Wattle Creek

by Fiona McCallum

  ‘I’ll finish the salad while you get drinks sorted,’ Eileen said, materialising back at Jacqueline’s side.

  Before long the room was buzzing with chatter. While she and Damien organised the drinks, Jacqueline took a moment to briefly observe the group at the table. She was pleased to see Ethel and Tina enjoying easy conversation.

  Jacqueline knew their relationship was strained. Ethel had told her of her dislike for Tina’s husband Geoff, so she hoped Tina would tell Ethel about their separation soon. But then perhaps she already knew, Jacqueline realised. Damien would probably have told her.

  As Jacqueline put the lasagne on the table she heard Ethel offering her second spare bedroom to Tina for as long as she needed. Tina said she appreciated the offer and would take a few days to sort herself out.

  Before long Philip and Eileen caught on to the conversation at the other end of the table and were offering their sympathies. But it was obvious Tina was having no second thoughts or regrets and the conversation quickly turned to jokes about men, with Philip and Damien feigning offence while the women roared with laughter. Jacqueline felt a gentle wave of relief wash over her as she settled into the last vacant chair.

  They shared a toast to celebrate Philip and Eileen’s news that they had secured the small Turner property for a great price.

  At ten the evening ended. The joey was due for its next feed and everyone agreed it was, after all, a ‘school night’. Jacqueline was pleased to see Tina content to be led across the road by Ethel. She and Philip, Eileen and Damien, who had managed to slip Ethel’s net, stayed up a little longer, sipping another round of port and whisky in the lounge room and reflecting on the evening.

  Eileen commented on how everyone they’d contacted for the party had insisted on bringing either a savoury or sweet plate. Because they would be using the golf club bar, they really only had to concentrate on putting up a few decorations, which they would leave until Saturday when they would have Jacqueline’s help and good taste. And now with Tina’s help, it would be done in next to no time.

  Philip proudly announced he was spending the next few days as a farmer, helping Damien get the first of the enclosures finished and then heading off to McDonald’s clearing sale.

  ‘As long as you don’t need me to help set up the golf club or anything,’ he added, looking at his wife and then his daughter.

  ‘No, you go off and have fun playing farmer,’ Eileen teased.

  ‘What are you looking to buy?’ Jacqueline asked Damien.

  ‘I’m always on the lookout for wire, timber, and star droppers, but I also need a heap of drums I can cut up to use for feed and water. It’s a bit of a bugger that I couldn’t go and help them set things up for the sale; I would have known what was there. I can always put the word out around the district if need be.’

  ‘Well I think it’s all very exciting,’ Eileen said. ‘Now we’ve roped Tina in, we’ll definitely get our mountain of cooking done for Saturday night and our fundraiser next week. We’ve decided to have a trading table. Apparently that’s the preferred method around here,’ she added. She went on to list who was making what of the mountains of pies, pasties, biscuits and cakes.

  Jacqueline smiled, thinking how quickly her parents seemed to be becoming part of the place and getting up to speed with local customs.

  ‘Everyone is so nice and helpful,’ Eileen said with a sigh. ‘You know the butcher has donated all the meat for a barbecue at Sunday’s working bee; the grocer the onions, potatoes and tomato sauce; and the baker the bread. We’re not bothering with salads, apparently they don’t go much for salad around here,’ she said, clearly a little concerned about it.

  Jacqueline chuckled.

  ‘Can you believe Ethel estimates there could be as many as fifty people turning up? She’s been doing an amazing job drumming up support.’

  ‘That’s brilliant,’ Jacqueline said. ‘And I’m glad we won’t have to be making hundreds of sandwiches.’

  ‘Well I think the whole thing is a credit to you, Damien. You’re obviously very well-respected in the community to be getting this much support.’

  ‘Thanks, Philip,’ Damien muttered, looking a little uncomfortable.

  Jacqueline grinned at Damien and gave his hand a squeeze to second her father’s statement.

  Suddenly Eileen and Philip were saying they were tired. They downed the last of their drinks and retreated up the passage, taking care, Jacqueline noticed, to close the door behind them.

  ‘Alone at last,’ Damien and Jacqueline breathed together, and shuffled closer.

  On Sunday morning Jacqueline woke early despite only having had a few hours’ sleep, and lay in bed reflecting on the success of the previous night’s party and wishing she had Damien’s company.

  Usually drab, the enormous room at the golf club had been transformed with multicoloured paper streamers hanging down the walls and wound around the solid concrete pillars, hundreds of helium-filled balloons bobbing against the ceiling and white tablecloths hiding the dark brown laminex tables. While they hadn’t been able to do anything about the mottled black, red, orange and maroon carpet, the overall effect told Jacqueline the hours of effort she, Eileen, Ethel, and Tina had put in had paid off.

  During the evening the whole room had been abuzz with talk of Damien’s new venture, and it seemed most of the district was genuinely excited and very supportive. Not to mention the enthusiastic welcome her parents had been given.

  Jacqueline sighed as she thought about the touching speeches, made early in the evening so everyone could concentrate on filling their stomachs with food and beverages. The mayor, Donald Stening, had opened proceedings with heartfelt words of welcome to Jacqueline’s parents and best wishes for their bed and breakfast venture. The resounding roaring, hooting and clapping left no doubt that his words echoed the views of the entire district.

  Philip and Eileen were both visibly delighted with the enthusiasm and, despite being almost overwhelmed with emotion, her father managed a short speech of thanks on their behalf while her mother, full of excitement and champagne, stood at his side and nodded. Jacqueline suspected her father would be doing more vet work than just helping out Damien at the shelter, especially since the nearest vet was over one hundred kilometres away and everyone had just been told he would not be retiring totally. She was pleased.

  It was one thing to do service shuffling thousands of suburban pet owners, but quite another to help an old man with the retired work dog that had saved his livelihood by stopping two thousand sheep straying into a swollen creek in the dark during a ferocious storm.

  Jacqueline knew he would enjoy swapping war stories with the locals; their common bond being the animals that were so much a part of their lives. And she could just imagine her mother hiding the homemade delights he accepted along the way so he wouldn’t lose his physique.

  Philip Havelock had ended his speech with a brief overview of Damien’s venture, Esperance Animal Welfare Farm, and then introduced the other man of the moment. Jacqueline crossed her fingers behind her back in an attempt to send strong positive vibes to Damien, who she’d never seen speak in public and was sure would be terrified.

  Damien had loped to the makeshift stage area with his head down as drunk lads wolf-whistled and offered light-hearted jeers. Jacqueline studied the sensible abstract harlequin pattern of the carpet with a mixture of intense pride and aching unease. But she didn’t need to be concerned. Here was a man telling the world of his dream. Her man.

  Damien stood tall and confidently addressed the sea of people. He spoke for over fifteen minutes, outlining his plans, explaining the concept of the shelter, and paying homage to his deceased father. There was stunned silence while everyone heard about Dean McAllister’s unfulfilled ambition and Damien’s joy at being given the opportunity to make his dream come true.

  There were a few sniggers when he said he thought there were less dramatic ways of changing one’s life than his house burning down. Jacqueline t
hought her swollen eyelids and constricted throat would embarrass her with a flood of tears. But she managed to keep it all in check by reminding herself this was a happy ending.

  Still concentrating on retaining her composure, Jacqueline was surprised to hear her name mentioned. Looking up, she realised all eyes were on her and blushed when Damien gave credit to her for his revival and recommending the healing powers of talking things over. Jacqueline thought she couldn’t have given a better advertisement if she’d tried. There was more clapping, this time polite and respectful.

  Then Damien suddenly began winding up, saying he didn’t have any more to say except that everyone was welcome to experience the healing power of animals and hard work for themselves, at tomorrow’s working bee – starting at ten-thirty.

  ‘Oh, and by the way, Jacqueline and I are officially an item so you bludgers can keep your eyes off – she’s mine,’ he’d added with a huge grin as he’d left the stage.

  The room had erupted into raucous whooping and clapping that threatened to lift the perforated ceiling tiles from their moorings. Instead of feeling intensely embarrassed by the announcement, Jacqueline felt chuffed at his boldness. It couldn’t get any more official, or public, so maybe now she could get a bit more open affection out of him.

  And she had, later in the evening. Jacqueline felt herself beaming as she remembered how attentive he’d been, to the point a couple of the lads had teased them shouting, ‘Get a room, you two.’ Far from being embarrassed, she and Damien had continued swaying together to the music, lost in each other’s gaze and lips.

  Jacqueline realised she was hungry and told herself she couldn’t possibly be after all she’d eaten last night. To conclude the formalities, Mayor Stening had announced in a booming voice, needed to rise above the din, that they’d all better eat before everything got cold.

  Voices became a low rumble as everyone settled into the rhythm of inspecting the offerings on the two long trestle tables, making selections and stepping aside to enjoy their prizes. Jacqueline smiled at the memory of walking around the tables twice like a hungry animal circling its prey, empty plate in hand, unable to decide what to eat, while the locals who recognised their favourites and seemed to know whose offering was whose bounded in.

  With little chance of the food running out, Jacqueline had embarked on a reconnaissance mission. Stepping back, plate still empty, she’d bumped into Reg Elliot, who had painted her office.

  ‘Get on in there, luv,’ he said. ‘You can’t be shy in this game,’ he added, grinning.

  ‘There are too many choices,’ Jacqueline had mumbled, frowning.

  ‘Word of the wise,’ Reg continued, ‘Beryl Egbert’s homemade sausage rolls, over there on that red flowery plate, are the best in the district, as is Ethel Bennett’s tuna mornay. I don’t know what she does to it, but it’s the best I’ve ever had.

  ‘And save room for sweets. You’ll probably have never seen anything like it, not in the city anyway,’ he said, before he was sucked back into the throng.

  ‘Thanks, Reg,’ Jacqueline said, but he was gone.

  Her matchmaker bulb flickered for a second while she wondered about Ethel and Reg as a couple, since she now knew Reg to be a widower, but decided against following it up. This was a country town, everyone already knew everyone else and if it was going to happen it would have by now. Hell, they were probably related, she thought, as she dived into a space at the table and grabbed the last two sausage rolls on the plate Reg had pointed out.

  So many people had stopped to offer her quick g’days and friendly words that when Jacqueline turned back to the table she realised the savouries were being replaced with elaborate displays of sweets on tiered plates and fancy china.

  It was as if everyone was competing for the supreme dessert title, like she imagined they did at the local show each year. All the better for the consumer, she thought as she stepped forward to fill up her plate, determined not to miss out on best pickings again.

  Later she chatted with the local Anglican minister, a woman called Betty Morrison, who Jacqueline wouldn’t even have picked as religious if she hadn’t been wearing the stiff white collar. This place is so full of surprises, she thought while absently nodding to Betty’s invitation to ‘drop in anytime’. Biting into a luscious cream puff Jacqueline had marvelled at how in many ways the town was really old fashioned, yet in others seemed to be ahead of the city.

  Jacqueline heard footsteps in the passage and the bathroom door being closed. She checked the small clock by her bedside table – six-thirty. They had decided last night that the plan for the day was that they would make their way out in four vehicles. Damien was going out alone early. Actually, Jacqueline thought she might have just heard his ute drive off. Philip was planning to go out at around eight-thirty to help Damien with a couple of last-minute things. Tina and Eileen and Jacqueline would go out with all the food around nine to set up everything for the barbecue lunch they were providing the workers. And then Ethel would be the last, turning up at nine-thirty with the buck so he could be released in peace before everyone arrived for the working bee.

  And there was a big surprise planned for Damien. Jacqueline smiled at picturing him being even more overwhelmed than with everyone’s support last night. She couldn’t believe it had remained a secret, right through last night’s drunken festivities.

  So much for the bush telegraph, she thought, grinning.

  She couldn’t stay in bed any longer. It was all way too exciting. Bounding down the hall, Jacqueline shouted, ‘Fry-up, everybody up.’

  Standing at the stove, waiting to turn the bacon, the sleeves of her pale blue chenille dressing-gown rolled up, she again thought of Damien and felt the warm, tingling anticipation flow through her. She couldn’t wait to see his face when all was revealed.

  And the buck – today was his day as well. She really hoped for both Damien’s and his sake that the animal would be able to return to his original home. Jacqueline wondered if he’d always be a bit friendlier, like the pet sheep Damien had told her about.

  Turning the bacon, Jacqueline decided she would go out early with her father, even though there was probably nothing for her to do. She wanted to be amongst the action right from the start and watch things gradually unfold.

  As Philip backed his Holden Statesman out of the driveway, Jacqueline confirmed that Damien’s ute was no longer at Ethel’s kerb. Twenty minutes later, they found him parked outside the farm’s entrance, consulting a piece of graph paper.

  ‘Want a hand?’ Philip asked from beside Damien’s open window.

  ‘Yeah, that’d be great,’ Damien said, getting out. ‘I’m putting up a new sign and hanging the one of Dad’s I found underneath. Had to get Jack up the road to do it, since I don’t have a router anymore.’

  Jacqueline got out, taking with her the picnic basket she’d packed, and joined her father and Damien by the ute. From the look of Damien’s face, she thought he might have shed a few tears recently.

  ‘Cuppa?’ she asked, dragging the thermos out and waggling it.

  ‘Yeah, ta,’ Damien said.

  ‘Last night went well,’ she continued, as she laid a navy hand-towel on the bonnet and set out three cups, teaspoons and small jars of milk and sugar.

  ‘Yeah, brilliant, the best.’ He leant over and kissed her firmly on the lips, then stepped back, as if embarrassed by Philip’s presence.

  While they sipped their coffees they reminisced about the night before and speculated over who would turn up today to help.

  ‘Let’s get to it then,’ Philip said, after draining his cup.

  ‘A week ago we could have used the hydraulic post-hole digger on the tractor, but I’m afraid it’s the hard way for us,’ Damien said, as he pulled a blue hand auger from the tray and handed it to Philip, then retrieved a crowbar and a round-mouth shovel. ‘Lucky these were on the ute when everything else went up, else we’d be using our hands,’ he added without malice.

  ‘I�
��ve heard it said manual labour’s good for the soul,’ Philip said cheerfully, clutching the T-bar handle of the auger.

  Jacqueline felt like the proverbial delicate princess standing by watching and sipping her coffee while the men took turns loosening the soil then packing it in the auger and removing it.

  ‘Hey, don’t think you’re getting off that lightly,’ Damien suddenly called, straightening up and running the back of his hand across his glistening forehead.

  Pleased at the invitation, Jacqueline placed her empty cup on the towel and stepped forward. She rolled up the sleeves of her freshly ironed blue shirt and was instantly reminded of her poor choice of clothing, yet again.

  ‘We need about another foot,’ Damien explained, ‘to make it stable. All you have to do is twist this until the dirt hits the stopper here, then gently pack it down so it stays put while you lift it out. Then you jiggle it until it’s empty.’

  Jacqueline was glad to make a contribution, but knew she was slowing things down. She was relieved to only get one load out before Damien had downed his tepid coffee and was returning to take over.

  ‘We’ll make a country girl of you yet,’ he teased.

  ‘Thanks,’ she said grinning, and at the same time telling herself not to make more of his comment than the innocent, friendly banter that it was.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Seeing Jacqueline struggling with the auger and insisting on finishing at least one load, Damien realised she was trying to impress him. Wow, the smart, sophisticated woman who could have any man she wanted was trying to impress him. After the past few nights, he was pretty impressed all right. He thought it funny to see her so far out of her depth, but he couldn’t let himself laugh and ruin the moment.

  The auger and its load fell to earth and she straightened up, gasping for breath like she’d just done a sprint. A few stray strands of smooth, inky glistening hair were pushed back from her beaded face with the back of a hand. Her soft palms had red and white blotches from the tension of gripping and the effort of twisting.