not much?”
Kate shrugged. “Three or four hours, though I can survive on less. The longest I ever stayed awake is three days. It gets lonely sometimes, but I’m used to it. I do most of my writing at night, when everyone's in bed and there are no distractions. It helps pass the time.”
“You continue to amaze me, young lady. By the way, I have something for you. It came while I was away.” He reached for an official looking envelope and placed it in front of her. The name of the sender was clearly visible in the top left corner.
“Oh!” said Kate, visibly taken aback. She stared at the envelope for several seconds, before gathering her courage and tearing it open. She wasn't nearly as confident as Gramps seemed to be that it contained good news.
“'Dear Miss McDermott',” Kate read aloud, “'I am pleased to inform you your short story, entitled “Lost and Found”, will be published in the September issue of New Idea magazine. I hereby enclose a cheque for $82.35. I wish you all the best in your future endeavours and would be happy to consider any similar works you wish to submit. Yours faithfully, George Wootton. Editor-in-chief.'”
Kate looked up, speechless. “I can't believe it!” she said at last. “They actually liked it! I have to tell Simon! Maybe I can get a typewriter after all!” Kate grabbed the letter and leapt to her feet. She was halfway to the kitchen door when she halted abruptly and ran back to the table.
Ressic was silent as she brushed his cheek with her lips and whispered her thanks in his ear. In a voice thick with emotion, she told him, “It never would have happened without you, Gramps.”
Then she was gone again, back to her friends in the kitchen. The distant exclamations and cries of congratulations did nothing to dispel the look of paternal pride on his face.
The following afternoon, Kate rode her bike out to Heather's house and hid it in the front bushes, out of sight of both the road and the farmhouse. It was weird being back here again after such a long absence. So weird! She had avoided coming here for nearly two years now, since that Christmas Eve when she tried to climb into Heather's bedroom and fell off the rose trellis instead, breaking her leg. She had declined all of Heather's invitations to visit, even those offered by Mr and Mrs Colacino, who were racked with guilt over their lack of faith in her, but so incredibly grateful for what she had done for their daughter and family. Kate held no grudge against Heather's parents for what happened that day – nor for what happened later in the hospital – and gladly met them on more neutral ground, but there were others whom she could not forgive. The betrayal was too great, the hurt too recent.
So there was no more frolicking in the fountain in the courtyard, no more playing tug-o-war with Heather's little dog in the backyard, no more visits on the back porch to eat Rosa's famous apple cinnamon cake. They were distant memories now, like so many other events and people whom Kate had once held dear. The age of youthful innocence was over; she would never again be duped by little old ladies with kind eyes and barren hearts.
For her part, Heather knew how skittish Kate was about coming here and was waiting for her half-way up the driveway. Without further ado, they took off across the adjacent field of dried cane stubble, following the well-trodden path to the neighbouring Preston farm. The Prestons were a young couple, not yet thirty, who had grown up on the land and never seriously considered any other way of life. They had a small passel of children, three boys aged six, five and three, and identical twin girls, aged seven months. The boys were free-spirited and untamed; a wild and boisterous trio of savages, according to Heather, who knew them as well as her own, much better behaved, nieces and nephews.
Sonia Preston was dressed to the nines when she answered the front door in a mint-green silk dress, matching hat with veil and high-heeled silver sandals. Her hair was pulled up in a neat bun and her makeup had been meticulously applied, even if she had been a little heavy-handed with the green eye-shadow. It was obvious she had gone to a great deal of effort to make herself look as nice as possible for her cousin's wedding. She was flushed with the excitement of dressing up and going out sans enfants. Unfortunately, the overall effect was spoiled by a splash of baby vomit on the shoulder of her frock, which smelled as appealing as it looked.
“Thanks for this, Heather,” said Sonia, breathing a sigh of relief at her arrival. “You're a real life-saver.”
Heather immediately took charge, removing the infant responsible for the up-chuck from her mother's arms and placing her in Kate's custody, then suggesting to Sonia she might want to sponge her dress and give herself another spray of 4711 before leaving the house. Sally, the second twin, distinguishable from her sister Mandy only by a small birthmark on the side of one cheek, was propped up on pillows on the living room floor, playing with her toes and gurgling happily. At least she had been, until the two oldest boys ran in from the backyard, whooping and hollering like a pair of banshees.
Raymond, the younger of the two boys, sporting a feather in his hair and wielding a realistic looking bow-and-arrow, was being chased by six-year-old Jeremy, decked out in a cowboy hat and sheriff's badge and shooting a silver cap-gun. Hyped up by the novelty of their parents' imminent departure, they completely ignored their mother's demands to quieten down and stop upsetting the babies. Heather caught hold of each of the boys and dragged them off to the kitchen, calling over her shoulder to Sonia that it was almost time to go.
“Okay, you two monsters, this is how it's going to be,” said Heather, kneeling on the floor so she could prope
rly eye-ball them. “Your mum's been looking forward to this day for weeks now, and you're not going to ruin it for her by making her worry about what you're getting up to at home. So I want you to hand over your weapons, march up the hall, smile at her sweetly like the little angels you're not, and give her a big kiss on the cheek. Then you'll tell her to have a wonderful time and assure her you'll be on your best behaviour all afternoon.”
“Will not!” said Jeremy, trying to extricate his hand from Heather's iron grip. “You can't make me!”
“Me neither!” added Raymond, following his brother's lead.
“Wanna bet? It's either that or I tell your dad about the rocks you threw at my mum's chooks last week and about the apples you've been stealing from our orchard. I'm pretty sure you'll get a hiding you won't forget, and be sent to bed without tea for a week.”
Jeremy scowled at Heather. “Geez, Heather! You never used to be this mean,” he muttered.
“You never used to be this evil!” countered Heather. “Now, you be nice to me, and I'll be nice to you. Do we have a deal?” She held out her hand so they could shake on it.
Jeremy reluctantly took Heather's hand and they shook.
With no time to spare, the Prestons finally left for the wedding in their black Hillman station wagon, Sonia looking a good deal more excited about the prospect than her husband. Heather and Kate waved them off from the front verandah, each holding a baby in their arms. The two eldest boys stood obediently at their side, the epitome of well-mannered young gentlemen, but only until the car was out of sight. Then they ran yelling and screaming into the bedroom they shared with Gilbert, their three-year-old brother, waking him up from his nap. Heather sighed; so much for their deal.
The afternoon deteriorated steadily from then on.