by Shirley Wine
‘Lemonade will be fine.’ Joe grinned up at her. ‘Save the stubbies until we finish.’
‘That’s fine by me.’ Marta poured four glasses of lemonade, ice cubes rattling against the glasses, condensation dewing on the outside surfaces. She handed them to the men before tearing open a packet of biscuits. ‘You guys certainly know how to get things done. The transformation is amazing.’
‘It’s all about having the right machinery.’ Kev, the oldest of the men, lifted his ancient dusty, misshapen hat and rubbed a hand across his bald pate.
‘Is this what you had in mind?’ Joe looked up at her, his expression worried.
She looked out over the yard.
The wilderness of rippling, waist-high grass and weeds strewn with broken branches was now reduced to orderly brown stubble. The overgrown garden beds and shrubberies were conquered and through the trees that had previously been a dense, impenetrable screen, she could see daylight and glimpses of the properties beyond. The big jacaranda and lilly pilly trees now displayed shapely limbs, and created a welcoming shade.
She looked directly at Joe, and smiled. ‘It’s certainly different, but in a good way. Those trees—’ she shook her head, in awe, ‘—I can just visualise a hammock swinging from the branches, or a table and reclining chairs beneath them. It does look good, and cared for, and will be one heck of a lot easier to maintain.’
‘That’s the idea, but with any big clear-out, it always looks brutal in the beginning.’ Joe leaned his back against the step rail.
She was acutely aware that he was watching her, gauging her sincerity, and she refused to let her smile slip. ‘You’re not wrong.’
There would be time enough after the men had gone to grieve privately for the garden that had once been her mother’s pride and joy. In years to come, Marta knew she would always remember her mother, out here, working in her garden, singing.
Now, sentiment was forced to give way to practicality.
Joe caught her eye. ‘It looks stark and brutalised right now, but once the tree canopy thickens with new growth it won’t look near so bad. I did find something you may want to retain.’
And in that instant, she knew she hadn’t been as good at hiding her feelings as she’d thought. ‘You did?’
He indicated where the big garden bed had once been. ‘Among the rubbish and weedy trees, I found a young, straggly frangipani and cleared around it. Do you want me to leave it?’
‘Mum was very fond of frangipanis.’
‘I remember.’
Joe’s soft words made tears sting the backs of her eyes, and she blinked fiercely. Her mother had always had a soft spot for Joe, and he for her, and this acknowledgement of the bond they shared brought her mother’s condition into sharp focus.
‘Without the competition,’ Kev said around a mouthful of biscuit, breaking the tense moment, ‘that small frangipani will quickly put on growth and spread into a very attractive tree.’
‘What do you suggest, Joe?’ Marta’s voice was husky.
‘It’s up to you, but I think a tree front and centre of the house will certainly enhance the street appeal.’
‘Then let’s leave it. My mum must have had similar thoughts.’
‘Agnes was always far-sighted.’ Joe’s voice was considering. ‘Perhaps she was planning on doing something similar to what we’ve done here.’
‘You think?’ Marta gave him a quick, hopeful glance, then stood and picked up the jug of lemonade, needing the distraction. ‘Another drink, guys?’
Kev and Bart held out their glasses.
‘Your mum was an interesting lady.’ Kev glanced up at her as she refilled his glass. ‘A bit eccentric with all her collecting, but always kind and charming.’
Marta froze. Were Mum’s magpie instincts well known?
‘Mrs Field lived through some very tough times.’ There was no inflection in Joe’s laid-back drawl. ‘She was something of an anachronism in today’s throw-away world; she knew the value of being canny and thrifty.’
‘True enough.’ She was grateful for his deft deflection. ‘Mum could make a dollar go further than anyone else I’ve ever known.’
Joe drained his glass and, snagging another biscuit, stood and stretched. The other men swiftly followed suit.
Marta eased out a soft, relieved breath, glad of the interruption. She watched Joe and his men as he issued low-voiced instructions, the men nodding and then walking away. Once they were out of earshot he turned to her. ‘Have you arranged for the skip?’
‘Yeah, it’ll arrive in the morning. Where do you think I should get the delivery guy to put it?’
He frowned, studying the terrain for a few moments. ‘How about down the side of the house and adjacent to the back terrace? There it’ll be screened from open view and give easy access from the house.’
‘That makes sense. I certainly don’t want it plonked right in front of the house where anyone passing by can see.’
Joe’s frown deepened. ‘It’s impossible to keep what’s happening here quiet. You heard Kev: your mother’s eccentricity was well known. It’s inevitable that your return and clearing up around here will be discussed. People love nothing better than to talk.’
‘True.’
‘Far better to be open about it, to shrug and say outright that your mum asked you to clear out the house and yard, that it all got too much for her.’
‘People will accept that, I guess.’
‘Sure they will,’ he said with a gruff laugh. ‘You know as well as I do, that the minute you start acting all secretive, speculation and rumour will grow legs. This is Marandowie.’
‘As if I could forget this,’ she said with wry humour as she looked at the newly-shorn yard. ‘And anyone driving past can’t help seeing the activity out here.’
‘Most people are kind and understanding. They must suspect Agnes wasn’t coping, and your return after all these years is confirmation enough.’
‘And you being neighbourly and bringing in men and machinery to clear away the rubbish and overgrowth out here, kind of makes that obvious,’ she said slowly, a rueful note of acceptance in her voice.
‘It does. We’re almost done here. There’s only that heap of branches to mulch. I’ll take all the mulch back to my yard. I can use it to make compost.’
‘Great. I wondered what I was meant to do with it.’
‘I’ll come around after work tomorrow, and help you get on top of clearing all the stuff inside.’
‘That’s going to be more of a mission.’ She chewed on her lower lip a moment. ‘I need to sort things in there.’
‘I do understand this, and my offer of help still stands.’ He lifted his battered hat and scraped a hand through his hair. ‘Your mother is special, and she has always been kind to me, even after you left.’
Surprised by this unexpected admission, she stared at him, unsure what to say. Her mum had never once mentioned Joe in any of their phone conversations. She laid a hand on his arm. ‘I do appreciate your help.’
He hesitated—Marta was sure he was about to elaborate—then apparently deciding against it, his expression hardened.
He settled his hat back on his head and, grey eyes hooded, nodded briefly, then strode across to his men feeding branches and debris into the mulcher; the scream of machinery—a raucous echo.
She watched him walk away. ‘I’m doing this for your mother. For no other reason.’ Once, he would have given her the moon. But I turned my back and left him, without explanation or goodbye.
Marta sighed, gathered up the used glassware and retreated indoors without looking back.
***
The skip, near the back door as Joe suggested, was so convenient.
Her hands once more protected in thin cotton gloves inside sturdier garden gloves with rubberised grips, Marta began the big clean-out. She decided the best place to begin was the back covered terrace area. It was stacked floor to rafters with accumulated clutter.
Broken deck
chairs landed in the skip along with cracked and chipped planters and rusty hanging baskets—their desiccated contents unrecognisable—and a rusty wrought-iron table missing a leg.
She unearthed three decent-sized terracotta planters, all intact, and put them to one side. They would sell in a yard sale—her mum had always kept these planters filled with colourful annuals, she recalled with a pang of nostalgia.
It was mid-morning, after she’d halfway cleared the terrace area, that she discovered the cache tucked beneath the rickety old table in the corner: a neat stack of men’s leather work boots, some near new, others well worn.
Marta rested back on her haunches, staring in disbelief. Men’s boots? My mother hoarded men’s boots? Why?
As eccentric as her mother had become, Marta struggled to believe that she would act without reason. She sat there, and stared at the offending items. Why would my mother have men’s boots? It made no sense.
Agnes Field had little use for men.
Over the years, she had made this abundantly clear to Marta and Ben. Hell, it was a rarity for her to even discuss their absentee father. She had been a genius at deflecting her children’s questions. Only under pressure did she admit that their father, Sean Finnelley, had not been ready to be a father. She insisted he was an Irishman with the charm of the devil—he had charmed her, before leaving her to raise Marta and Ben.
Alone.
He wasn’t a bad man, she’d claimed, just a weak one, and too fond of the booze. But the experience left her done with men. So why would my mother have all these men’s boots on her back porch?
The mother Marta knew would not be seen dead wearing such ugly, unfeminine footwear. Did my mother have contact with my father, and we never knew?
About to toss the offensive things into the skip, she reconsidered—many of the boots were top quality, and near new. Surely, they would sell in a yard sale or at a local charity shop.
Perhaps Joe could throw some light on this idiosyncrasy of her mother’s.
He was never far from Marta’s thoughts.
He continued to surprise her. His willingness to help was as appreciated as it was unexpected. Was his help solely for her mother—or is he wanting to impress me?
Either way, he was very quickly working his way back into her good graces.
The change outside in the grounds was little short of miraculous—inside the house remained a daunting proposition.
Two of the dozen or so deck chairs she unearthed were in reasonable condition.
Marta took them out onto the grass and brushed off years of dust, bird droppings and dirt. After determining they were safe to sit on, she put them to one side and set about wielding the ratty corn broom she’d extracted from the junk.
Dislodged spiders scattered in all directions—Marta fought the urge to scream and throw up her hands and run. Instead, she attacked them vigorously with the broom. Spiders and their webs succumbed to her determination, as did the years of accumulated dust and dirt.
With the terrace area once more relatively clean and orderly, Marta arranged the salvaged deck chairs along with another small wrought-iron table she’d found, this one in reasonable repair. The boots she stacked back in one corner, then stood back to survey the results of her hard work.
Once again, the covered terrace was spacious and welcoming.
It was a pleasant place to sit even without her mother’s homely touches of flowers and hanging baskets filled with greenery, touches which in the past had turned this area into an oasis of calm, and the hub of her childhood home.
Marta sighed softly—so many memories, so much grief for the mother she loved, the mother who was now lost to her through dementia.
Sitting on the porch taking a well-earned break and enjoying a glass of wine, she heard footsteps on the path beside the house.
‘There you are.’ Joe poked his head around the corner, yanked off his hat and banged it against his thigh, releasing a cloud of dust. ‘Whoa, you sure have been busy.’
‘I know, and among all that rubbish I actually found a couple of deck chairs sound enough to risk sitting on.’ A wry grin teased her lips. ‘Would you like a wine, or I have a beer if you’d prefer it?’
‘I’d cheerfully kill for a cold beer.’ She went to stand, but he stayed her with a brusque gesture. ‘Don’t get up, I’ll get it.’
Marta nodded and rested back in her chair. Just sitting was bliss. His footsteps receded and she heard the tell-tale clink of glass a few seconds before he reappeared and plonked his butt down in the other deck chair.
‘Man, it’s a scorcher out there today.’
‘What’s the old saying, somewhere in the world it’s wine o’clock.’
He twisted the cap off the stubby and took a healthy swallow. ‘Can’t find anything to disagree with about that sentiment.’
They sat for a few minutes in quiet contemplation, lost in their own thoughts. Marta traced a fingernail in the condensation on the outside of her glass. ‘I remember sitting here so often with Mum and Ben, and in summer, we lived out here.’
Joe cocked an eyebrow. ‘How is your brother doing?’
‘He’s okay.’ She slanted him a quick glance before she averted her eyes, unwilling to go there. Her brother, jailed for manslaughter, was a touchy subject. Ben had been caught up in a bar fight and threw a punch to protect his mate, with fatal consequences.
Joe held no such compunction. ‘When’s he getting out? He’s up north somewhere, isn’t he?’
‘Yeah, and he’s due for release in the new year.’
‘What are his plans on his release?’
‘He won’t come back here, obviously.’
‘Why not? Marandowie is his home.’
Marta snorted. ‘And what sort of reception will he get if he shows his nose around here, tell me that? Mike O’Sullivan is still dead and his parents and all his brothers still live around here.’
‘And they know full well their son pulled a knife on Ben’s mate, and provoked Ben to throw that punch,’ Joe said, his gaze steady. ‘Ben was protecting his mate. It was damned unfortunate that O’Sullivan cracked his head on the bar when he fell, but he did contribute to his own demise.’
‘You think that weighs with the rest of the O’Sullivan family?’
‘Yeah, it does.’ Joe gripped her hands and held them tightly. ‘It was a freak occurrence, Marta. Ben did not go out that night intending to hurt anyone.’
‘Tell that to the locals,’ she said with a bitter little laugh. ‘He’d had a couple of beers, got caught up in a bar fight that left another local dead, ergo, he is guilty of murder.’
‘Ben was young and foolish and he should never have been in that pub.’ Joe’s hands tightened on hers. ‘But then neither should most of the others who were there that night. And had he not thrown that punch, his mate could well be dead.’
‘Then it would be Mike O’Sullivan doing time for murder.’
‘For sure, and his family knows this. And when Ben is released you can be sure the police will be paying a visit to Mike O’Sullivan’s family warning them against any thoughts of vigilante-style action.’
‘You think that will stop them?’
‘Patrick O’Sullivan knows his son should never have pulled a knife; he will keep the rest of his sons in line.’ Joe gave her a sober look. ‘You do realise that the Ben who gets out will be a damn sight different Ben to the boy who went away.’
‘I do know this.’ She glanced at him, but could only see concern, his voice devoid of condemnation.
‘You can’t let gossip get to you.’ Joe leaned closer. ‘Ben has paid his dues. He was always a great worker, and I can’t see this changing any. He will need all the help he can get to adjust to life outside.’
Marta traced a fingernail on the leg of her jeans. ‘I know all this. His biggest hurdle will be finding work. What’s there around here for him? Tell me that.’
Joe lifted his beer and took another healthy swallow. ‘Get Ben to come a
nd see me when he gets home.’
She stiffened and stared at him, her eyes so wide open they hurt. ‘Why?’
‘I’m looking to employ more willing, reliable workers. Sure Ben has a blot on his name, but he can get over this, in time. And it will be much easier for him to get his life back on track if he has a steady job.’
‘Are you serious? You have jobs going?’
‘I do.’ He drained his stubby. ‘I said as much to Christophe this morning when I delivered his vegetable order. I’ll be advertising a number of positions in the new year. Do you think your brother would be interested?’
‘Maybe. I’m down for a visit with him next week. I’ll put your offer to him then.’ She picked at a fingernail, and frowned. ‘Are you sure about this?’
Joe sighed. ‘I owe you.’
Startled, she asked, ‘You owe me? Why would you think that?’
‘You most probably saved Becky’s life.’
Whatever else she’d expected, it wasn’t this. She sucked in a slow, deep breath. ‘You didn’t think so at the time.’
He winced, and immediately she regretted the tart comment.
‘I’ll admit to not reacting at all well back then, and saying a lot of hurtful things I now regret.’
It was an apology of sorts, an acknowledgement of past mistakes. ‘You’re not alone; I recall responding in kind.’
He stared off into the distance and she sensed he was not looking at the scenery, but at something only he could see, his brow deeply furrowed. ‘I didn’t really understand the pressure Mother was putting on Rebecca.’
‘Didn’t you?’ Marta snorted. ‘It was so damned obvious. A blind man in a dark alley could see that Rebecca was ready to snap. Better I gave her sanctuary, than she resort to taking her own life to escape.’
He flinched at her blunt words. ‘Do you think I don’t know this? There was so much going on at the time; Dad dying, the gardens in financial trouble and Mother—’ He scowled, his eyes dark with residual anger. ‘Becky running away was the final straw. Besides, it was different for me.’
‘Music was your thing.’ She leaned forward, and met his hostile gaze squarely. ‘To you, the hours spent practising were a pleasure. Operatic singing was not Rebecca’s forte. Sure, she’s talented and patrons love her and her singing, but underneath all her success, she is still emotionally fragile.’