An Endless Summer

by C. J. Duggan

  I shifted awkwardly on my lumpy, makeshift seat and grabbed the one thing that jabbed into me: a dog-eared copy of House and Garden magazine? Ha! Surely it was Mum’s, but as I eyed the date, September 1999, I knew it couldn’t be. It was only a few months old; Mum hadn’t been here for months and months. What had Dad been doing with House and Garden, of all things?

  I flicked open the cover, half expecting it to reveal a fishing magazine inside. Instead, it fell open to a folded down page. There was writing scrawled in the corner: Dad’s writing. Clearing any doubts I had, I cocked my head and read, ‘Claire’s dream kitchen,’ with an arrow pointing to the image on the page. The photo was of a sleek, white kitchen with modern stainless steel appliances.

  As I flicked further through the magazine, a smile curled my lips up. It was marked with several dog-eared pages of interest: a cosy lounge, a circled wall colour Dad would like for the living room, page after page of little comments on what he liked. My smile faded as I flicked through to another page.

  A picture of a beautiful bedroom. A paper chain lantern was draped over the headboard of a gorgeous wooden bed with matching desk and a plush wingback chair. The bedspread was a lighter shade of a divine purple that offset the deep colour of the walls. It was such an intense colour, but the room could take it because the trimmings were a crisp white with polished floors and a gorgeous feature rug. It was so beautiful my fingers trailed over the glossed image to trace along the arrow to the scrawled handwriting that read, ‘Amy’s room’.

  I blinked rapidly to clear my blurring vision as I focused on Dad’s handwriting. He knew what I liked. He must have sat here in this room, looking at beautiful pictures, daydreaming about the things he wished he had, the things he would like to have been able to give us.

  It spoke to me, such a subtle gesture, because it was so unexpected and completely something I would do. People always said I was my father’s daughter; I had always scoffed at the comparison. Dad was a big, gruff, bearded bloke I didn’t like much being compared to, but maybe sometimes I was like my dad in other ways?

  I lifted my gaze from the show-home display of dreamy, unlived-in images of perfection, to my bleak, littered surrounds. My heart sank.

  Oh, hell no! This shit would not fly with me.

  I squared my shoulders and chucked the magazine on the couch. Standing up, I circled the room with my hands on my hips.

  “Nope, this won’t do at all,” I said aloud to the room.

  The cogs in my mind started whirring and thoughts of a bus ticket home were long gone.

  I walked over to the window I couldn’t open before and wiped a clean spot in the grimy glass. The sun twinkled on the lake’s surface – so beautiful, so familiar. I slowly tore my eyes from the view and looked back into the apartment and then back to the scene outside.

  I smiled, slow and wicked. “It’s time to take out the trash!”

  Chapter Six

  The seventh black garbage bag flew down the chute.

  The chute being my earlier, self-made, human-shaped skylight through the balcony floor. I dusted my hands off on my jeans with immense satisfaction as the last garbage bag made a clinking crash on top of the rubbish mound. It was so damn therapeutic; I had gone from tired, bruised, and down-and-out to having a new lease on life.

  I had peeled off the threadbare throw covers from the couch, and cleared all the empty food containers, boxes, papers, bottles, and ashtrays. Instantly it had created clean spots throughout the apartment.

  Well, sort of.

  I lifted up an old beer bottle and it left a clean, circular marking in the thick layer of dust; this was the pattern all over the apartment. I worked on stripping cushion covers, bed sheets, doonas, and took down curtains, making a pile in the middle of the living room. They were ready to be washed for the first time in, well … I didn’t know how long. The last curtain crumpled in a heap on the floor and a cloud of dust shot into the air. I coughed up a storm, wiped my brow and re-evaluated the scene: Was I actually getting anywhere?

  Yep! Time for a break, though! I headed downstairs, swung around the end bannister and dragged my feet across the restaurant towards the front bar. Grabbing a bottle of Coke from the lower fridge, I selected a pot glass and went to shovel some ice from the bucket. But all there was in there was water.

  “Damn it.”

  I rolled my eyes, cursing Matt, and looked around. Melted ice was the least of my problems; the bar was filthy, unstocked and disorganised. And deserted. It was also the first time I realised that I was utterly alone here. Never in my life had I seen the bar unmanaged, or the place entirely empty. Even on its quieter days, there had always been a wayward drunk propped up in the corner, or a few locals in for a cold one and a quiet game of pool. I had sent Matt home with little thought that it was something my dad would never have done in a million years, no matter how bad things got.

  The thought unsettled me some; what if Dad found out I had closed the pub? He would be furious and I would be whipped home so fast my head would spin.

  Ha, I thought. I looked around at the cracked lino behind the bar, the shrivelled, two-day-old lemon wedges near the cash register, the smell of rotten, unwashed beer mats that festered on the bar. It was his fault! He had abandoned this place and left some useless bartender in charge. And where was the rest of the staff? The cleaner, the cook, the waitress, the dish pig … where were the customers?! There was no life here. The Onslow Hotel was dead.

  I made my way around from behind the bar, careful not to spill my warming Coke, and headed into the poolroom. As I walked through the entry, it was sticky underfoot. Gross. I noted the stained outline of a spilled drink from God knows when. I slammed my Coke down and leaned over the bar in search of something to clean with. It took some finding. After I had wiped up the sticky residue, then I would rest, I promised myself.

  On my hands and knees, I worked on edging through the sticky, dirty mark that had splashed against the skirting; it smelled like something fruity and stale. My intense concentration was disturbed by the screeching of the front door on its hinges. I was flooded with sunlight. I cursed under my breath; obviously Matt hadn’t locked the door on his way out. I sat back on my heels and held my arm to my face, shielding my eyes from the light.

  “I’m sorry, we’re clo—”

  I eyed a tall figure leaning against the doorframe, sporting a smug smile.

  Sean.

  I was suddenly aware of how disgustingly dishevelled I must look, kneeling amidst a sticky, soap-sudded mess, water staining my T-shirt, wisps of hair escaping my ponytail. I wiped my brow and pushed away the strands of hair that blocked my vision. I warily dropped the scrubbing brush back into the bucket. Sean leaned carefree in the doorway, the backdrop of sunlight glowing around his six-foot-three stance. Down on my knees before him, I suddenly felt so incredibly small. My eyes trailed over him; his Blundstone work boots, navy blue work pants, and matching navy singlet. His folded arms accentuating the broadness of his chest. My eyes met briefly with the amused glint in his. His brows rose as his teeth flashed under a cheeky grin.

  “You’ve missed a spot.”

  My cheeks flushed as I thought he was referring to my eyes that had unashamedly roamed over him, but as he glanced to the floor, I snapped out of my daze and looked down to a grubby spot I had indeed missed.

  Nothing infuriated me more than that old, smart-arse, ‘missed a spot’ joke. It was something I had always heard from my older cousins, Chris and Adam, who had loved to taunt me every summer when they’d helped out at the pub. Sweeping in the beer garden, you missed a spot. Varnishing the silver, you missed a spot. Washing a dish, you missed a spot. My scowl deepened at the memory as I stood and dusted the grime from my knees, dampened from kneeling in dirty, soapy water.

  I grabbed the bucket and made my way to walk around behind the bar.

  “We’re closed,” I threw over my shoulder.

  Walking in the little alcove that housed the sink and dishwash
er, I tipped the dirty water from the bucket down the sink and winced at the putrid blackness of the once fresh liquid. Rinsing the bucket out and putting it back where I had found it, I vigorously washed my hands before paper towelling them dry. I made my way back behind the main bar, where Sean had already pulled up and relaxed onto a stool, propping his elbows on the bar.

  “Bad day?” he asked with an amused lift of his brow.

  “You mean apart from nearly falling to my death? No, other than that, I’m just peachy.”

  Sean’s smile broadened as he tapped his hand on the bar. “That’s the spirit!”

  I didn’t share his enthusiasm. I knew I was being unreasonably snappy; it wasn’t Sean’s fault that my dad had turned out to be a chain-smoking hoarder who had left the family business to a lazy douche like Matt to run into the ground.

  I sighed, my shoulders sagging as I lowered my guard, just a little.

  “Do you want a drink?”

  If Sean was surprised by the offer he didn’t show it; instead, he nodded his agreement. “Please.”

  I mirrored his nod and grabbed a glass from the stack. I straightened as I motioned to pull the lever of the VB tap forward, all of a sudden self-conscious as I felt Sean’s eyes on me in my peripheral vision. I angled the glass and an amber stream flowed into it, before I quickly straightened the glass to ensure it formed the perfect froth to finish, like my dad had taught me. I was hit with a wave of nostalgia, a tiny smile threatening to curve the corners of my mouth at such a small pleasure, until what had begun as a steady stream of beer started to cough and sputter violent spurts of foam into the glass. I instantly pulled the lever back to stop the assault.

  “Oh, for frack’s sake! The barrel’s empty. This is … ” I threw my hands up in dismay; I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry hysterically. Oh the irony … a pub with no beer. “This is just great.”

  Sean leaned over the bar and grabbed his beer, studying the half-filled morsel that resembled more of a soft serve ice cream than a drink. He placed it back down, trying his utmost not to smirk as he looked at me. I wanted to wipe that smug look off his face. I knew what he was thinking.

  How does a publican’s daughter not know how to pour a beer?

  I was about to defend my honour, insisting it was the end of the barrel, but he spoke before I had a chance to form the words.

  “Did you just say frack?”

  My mouth gaped; I could feel my cheeks burn at the question.

  “Pfft … no!” I lied.

  Sean broke into a broad smile. “Yeah, you did,” he teased.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I cleared the beer away, avoiding Sean’s knowing eyes.

  “Well …” Sean stood and stretched his arms over his head. “Today has certainly been a day of firsts.”

  “Did you want a stubby or a can or something?”

  “Nah, that’s okay. So where’s your dad? Will he be back soon?” He walked over to peer outside through the grotty window.

  I must have looked dumbfounded because I kind of was. Dad losing weight, quitting smoking, and heading to the city to woo his wife was common and mortifying knowledge. It was one of my huge reservations about coming back to Onslow for the holidays. I would be escaping Mum and Dad, but I wouldn’t be escaping their figurative ghosts, even after Dad’s three-month stint at home full-time. All any local would have to do was look up the hill to see the Onslow abandoned and overgrown. Like a giant rotting hotel that the crazy publican had chucked in for love.

  “Where have you been living? Under a rock? Dad hasn’t been here for months.”

  Sean lazily shrugged one shoulder, as he tore his eyes from outside to me.

  “I wouldn’t know, I just got back.”

  “Back from where?” The words fell from my mouth before I could stop them.

  “I just finished a contract up north, building a school there in Warrentye.”

  I looked blankly at him – I had no idea where that was. It sounded far away.

  “It’s where I’ve been living the last two years.”

  Okay, that made sense, I thought as I nodded my head. “Yeah, I just got back too,” I confessed.

  I had probably been away longer; my memory searched for the last time I was home at the Onslow. I froze, my eyes darting back to Sean. He must have read something in my expression as he straightened.

  “You all right?” he asked.

  I was instantly transported back to my last time in Onslow; my cheeks burned, mortified at the memory of the last summer I had seen Sean Murphy three years ago.

  The summer he saved my life.

  Chapter Seven

  “You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Sean said.

  Maybe I had; the ghost of summers past. The last thing I wanted to do was go down memory lane. Seriously. Some things just needed to remain in the past. Maybe Sean had forgotten that night.

  I really hoped he had.

  “Oh, I’ve just had a really long day.”

  Sean studied my face for a long moment, silently gauging if I was telling him the truth. Finally he nodded, as if accepting my excuse.

  “Well, want some advice?”

  I raised my brows in interest.

  He pushed off from the wall and leaned in towards me, whispering into my ear.

  “Lock the door.”

  I followed him outside, stepping over the pile of garbage bags from upstairs, which Sean eyed with interest. He stepped wide along the verandah that was filled with debris. Looking above, his brow creased in deep thought.

  “Have a look.”

  He pointed. I followed his line of vision.

  “The beam’s rotten. No wonder it caved.”

  I squinted up to the broken, damp-stained beam. “I dare say you have a downpipe overflowing somewhere it shouldn’t be.” Sean walked along the verandah. He touched the posts, and strained his neck to inspect every single inch.

  “I’ll have a look around, but hopefully by the look of things it’s just an isolated section.” Sean scratched the stubble on his chin in deep thought, lost in the throes of his profession. He had been a builder for as long as I could remember, but had gone on his own a few years ago and made a name for himself; apart from being a womanising footy player, he was also a skilled tradesman. At least that was what I had heard before I’d left Onslow; no doubt the footy playing and womanising were also still favourite extracurricular activities.

  I leaned against the door and inspected a chipped nail I had earned from a day devoted to cleaning.

  “Well, that’s a relief,” I said unenthusiastically.

  Sean flipped out his mobile. “What’s your dad’s number? I’ll give him a quote if he wants.”

  My head snapped up. “No!” I yelled, reaching out to grab his wrist. Sean froze, an amused quirk to his lips as he looked down at my hand. I pulled it away.

  “Um, I just mean that … he’s probably busy and …”

  Sean broke into a broad grin as he pocketed his phone. “You haven’t told him.”

  I straightened. “I tried, but, like I said, he’s busy.”

  “O-oh! You broke the hotel!”

  “Pfft,” I said darkly. “I think it was pretty broken before I got here.” My eyes rested on the pile of rubbish that blocked the path to the main door.

  “Yeah, what’s with that?” Sean took in the overgrown surroundings, his smile sobering into a grim line.

  I didn’t want to get into that; I didn’t even want Sean looking around like he did, judging, just like the rest of the town probably was.

  “Hey, um, sorry about slamming the door in your face before,” I said.

  Sean turned with interest, his brows raised.

  I felt like I wanted to squirm under his smug scrutiny, but I held my ground. Sort of. “I just, um, forgot to, um …”

  “Construct coherent sentences?”

  I glowered. “Shut up!” I moved to snatch up a garbage bag for the skip around the back.
<
br />   Always the smart-arse.

  “What I meant to say is thanks. Thanks for helping me today.”

  “Why, Amy Henderson, you’re making me feel all warm and fuzzy inside.” Sean grabbed one of the other garbage bags and slung it over his shoulder, following me.

  “Yeah, we’ll call it a momentary lapse of sanity.”

  We carried our clinking bags of rubbish off the verandah down the uneven, cracked path that ran around towards the back entrance where the large skip was kept. Slinging my cargo into the grubby recess, I dusted my hands off and went to thank Sean for his help, but thought better of it as we turned to head back around the front.

  “You know, I was serious, I can give you a quote if you want.”

  I had only been at the Onslow for one day and already I had seriously damaged the property, alienated the only staff member and shut down the pub for the first time in its history. A big part of the reason I had vehemently objected was if Dad had found out I had shut down the pub a mere hours after my arrival, nineteen or not, I would be banished from the Onslow quick smart. Regardless of the damage Dad’s neglect had caused, I was not mistaken to believe I would be in serious trouble.

  “I can’t pay you to fix it.”

  Sean looked troubled. “Why would you pay? I’d be quoting for your dad.”

  I stopped dead in my tracks. “Dad can’t know. If he finds out what happened today I would be …” I was blabbering, and the last thing I needed was to reveal too much about how, even at nineteen, I really didn’t want to get in trouble with Mum and Dad. Especially now that they were a combined force and on the ‘same page’ when it came to me.

  I had heard it all; they were worried about me, what was I going to do with my life? When was I going back to uni? In a nutshell, my life was going nowhere fast and after nineteen years of not worrying too much, now that Dad was home and he had undergone such a life-changing journey, all of a sudden he was determined that I make something of my life and Mum was his biggest fan. What a joke!