Wattle Creek

by Fiona McCallum

  Then it was time for questions, and Damien cringed as the usual idiots started asking, ‘Are you married?’ ‘Do you have a boyfriend?’ Actually, he was amazed at how well she was handling it – not even batting an eyelid as she answered with a completely straight face. He gasped when someone up the back yelled, ‘Are you a lezzo?’ Why couldn’t they just grow up?

  Suddenly Damien found himself putting his hand up. Shit, she was going to say his name for sure, then everyone would know the truth. He put it down again, but not quickly enough. He’d been spotted.

  ‘Yes, in the middle row by the window. You have a question?’ she asked.

  He swallowed deeply. No, he didn’t have a question, he just wanted to stop the personal interrogation, give her the break she deserved.

  ‘Um … yes. Ms Havelock, I was wondering what you do when there are so many things on your list it seems impossible to get them done?’ He almost sounded intelligent. A ripple of mumbled agreement erupted around him. Damien’s forehead beaded from the attention.

  ‘That’s a very good question,’ Jacqueline said, and he was relieved she hadn’t said his name. ‘I’m not saying the work is going to magically disappear, it’s just a way of making it easier to see what’s important and needs doing sooner rather than later. There are always going to be things that get pushed to the back.

  ‘Like there was this time I was invited to dinner,’ she continued. ‘Now I’ve been brought up to reciprocate, but the thought of cooking a meal for vegetarians who didn’t eat fish, dairy or gluten products made it all seem too hard. I had it on my list for months and every time I saw it there I felt guilty. Of course by then it was–’

  ‘So, what did you do?’ shouted some impatient git in the front row.

  ‘I left town, and here I am,’ she said, waving an arm and flicking her head playfully. The deafening roar of laughter and enthusiastic applause confirmed Jacqueline’s hit status.

  When everyone wandered over to the bar, Damien hung back and watched Jacqueline until she got lost in the crowd. He then slipped out the side door and headed home.

  On the drive home Damien thought about how pumped he felt, like he’d just sat in the pub chatting with an old mate for hours. But he hadn’t and he’d only had the one beer. He could only suppose it was because, and he knew it sounded pretty lame, he could finally see a way out of this, whatever it was.

  He knew Jacqueline hadn’t been talking only to him, but he felt like she really understood him – which was both really weird and really cool at the same time, given that he didn’t have a clue himself. He decided he’d start writing in the journal again and make another appointment to see her.

  It was late, but Damien felt the urge to write about his dad’s illness. When Jacqueline had asked him about his dad he hadn’t known what to say. Actually, he’d written a heap of stuff down about his dad, before his mum had chucked everything in the bin. But not about his illness.

  He grabbed the corner of the lined pad that lived on the dining room table and dragged it away from the pile of bills, magazines and other stuff. He then sifted through everything looking for a pen. There had to be half a dozen of them here somewhere, he thought, starting to get frustrated. As he was getting up to look for a pen in the office he noticed one lying on the floor near his feet. He retrieved it and began writing at a furious pace. For some reason he felt the overwhelming need to get it all out and onto paper as quick as he could:

  It all started one bright, clear sunny Sunday in September of 1994. We were into horses then and the Pony Club was holding a special gymkhana for fundraising or something.

  We had the best day and my sister and I even won a couple of ribbons. Right at the end they had a father and son race, where the sons had to run, leading the fathers, mostly non-riders, on horses around a short obstacle course. The poor creatures had had to put up with these heavy and uncoordinated riders bouncing around on top. We didn’t win – Bennie had never been that good at being led.

  My sister had a friend staying with her for the weekend and after such a big day we all slept like logs. That was until around two when Mum’s screaming woke us up. I rushed into their bedroom to see Dad convulsing and foaming at the mouth. Mum was completely hysterical.

  I grabbed the phone from the kitchen, re-plugged it into the hall socket and rang the hospital. Then, until the ambulance turned up, I took instructions – put a wooden spoon in his mouth to stop him choking, turn all the outside lights on – and passed them to Mum, and answered their questions.

  It was only when Dad was being loaded into the ambulance that I realised I hadn’t seen Lucy since it had all started. I found her in the bathroom with her friend who was throwing up she was so freaked out.

  Still in our pyjamas, Mum bundled us into the car and followed the ambulance to town. No one said a word. I guess we were all too freaked out. Somehow we got to Nanna and Grandpa’s house and they settled us into bed for the last few hours of the night. Mum went with Dad in the air ambulance to Adelaide. We didn’t see either of them for months.

  Lucy’s friend was never allowed a sleepover again. Come to think of it, I don’t think she was Lucy’s friend anymore. That probably would have hit Lucy harder at the time than Dad’s illness – she was a bit young to understand at the beginning.

  We didn’t go to school that day. Instead we went out to the farm to get some clothes and stuff and check on the horses. It was while I stood watching the water stream from the hose into the old claw-foot bath that was used as the trough that I realised Dad was sick because of me. If I hadn’t had him roaring around on a horse the day before he’d be fine now, and I’d be at school being a pain in the arse rather than having to be all grown up for my little sister. Lucy blamed me as well, though she never said anything. And this wasn’t some cold I’d given him either, this was serious. He could even die.

  We were told he had an inoperable brain tumour and would be starting radiotherapy. I reckon Mum was away in Adelaide with him on and off for a year. We were lucky to have grandparents to take care of us but, while we never went without, life just wasn’t the same.

  Often I’d find Lucy sobbing out in the tiny shadehouse they’d built under the TV antenna tower. I had no idea what to do so I’d sit down next to her and tell her everything would be okay. I never had the guts to put my arms around her and give her a hug, twelve-year-old boys didn’t do that. Hell, we weren’t even supposed to like our little sisters. There were lots of times I wanted to cry too, but that was something else twelve-year-old boys didn’t do.

  Out at the farm every day after school feeding animals, watering plants and checking on everything was like visiting a ghost town. The house had been Dad’s pride and joy – he’d only finished it a couple of months before. Now it was empty, it was creepy. I hated going inside to get clothes and stuff.

  Grandpa used to take Lucy and me and the horses to Pony Club rallies, but that wasn’t the same either. He drove too fast and cornered badly and I worried constantly about the horses getting hurt. And then while we were riding he’d sit in the ute and read the paper like he was just the waiting chauffeur.

  When our parents took us, Dad would get really involved. He’d hold the horses while we slurped from the water tap, put rails up when someone knocked a jump down, offer encouragement and just be there. Mum was always more competitive and serious – we had to make the horse perform well or else. But with Dad, it was like all the expense and inconvenience was worth it just to see us enjoying ourselves.

  This was when I started losing interest in horses. I sensed the same thing from Lucy, but when Mum finally came home she threw herself into competition – mainly dressage, one-day-eventing and show riding – dragging Lucy along with her. I guess she needed the distraction. At the time I thought Lucy wasn’t that interested. I saw how stressed she’d get, but thought if she didn’t want to do it she’d say so. But Mum probably wouldn’t have listened anyway.

  Mum used to get so angry with Lucy when sh
e’d fall off or let the horse refuse jumps in competitions her face would get an almost purple tinge. Lucy would just shrug and say, ‘Oh well, better luck next time,’ and Mum would nearly start foaming at the mouth.

  No wonder she lives on the other side of the world and hasn’t been on a horse since she left. I couldn’t believe it when she told me the truth a couple of years ago.

  Dad eventually came home after his treatment. But he was a different person – tired all the time, cranky and generally traumatised by the whole experience. And because his tumour had caused epilepsy, he’d lost his driver’s licence, which is a huge thing for a bloke living in the country. So there he was stuck out on the farm. And when we did drive somewhere, Mum was never exactly the appreciated chauffeur.

  Sheer frustration caused Dad to constantly tell her what to do and how to drive, like she was a beginner. There’d be these huge screaming matches where Lucy and I would be sitting quietly in the back pretending to be engrossed in the construction of the seatbelts or something. Sometimes Mum wouldn’t yell back, which was even worse. She’d just keep her eyes fixed on the road ahead. In the rear-vision mirror I could see her chin set hard, fighting her watering eyes. Despite all she went through for over eight years, it wasn’t until the funeral that I actually saw her cry.

  About two years after the start of his illness, Dad had a relapse. It was a really hot day and we were drafting sheep ready to send hoggets off to market. I remember he was yelling at the dogs, but they’d decided they’d had enough and had scarpered off to be cool under the tank stand. So then I had to do their work as well and, of course, I was too slow, in the wrong place at the wrong time, or just plain bloody useless – all of which I was told in language that I didn’t think Dad knew.

  I was so hot and pissed off I yelled back and when that didn’t work I told Dad to piss off, that he could bloody well do it himself. He did – what other choice did he have? Finally he came back to the house at four, exhausted. An hour or so later he had an epileptic fit while watching TV. It added another three years to his loss of licence. He was furious when he found out.

  It was my fault. I’d provoked him. Yep, everything is my fault, and it all started with Mum getting pregnant and them having to get married.

  Chapter Twelve

  ‘Well, aren’t you the toast of the town?’ Ethel said, as they walked to Jacqueline’s hatchback parked in the golf club car park. ‘That was even better than last week,’ she continued.

  ‘Thanks Ethel, but you did all the work. I just turned up and did a bit of rambling.’

  ‘You’re far too modest.’

  ‘Let’s agree that it was a great team effort,’ Jacqueline said, as she opened her car door.

  ‘We do make a pretty good team, don’t we?’ Ethel said, pausing with her hand on the open passenger’s door.

  Hyped with the success of the evening, they chatted incessantly during the short drive home, laughing at some of the questions the men had asked her.

  After seeing Ethel safely across the street, Jacqueline made herself a cup of cocoa and consulted her ‘to do’ list. She still had to change the sheets and put fresh towels on her bed for her parents, but couldn’t do that until the morning. She could make up one of the twin singles in the second bedroom. As she got a set of sheets out of the linen press, queen-sized because she didn’t own singles, she allowed herself a smug grin and a mental pat on the back.

  This time tomorrow Mum and Dad will be here, she thought, and marvelled at how much she was actually looking forward to their arrival. It was different when they’d lived less than half an hour’s drive away and there’d never been the need for them to stay overnight. Actually, I don’t remember ever having them over to dinner, she thought. But I must have. Jacqueline brought a finger to her lip as she fought to remember. She’d lived away from home for a few years in group share houses with other uni students and alone in the flat for a year. She could understand not having her parents over to dinner at one of the group houses – they were pretty ghastly and having your oldies over just wasn’t done. But why hadn’t she had them over when she lived alone? Oh well, bit late to worry about now, she thought, struggling to tuck the expanse of sheet under the mattress. Jacqueline silently admitted she was grateful for the opportunity to show Eileen and Philip how much she’d grown up. And, more importantly, how independent she was.

  While they had never pushed beyond the offer, Jacqueline knew they would have rather she rented their investment flat than the hovels she’d lived in. They’d always brought her up to be careful with her money, but also thought she shouldn’t have to struggle. And, they often said, ‘You’re our only child, we can’t take it with us.’ But the truth was she’d inherited her financial traits from her father who, despite trying to help pay her way, was quite miserly.

  Jacqueline smiled as she thought about the half-serious tiffs her parents had had over the definition of ‘past it’ in relation to clothes. Philip Havelock always wore cardigans, usually grey or brown ones. Jacqueline had given up trying to curb this awful habit, even before becoming a teenager. He believed a cardigan, or any other item of clothing for that matter, wasn’t past it until you needed to patch the patches.

  Jacqueline sat down on the bed and rested her chin in her hand. Despite her father’s thrifty nature, he’d never told her mother she couldn’t have a new dress. They made a good pair, she thought, getting up and smoothing the plain navy blue quilt cover. Both of them old fashioned, miserly and set in their ways. But she had to admit that, despite all their traits she’d striven to avoid, her parents always got on well and had never had a major fight.

  Perhaps that’s what I don’t like, Jacqueline mused, everything too normal. She laughed as she wandered into the bathroom to clean her teeth, shaking her head in wonder.

  When Jacqueline got back from her lunchbreak on Friday, she was surprised to find a large business envelope pushed under her office door. There was no handwriting on the front to suggest the sender or the nature of the contents. Opening the envelope, she was further surprised to find a stack of handwritten pages. Ah, they must be from Damien. Had he changed his mind about coming in to see her again, too? Eager to see what he’d written, Jacqueline rang Louise at reception and told her she was putting her phone through to her and would be unavailable for the time being.

  Jacqueline was both captivated and disturbed by what she read. Stopping for a moment, she suddenly realised she’d been engrossed for over an hour and that the next appointment was less than five minutes away. Reluctantly she put the notes back in their envelope and placed it on the floor beneath her desk, next to her handbag.

  She retrieved Mrs Matilda Bartel’s file from the cabinet and gave her notes a quick scan as she sat back down. Ah yes, another elderly widow. Last week her main problem seemed to be concern over whether she was consuming too many cups of tea. Jacqueline had no idea why she’d even booked another appointment. Lonely, she supposed. Jacqueline was a little frustrated at having to put Damien’s journal aside for what would no doubt be another wasted hour. But it had to be done. She was just finishing re-straightening everything on her desk when there was a knock on the door.

  Jacqueline was exhausted when Mrs Bartel’s time was finally up. For an hour she’d kept a polite expression plastered on her face and nodded patiently while the old lady had talked non-stop about the pests ravaging her garden. At some point she’d changed topics to the trouble she’d had drying her apricots, completely losing Jacqueline in the process. When Jacqueline looked blank, the woman had said, ‘It’s the humidity – they go mouldy in the humidity.’ Jacqueline had wanted to talk her out of booking another appointment, but the woman was insistent.

  Jacqueline longed to get back to Damien’s journal, but knew she was too weary to give it her full attention. Instead she spent some time leaning back in her chair and relaxing with her eyes closed, before leaving work at a quarter to five in order to do her shopping before the supermarket closed at five-thirt
y. She’d purposely left her shopping to the last minute so the fruit and vegetables would be fresh for her parents. Focused on completing the outline of her talk the day before and then getting everything organised for the weekend, she’d completely forgotten that bread and fresh fruit and vegetables only came into the store on Tuesdays and Thursdays.

  ‘Damn,’ she cursed under her breath, as she stared in dismay at a wilted head of lettuce. Well, it’s too late now, she told herself, and set about filling her basket in consultation with her list. Her frustration increased when she saw that the only mushrooms on offer were the button variety, shrivelled and barely enough to cover the bottom of the box. Her signature dish, mushroom risotto with sliced chicken and fresh asparagus, was threatening to slip from reality. The recipe called for four types of mushrooms – oyster, button, shiitake and dried porcini. And of course the asparagus looked decidedly the worse for wear.

  Jacqueline told herself to remain calm and that she could use her plan B. She could do a hot roast vegetable salad instead of the asparagus. Yes, that sounds okay, she thought, and congratulated herself on finding an alternative solution so quickly.

  But what could she do about the actual risotto? She crossed her fingers and strode purposefully to where she remembered the rack of dried herbs stood at the end of aisle four. After scanning the alphabetically displayed selection twice she still hadn’t found what she was looking for and began to feel annoyed at the silly little shop which called itself a supermarket in the stupid little village that dared call itself a town.

  ‘District business centre,’ she snorted quietly. Get a grip, Jacqueline, she heard her inner voice say. ‘So it’s just button mushrooms,’ she murmured and went back to claim them before anyone else did.

  ‘Suppose it will be too much to ask for them to have arborio rice,’ she muttered crossly. She was surprised to find a wide assortment of rice varieties, which she thought was odd given she hadn’t seen a single person who appeared to be of Asian heritage. She was still staring at the selection when a male voice near her right shoulder made her start. She wanted to back away, but the shelves prevented her. She didn’t like that he was in her personal space.