by Di Morrissey
‘Heavens, no. She adores Neverend and loves the house she and your grandfather restored. I think she keeps pretty busy with golf, her friends, book club and various organisations. And you know how much work she puts into her garden. It takes up a lot of her time.’
‘I always enjoy spending time with Bunny. Grandma Thomas is . . . tricky,’ said Megan diplomatically.
‘I think your mother would agree with that. Frankly, I always felt she didn’t approve of me,’ said Chris.
‘Oh, no. She’s like that with everybody. I don’t think anyone’s ever good enough in her eyes.’
Chris paused. He didn’t want to be too critical of Jill’s mother. ‘Maybe we shouldn’t talk about her behind her back – or your mother’s.’
‘Don’t worry, Dad, Mum knows how I feel. I used to talk to her about everything. You know, girl talk?’ She looked at him. ‘I suppose it’s different with fathers.’
‘Maybe we’ll have to learn to get along on a different level.’
‘Dad, you’re fun, I can joke and tease with you. You’re interesting, we talk about grown-up things. You know, your work and politics and everything.’
Chris smiled. ‘I’m starting to learn about your world, Megan, but it’s still a bit of a mystery to me. Friends and brand names seem to be very important to you.’
‘It’s a popularity thing,’ she explained, seriously. ‘The kids at school are pretty harsh if you don’t wear the brands they wear. I think that boys my age are probably even more obsessed than girls. They are all really judgemental. Bragging rights are a massive thing. I guess I play that game, too. I just got this new orange leather bag with a chain handle that I saved really hard for. It cost more than two hundred dollars and I made sure it was all over Tumblr, Snapchat, Instagram and Facebook. Everyone knew.’
Chris tried to keep a straight face. ‘That’s great for you, honey. But what about those kids whose parents aren’t as well off? Does that put them on the outer?’
‘Must be hard,’ Megan said. She shrugged. ‘Sometimes they try to fake it. The worst thing to do is wear a fake. You can always tell.’
Silence fell between them as they watched the scenery unfolding as the car approached the little township. Slightly disturbed by the turn their conversation had taken, Chris wondered to himself how a sweet girl like Megan could be so mercenary and status-conscious. But obviously all her friends were too, and peer pressure was a force to be reckoned with.
‘Know where we are?’ he asked as they crossed a wooden bridge spanning a fast-flowing river.
‘Yes! There’s the river and the park. I can’t wait to get to the skate park place under the trees,’ said Megan, happily. ‘And we’re coming up to that old butter factory that’s got some pretty cool shops, like the one with those fossils. And there’s the yellow shed building. There are some terrific things in there, too. Lots of really gorgeous crystals. I could buy my Christmas presents there.’
‘And here we are, at last,’ said Chris as they drove along the main street of Neverend.
‘Wow, there are quite a few new places,’ Megan exclaimed. ‘Hey, there’s a new vintage shop. Bet I can find something great in there. And more coffee shops. Can we come down here this afternoon?’
Chris grinned at her enthusiasm. ‘Let’s see what Bunny has planned. Personally, I’d like to put my feet up with a cold beer.’
Susan Baxter must have heard the car turning into the narrow gravel driveway beside the house, for she was waiting for them on the front verandah, standing beside her pots of hanging orchids. As they drove up to the house, Chris appreciated again the beautiful renovation that had seen original features like the wooden fretwork, the leadlight windows and the wide skirting boards all retained and restored. The wonderful pressed-metal ceilings had been meticulously repainted. Walls had been knocked out to provide four good-sized bedrooms, one with an ensuite and a walk-in robe. On the other side of the back patio, a shed had been converted into a guest cottage with the old laundry beside it replaced by a bathroom. All the old carpets in the house had been taken up and the solid wooden floorboards, which were made from magnificent local blackbutt timber, had been polished so they gleamed in the sunlight that filtered through several leadlight glass panels. The open fireplace in the living room still worked and was occasionally used in winter. Out the back of the house, the family could sit in privacy and admire Susan’s magnificent garden.
Susan was in her late sixties, but she was slim and fit and had obviously looked after herself well. Her hair, cut fashionably short, was a warm brown, and its gold highlights set off her hazel eyes. Her skin had been cared for, and her smile wrinkles and subtle make-up gave her a youthful look. She was wearing her favoured outfit of linen pants and a light shirt. She stretched out her arms in greeting.
Megan leaped out of the car and ran along the verandah, but before she reached her grandmother, a furry rocket streaked past her.
‘Hi, Biddi.’ She scooped the tabby cat into her arms. ‘You remember me, you little darling. Hi, Bunny!’ She put the cat down and wrapped her arms around her grandmother, who hugged her tightly.
Susan, or Bunny, as her family and friends called her, held her granddaughter at arm’s length and studied her.
‘So, what’s the verdict, Bunny?’ Megan asked as she tilted her head to show her braided hair and dangling frog earrings, and waggled her orange fingernails with gold trim in front of her face.
Susan looked her granddaughter up and down, her eyes twinkling. ‘A-plus for the hair and the outfit. You’re taller, lovely legs, but a B-minus for the nails. Orange isn’t my favourite colour.’
Megan laughed. ‘Oh, it’s so great to be here. What’s new?’
‘Nothing much changes here,’ said Susan. ‘Go help your dad.’ She watched her smiling son come along the verandah with an armful of bags as Biddi walked purposefully beside him. Megan took parcels and carry bags from her father, who put down the large suitcase he was carrying so that he could hug his mother.
‘It’s so good to have you home. It’s been too long,’ she said, her words muffled in his hug.
‘I missed you, Mum. It’s good to be here.’
She pulled away to study her handsome son, touching the small flecks of grey at his temples. ‘You look tired.’
‘Bit of a long drive. We’ll talk later. I’m ready for a cold beer, if you’ve got one,’ he said. ‘I can always walk down to the bottle shop if you haven’t.’
Megan reappeared, empty-handed. ‘I’ve put my stuff inside. Are we going into town, Dad?’
‘Let your dad have a rest first, Megan. Chris, there’s a six-pack in the fridge. Was there anything else you wanted?’
‘No thanks, Mum.’
‘Megan, how about you help your father finish unloading the car and we can wander into town later. There’s a new place that makes the best gelato. It’s absolutely delicious homemade Italian ice-cream. I thought you could choose a tub for dessert.’
An hour later, the three of them walked the fifty metres or so from Susan’s house to the main street, although their progress to the gelato shop was slow as everyone seemed to want to stop and chat to Susan, welcome Chris home and be introduced to Megan.
‘You know so many people, Bunny,’ said Megan as they strolled along the broad street.
‘I’ve lived here even before your father was born. I worked in the Neverend High School for forty years, so I’ve taught generations of children in this area. It’s little wonder that I know nearly everyone. Now, Megs, what flavour do you think you’d like?’ Susan asked as they walked into the ice-cream shop.
Chris looked around. He remembered the old milk bar that had been there for years, and there were still a couple of old booths at the back of the place, but the front of the shop was now gleaming in new chrome and shiny laminex. ‘A lot of gelato to choose from, Megan,’ he said.
> ‘You can taste a couple of them first, isn’t that right, Travis?’ Susan suggested.
‘Sure is, Mrs Baxter,’ replied the young man behind the counter. ‘Take your time.’
Megan spent a long while considering the exotic combinations of fruit, coffee, chocolate, liqueur and nut flavours before settling on a macadamia, guava cream and mint combo to take home and a French vanilla honeycomb to eat straight away.
As they left the gelato bar and turned to hurry home before the ice-cream melted, the sounds of a brass band suddenly flooded the main street.
‘What’s that music, Bunny?’ asked Megan.
‘It’s the local band practising. Your father used to belong to it, years ago.’
‘Did you, Dad? You never told me.’
‘I wasn’t very good. I think they were pleased when I left,’ said Chris with a smile.
‘A lot of schoolchildren are in the band. Soon they’ll be playing Christmas carols in the hospital and the two nursing homes. There’s a big concert in the park on Christmas Eve performed by various groups and the band is one of those, too. We could come down if you like. It’s lovely to sit by the river with a picnic tea and when it gets dark we light candles and sing carols.’
‘I’d like to do that,’ said Chris. ‘We always used to go, you, Dad, Kate and me. It would be nice to do it again this year. I know you’d love it, Megan.’
‘You said you wanted to show me places you’ve never taken me to before and I’ve never been to carols by candlelight. This is going to be fun,’ said Megan, bubbling with enthusiasm.
‘Let’s do it, then,’ said Chris.
Susan smiled at them both. ‘It’s so nice to have you two here. Your visits have always been too short, but now we can really plan things to do.’
They walked back into the house and as Susan put the ice-cream into the freezer, she turned to them both and said, ‘Now, I was meaning to ask you, would you mind if I invited some other people to Christmas lunch? I always celebrate Christmas with a few friends.’
‘Of course, Mum, you should do what you want, it’s your house. What do you usually do?’ said Chris, taking a seat in a cosy armchair in the living room.
‘You’d be surprised. My friends and I have had some crazy Christmases! Sometimes we go to the aged care homes and put on a bit of a show, give the people there a jolly good laugh. Last year we asked a couple of refugee families from Sri Lanka and Afghanistan who have settled in town to join us and we had an international food fest. It was a combined Christian, Buddhist and Muslim Christmas lunch. It broke down a lot of barriers. Sometimes we’ve taken a picnic down to the river or simply had it on someone’s verandah. I like to be a bit more formal and use the dining room, mainly because it’s got air conditioning if we need it. Since I got my solar panels installed, I don’t feel a bit guilty about using it.’
‘Wow, sounds awesome,’ said Megan.
‘I’m not sure that “awesome” is the word I would use, but I do have some rather fun friends. Anyway, Christmas is still a little way off, and there are quite a few things I need to do before then. Speaking of which, Chris, if you have a few hours free tomorrow afternoon, I have to go up to the plateau for some foodie things. Perhaps you two could drive up there with me. Do you like to cook, Megan?’
‘I like to eat! And I have to help Mum with meals, but that’s not much fun. Ruby’s parents have an outdoor pizza oven, and we get to make our own pizzas. I like doing that.’
That evening there was a lot of chatter and laughter at the dinner table. Megan insisted that she clear the table and stack the dishwasher by herself, so Chris and Susan went to the front verandah and sat in the cool evening air.
‘I’ve missed Neverend. It’s a warm feeling to come home and find everything’s more or less the same. It gives me a sense of belonging.’
‘This is Megan’s place, too. Her roots are here as much as yours are. I hope she realises it.’
‘Maybe staying here longer will make her appreciate that. I want to take her to some of my old haunts.’
‘The famous waterhole?’ laughed his mother.
‘Yes. We could go there for a picnic one day. You up for that?’
‘Always. So nice to have an excuse to visit it.’
Chris glanced around the garden. ‘Everything looks wonderful. You sure this big house isn’t too much for you to look after, Mum?’
Susan waved a hand at him. ‘Not at all. George mows the grass when it needs it. Katrina comes in once a month to help me with the cleaning. The heavy things are a bit hard to lift when I want to vacuum. And if I keep on top of the gardening, which I enjoy doing anyway, the garden is not a problem.’
Megan came and joined them, curling into the old wicker rocking chair with Biddi purring on her lap.
‘All finished with the dishes? Thank you very much. Not watching TV? I have Pay TV now,’ said Susan.
‘This is better than TV. What are we doing tomorrow, Bunny?’
‘Well, I was thinking of going into Coffs to do a bit of Christmas shopping afterwards. Then we’ll drive up to the plateau in the afternoon.’
‘Christmas shopping. Could I come, please, Bunny?’
‘Of course. I’d love that.’
Megan stroked the contented cat’s ears. ‘This is such a nice place. How long have you been here again, Bunny? Dad said he was born here.’
‘Well, not in the house! In the Neverend hospital. Your grandfather and I came here as newly married teachers. We were really lucky to get a posting to the high school together. We rented a teeny old house on the other side of the river. It’s now been beautifully renovated, I’ll show you sometime, if you like. Anyway, we both loved Neverend so much we decided to stay. We were very stubborn and kept refusing transfers, so eventually everyone got the hint and left us alone. We bought this house and did it up and raised your father and your aunt Kate.’
‘Yes, Neverend was a fabulous place to grow up. I feel very lucky to have had such a charmed childhood,’ acknowledged Chris.
‘Bunny, I was looking around at some of the things in the house that I’ve never noticed before. Can you tell me the stories about them while I’m here? Old photos and ornaments that look ancient,’ said Megan.
Susan smiled. ‘Of course, Megan. Sometimes I think there’s a bit too much clutter about the place, but every single thing I have means something special to me. I’d love you to know their stories, too. All in good time.’ Susan turned to her son. ‘Chris, in the next day or so, will you go and get the Christmas tree for me? Megan, you remember that I always have a big pine from Jim’s Christmas tree farm and you can help me decorate it.’
‘Not a problem, Mum. Are you using those same old ornaments? They must be getting pretty tatty by now. You don’t still have the ones that you used when I was growing up, do you?’
‘I do.’
‘They’d be antiques. Have you made a pudding yet?’ asked Chris. ‘I love your grandmother’s Christmas pudding, Megan. Do you still put sixpences and threepences in it, Mum?’
‘Most certainly,’ Susan nodded firmly. ‘And if you find one, Megan, I’ll buy it off you and recycle it for next year.’
‘You really like sticking to traditions, Bunny, don’t you? I like the way you do things. My mum isn’t like that. Says she’s modern. She’s not sentimental. And she’s a minimalist.’
‘Less to dust, I expect,’ said Susan briskly.
‘But I like that everything is always the same in your house. I feel safe here. Is that a funny thing to say? I don’t mean like safe from violence or anything, just well, warm,’ said Megan.
‘Cosy?’
‘Maybe that’s the word,’ replied Megan.
Susan stood and leaned over to kiss the top of her granddaughter’s head. ‘My bedtime. Yours too?’
‘I’m bushed,’ said Chris. ‘That d
rive is always longer than you think.’
‘I might read a bit. G’night, Bunny, night, Dad.’
‘Night, darling. Love you. I’m so happy you’re here.’ Susan hugged Megan.
‘Me too.’
After kissing his daughter good night, Chris walked to the guest room, which had been his boyhood bedroom. His mother had left a few reminders of his time there and they made him smile. His cub scout shirt with his hard-earned badges was framed and hung beside a collage of boyhood photos. A tennis trophy and a certificate for winning first prize in a short story competition sat on the dressing table beside a clumsy ceramic vase he’d made in a much-loathed pottery class. At least it doesn’t leak, thought Chris, admiring the fragrant rosebuds his mother had placed in it. He picked up a framed certificate. He must have been about Megan’s age when he’d written that short story. He’d been pretty chuffed about winning. He had always loved writing, and journalism had been a way of earning money by doing what he loved. He put the certificate down. Wouldn’t make money out of short stories these days, he reflected. Still. It’s nice to be home, he thought and he smiled to himself.
*
Within a day of their arrival, it was known that Chris Baxter was home and his childhood friends began to contact him. Alex Starr rang and made arrangements to meet for a drink, as did Duncan Newman, while Shaun French walked straight in the Baxters’ back door as he’d always done.
‘G’day, Mrs B. I hear Chris is home. Is he staying through Christmas?’
‘Hey, hey, Frenchy. I am indeed staying for the festive season.’ Chris strode into the room and clapped his old friend on the shoulder. Frenchy was a short, compact man but his personality always made him seem bigger than he actually was. ‘So what are you up to these days?’ asked Chris.
‘Helping Dad run the farm. He’s a bit past getting up every morning to do the milking, but he’s right into breeding. Artificial insemination and all that. Producing better milkers. Karen’s up to her elbows experimenting in cheese making. You like haloumi, Mrs B? I’ll bring you some next time.’
‘Thanks very much, Shaun. And how are your children?’