The Shifting Light

by Alice Campion

  ‘Shh, Sheree.’ Nina dug her in the ribs and glanced around.

  ‘Next up is Wanda Campbell, the third lovely Campbell girl to join us today. What do you do for a living, Wanda?’

  ‘Sells dope mostly,’ Sheree continued with her running commentary.

  By now Nina was wiping the tears from her eyes.

  ‘She’s a bloody hazard, that one. Needs to be put over someone’s knee.’

  ‘And our final contestant this afternoon is Alinta Brody, daughter of Sally and Mal Brody,’ said Francine, taking the microphone over to a petite Aboriginal girl who was dwarfed by the three strapping blonde Campbells.

  Sheree was immediately on her feet cheering.

  ‘That’s Possum and Shona’s granddaughter, isn’t it?’ asked Nina.

  ‘Yeah, great girl. Works as an assistant at the vet’s.’

  ‘And I have the judge’s decision here in my hands,’ continued Francine. ‘Minister, if you would be so kind …’

  The Minister tore open the envelope.

  ‘And 2017 Miss Wandalla Showgirl is … Miss Wanda Campbell.’

  ‘No way!’ yelled Sheree as the Minister approached Wanda with the sash. ‘You oughta be giving her an arrest warrant, not a bloody award.’

  As the girl stepped forward to accept the sash, one of the other blondes – Nina had forgotten which was which – stuck out a booted foot, sending her sister reeling to the very edge of the stage. Alinta stepped hastily away as Wanda regained her footing and came charging back at her assailant. The third sister moved in between the pair and was bowled aside. The crowd went crazy and Ben and Nina doubled over in laughter as the first Campbell sister grabbed Wanda’s hair and began to kick her in the shins. The Minister was quickly hustled away by his entourage but the media were having a field day as the stage became the scene of a full-on melee.

  ‘Who’ll give me two to one on the oldest one?’ called Sheree.

  ‘Come on, Neens,’ smiled Ben. ‘We’ve got to pull ourselves together and get to the bush-tucker tent before Izzy goes on her break.’

  Izzy again, thought Nina. Interesting.

  ‘That one would have to be Auntie Moira’s.’ Nina pointed to a three-tiered wedding cake with a cascade of native wild flowers made from icing and painted in intricate detail. With a blue ribbon draped around its base, the cake took pride of place at the centre of one of the glass display cases full of Wandalla’s best baking efforts.

  ‘You’ve got no idea how serious these people are about their cooking,’ said Ben, as he negotiated his way around the table. ‘The scone judges got accused of taking bribes last year. Things got ugly.’

  Nina stifled a laugh as she surveyed a paper plate of brown squares on a bed of coconut that seemed to have slumped to one side in exhaustion. But for some reason beyond her, it bore a shiny red ribbon. Nina peered to read the card – ‘Francine Mathers. Lamingtons’.

  ‘Yeah, I heard about the Mayor’s efforts.’ Ben wheeled over to the case. ‘Looks like – I dunno. Post-modern architecture? Wombat poo?’ He chuckled. ‘Second place, my arse. Those judges are weak as piss.’

  ‘Rats in the ranks. Let’s see how Sheree went with her jam,’ said Nina.

  The pair picked their way through the crowd, past the shelves of coconut ice, intricately-arranged vegetables in jars and vases full of prize roses and lilies. Every inch of the cavernous tin shed was groaning with the pride of Wandalla.

  ‘Uh-oh,’ said Ben, peering into the preserves. ‘Second place to Beth Kloostus. She’ll be ropeable.’

  ‘Ben! G’day,’ boomed a familiar husky voice. It was Possum Brody and his wife, Shona, splashes of colour in baggy cotton pants and scarves. Possum’s full white beard cascaded over his yellow and black shirt, his shrewd brown eyes missing nothing.

  ‘Your granddaughter just got robbed,’ said Ben. ‘Surprise, surprise, one of the Campbell girls took the sash.’

  Neither Possum nor Shona looked too concerned. ‘We know. Alinta didn’t really want to enter,’ said Possum.

  ‘Can’t say I was thrilled with the idea either,’ added Shona, flipping her waist-length ponytail over her shoulder. ‘Her friends pushed her into it. But she wouldn’t play by the rules. Put down “strangling kittens” as her favourite pastime.’

  They all chuckled.

  ‘Ending up in the finals was token, if you ask me,’ said Shona.

  After more chatter, the group wandered over to the art exhibition which Possum and Nina had judged.

  ‘Good crop this year, you reckon?’ asked Ben.

  ‘Not bad,’ answered Shona. ‘Better than last time. Remember that fad for putting graffiti over everything? Ugh.’

  ‘The stuff from the high school’s great,’ added Possum, indicating a row of paintings, many with Indigenous themes. ‘Look at the brushwork on this one. And this portrait of Geoff, the principal, is brilliant. They got the ear hair just right.’

  ‘Yes, it’s really good, but my fave’s this one.’ Nina pointed further down the row of portraits to one draped with a blue ribbon. A stylised, prune-faced old codger – a stockman – leaning on a pub bar, gazed back from behind sorrowful eyes. ‘The shading’s perfect.’

  ‘Well, we’re off to see how Moira and the others are going at the bush-tucker tent,’ said Ben. ‘Want to come?’

  ‘Just been. Our Chey is making the wattle seed tea,’ said Shona. ‘You’re going to love it.’

  There was no mistaking Auntie Moira’s café. A cascading wall of red, yellow and black streamers covered the front entrance, creating a colourful fly screen. Entering the tent with Ben, Nina saw the room abuzz with curious customers. Chalked onto a board were some of the dishes on offer – Wattle-Seed Cake, ‘Bumble’ Native Orange Marmalade, Quandong and Prickly Pear fruit salad and Catfish Spiced with Pepperberry. On the take-away counter, jars of bush tomato seasoning and lemon myrtle sauce were moving fast.

  Izzy waved over the counter, pointing to a vacant table. The five young wait staff, wearing red aprons and headbands, dipped and wove around their customers with trays of delicious-smelling food while Moira, standing on a crate, conducted proceedings.

  ‘Mikey, grab those dirty plates from table six. Stanley, take orders over there. G’day, you lot, be there in a sec,’ she called to Nina.

  Nina pushed through the crowd and sat on a plastic chair, moving it around to make space for Ben.

  Moira was renowned for combining bush tucker with traditional baking. Her native lime cheesecake was legendary. It may have been her reputation that drew this flock of customers, but clearly her skills had been shared with the young team in the kitchen. This was going to give the Women’s Auxiliary a run for their money, thought Nina.

  She looked up at the sound of whistles and claps. It was Heath. He stood for a moment, holding his hat in his hands and grinning shyly as the customers called out their congratulations.

  ‘Over here,’ waved Nina, pulling out a chair for him. She noticed a couple of old-timers purposefully pick up their belongings and leave.

  ‘May I take your order?’ said Izzy, pushing through to their table. ‘Champagne, lobster or a steamy bowl of celebration, perhaps?’ She bent down to hug Heath. ‘News travels fast! Congrats.’

  ‘Thanks, Izzy,’ said Heath warmly.

  ‘What did Bland say?’ asked Nina.

  ‘Well, Ben and I have been keeping this one under our hats …’

  ‘Under threat of death by the Minister’s media advisor,’ interjected Ben.

  ‘It’s not just the grants – they’ve picked me to lead the project. Oversee all the activity and send in monthly reports.’

  ‘Heath!’ Nina launched herself at him. ‘That is amazing. You never told me!’

  ‘Comes with a decent salary, too,’ laughed Heath, catching her on his lap. ‘The only thing I’m annoyed about is that he didn’t mention Ben in the speech. He’s been doing all the scientific evaluation work on Kurrabar and Peg’s place. Measuring plant hydration, algae levels
in the river, all that interesting stuff. No way we could’ve swung this deal without you, mate. I mean it.’

  ‘Ben, that’s awesome,’ exclaimed Izzy. A small queue was forming at their table, mostly farmers peppering Heath with questions. ‘I can’t hear a thing – come outside and tell me all about it.’

  Ben spoke animatedly as he and Izzy made their way around the edge of the show ring, explaining how the eight test properties were chosen and their plans for each. Looking down at his face, alight with enthusiasm, Izzy found herself noticing the strength of his blue gaze. She checked herself. No freaking way. Hadn’t she learned her lesson?

  ‘Good thing I’m here to escort you, Izz,’ said Ben, interrupting her thoughts. ‘You know – the Wandalla Show – lots of people confuse it with Expo, the Olympics.’

  Izzy laughed.

  ‘Look, it’s Hilary.’ Ben rolled to a stop beside the split-rail fence and they watched the graceful movements of her bay horse as it skimmed a double hedge jump. ‘Strange, good riders are supposed to be empathetic,’ he continued. ‘Maybe there’s some humanity buried deep down inside. Oh Geez, I forgot! I promised Lobby I’d watch him in the whip cracking.’ Ben looked at his watch. ‘It’s on right now. He’s been practising every day – missed first place by a whisker last year.’

  ‘Can we get a Dagwood Dog on the way?’

  Ben mimed putting his fingers down his throat.

  ‘Stop it!’ said Izzy, thumping him on the shoulder. ‘I’m serious. I’ve been serving up this beautiful food all day at Auntie Moira’s tent, but all I’ve been dreaming about is fat and carbs on a stick. I haven’t had one since I was about seven.’

  ‘Okay,’ sighed Ben as they headed off again through the crowds, past the laughing clowns and the Cha-Cha. ‘But don’t blame me if you end up riding the porcelain bus later tonight.’ He came to a halt. ‘Uh-oh, speaking of which …’ He pointed at the back of a caravan in the distance, where a tall, lean man with an unmistakable floppy felt hat was bent double.

  ‘Lobs!’ called Ben as they headed over. ‘Mate, what’s the matter? Aren’t you supposed to be cracking a whip in the arena?’

  Lobby lifted his head and steadied himself.

  ‘Here, have some water,’ said Izzy, throwing him her bottle.

  He took a swig and handed it back.

  ‘No, you can keep it,’ she said.

  ‘Geez, Ben,’ said Lobby, wiping his mouth. ‘Think I missed me shot at it. Must’ve been something in those dogs.’

  ‘Dagwoods?’ asked Izzy.

  ‘Yeah. One of them must’ve been orf,’ said Lobby, rubbing his stomach.

  ‘One of them?’ asked Ben. ‘How many have you … Oh Lobs! You didn’t.’

  ‘Didn’t what?’ Izzy asked.

  ‘Eating competition. Porker Farrell. Every year he baits Lobby to enter and this time, well, it looks like you couldn’t resist, could you, eh, poor old Lobs?’

  ‘Oh maaate. Think I’m dying. Might not be able to have a crack at the whip after all.’

  ‘Probably not the brightest thing to do before the big rematch but, hey, we all have our weak spots,’ said Ben.

  ‘But he said he’d shout me a slab if I got anywhere near him this year.’

  ‘Come on. You know Porker wouldn’t shout if a shark bit him.’

  Izzy watched as he consoled his miserable friend and then beckoned a couple of men nearby to help him to the St John’s Ambulance tent. His kindness warmed her.

  ‘Poor Lobby,’ said Izzy. ‘Lucky you spotted him.’

  ‘You sure you still want some gristle on a stick? Let’s see – they must be here somewhere.’

  The afternoon was diffused with dust as the arena endured its annual pummelling from parading cattle, trotting horses and machinery drive-bys. Right now, surrounded by a halo of golden light, the poised figure of Hilary mounted on a gleaming bay mare came trotting towards Lachlan, as he leant on the rails below the grandstand. He watched transfixed. So elegant, so outrageously correct and reeking of money. The pair deftly changed direction to complete another expert jump. The black, tailored riding jacket and tight, white pants poured into high black boots equalled perfection. She was everything he had hoped to find, dreamed of having. A woman his equal, who knew her mind and just happened to be loaded. He felt his crotch grow firm as he watched her shapely bottom skim the surface of the saddle. He felt the small box in his jacket pocket. Perfect.

  He knew she had been anxious all week about this competition. She had been practising every morning in her newly-surfaced yards with her mare, Keira Hussey. He had watched the horse – all 20 grands’ worth – endlessly going through the same routine, around and around, that would drive any less well-bred creature mad. He, too, earned his keep under Hilary’s saddle. But that was all going to change.

  Sitting above Lachlan in the creaky grandstand, a small but devoted horsey crowd discreetly applauded as Hilary and Keira completed their routine. Hilary waved. He smiled, dusted off his jacket and walked towards them, avoiding the odd cowpat. She swung off the horse and landed lightly.

  ‘Well, that went smoothly.’ She smiled at him.

  ‘You were wonderful,’ he said as she took off her helmet, revealing an elegant bun. He lifted his hand and tucked a stray strand of hair behind her pearl earrings.

  ‘You make it look so easy,’ he murmured into her ear.

  ‘No, Lachlan, not here,’ she hissed. ‘Can you take the saddle off now, she’s hot.’

  He followed Hilary as she led Keira out of the main ring and as soon as he could, he reached for her elbow and pulled her to him. ‘You are magnificent …’

  ‘Lachlan, I really need to …’

  ‘I want us to be together – always.’

  Hilary stared intently at him, with a puzzled expression. He took her hand and, suddenly nervous, reached into his pocket and drew out the red velvet box.

  ‘I would kneel, but,’ he gestured at the dusty, dung-strewn ground.

  ‘Oh, please do.’

  Oh god, he wanted this woman. So wicked, so sexy. He knelt down, trying not to think about his new $300 pants.

  ‘Hilary, darling. You know it, I know it, we’re a great team. The divorce with Steph is almost settled. My heart is free.’ He saw her eyes narrow.

  ‘Marry me.’ He felt himself tense, ready to leap up and embrace her.

  Then came the last sound he expected. Laughter. ‘What do you think I am?’ she said, shaking her head. ‘I wouldn’t trust you further than I could kick you.’

  Lachlan felt the blood drain from his face. His mind went blank.

  ‘We were great while it lasted but it’s over. Sorry, I’m going now. Don’t follow and don’t, for Christ’s sake, make a scene. I’ll take the saddle off myself.’

  He watched Hilary walk away in her expensive boots, her hips gently swaying. Without turning around, she waved over her shoulder.

  Why? A terrible anger surged in him. He rose with it and stood, alone.

  ‘Would all the riders for the pony club under-nines please make their way to the judging area, and can the marshals for the cattle parade take their positions,’ the loudspeaker announced.

  Not Hilary too. This couldn’t be happening.

  Lachlan turned and hurried towards the gate. Izzy, that bitch. She must have blabbed. Christ, what if she told Nina too? A life with Hilary would have fixed everything. He needed a beer or something stronger. Fuck, fuck.

  A line of bulls passed by, led by men and young boys in tweed coats and moleskins. That was all he needed – more bloody cattle.

  Done and dusted. Showjumping aced. Horse stabled. Lachlan disposed of. It had been a busy day.

  As Hilary made her way through the thinning crowd, she knew she had done the right thing. The edginess that had once excited her about Lachlan now left her cold. She’d always known he was a phony – all hat and no cattle – and she’d found that rather funny. But as soon as Nina mentioned that expensive shirt and how he appeared to be worm
ing his way into her business at The Springs, he was on borrowed time.

  Though she would miss having someone else around; the kitchen being put to good use, the laughter. And, let’s face it, the sex. God, the sex.

  Shaking Lachlan from her thoughts, Hilary focused on the scene around her as she walked through the machinery and vehicle displays. She passed the huge Flint Harvesters exhibit, though these days she didn’t recognise any of the staff. How Phillip had loved manning the family stand here every year. Now there was a good man, dull a lot of the time, but good.

  Most of the traders were locking up for the day. Only sideshow alley and the food stalls would open into the night. Families dragged themselves to the exit gates. An over-tired toddler holding a drooping balloon sobbed from the front of a double pram. Nobody ever took Hilary to the Show when she was little as far as she could recall. And you don’t see me crying.

  She nodded to Hamish as she passed the Campbell’s Trans port exhibit. It always amused Hilary how popular his decked-out hearse was with the visitors each year.

  ‘Hey, Mrs Flint.’ It was Alfie O’Sullivan. She hadn’t seen him, or many of the others, since the Settlers’ Ball. ‘Seen ya in the ring. You still got it, hey?’

  ‘Thank you, Alfie. That’s kind of you.’

  He smiled and went to leave.

  ‘Alfie. About the ball. I wish …’

  ‘All good, Mrs Flint. Auntie Moira told me you were shamed about it.’

  ‘Call me Hilary. Actually, I thought the performance that night was very powerful. It touched a lot of people.’

  They each smiled and continued in opposite directions.

  The colourful streamers of the bush-tucker tent caught Hilary’s eye. She needed coffee. Now, before the trip home. And it wouldn’t hurt to see Moira either. Hilary noticed Izzy walk out and head the other way. He’s all yours now, sweetheart, she thought, recalling Lachlan’s slumped form and devastated face. He’d just have to make do with the redhead.

  There were only a few customers left in Moira’s tent. They relaxed at the trestle tables while Moira and her team emptied garbage, wiped benches and packed food in air-tight containers. Hilary figured the large woman sitting at one of the tables, hunched over a calculator, must be Moira’s daughter. She probably met her at Matty and Deborah’s wedding, but there was little she remembered of that day, or many around that time.