Wattle Creek

by Fiona McCallum

  ‘Finding everything you need, are you?’

  ‘Actually … no,’ she said. ‘Do you have any dried porcini mushrooms?’

  ‘What do they look like?’ he asked, and seemed confused. The short, stocky grocery packer pressed a finger to his lower lip and stared at the ceiling in deep concentration.

  The man appeared slightly intellectually challenged. Jacqueline checked her watch; she really didn’t have time for this. Her parents would be arriving any minute. Jacqueline told herself to be patient, and waited.

  ‘What are they again?’ the man asked.

  ‘Dried porcini mushrooms,’ Jacqueline repeated slowly. She opened her mouth to tell the man it didn’t matter when he cut her off.

  ‘Do they look like hard slices of brown stuff?’ he asked, his eyes lighting up.

  ‘Yes, but I’ve checked everywhere,’ Jacqueline said, and looked at her list again to indicate she had a lot of things to buy and needed to get going.

  ‘Come with me,’ the man said with excitement and grabbed her hand.

  Slightly taken aback but not wanting to cause offence, Jacqueline let him lead her back to aisle four. She found she no longer really cared that her risotto would have less flavour without the porcinis, she just wanted to get home in time to greet her parents.

  ‘Here,’ he said proudly, pointing at a packet hanging from a bar among the many herbs and spices. ‘I thought I’d heard of them.’

  Jacqueline stared where he pointed, surprised and slightly embarrassed. So there they were, filed under ‘D’.

  ‘Thanks very much for your help,’ she said, offering him a warm smile.

  ‘You’re very welcome,’ the man said, and ambled off.

  ‘Silly me for thinking they’d be under “P”,’ she muttered.

  With her basket brimming with groceries and vowing to use a trolley next time, Jacqueline headed to the checkout, willing it to be a brief, chatter-free experience.

  She was in luck. Each of the schoolgirls on the checkouts was frantically scanning and packing so she could leave. It was already a little after five-thirty. Their movements and greetings were automatic. Despite the general hurry, though, Jacqueline found herself at the checkout that should have had ‘L’ plates. She became increasingly annoyed as she watched the minute hand on the clock above the doors move to five thirty-eight.

  By the time she got home, Jacqueline was frazzled and her well-laid plans were gradually becoming undone. After telling herself for the twentieth time, ‘Calm down, they’re only your parents,’ she hurried around the house on a last-minute inspection. She had just poured herself a glass of cask wine when there was a knock at the door. She opened it to find her parents looking tired and bedraggled. They hugged on the doorstep.

  ‘Way out in the donga, huh?’ she asked, grinning at them.

  ‘Too right,’ Philip Havelock said.

  ‘Thought we’d never get here,’ Eileen said.

  ‘Leave your bags in the car for now and come in and have a drink. Dad, I got you a couple of beers. I’ve just poured myself a glass of white wine, though only from a cask, I’m afraid, Mum,’ she said, stepping aside to let them in.

  ‘Thanks, but I could do with the loo first,’ Eileen Havelock said.

  ‘A beer would be just the shot,’ her dad said.

  ‘Just through there,’ Jacqueline said, directing her mother. ‘Hard right then hard left.’

  Jacqueline got a beer out of the fridge and twisted the top off, poured another glass of wine and joined her father at the table.

  ‘Ah, that’s better,’ Philip said, after his first sip of beer.

  ‘What a dear little house,’ Eileen said, entering the kitchen.

  ‘Yes, isn’t it sweet? It’s a bit bigger than it looks from the outside, I think,’ Jacqueline said. ‘I’ll give you the grand tour once you’ve recovered a bit and had a drink.’

  Half an hour later Jacqueline gave her parents a tour of the house and helped them unpack the car. After putting their bags in her bedroom and telling them to feel free to have a shower if they wanted, Jacqueline left them to their own devices and installed herself in the kitchen.

  Moments later, Eileen and Philip joined her and the women busied themselves with cooking dinner while her father sat at the kitchen table deliberating over which of the six different bottles of wine – three white and three red – they should open. He decided on a Sauvignon Blanc and proceeded to open it and pour them each a glass.

  While she was stirring the risotto and Eileen was cutting up the fruit for their dessert, Jacqueline looked over at her father who was now engrossed in the local paper – nicknamed ‘the egg timer’ – and smiled.

  ‘You were right about the drive being boring,’ Philip Havelock said, a couple of forkfuls into his dinner.

  ‘Yes, all that saltbush and drab landscape, not much to look at,’ Eileen agreed.

  ‘Pain in the neck, especially when the plane only takes fifty minutes,’ Jacqueline added, pausing her fork above her plate.

  ‘So what does the place have to offer for the weekend visitor?’ Philip asked.

  ‘It’s actually not too bad. There are a couple of wineries, some interesting lookouts and bushwalking trails. And, it’s probably not down your alley but if you want something a little less strenuous, there are some antique shops.’

  ‘Sounds like fun,’ Philip said.

  ‘Yes, fabulous,’ Eileen agreed.

  Philip Havelock then casually added that sleep-ins and leisurely breakfasts were the first order of the day. Jacqueline was astounded. Was this the man who bolted down breakfast to be at the surgery by seven-thirty sharp, even on weekends, and who couldn’t stand mindless activity and fidgeted and complained when not completely occupied?

  ‘Okay, fine with me,’ Jacqueline said, shaking her head slowly in disbelief.

  She was pleased to hear the excitement in her mother’s voice when talking of her volunteering at the new drop-in centre their church had set up in the hall for bored latchkey kids.

  ‘I’ve even learnt to play pool and computer games,’ Eileen said, laughing.

  Jacqueline asked how everything was going with her father’s practice and was again astounded when Philip gave a dismissive flourish with his hand and announced, ‘Couldn’t be better. My new young partner Jeffrey is coming along extremely well. He won’t even need me soon.’

  My, the tide does seem to be changing, Jacqueline thought.

  When she told her parents about the presentation she’d given to the men of the district and some of the questions they’d asked, the trio enjoyed a laugh. By the time they finished dessert her parents had an insight into her new life – minus the run-ins with Doctor Squire – and were all talked out.

  Recognising how tired her parents were after their long journey, Jacqueline packed up the table and urged them to have nice hot showers and go to bed.

  ‘Not without helping with the dishes, dear,’ Eileen warned.

  ‘No, they can wait until the morning. I’m going to bed,’ she replied, making shooing motions at her mother.

  Eileen Havelock was unable to totally hide her disapproval, but having always prided herself on not overstepping the mark or imposing her opinions on others, she kissed Jacqueline goodnight and left the room.

  ‘If you insist, dear,’ Philip said, grinning cheekily. He quickly drained his glass, got up from the table and trotted off after his wife.

  ‘Good morning, sleep well?’ Jacqueline enquired brightly of her parents when they surfaced at seven-thirty the next morning looking fresh and well rested.

  ‘Mm, excellent, how about you?’ Eileen and Philip replied in unison, as they took their places at the kitchen table.

  ‘Good thanks.’

  ‘Great idea, I’m starving,’ Philip said, rubbing his palms together and nodding to the sizzling pan Jacqueline stood over.

  ‘Philip, you couldn’t possibly be,’ Eileen scolded good-naturedly.

  While she supervised th
e preparation of the hearty cooked breakfast of soft poached eggs, crispy bacon, tomatoes and mushrooms on thick buttery toast, Jacqueline marvelled at how well her parents seemed to get on. She thought it amazing after all the years they’d been together.

  After breakfast the trio set off on a tour of the few antique and bric-a-brac stores dotted around the dry, multi-brown landscape. Jacqueline surprised herself by becoming attached to a rustic whitewashed bedside cupboard for which she paid the seemingly outrageous price of five hundred dollars. She had never seen the need to clutter up her life with worldly possessions, so why she was starting now was a mystery. While she liked to be surrounded with nice things, she was quite happy with the bare essentials. She had no idea why she’d felt so passionate about this particular piece of furniture.

  ‘Oh no, don’t tell me I’m beginning to nest,’ she groaned, glancing back at her new acquisition in place under the window in the spare bedroom she was currently occupying. She took one last look before leaving the room. She’d move it into her room when her parents left, she decided.

  After a late lunch of salads and cold meats they collapsed in the lounge room, each with a section of the city paper they’d collected along the way. Jacqueline looked across at her parents, who were silent and engrossed in their reading, and smiled. It had been a great day. Philip and Eileen had seemed to genuinely enjoy themselves driving slowly along the bumpy, dusty roads, stopping occasionally to view the wide expanses of bush and cleared farmland from each of the lookouts they came to.

  What had amazed Jacqueline was how they’d insisted on sifting through the junk in the various shops where the term ‘antique’ was used far too loosely. She hadn’t realised her mother was even remotely interested, but had been astounded to find how much she knew about old china makes and styles. Apparently she’d recently gone with ‘some of the girls’ on a ‘treasure hunt’ through the Barossa Valley, which was ‘quite the thing’ to do.

  Apart from occasionally handing over his credit card or notes from his wad of cash, Philip Havelock found his own items of interest, mainly old tools like wooden planers, screwdrivers and a lethal-looking wooden-handled implement that was said to be for catching woodworm.

  Although he hadn’t purchased anything, it was obvious her dad had enjoyed his fossicking. Jacqueline had only suggested the shops to kill some time and give them a break from the expanses of brown and pale green greys of nature; she was definitely pleased she had.

  And her mother’s bargaining, well, Jacqueline had seen a whole other side to Eileen Havelock. She’d had been like a kid in a candy shop and once back in the car had oohed and aahed at what a bargain this or that had been.

  Gradually the stack of newspaper-wrapped old English china on the car floor had grown and when they were unloading it Eileen chirped, ‘The girls will just die when they see what I found.’

  Jacqueline was taken aback when Eileen insisted on rifling through any racks of vintage clothing they came across and had felt strange to be regarding one of her mother’s activities with distaste. It was like a complete role reversal.

  Her mother excitedly explained that the thrill lay in finding designer items and accessories amongst the trash. Jacqueline had never caught the shopping bug and wasn’t at all fussed if her clothes were designer or not. As long as they looked and fitted okay, and didn’t cost a fortune, she was happy. Just another of her subtle rebellions, if she allowed herself to admit it. She had never had masses of clothes while growing up, but whenever she’d needed an outfit for a special occasion her mother would always purchase according to the philosophy ‘you only get what you pay for’. Jacqueline wasn’t sure this theory still held true since everything now seemed to be made in China.

  ‘It’s highly unlikely there will be any designer clothes out here, Mum,’ she said for something to say.

  ‘You’d be surprised, dear,’ Eileen replied, peering at the labels on a rack of suits. The thought of her mother actually wearing something second-hand, designer label or not, was disturbing. Nevertheless, she obediently flicked through the hangers with her mother after telling herself to have tolerance because she didn’t get to see her parents often and one ought be grateful to have good parents. She was relieved they didn’t find anything to warrant purchase.

  Jacqueline’s thoughts went to Damien and his parents – a father who he’d adored, who’d been taken very early, and a mother who seemed, well, less than supportive. She thought about the journal pages in her briefcase behind her bedroom door and longed to read on. But after delivering tea and coffee to her guests she returned to her section of the newspaper, determined to be the perfect daughter and host.

  Not once had her father called the surgery to check on Jeffrey, which was surprising, so it would be the height of rudeness to bury herself in her own work. And anyway, she knew she wouldn’t be able to read without them politely enquiring what it was she was so interested in.

  No, Damien will have to wait until Monday, she told herself firmly.

  Sunday was spent visiting the various cellar doors in the area and they returned home exhausted, her parents slightly tipsy, laden with a couple of cases of odd bottles of wine they’d collected along the way.

  Leaving Philip to admire his purchases and study the relevant tasting notes and leaflets he’d also gathered, Eileen and Jacqueline retired to the kitchen to prepare the Sunday roast.

  At eight-thirty Monday morning Jacqueline headed off to the office and left her parents on the back verandah relaxing in the director’s chairs reading their books, with the sun slowly creeping up their extended legs.

  As she closed the front door behind her she marvelled at the odd sensation of needing to fuss over her parents, of making sure they had everything they wanted, issuing strict instructions to make themselves at home for the umpteenth time, and reminding them not to forget their ten o’clock coffee date with Ethel across the road.

  They’d got on famously with Ethel, who’d dropped in and then stayed for the casual Sunday-night roast dinner – so much so she’d insisted on having them over while Jacqueline was at work. Also, there were numerous plants in Ethel’s garden that Eileen was keen to take cuttings from.

  While the women had talked non-stop gardening, Jacqueline was concerned her father would be bored out of his mind. It was all right for her, she had the kitchen to retreat to when the need arose. But she’d been surprised to hear her father regularly adding to their conversation.

  It seemed in the last few months Philip Havelock had developed a keen interest in gardening. According to Eileen, he had even volunteered to put up a greenhouse to grow native seedlings for their local Greening Australia chapter. The weekend had indeed turned into a major eye-opener.

  Jacqueline saw to the trickle of clients that seemed to have been prompted by her talk to the men’s group. So far it was a couple of the younger ones, apparently more intent on checking her out than receiving any professional advice. There’s nothing like being the latest sideshow, she thought, as she fought the urge to laugh at the latest obvious attempt at asking her out. She once again trotted out the line about patient and client involvement being forbidden. She could just imagine the chatter in the front bar of the hotel as her recent clients compared notes.

  Hopefully they’ll see through the bullshit and realise I’m here to help, she told herself, as she made brief notes in the fellow’s file. The sad thing was that through all the bravado and mischief she had glimpsed the flicker of neediness behind their shining eyes. She wished she could have got through, but knew it was a waiting game. From what she’d seen in the pub, the young men would have to play up to their mates and then, when no one was looking, and only then, could they get serious about something. Laughter was one thing, but nervous laughter and taunting at the expense of others was dangerous.

  Jacqueline finally had the opportunity to return to Damien’s journal, and became engrossed in the roughly written words in front of her. The focus on death and sadness was very worr
ying and her frustration turned to anger at her inability to do anything constructive if he didn’t actually come to see her. Why had he even written the journal? No, she could only help if she was asked, otherwise she would have the wrath of Doctor Squire to deal with.

  Suddenly she felt overwhelming anger at the whole town and its oppressive everyone-knows-everyone’s-business. All she wanted was to make a difference to some lives, not change the world. So, why was it so bloody hard? She let her head fall onto the pile of pages on her desk. Right now, she felt like she couldn’t wait for her contract to be over.

  Pull yourself together, Jacque, she told herself forcefully, and ran a hand through her hair. Now what Damien really needs is to get away from here, she thought.

  There was a gentle knock on the door and Jacqueline glanced up as it opened, hopeful for a fleeting moment that it might be Damien. She was slightly disappointed to see an old man dressed in bulging white paint-splattered overalls clutching paint rollers, brushes and cans.

  ‘Oh! Sorry,’ Jacqueline said, leaping up from the desk and gathering the papers together in one swift movement. ‘I’ll get out of your way. I completely lost track of the time,’ she added.

  ‘No worries, luv. The others haven’t arrived and I still have to get the rest of the stuff from the ute.’

  Tucking Damien’s file and journal sheets under her arm, Jacqueline handed over the office key with instructions to leave it with the reception staff, and hurried out to her car.

  Philip, Eileen and Jacqueline had just started their lunch of salad and roast pork leftovers when there was a series of tentative knocks on the front door. Jacqueline rose and hurried to answer it, wondering who would be calling in the middle of the day. Opening the door she was surprised to find Damien standing there, clutching a hessian sack and looking red-faced and awkward.