Simmering Season

by Jenn J. McLeod

  ‘Better make it a double.’

  In a little over six hours Maggie’s little pub would be on display to half the world. A groan escaped her lips, a violent churning in her stomach making her want to vomit.

  ‘It’s only forty-four people for cocktails, love. Not worth getting your Cottontails in a tangle.’

  ‘Four or forty-four is hardly the point. What was I thinking?’ Maggie stared at the drain in the patched linoleum hoping it would suck her down so she could disappear for the night, along with her mismatched cutlery. ‘Why did I agree to this? As if I don’t have my hands full enough sprucing up eight claustrophobic little guestrooms. I’ve never had sixteen people staying all at once.’ She dropped back to the floor and grunted, her arm and fingers stretched to the max under the stove to retrieve a lone fork and finding yet another chore for her list of jobs.

  Cleaning under bloody kitchen appliances.

  She dragged herself up, her body aching from doing four loads of linen and cleaning four rooms, scrubbing until they sparkled. Four more to go. ‘We’re a pub. A bloody country pub with dusty floors, wobbly bar stools and warped tables. Look at this.’ Maggie plucked two random forks from the basket Ethne had loaded and was waving them about like a crazy person. ‘We don’t even have matching cutlery or a plate that isn’t chipped, cracked or—’

  ‘Steady on, love.’ Ethne rescued the forks from Maggie’s throttlehold. ‘For a start, we won’t be needing cutlery—or plates for that matter,’ she said in the same soothing voice she used each time Maggie returned from seeing her dad in the home. ‘It’s finger food and serviettes, and we have plenty of both. All’s good and the place never looked better. You’ve been working like a Trojan to keep the pub looking good.’

  ‘I suppose,’ she grumbled.

  The place did look okay for an old country pub, except for the previously unnoticed cracks and peeling paint that like an infestation of pimples had waited until the night of the party to appear. It was definitely the tidiest and the cleanest the place had been in a long time, not counting under the stove, of course. Fiona and Noah had come up with some great ideas for sprucing up the beer garden with minimal expense, too. Fiona had offered to spend money on decorations, but Maggie declined. As long as the storm that had been building all week held off for the weekend, everything would work out fine. Maggie would have to keep telling herself that. As for the catering, she knew to rely on Ethne. She was a dab hand. Noah had been rostered to help between song sets, his argument that a musician’s hands needed protecting from such drudgery falling on Ethne’s selectively deaf ears.

  Ethne’s brew must have been working. Maggie was starting to think positive thoughts. There really wasn’t too much to do. Ethne was right. There’d be finger-food platters—one for each drop-table—so guests could stand around and help themselves while mingling or, in some cases, getting reacquainted.

  Fiona, the self-appointed maître d’ for the evening, would be responsible for … Well, not much in Maggie’s estimation: welcoming people, checking them off the guest list and pointing them to the beer garden. Cory had offered to help out as drinks waiter for the occasion while Maggie, working the bar, would fill orders for him to collect. With her aversion to small talk with strangers, she was more than happy with a job that provided a legitimate excuse to avoid the social scene completely, sticking to the main bar and its Friday night regulars.

  ‘Not sure I’ve ever seen you so worked up over a bit of hard work, Maggie-girl. It’s not the first time we’ve had a mob to feed. Unless …’ Ethne’s eyes narrowed. ‘Unless it’s not about the forty-four people at all, but one person in particular.’

  Maggie sipped more of the calming brew, letting the rising steam from the mug heat her cheeks. ‘I don’t know what you’re raving on about,’ she said, her voice hitting an unusually high note at the end. ‘How about passing me the cutlery basket.’

  ‘Hmm, I see.’ Ethne nodded. ‘So that’s what’s making you all twitchy.’

  ‘Stop with the cocky head bobbing. I’m not twitchy.’

  ‘Oh yes you are, my girl. Come on, what is it? Better still, which one is it? Unrequited love? Dumped you for the cheerleader, did he? Hmm?’

  ‘You have a very vivid imagination, Ethne. I can assure you I’m not at all worried about bumping into anyone tonight.’

  Tomorrow night’s school reunion, however …

  That was a different matter. Maggie had seen tonight’s guest list, unlike Jennifer’s reunion RSVPs which she was keeping under wraps like it was the next best thing to a Harry Potter Reunion novel. No surprises tonight. All but one of the hotel guests had said yes to the Centenary Cocktails event. Those not staying but attending included a couple of local families, station owners from further west who figured it was a good opportunity to dress up, plus some business owners from Saddleton.

  ‘Ethne, if I appear twitchy it’s because I’m keen to make a good impression. Maybe I wouldn’t feel so awkward if people weren’t buying a ticket to attend. For some reason it feels weird, like I’m asking people to pay for a party I’m holding.’

  ‘No different to the dining room on a good weekend, and no one’s twisting their arms. I reckon a ten-buck ticket is neither here nor there for most of these folk. And think of the drinks they’ll buy. Which reminds me … I need to get some more of that fancy champagne in the bar fridge. Tonight’s little shindig will be good for business.’

  ‘I could do with that.’ Maggie tried to not let on to Ethne how tight finances were at the end of each month, but of course she’d know. Management of the pub had fallen on her for years.

  ‘Two lots have checked in already.’

  ‘But I still have rooms to prepare!’ Maggie gulped the remainder of her hot toddy. Time to panic—again. ‘I didn’t know that.’

  ‘Came up from Sydney and stayed in Saddleton last night. Drove in early this morning. You didn’t see the cars out the back? Not even a layer of Calingarry dust can make those babies look bad. Kinda makes the Rev’s old HQ you’re still driving stand out like a horny horse though. You got those brakes looked at yet like Barney said to do?’

  ‘Not yet.’ Maggie lowered her voice, hoping Ethne would take the hint. ‘And that’s my point, they’re not locals. City people have city expectations.’

  ‘Love, if they’re here from the city for the Centenary then they must have a connection to the place. Who’s to say they won’t look at you with envy, wishing they ran a quaint pub in a small country town.’

  ‘Quaint?’ Maggie huffed, convinced the peeling paintwork and cracked cornices were getting worse by the minute. ‘Do you reckon I should put a few For Sale signs around the place, then?’

  ‘Awright, love. If you want,’ Ethne said quietly, no evidence of her having shared Maggie’s amusement. The woman turned to the sink and started rinsing plates from breakfast.

  ‘Hey, I was only joking.’ Maggie cursed herself silently. In all the time she had been moaning about the useless broker, never had she thought about how Ethne was feeling. If new owners didn’t keep her on, what would Ethne do then? Twenty-odd years was a long time, especially as she’d given more to the place than an ordinary employee. When Joe began to lose it, she had never whinged about anything. Not once. Ethne was family.

  Maggie had left town before getting to know much about the barmaid. Back then, the wild-looking backpacker kept to herself. But now, this was Ethne’s home. Of course she didn’t want the pub sold. Brian did. Noah did. And Maggie …?

  That was a question for another time.

  ‘A sign is a silly idea.’ Maggie tried to recover. ‘As if anyone’s going to buy the place. People will take one look at the haggard-looking publican and that’ll be that. The grass always looks greener on the other side of the fence, right?’

  ‘Out here it usually is.’ Ethne’s tone remained as flat as her expression. Even her painted on eyebrows looked like they were flat-lining. ‘And I bet there’ll be plenty of city folk as jealous as
all hell and itchin’ to get out of the city. Doing what you did, packing up your life and moving back out here, uprooting your son, taking on this pub … Not easy. You’ve done good, love. You need to start feeling proud of what you’ve accomplished. And be proud of your boy.’

  ‘I am proud.’ I’m also close to broke, she wanted to add. ‘I couldn’t do it without you, Ethne.’

  ‘Your dad would be proud, too.’

  Maggie was now holding back tears. Every week that passed, every month that her painful frugality kept the creditors at bay, made Maggie more determined to hang on, more determined to not go back to the city, and more torn every time Noah asked when they would. She watched Ethne tidy up the mess she’d made with the cutlery. The woman had become Maggie’s rock, just like she’d supported Joe.

  Poor Dad.

  One day it’s a blue bathrobe.

  Tomorrow?

  Thanks to Ethne, most of the pub business was now second nature, except maybe running a full house. So if she was twitchy, as Ethne claimed, it was only that all eight rooms, not counting Fiona’s, were booked for the weekend and that one day soon her father’s blue bathrobe might need washing again.

  One thing at a time, she told herself. Tonight will be fine.

  Stock the bar.

  Set up spare kegs.

  Shower.

  Smile.

  As the first of the guests trickled into the beer garden, admiring the effort Noah and Fiona had put into the balloons, streamers and candles, Maggie let herself breathe. A glass of white wine with Ethne in the kitchen helped her relax a little more. Soon enough she was too busy behind the bar to worry about anything. Guests met, mingled and munched on Ethne’s scrummy assortment of finger food. The gathering ended up bigger than expected, with a few guests bringing friends at the last minute. Apparently unfazed, the maître d’ had handled the situation with unexpected grace and humour.

  Watching the revelry, the hugs and handshakes, Maggie wished Brian had taken up her suggestion and come out for the weekend. She’d asked knowing he’d decline. She’d even used her son as bait, suggesting Brian could perform with Noah like they used to do in the Domain on a Sunday. The conversation had ended in an argument. But then, for the briefest of moments, carried in from the beer garden by the breeze, Maggie heard the sound of a strumming guitar and Brian’s very distinctive voice, an echo of John Williamson. He was singing one of her favourite songs from years ago. Maggie’s stomach pitched and a wave of excitement spread through her chest. Brian had shown up to surprise her.

  Despite being mid-way through pouring a beer, she darted out from behind the bar, stripping the elastic band from her hair as she moved, shaking it loose. At the door to the beer garden she stood on tiptoes, looking over the crowd to see Noah propped on a bar stool and singing one of his father’s numbers. Her heels crashed back down to earth; so did Maggie. Disappointment turned bittersweet at the sight of her son singing, tears welling in her eyes at odds with her burst of laughter and pride.

  ‘You awright, love?’ Ethne asked as she stood behind the bar completing the beer order Maggie had let go flat.

  ‘Sorry. Yes, I’m fine. I’m back now. Nothing to worry about.’

  The only other face Maggie had scanned the beer garden for was Dan Ireland’s. But as she’d suspected, Calingarry Crossing would be the last place Dan would revisit.

  ‘One down. One to go,’ Maggie muttered to herself in the darkness of the deserted beer garden. Noah’s ‘Sands of Time’ candles still burned, their light casting strange shadows along the tired weatherboard wall of the hotel. Apart from her dash to the hospital earlier, the day had mostly gone to plan. She raised the coffee mug in a mock toast to herself, allowing a little smug satisfaction. Cory, Ethne, Noah and Fiona had gone, leaving Maggie to come down from the buzz of a successful event and enjoy some quiet time. Tomorrow it would be business as usual for the pub, until 5 pm when she would lock up early for what was probably the first Saturday night early close in the pub’s history. Surprisingly, no one had complained. From Sunday the pub would open for business as usual and life for Maggie would return to normal.

  She’d see very little of the actual fair, forced to live vicariously off the people dropping in for a cold beer and to escape the heat. At least she hoped it would be heat and not rain. Missing the festivities didn’t faze her. She’d had her share of church fetes, and this was just a giant fete. There was nothing new about craft stalls, although she guessed the visitors would get a kick out of watching the hay bale sculpting, tractor pull and cow pat bingo. Maggie doubted the fortnightly fundraiser nights—where sedate CWA ladies call numbered bingo balls—would ever be the same again after watching six cows taking turns to crap on a numbered square.

  For the locals, fetes and fair days were more about chock-a-block eskies and the chance to have a chinwag with families from neighbouring stations. Most local businesses were planning to close on the Sunday and some, like Saddleton’s Greener Pastures Realty, who considered an influx of out-of-towners an ideal marketing opportunity, were setting up a stall. Again, the idea of a few strategically placed For Sale posters niggled at Maggie. Would it really be so wrong? They might generate some enquiries, and getting a feel for what interest there might be and at what price could be helpful. Even a tyre-kicker would be better than no interest at all. Selling is what she came out here to do. No one should be surprised. The trouble was, with the exception of bolstering her bank balance, securing the pub’s sale strangely held no sense of relief for Maggie.

  Her connection to the country was stronger than ever, as if she and Noah were a part of something special. And they were. They were a part of this town, its past and its present. Small towns had big hearts and their roots ran deep. She wanted Noah to appreciate and experience that history first-hand. She saw herself in Noah, a young person itching to get out. It tore her heart in two. She wanted him to have the big, exciting, colourful life, while at the same time he needed the opportunity to explore his Calingarry Crossing roots and get to know how his mother grew up. Who knew the perfect place or where a person was meant to be? Maggie certainly hadn’t at Noah’s age. He needed to experience both country and city life. That way, when the time came, he would be able to choose the life that was right for him, even though she sometimes envied that her son would have all those choices ahead of him, while circumstances had dictated so much of Maggie’s decision-making over the years.

  Of course, the down side to small towns was curiosity and while the details of her husband’s reality TV exploits had never reached Calingarry Crossing, Maggie was mindful that it stayed that way.

  This weekend, mother and son would both be part of something bigger—the Calingarry Crossing Centenary. For Maggie, reunion day tomorrow would begin with breakfast for a full house. She’d be up early to help Ethne with food service. If it was a nice morning they’d set up in the beer garden again. The trestles would still be in place, needing only a wipe down and a fresh sheet of paper tablecloth. After breakfast, Maggie would lend a hand at the school, delivering the promised platters and back-up glassware.

  The hotel’s history had been on show at tonight’s cocktail party. Fiona had put together a small photo display at the last minute especially for the event. Noah would help reunite it with the school exhibit in the assembly hall tomorrow. It was mostly old pictures of the town, newspaper clippings and photocopies of originals she’d tracked down to the historical society in Saddleton. Not that Maggie had known there was a historical society in Saddleton.

  It turned out most of the people booked into Maggie’s rooms were related in some way to the hotel’s previous owner, a photograph of whom still adorned the wall above the mantelpiece. One couple had even recognised Maggie and asked after her father, complimenting her on how lovely the old pub looked. The highlight of her night, however, had to be Ethne’s face when Fiona took over Noah’s dishwashing duties so he could return to his guitar playing. Fiona’s skinny, freckle-covered arms drowning in
sudsy dishwater would be a feel-good image Maggie wanted to hang on to if she ever needed a laugh.

  Fiona seemed changed tonight, more relaxed, more natural, softer, prettier—if that was possible. Daunted by the prospect of people remembering a pretty young Maggie at the reunion tomorrow, but seeing a tired old local publican, Maggie would make an effort. In fact, tonight’s success had her feeling almost excited about dressing up. She made a mental note to drag out her old beauty case, hoping the mascara hadn’t dried up.

  ‘Like the rest of you,’ she muttered, flinging the now cold coffee dregs into a pot plant.

  ‘Talking to yourself?’ said a soft female voice in the dark, startling Maggie ramrod straight in her seat.

  ‘Sara? What are you doing back here?’ Half an hour ago, Maggie had watched her friend leading Will and two of the promised NRL stars from the hotel. Brashnee and Gilbertson had arrived in town from Sydney and the drinking had begun early.

  ‘Escaping,’ she groaned and flapped a hand. ‘I left the three of them to it. Will has been promising the boys an introduction to Big Bertha all night. He’s now teaching them the finer art of espresso, although I’m fairly sure the boys weren’t expecting Big Bertha to be a coffee machine.’ Sara and Maggie shared a giggle. ‘Now, in one of these pot plants I’m hoping is … Ah-huh! Will’s mobile phone. Got it,’ Sara announced after locating the missing device. ‘I swear if it was possible for that bloke to lose his wheelchair, he would. You happy talking to yourself, or do you want company for a bit?’

  ‘Company would be good. I’m just sitting here thinking about the reunion.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Even in the dimness of candlelight, Maggie could see Sara’s eye roll as she eased herself into a chair opposite. ‘Thank goodness Will’s mother is taking the kids. My hands will be quite full enough with Will planning on staying drunk all weekend.’

  ‘You are the most understanding, patient and capable woman I know, Sara.’