Simmering Season

by Jenn J. McLeod

  ‘She was trying to make amends, Fiona.’

  ‘Well, I wish she hadn’t.’ The girl’s voice cracked under the pressure of another sob, her chin puckering. ‘I wish she’d never had whatever freaking epiphany it was out here to make her different. Hating her would be easy. Hating her wouldn’t hurt so much now.’

  Maggie’s heart ached for the girl. Whose wouldn’t? Fiona might be a snotty-nosed brat, but maybe that was because she’d been spoilt her whole life with everything—everything but the truth.

  Maggie rested a hand on one shoulder and felt the quiver. ‘Have you talked to your father about how you feel? He’d understand.’

  ‘He’s not my father. Phillip lied to me. I trusted him and he lied. I knew my mother didn’t give a shit when I was growing up, but I thought Phillip loved me. I mean really loved me, like a real father loves a daughter.’ The sound of despair overtook the rage in her voice. ‘Now I don’t know anything. I don’t know my mother or him. How could they not tell me the truth? How could he keep a secret like that? I asked him if he knew who my real father was and he said he didn’t, but was he just lying again?’

  When Fiona reached up, covering her eyes with both hands, Maggie moved in for a hug. Hugging was what she did best, even though Noah was fast growing out of it.

  Fiona stiffened, pulled away, dragged the disintegrating napkin across her nose. ‘I hate them both.’

  Maggie sat back, surprised at the hollow ache in her stomach. ‘Maybe it was his love for you that stopped him from telling. The last thing a parent wants is to see their child hurting. We protect our children for as long as we can, any way we can.’

  ‘And that makes lying acceptable?’

  Yes, Maggie silently confessed. Aloud she said, ‘Some things are best left in the past.’

  ‘Well, Luke said I needed to come out here and find the truth for myself.’

  ‘And Luke is …?’

  ‘My fiancé.’

  ‘Fiancé,’ she repeated, shocked by the mass of the diamond solitaire. How had Maggie not noticed the serious bit of bling now being waved under her nose?

  ‘You’re engaged?’

  Fiona reclaimed her hand from Maggie’s grasp. ‘That’s what they were arguing about with Granddad. Mum and Dad—I mean Phillip—never liked Luke.’

  The girl struggled to be so strong and in control. The stream of fresh tears said she was clearly not.

  ‘They must have had their reasons, Fiona.’

  ‘Whatever!’ And then as sorrowful as she’d been only seconds before, the tears dried, the body stiffened. The brat was back. ‘At least Granddad’s on my side. He’s so cool about everything.’

  Cool is one word, Maggie thought. Hopefully while Fiona was getting to know her grandmother she would find out just how un-cool Jack Bailey used to be—and probably still was.

  ‘So, what’s Luke like?’ Maggie was genuinely curious, and keen to get their conversation away from Amber and Phillip.

  ‘Granddad calls him his protégé.’

  ‘Does he just?’ Maggie stifled a smirk, beginning to understand what the girl’s parents’ objection might be with this Luke character. ‘And where is Luke now?’

  ‘I told him I wanted to come out here on my own.’

  So the girl had the gumption to stand up to this Luke. Good! But Maggie still smelled a rat. ‘So it was your idea to come?’

  ‘God, listen to me.’ Fiona gathered her hair into a ponytail, fluffed it and let it fall freshly over her shoulders again. ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to blather on like a brat. I’m not, you know. Now, where were we?’ A final hair flick seemed to be all that was needed to regain composure. Conversation over. ‘So are these all the photos we have? What are all those other albums still in your box there?’ Fiona pointed to the cardboard carton Maggie had deliberately kept to one side.

  ‘Those aren’t from school.’

  ‘And that?’ she demanded, her head cocked curiously.

  The A3 folder did not fit flat in the box so Maggie let it stand on its edge, only the top portion of black vinyl with a white label poking out.

  ‘That’s my old portfolio. I studied photography for a while. It was a long time ago,’ she said, as if it held no real importance.

  ‘Ooh, show me.’ Fiona wiggled gimme-gimme fingers towards Maggie.

  After a moment’s hesitation, and only because the request was a timely distraction from the school pictures and awkward discussions about fathers, Maggie lowered the black folder directly into Fiona’s upturned palms as if it was an ancient artifact, not old photos from a still-life collection she’d done in a different lifetime. Expecting nothing more than a cursory glance at the first few pages before the girl lost interest, a muddle of pride and self-doubt permeated every pore as Fiona lingered on several photographs, turning each tissue-separated page with near reverence. No one had taken much interest in Maggie’s photography, not when she was kick-starting her career and not now her gallery remained packed—along with her dreams—in the banana box she’d picked up from the greengrocer’s store when she and Brian had lived briefly in Marrickville.

  ‘They’re pretty ancient.’ Like me, Maggie thought, feeling nervous about the girl’s silent appraisal. ‘I haven’t looked at them for ages. They’re probably not much by today’s standard.’

  ‘Wow, Maggie, you were good when you were young.’

  Were good? When you were young? How old did a person have to be for someone Fiona’s age to start applying when-you-were-young tags?

  Maggie decided to focus on the wow, pride puffing her up a little. ‘I took pictures of anything that got in the way of my lens. My dream was to be the next Anne Geddes.’

  ‘Who?’ Fiona grimaced.

  Maggie’s momentary delight deflated a little. ‘Never mind.’

  ‘Another beer thanks,’ came Barney’s voice from the end of the bar. ‘And one for my mate.’

  ‘Oh, g’day, Charlie. It’s been a while,’ Maggie said to Charles Ireland, father of another dream that never eventuated.

  Maggie went about her routine task of filling schooner glasses, her smile lingering, buoyed by the positive response from the usually frosty Fiona. They had shared a moment, a mutual love of photography, a connection. The girl might seem cold, but maybe, just maybe, if Maggie kept chip, chip, chipping away, the ice might slowly melt.

  That’s if Calingarry’s heat didn’t melt it away first.

  Today had been unseasonably hot, with little relief still by ten-thirty that night. The barely-there breeze hardly made a ruffle in the lacy curtains where Maggie sat, cool drink in hand after closing up for the night, the television on and muted—for light only. The late-night noise of a small country town was music enough to Maggie: crickets, an occasional owl hooting, cattle groaning in the distance, the thud, thud, thud of old Achilles attempting to scratch his ear, his arthritic leg falling short of its target and dropping heavily on the boards downstairs, and the effervescence bubbling in Maggie’s glass. In a few weeks—maybe days—the rumble of thunder would become the norm, heralding late afternoon or evening rain showers. Sometimes the rain did nothing more than add moisture to the air and a thirsty ground baked dry during the day. At least a humid heat was a change from a dry one.

  According to the cute weatherman on the late-night news report, they could expect a cold front blowing in from the south. Behind the front was another high-pressure system expected to move towards Saddleton, with a ridge extending further towards the north-east. Scattered showers and isolated thunderstorms was the forecast for the next few days. Earlier this morning the gauge on the veranda had shown twenty-nine degrees Celsius—barometer rising.

  Maggie couldn’t recall if the same scatty weather patterns had existed when she’d lived in Calingarry Crossing as a girl. Then again, the last thing a teenager thought about was weather patterns. There seemed to be no pattern at all these days, the erratic and all too often extreme conditions affecting crops and cattle alike. Fruit trees were
no longer fruiting when they should and Cricket was in the bar earlier tonight complaining that even his best cluckers—the chooks he claimed ‘yous can set ya watch by’—had stopped laying each morning.

  ‘Predictable as flies on a Christmas dinner, them common brown hens,’ Cricket had announced to all and sundry. ‘Bleedin’ global warming muckin’ ’em up for sure. And that’s not the worst of it. There’s a perfect storm headin’ our way.’

  ‘What are you on about?’ another old-timer had grumbled.

  Cricket sighed. ‘I’m talking about when a whole load of weather events come together at once. On their lonesome, they’re not too much trouble, but bring ’em all together …’ The rumble of laughter in the bar got Cricket worked up. ‘Yeah, go on. You blokes go ahead and laugh all you want.’ He slapped money on the bar and grabbed his hat. ‘You can also mark my bleedin’ words.’

  Much joshing followed, along with predictions of ‘forty days and forty nights’ and comments like, ‘Old Barnacle Bill’s boat might come in bloody handy then,’ followed by ‘If the old bastard ever gets it finished.’

  In her room, Maggie drained the last cool dregs of her drink, still smiling at the image of Old Barnacle’s parting finger gesture. She was prepared for another restless night, filled with thoughts about a life that never varied, and weather patterns that never stayed the same. Sadly, it did look like storm season was building up for next weekend’s reunion. Any out-of-towners who’d forgotten how sticky the place could be were in for a not so subtle reminder. Good conditions for beer sales though.

  Not so good for hair, Maggie thought, inspecting herself in the dresser mirror. A storm was definitely brewing somewhere, the air thick with static. As she released her mane from its elastic band, it crackled and danced up at odd angles as if someone controlled each strand with invisible strings. After stripping down to her knickers, she turned the ceiling fan up high, flopped on top of the sheets and sprayed water from a trigger bottle, glazing her skin with a fine mist. Sleep was going to be more of a challenge than usual tonight if that cold change failed to hit. The evening of photographs had turned her mind into a slide show from her youth when she’d been young like Fiona. In a matter of days, her so-called youth would be catching up with Maggie, the past and present converging with the unpredictable in a celebration of Calingarry Crossing’s centenary.

  The idea of a school reunion to Maggie remained both terrifying and fascinating. Like a swollen river about to burst its banks, just going for a look could be dangerous, yet it was impossible to stay away. The worst thing was how this reunion was making her question her worth, her achievements …

  Her life.

  Maggie might not have a lot to show, other than Noah of course, but at least her life was real. She was who she was, no living beyond her means and nothing to prove, unlike Amber who had come from very ordinary beginnings, changing everything about herself to measure up to a society that judged a person on their appearance. A bit like Brian, she supposed. Now it was Amber’s daughter who seemed uncomfortable and unsettled, as though who she was and what she was no longer fitted in the world in which she’d found herself.

  Understanding Fiona a little better after their moment in the bar earlier tonight, Maggie decided she would cut the girl some slack—starting tomorrow. The connection the pair experienced tonight had been mutual, she was certain of it. The two of them were not so different. Both felt abandoned in different ways: Fiona rejected by her parents, sent to boarding school and holiday camps as a child, and Maggie by her husband, although Maggie hadn’t thought of it as being abandoned so much, nor even rejected. Maggie had been forgotten.

  17

  ‘Old McDonald Had A Farm’ blared from the handset by her bed. Maggie snatched up the receiver before the second ee-eye-ee-eye-o.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Maggs?’ Brian sounded tired and nasally, the ‘M’ of Maggs muffled.

  She stifled a groan. Of course it’s me, she wanted to say. Who else would it be at …? She eyed the clock as it ticked over to midnight and groaned aloud this time. At least she’d learned to ignore the gut-wrenching pull of dread that once came with late-night wake-up calls and knocks at the door.

  ‘What is it, Brian?’ she asked, kicking off the tangle of sheets around her ankles, a sure sign of restlessness.

  ‘Aw, Maggs.’ He sniffed. ‘Do you know how much I love it when you call me Brian?’

  It’s your name, she could’ve responded, but laughing at him was counterproductive when he was already down. Brian was having his very own pity party. She knew by the namby-pamby pitch in his voice, the one that had all the pep of a solitary helium balloon the morning after the party.

  But Maggie knew what he meant. According to her husband, Brian Henkler no longer existed. He was Reece Naylor, country/rock performer, a failed i-ICON contestant desperately clinging to the dream. She’d seen that desperation in Sydney: the hair, the outfit, the attitude. Now she heard it in his voice.

  Crazy, funny, clever and, like Maggie, a romantic, Brian had once held the promise of a life with noise for a small-town girl. A big, colourful, exciting life. Maggie had been missing the noise her brother brought into her world, and with her crush on Dan Ireland quashed by grief and an unforgiving father who’d forbidden Maggie from having anything to do with him, it was Brian who swept into Calingarry Crossing, swept her up, then swept her away.

  Why did it always feel like he was brushing her aside these days?

  ‘Do you know what time it is, Brian?’ Maggie cringed at her tone. If the call was to say he was coming to Calingarry Crossing because he could no longer live without her, then she had probably just blown it.

  ‘Give me a break. Can’t a guy call his wife? I miss ya, Maggsy.’

  He was drunk, or stoned, or something in between. Maggie never knew which one these days and Brian constantly denied using. Whatever the habit, it was another good reason to get him away from the city.

  ‘Well, there’s one way to get over that,’ she said, not bothering to hide the sarcasm in her voice. ‘Calingarry Crossing is not the end of the earth and it wouldn’t be the end of the world to be a country singer in a country pub. You want people to appreciate your music, don’t you?’

  ‘You don’t understand, Maggs.’

  Maggie bristled. She was totally over her husband telling her she didn’t understand. ‘Please don’t say that, Brian.’

  ‘But it’s true,’ he whined, sounding like a foot-stomping four-rather than forty-year-old. ‘This country doesn’t appreciate what I have to offer. They don’t get my music—or me. But people in America would get Reece Naylor. I’m doing everything they’re telling me to do. The timing has to be right, is all. They tell you opportunity plus preparedness equals success. You need patience in this business. I need to wait.’

  ‘Wait? For what?’ Maggie bit down so hard on her bottom lip that she flinched. There’s nothing to wait for, she wanted to scream.

  There are no more auditions.

  The show went on without you, Brian.

  They weren’t interested, Brian.

  You weren’t good enough, Brian.

  Instead, she breathed deeply, hoping to sound genuine. ‘You’ve tried so hard, Brian. You were amazing to get as far as you did. How many hopefuls were at that original open audition? You made it through, at least.’

  ‘The auditions were in Sydney, Maggs. I never even made it out of the fucking country.’

  ‘But you made it into the top one hundred Australians. You were better than so many, and you did everything they asked. But Brian, the show’s over. Time to move on. It’s time for family.’

  ‘Well, well, well, good to know how little faith you have in your husband.’ Brian was doing his usual three-sixty, turning the argument into Maggie’s fault. ‘Time to move on, you say. The show might be over for you, my disbelieving wife, but I’m no quitter and you can’t ask me to give up my dreams.’

  ‘Your dreams,’ she hissed back, matc
hing his indignation. ‘And where do you think we’d be if I hadn’t given up my dreams when Noah came along? One of us had to keep food in the refrigerator. If I’d left it to you, Noah would have been burped on beer. So do not lecture me about dreams. I gave up everything to have Noah.’

  Maggie slammed her fist into the mattress, desperate to hold back the sob brought about by her husband’s derision. He’d pushed and pushed, ripping the roof off that place inside her, that place that had hidden the teensy-weensiest sliver of resentment all these years, forcing her to add her son’s name to a list of dream-wreckers.

  Hearing it broke her heart.

  Maggie couldn’t remember feeling so precarious, so unprotected. Everything seemed to overwhelm her at the moment: Fiona’s fragility, Noah’s moodiness, her father’s continued decline and this stupid school reunion planning. Now she had Brian to deal with.

  ‘You forget I have a contract, Maggie.’

  ‘Break it.’

  Break it like you’ve broken every promise you ever made me, she wanted to say.

  ‘You know me better than that.’

  Did she? Her husband was a stranger. She’d barely recognised the man who had greeted her at the café and she hardly recognised the one now yelling down the telephone line.

  ‘Brian, I need sleep. I have a pub to open tomorrow. It’s too late now.’

  ‘Too fucking late, all right.’

  Click.

  The line went dead and Maggie tried to close off her mind, but those words: You forget I have a contract niggled. She remembered questioning that contract, delivered by courier to the door of their Sydney flat. Even to her uneducated eye the concept had seemed too open-ended, too ridiculous, too risky to be real. The more she’d questioned the more adamant and defensive Brian had become.

  ‘Where’s your sense of adventure?’ he’d demanded.

  At first Maggie had laughed. ‘What? You don’t call diving into two weeks’ worth of yours and Noah’s dirty laundry adventurous?’ She closed the bi-fold doors on the hide-away laundry that took up half the kitchen.