by Janet Gover
‘This … school property. Leave. Now.’
Something was wrong. Simon held his hands up in a placating manner, and started to back away. ‘I’m sorry. My name is Simon. Simon Coates. My grandmother and I have just moved to town. I didn’t mean any harm. I just wanted to ask permission to run here. I’ll leave now.’
He wasn’t quite sure what to do. He didn’t want to just turn his back and leave her in such a distressed state, so he spoke in the same gentle tone he would use for a frightened animal. ‘Are you sure you’re all right?’
The woman bent forward, covering her face with her hands. He heard her take a long, slow breath. When she stood up and lowered her hands her eyes were still uncertain, but they had lost that look of terror. She lifted a hand to signal for him to stay. When she spoke again, her voice was stronger.
‘I’m all right. You startled me. Brought back some … some bad memories.’
Simon understood better than most how debilitating memories could be. He smiled and nodded. ‘As long as you’re okay.’
‘I’m Meg Walker. I teach the secondary classes here. I’m more or less headmistress, if such a grand title can be applied in a small school like this one.’
‘Pleased to meet you, Miss Walker.’
She hadn’t offered her hand, so neither did he. She had stopped moving away, although she wasn’t too close. Not within arm’s reach.
‘I guess you can run here, if you like. But you have to be gone before the kids arrive. That can be early. Say, before eight o’clock.’
Simon nodded again and glanced at his watch. It was a few minutes before seven. ‘Sure. That’s fine for me. I run early and I have to be home around then anyway. My grandmother believes in breakfasts and I’ll be in trouble if I don’t show up for her croissants.’
She almost smiled. The echo of fear still showing on her face stopped it forming, but her expression hinted at a real smile that would be special and worth seeing.
‘Then that’s fine.’
‘I guess I should keep running. Are you going to join me for a lap?’
She shook her head. ‘Goodbye.’
She turned and started to run, curving in a wide arc around him back towards the cluster of school buildings. He wasn’t sure, but it seemed to him she was running much faster—escaping. She was gone before Simon was truly back into his stride.
As he finished his circuit, Simon thought about Meg. He wondered what had put that fear onto her face. What memories drove her to run? He hoped she sometimes found reasons to laugh, because her eyes would probably sparkle when she laughed, and that would be something to see. His leg was hurting now, so he finished his lap, walked through the gate once more and set off towards the place that he was now going to have to call home.
As he walked back down the gravel driveway, the pain in his leg was as bad as it had been for a while. He’d gone too far. He was supposed to push himself, but not quite that hard. He had to remember that he was no longer the man he had been. As he approached the house, he tried very hard not to limp. He could smell the coffee, and knew Lucienne was up. If she saw him limping, she would have words to say. She was eighty years old and only came up to his shoulder, but when his grandmother had words, he felt like the small boy he had been when she first took him under her wing.
‘You are just in time,’ Lucienne said. Her eyes narrowed as she watched him walk to the table. ‘You went too far?’
‘Just into the town. I met someone.’ He hoped that might take her mind off his leg.
‘Who did you meet?’
‘The school teacher. She said I can run on the oval whenever I want.’
‘Was she pretty?’
‘Grand-mère …’
‘You are thirty years old, mon cher. Time you were married.’
‘Can I eat my breakfast first?’
They laughed, and Lucienne poured two cups of coffee as Simon reached for the plate of her homemade croissants.
CHAPTER
5
When Aunt Alice walked down the aisle of the small, white-painted wooden church on Sunday morning, her black church handbag placed squarely over her arm, it was something like a queen making her way past her courtiers. Most of the people who attended St John’s were related to her and all of them greeted her. She would acknowledge them with a few words, or a smile, or just a minimal nod for those who were out of favour. There was a bit of a contest among her nieces and nephews, especially those who thought Alice was secretly wealthy, over who would escort her to the fortnightly services. That lucky (or possibly unlucky) person would then have her as a guest for Sunday lunch. No-one had ever had the courage to say no when Aunt Alice invited herself. Even those families who usually didn’t bother with a big Sunday lunch did so when Alice was coming. And the teenagers who normally spent Sundays swimming in the creek and doing things of which Aunt Alice would most certainly disapprove were forced to stay home.
Whoever was granted the great boon of escorting Aunt Alice to church would offer her his arm as she walked down the aisle. She didn’t need an arm to lean on, she was more than capable of walking down the aisle unaided, yet she always took it, as it made her seem more regal. It made her feel like the queen of her small world. Today, Jenny’s father Peter had the honour of escorting her to the front pew that was always empty and waiting for her. She had secretly chuckled at the surprise on his face when she’d informed him of this. Peter thought he was still in her bad books because of the circus. He was, but she was determined to pump him for all the information she could get. Although his wife Barbara followed them down the aisle, there was no sign of Jenny. Alice would have words about that during lunch. Not that it would do any good. Jenny could run rings around both her parents. Underneath her visible disapproval, Alice actually admired her great-niece for that.
There were no strangers in the church today, which meant the newcomers on the old Connelly place were either not churchgoers or had driven into Glen Innes to the Catholic church, equal sins in Alice’s eyes. She would have something to say about that later too, but until then, she settled herself into her pew and waited for the service to start.
Two years ago, church officials had tried to end the Nyringa services, saying there were too few people to make it worthwhile. People still whispered about the day Alice had instructed one of the nephews to drive her to Glen Innes to speak to the Bishop, who’d driven over from Armidale for the meeting. No-one knew exactly what was said, but the church remained open, although services were reduced to every two weeks. Some people said Alice had promised to leave her fortune to the church if they kept it open. There were others who said she had threatened to reveal some secret about the church, or one of its members. Maybe even the Bishop himself, who was about Alice’s age and had once been a farm boy growing up not all that far from Nyringa.
Alice knew all about the rumours, but she wasn’t saying anything. She had her regular service, and took great comfort from it. She enjoyed the rituals and the hymns and, as she approached her eighties, it couldn’t hurt to be in God’s good graces, just in case.
‘May the Lord bless you and keep you. May He shine His face upon you …’
Alice closed her eyes and bowed her head to receive the blessing. She wasn’t sure that God had ever let His face shine upon her, but she liked hearing the words.
‘… lift up His countenance upon you and give you peace.’
As Alice gathered her handbag and rose slowly from her seat, the people at the rear of the church started to leave. Alice stepped to the end of the pew and bowed towards the altar. As a girl, she had genuflected as her mother had taught her, her knee almost but not quite touching the carpet runner on the aisle. She was too old to do that now, and even sometimes held the back of the pew as she bowed, but she figured God would understand and excuse her.
As she turned towards the rear door, where the priest was greeting departing parishioners, Alice saw most people step out of the aisle to let her pass. She took Peter’s
arm again and made a steady progression towards the door. She liked that people waited for her. It showed respect and courtesy, two things that Alice valued highly. But a small part of her, the part that had stolen communion wine while setting out flowers when she was sixteen, took a sneaking pleasure from knowing that all the people eager to escape church and head to lunch had to wait just a little longer to make way for her.
‘A very nice sermon, Father Phil.’ Alice shook his hand.
‘Thank you, Alice. And a pleasure as always to see you there in the front row.’
‘Well, if you’re only going to come here every fortnight, I’d best sit in the front seat in case God forgets what I look like.’
The priest’s lips twitched in a smile. ‘I’m sure God has never forgotten you, Alice. Not for one second.’
‘And be careful with that blessing.’ Alice made certain no trace of a smile touched her lips. ‘You might want to think again about the “give you peace” part. It sounds like you are trying to push me into an early grave.’
Behind her, she heard a stifled giggle, quickly cut off.
‘Alice, I’m quite sure that no-one, least of all a poor parish priest, could push you anywhere you were not ready to go. And I do think you’re a long way from being ready to take that step.’
‘In that case, I’ll see you again in two weeks.’ Alice took Peter’s arm again as she walked down the stairs.
Peter helped her into the front passenger seat of his car, while Barbara slipped quietly into the back. Everything Barbara did was quiet and Alice had often wondered if the woman was quiet during arguments with her husband, or during sex. Without any need for Alice to direct him, Peter drove from the church to the small cemetery near the edge of town. After parking the car in the shade, he opened the door for Alice. Barbara handed her some flowers that had been sitting on the back seat, but Alice was alone as she walked through the gate.
Much like the man resting there, the grave was plain. No ornate marble carving for her Charles. Just his name, the date of his birth and the date he departed their world. Alice prided herself on being sensible, rather than sentimental. And that was doubly so when it came to her late husband. She brought flowers every time she came to church, because that was what a widow did. But she didn’t stay long. She wasn’t one for sitting and talking to thin air. She and Charles had said everything they’d had to say to each other during more than forty years of marriage, as they shared a home empty of children’s footsteps. Said everything, and then increasingly said very little, for without a family, there was little that mattered enough for conversation.
She replaced the dead flowers on the grave with the new ones and brushed away a few leaves. Ten years older than her, Charles had been a good man and when he’d offered her a home and a family, she’d accepted willingly. The longed-for family had been denied them, but Charles had been a good husband. He deserved not to be forgotten.
Alice dropped the dead flowers in the rubbish bin as she left the cemetery. Peter held her door again, and then they set out for home.
‘I see Jenny missed church, again.’
‘Now, Aunt Alice, you know what kids are like,’ Peter said. ‘She’s a good girl, but church isn’t as important to kids now as it was when we were younger.’
Alice kept her face strictly neutral. She shouldn’t tease Peter like this. She knew there wasn’t much risk Jenny’s rebellious streak would get out of hand. Not in Nyringa. The closest thing to rebellion in Nyringa was sneaking out of church to go down to the creek for a swim on Sunday.
‘I see the new people weren’t there either.’
‘Perhaps they aren’t churchgoers.’
‘Or maybe they are from a different church,’ Barbara offered from the back seat. ‘After all, they are foreign. Or at least she is.’
Against her better judgement, Alice was intrigued. She had been born in Nyringa and had never left for more than a few days at a time. There were day trips to Armidale or Glen Innes a few times a year for shopping. She and Charles had gone on honeymoon to the Gold Coast. She hadn’t liked it particularly, neither the honeymoon nor the beach. She’d never wanted to go back, and Charles had never suggested it. He’d been more than happy to spend his time in Nyringa, where he was comfortable with his work and his small office. He’d liked their quiet and settled life; they both had. In those days, people didn’t go overseas. Not people like them. One result of remaining in Nyringa was that Alice had, to her knowledge, never met anyone who was French. She had always enjoyed watching Maurice Chevalier on the television and she’d liked Charles Aznavour’s singing too. But that didn’t make up for the fact that this woman was from a circus. Circus people were different from everyone else. All most people ever saw was the sparkle and the magic. No-one saw the danger.
‘So, I guess you’ll be baking another cake this week then, Aunt Alice?’
She wouldn’t dignify Barbara’s question with an answer. The woman was too dim to understand anyway. But there was no way any circus woman was going to get a welcome cake from Alice.
CHAPTER
6
If he tried really hard, Simon could almost convince himself that his leg hurt a little less each morning. Almost … Once again he pushed on that little bit faster until the school oval came into sight, and once again it was empty. He’d come here on his morning run every day since that first meeting, but hadn’t seen the teacher, Meg, again. She was obviously taking her daily run at a different time or place. He wondered if she was deliberately avoiding him. He’d startled her on their first encounter, but they’d sorted that out quickly—surely she wasn’t afraid of him? He didn’t think he’d done anything to make her dislike him in that brief meeting. If she was avoiding him, he would have to rethink his use of the school oval. It was a good place to run, but the teacher had more right to use it than he did. He didn’t want to drive her away. There would be other places he could run.
He glanced at his watch as his feet carried him steadily towards the town. He was a little later than usual. He’d given his word that he wouldn’t be at the school grounds when any of the students arrived, and he intended to keep it. So instead of turning onto the oval, he kept going along the road, and into the main street.
There were a few people around, and businesses were starting to open their doors. He slowed to a walk, cooling down as he thought about the work that still needed doing to turn the old Connelly place into a home base for the circus. As Lucienne’s grandson, he’d always been very aware of his people’s needs. He might only be the bookkeeper now, but he was still responsible. So was his grandmother. Lucienne still owned the circus that bore her name, even if she wouldn’t be travelling with it any more. While circuses weren’t as popular as they had once been, it made enough money to support the two of them, even though neither of them would ever perform under the tent again. It also made enough to give the whole circus family a decent living.
Simon’s priority was to build campsite facilities: a proper ablutions block and a fire-safe barbecue area. Some sun sails and benches would make a good meeting place for those who liked to spend time socialising. All the people who were coming to Nyringa were self-sufficient. Living on the road, they had to be, but a proper shower and toilet block was always a welcome change. They’d also need some land clearing and flattening to make room for the big top. There must be someone who could recommend contractors for that.
He had reached the hardware store and saw that the doors were open.
‘I’ll be with you in a minute,’ a voice said from the back of the shop as Simon entered. ‘I’m just opening up.’
‘No hurry.’
He walked along the shelves, noting the things he’d need. There was plenty of paint and nails and tools. Certain new ropes and wires would be ordered from specialist suppliers, but every circus needed to replace some of its generic equipment every year. There was a lot of equestrian equipment too. The circus wasn’t going to need that. Like Coco, the last few circus ho
rses were retiring to live out their days in peace here in Nyringa, which meant he would need horse feed and the services of a vet. He was sure the store owner would be able to give him suggestions for that.
‘Sorry about that. Can I help you?’ The man was middle height, middle aged and a bit broad around his middle.
‘I’m Simon Coates. I’m new in town.’
‘You’ve taken the old Connelly place. Pleased to meet you. I’m Jack Grady.’
They shook hands and Simon noticed Jack’s hands were as strong and work worn as his own.
‘They tell me you’re with the circus.’
‘That’s right.’ Simon wasn’t ready to say more than that.
‘Word gets about. It’s a small town. You’ll get used to it.’
Simon was already used to it. The small-town grapevine was a source of new customers for any travelling circus.
‘Is there anything in particular you’re looking for? If there’s anything we don’t have we can order it in.’
‘Thanks. There’s a bit of work I want to get done on the place, some clearing and maintenance on the sheds and yards. There’s a bit too much for just me, and I need to get it done in the next few weeks. Do you happen to know anyone who’s available for general work?’
‘Sure. I have a cousin who’s probably the man you’re looking for—I’ll put you in touch. I saw the horse float go through and if you’re looking for a local vet, you’ll find them on the web as Brown and Grady.’
‘Grady? Another cousin?’
‘Yeah. And his wife. There’s a few of us about.’
‘I knew I’d come to the right place. Now, if you could also suggest a builder, plumber and electrician …’
