‘They’d decorated it.’ Clare’s expression changed, her eyes brightening, mouth lifting into a smile, like the sun had come out from behind a cloud. ‘Invited everyone. Family. Friends. Cousins. Aunts. Uncles. Everyone. He loved Christmas, even more than I do now, so I feel a little closer to him this time of year, a little part of him celebrating through me. So…’ She shrugged a shoulder. ‘That’s why.’
So many questions flew through Tilda’s mind. But they were all the type a curious doctor would ask. How long was he sick? What was his diagnosis? Prognosis? How old? What hospital? Doctors. Treatments—She tried to think what Clare would ask if the tables were turned.
‘Why spend it in a new town with strangers?’
It was nice to see the grin that formed across Clare’s face. ‘I’m pretty sure once you’ve spent a night spooning with someone, you’re no longer strangers.’
Laughing along, Tilda reframed the question. ‘I meant, why aren’t you spending it with family?’
‘Life keeps going. People get busy. Things are forgotten.’ There was sadness in Clare’s eyes, but it didn’t last long. Sounds floated in through the window and Tilda rolled off the bed, moving to have a look outside. Merry leapt up over all three steps and onto the veranda, barking up a storm outside the cottage door, scratching to come in. Izzy was a little way behind the dog, calling out across the yard for her to settle, to hold her horses. And Tilda’s heart sank at the oncoming intrusion.
15
THE LAST DAY of school arrived. Bea and Will buzzed as they skipped down the driveway to meet the school bus, impatient for the half day of class to be over and looking forward to an afternoon filled with the Christmas fete and play. Tilda spent the morning with Jack, put to work in the sheds, while Clare talked with the manager of the wildlife sanctuary to organise Comet’s introduction. After lunch, Izzy herded them all to the car, she and Jack up front, Tilda and Clare in the back. The footwells were stuffed with evidence of the two kids and their time spent shuffling in and out of town. Books, toys, parts of school uniforms, hardened sandwich crusts and desiccated apple cores. Clare dug out a stuffed lion with a dog collar on it, Lionel engraved on the tag. ‘Bea’s?’
‘Yeah. Before Merry came along.’
‘Cute.’ She placed it on the seat between them.
That was the most anyone said until they reached the edge of town. The silence broke as Izzy and Jack discussed where the best place to park would be; not too far that the walk back would be too long, not too close that they’d get stuck in the traffic rush afterwards. They settled on a side street, far enough but not too close. Three rows of houses stood between them and the school and even then, when they climbed out of the car, the noise was startling—laughter and screaming, music and voices shouting over speakers.
Tilda and Clare dawdled behind. As they rounded the last corner and came to the school gate, they both stopped; Tilda in shock and Clare in awe. The school yard had been transformed, bright and colourful and whirling with movement. Stalls and activities and mini stages were set out, ribbons and bunting hung around. Christmas songs played over the loudspeaker. There were kids running everywhere, teachers and parents and adults hanging around chatting. Picnic rugs were spread on the grass and plastic chairs from the classrooms were set out in front of the main stage where the kids would put on the play in a few hours.
This was the part Tilda had always skipped, running out of her shift in time to see the kids in their play, running back to the hospital straight after. It shocked Clare when Tilda admitted it, her eyes wide and mouth gaping, and it made Tilda laugh. ‘I don’t know why you’re surprised. All this Christmas stuff—’ She pointed out the chaos in front of them with a nod. ‘It’s not my bag.’
Clare blinked rapidly, regaining poise, a smirk forming on her face. ‘We’re gonna have so much fun. You’ll see.’
‘You think this is how you’re gonna get me to like Christmas? Fat chance.’
It was a standoff, a challenging stare, and it would have stretched on forever except for Izzy cutting in, saying something about finding the kids and then vanishing into the crowd. Clare wrapped her arm around Tilda’s elbow and pulled her through the gate. Stumbling to slow their progress, Tilda pleaded silently for help from Jack who stood nearby, talking to a group of guys and nodding along to their worries about crumbling river banks from the storm and eroding soil levels. He was the only one smiling and Tilda caught the tail-end of his contribution to the conversation, ‘—dams are nearly full though.’ His unconditional positivity was a trait she’d always envied.
Dragging her feet as Clare guided her deeper into the schoolyard, Tilda turned at her name being yelled out. She spotted Izzy and the kids up on the veranda outside a classroom. Bea waved and pulled Will down the steps. People were jostled out of the way as the two kids barrelled through the crowd, little bodies bursting out and crashing into her, their arms wrapping around her. They each grabbed one of Clare’s and Tilda’s hands, the four of them forming a circle. Bea wanted them both to go with her to the face painting stall and Will was eager for them both to follow him to the beanbag toss, pulling the circle in opposite directions.
Clare played mediator. ‘What about a lucky dip first?’ She pointed out a plastic clam shell where a boy was digging around elbow deep in red goo. When the boy pulled out something that, once rinsed, turned out to be a plastic egg with a toy inside, the kids ran over to wait their turn. After that, they pulled Clare and Tilda from place to place. Candied apple stall. Toss-the-ring for a stuffed elf. Making tree decorations using recycled items and things from the lost and found box. They all got a cookie at the cookie stall, nibbling on them while they awed over the gingerbread houses entered in the competition, each picking out which one they thought would win. Bea was ecstatic that their model Christmas tree cookies were a big hit, every single one sold already.
After countless bauble-and-spoon races and Santa sack races, Tilda was looking for any chance to rest. They came across a big dunking pool set up in the back corner of the playground. The school principal sat on a plank dressed in an undersized red onesie, his bare feet dangling above the water. Will pleaded and begged until she gave him a dollar to try his luck, hoping to be the one who’s ball toss hit the target and sent the man into the water.
Tilda leaned on the barrier, caught up in the excitement. Clare jostled her into making bets on who they thought would make it happen and then poked her in the arm when she didn’t pick Will.
‘Quit it.’ Tilda scowled over at her, unable to shut down her smile, turning her eyes back on the game. ‘I wish we had this when I was at school. Our principal was a fu—’ But Clare’s quick glance downwards reminded her of Bea sandwiched between them, likely eavesdropping. ‘—a very nice man.’
Soon enough it was Will’s turn. There was a seriousness plastered all over his face as he set himself up inside the square marked out on the ground, gauging the heft of the ball and winding up his arm, coiling his torso and transferring his weight between his feet. A hush settled as he pitched the ball like a pro, a collective gasp as the ball tapped the top of the hoop, and then a groan when the hoop barely moved, the plank wobbling but the principal safe and dry. A cry went up from the crowd that the whole thing was rigged.
Will strolled back over to them, bottom lip jutting despite trying to appear unfazed, disappointed but smiling at the pats on the shoulder he received. Izzy found them a few minute laters by the magician, and she hurried the kids away to get ready for the play.
Left on their own, Tilda suggested finding food and a place to sit. They found Jack still with his group, but they’d migrated to the sausage sizzle, taking turns at the grill. A pile of sausage sandwiches in hand, heaped with onions and dripping with tomato sauce, they wandered and found a spot under the shade of a cedar tree.
They people-watched as they ate. Between bites, Tilda filled Clare in on who was who in Ashton, pointing them out as they walked by. With the last mouthful, Tilda gave a
satisfied sigh, a happy buzz coursing through her refuelled body. She laughed at the look on Clare’s face, who was still only a quarter of the way through hers. ‘Bad habit, I know. When I worked in a city hospital I learned the two most important things to survive. Inhale food, and jump at the chance of even a two-minute nap.’
A figure in red and white stood out in the crowd, Jerry’s deep and bounding laugh cutting through the jangling noise, his Santa suit bright red and brand new. A gap formed and Clare saw something that made her sit up a little, jumping up off the ground. ‘Don’t move.’
Tilda gathered their rubbish and tossed it in the bin nearby. She was back sitting in the same spot when Clare reappeared. Tilda saw she was holding something behind her back, spotted something brown and shapely and knew instantly what it was without even seeing it fully. ‘No. Nope.’
Clare dipped a brow. ‘You don’t even—’
‘Nope.’
She brought one hand around to the front, a Santa hat gripped in it, hanging limp.
Tilda shook her head. ‘No.’
So Clare placed it on her own head and brought her other hand around. Reindeer antlers on a red and green headband, bells and all. She tried to slide it onto Tilda’s head, but Tilda ducked out of her reach, stepping around to her side.
‘Please? Please, please, please.’ The bells jangled along with Clare’s pleading. ‘I’ll sing carols at the top of my lungs.’
‘No you won’t.’ Tilda dared her.
Clare drew in a big breath. ‘Jingle bells, jing—’ She stopped when Tilda snatched the antlers and shoved them on her head, the band scratching down tightly behind her ears.
‘Happy?’
‘Immensely.’ Clare grinned. She fixed her Santa hat, pulling it on properly, tucking the cotton ball at the end behind her ear.
A hand on Tilda’s shoulder made her turn around. Phyl and Bernie stood behind her, joined at the hip and grinning like two real life Cheshire Cats.
‘I see you two are having fun.’ Bernie tried to smother her grin, uncharacteristically restrained, her hands tucked in against her chest.
‘Ladies.’ Tilda nodded with a jingle, ignoring the all too obvious gloating on Clare’s face; she’d told Tilda she’d have fun, and even though she’d never admit it out loud, she was actually enjoying herself. ‘Hey Bernie? Any chance you’ll tell Doris I’m all rested and ready to come back to work?’
‘I have no doubt you’re well rested.’ Bernie winked at Tilda. ‘She seems to be a good influence on you.’ Her eyes flicked to Clare who’d been pulled aside by Phyl, no doubt stuck in the same conversation full of insinuation, going by the subtle smile of humoured disbelief on Clare’s face.
Tilda chided Bernie with a simple look, changing the subject and launching into a rush of questions about what had been going on at the hospital.
But Bernie wouldn’t give in. Keeping a hand close to her chest, she pointed a stealthy finger at Clare. ‘Are you two…?’
‘Are we what?’
Bernie meshed her fingers together, wiggling her eyebrows ludicrously.
‘What? No!’ Tilda ignored the giddy flip in her stomach and slapped Bernie’s hands apart, scowling. ‘Why are you here?’
Bernie slumped her shoulders and pouted, not unlike Will, pretending to be put out. ‘My granddaughter’s a horse.’
‘Bernie! That’s a horrible thing to—’
‘No, no.’ Bernie put a hand on Tilda’s arm and laughed, leaning in to clarify as she scanned the crowd. ‘She’s a horse in the play.’
‘Right.’ Tilda’s brain pinged when she saw Bernie’s husband making his way over, returning his shy wave as he stopped, hanging back a few feet to wait. Tilda often forgot that despite never passing a chance to flirt, Bernie had been married for three decades, a massive happy family to show for it.
The loudspeaker let out a ding-dong notice that the play would start soon.
‘We better get a seat before all the good ones are taken and there’s only those minuscule kindergarten chairs left.’ Bernie shuffled around. ‘Come. Sit with us.’
Tilda shook her head, but Bernie already had a grip on her, the other hand reaching out for her husband. Phyl had taken Clare’s hand and was pulling her over into the huddle. Tilda and Clare swapped looks as the crowd parted under the insistence of the two strong broads sweeping them through. Jack and Izzy joined them along the way, and the seven of them took up an entire row. Bernie and Phyl fussed about who sat next to who, telling anyone who tried to sit in the row in front of them that the seats were saved for the knitting ladies, no one brave enough to point out they were already seated across the aisle.
16
A REVERENT HUSH came over the audience as Bea walked across the stage, dressed as a drover with a coiled stock whip hanging from her hip. She was wearing Jack’s cowboy hat and his well-worn oilskin coat—knee length on Jack but it went all the way down past her feet—all an earthy shade of brown. Given the role of the narrator, she’d been practicing in her room for weeks with the door shut so no one could hear. It’d paid off as she introduced a play about an outback Christmas, her voice emphatic and strong. Only her family heard the little waiver now and then, her nerves well-hidden.
Sitting on the ground beside the stage were lines of fidgeting kids all dressed up in an assortment of costumes. Tilda spotted brumbies and kangaroos and even a wombat, an entire cast of familiar and new Christmas characters. There were even real farm dogs, trained specially for the performance. Jack, Izzy, Clare and Tilda all sent up a tiny whoop of a cheer when the one and only camel slunk up onto the stage. Will found his spot, but the kid in the back end of the costume kept walking, forming a concertinaed camel for a moment, before some reshuffling stretched them apart.
The audience was entranced. Izzy and Clare sat forward on their seats, and Tilda couldn’t help but be pulled in. At the beginning she’d joked with Jack about crossing their fingers that there wouldn’t be any singing. Even so, she hardly noticed as the first notes played out.
At one point, Bernie elbowed a captivated Tilda, pointing at one of the brumby horses cantering across the stage, pride written all over her face. ‘That’s her, that’s my Nell.’
Each class added to the story as it played out, the whole school on stage by the end. It finished with line after line of bowing students, met by wild cheering from the audience, and wolf-whistles that sent the dogs into a confused frenzy.
As the last bow was taken the sun sank behind the school buildings and big overhead lights switched on, buzzing loudly and attracting a flurry of moths. It was chaos as people stood and seats were rearranged. Kids jumped off stage in search of their families and friends. Bea and Will found the group in the messy crowd, and were greeted with big hugs and congratulations. When Bea climbed Tilda’s legs like she used to when she was littler, Tilda hauled her up onto her hip, locking hands onto wrists to keep from dropping her. The too-big coat doubled the little girl’s size.
Izzy tilted the cowboy hat on Bea’s head and kissed both her cheeks. ‘You did so good. Both of you.’
‘You guys were awesome.’ Jack helped Will take the camel head off, running his hands through the boy’s sweaty hair and making it stick out in spikes, picking him up as well even though he was almost too big for it. ‘Better get the kids home, huh? Fed and bed. Big day tomorrow.’
‘What’s tomorrow?’ Clare paused midway through helping Izzy take the oilskin coat off Bea, who refused to let Tilda put her down.
‘First day of Christmas school holidays is a big Bronson family tradition.’ Jack grinned over Will’s shoulder, the boy’s arms looped around his neck. Ten years later and Jack still swayed whenever he held him, just like he had when he was a baby.
Clare turned to Tilda, and Tilda did her best to dismiss the importance Jack had put on the day. ‘It’s just yabbying and tree hunting. Nothing we can’t miss.’
Jack sidled in. ‘Tilda hasn’t come with us in years. Forgotten how to catch a yabby like
ly. Probably scared she’s gonna embarrass herself.’
‘Please.’ Tilda stuck her tongue out at her brother, juggling Bea around while her arms were guided out of the folded up coat sleeves. ‘I can catch yabbies in my sleep. A whole bucket of em.’
‘But… I wanna go yabbying. And tree hunting, whatever that is.’ Clare seemed intrigued.
‘What about Comet, the sanctuary?’
‘One more day…’ Clare kept Tilda’s gaze as she held the collar of the coat while Tilda swapped the girl to the other side. The coat dropped free and Clare handed it over to Izzy who folded it over her arm.
Tilda was worried that it was going to be hard for Clare to leave Comet, despite her assurances that Comet’s wellbeing came first. As much as Clare had worried that Comet would become attached to her, Tilda noticed how attached Clare had become to the little joey. But then again. One more day… ‘Up to you. I don’t mind.’
Jack grinned. ‘Alright then. Sorted. I’ll pack enough bait for everyone.’
They could all tell how tired the kids were by their lack of excitement at the newcomers on tomorrow’s adventure. Bea’s head rested against Tilda’s shoulder, and it took some cajoling to get Will to walk, but with hands on his shoulders Jack guided him through the crowd. The boy was still in the camel costume with the back half tied around his waist, the hoofs banging against his legs. It was almost dark by the time they got to the car. Jack put the sixth seat down for Will. Clare and Tilda squeezed into the back seat, Bea propped up in the middle. She fell asleep by the time they reached the end of the side street, and even Tilda couldn’t hold back a yawn. Giving in, she went to rest her head against the window, but the jarring jingle of bells made her realise she was still wearing the reindeer antlers. Holding back a laugh, she took them off and slid the headband down over her thigh. Glancing over, Clare gave her a smirking smile.
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