What kind of blasted message was that? He wanted to believe Maggie’s diktat wasn’t in response to last night, but simply that of an overly-protective and worried mother who needed to be with her son. People nicknamed her Magpie for a reason. Maggie Lindeman had slipped into the mothering role too young, in Dan’s opinion, pushed too early into caring for her father and brother. She became the glue, keeping their household functioning. Dan knew first-hand how dysfunctional a household became without that maternal glue. No wonder the magpie had flown away the second she got the chance. That bloody minstrel got lucky. Now Maggie was back in Calingarry Crossing and keeping things together all over again. From what he saw last night, she was not much different from the shy young girl Dan remembered, who’d been tougher than she looked and fiercely protective.
As protective as Maggie was, she wasn’t a lick on the cranky messenger who had told Dan over the telephone just now to bugger off.
Sheltering under the same porch that as a boy he’d shared with his father, Dan checked his watch. He could picture Charlie Ireland out there somewhere not too far away, in one of the numerous sheds or lean-tos that dotted the old pig farm, watching and waiting for him to leave.
Pigs! Dan grinned, recalling the oinks, snorts and playful taunts from colleagues the day he’d slipped up, revealing his early days in the country, the son of a pig farmer. Now here he was again, the still, stench-free surrounds jarringly unfamiliar. He’d stay another fifteen minutes and not a second more.
Looking out over the maze of fencing, Dan remembered the hard-working man who’d come home one day to find his wife gone. A no-nonsense man of the land with a short fuse, and a third-generation pig farmer, Charles grew into a hurt and angry person. Each afternoon, when his father stank from sweat and dust after a day in the sow shed, or wrestling weaner pigs into pens, Dan would sit on the bench seat mimicking the man, swigging on a cordial while his father downed a big bottle of home-brew. He’d wait for him to look down, to notice his youngest boy. But recognition was rare, with no hugs, little conversation, and even less eye contact. A little boy made invisible by sorrow and bitterness.
When Dan was older, he heard about the king brown snake, how it had killed the local minister’s wife when she was doing the washing one day. Dan hadn’t known much about the Lindeman family; church had never been high on Charlie Ireland’s list of things to do each week. ‘Don’t need no one damn-well interfering with how I live my life,’ he’d say. But Dan desperately needed to connect with someone outside his unhappy home life, someone who might know what life was like without a mum. He started sneaking out on Sunday mornings, making his way to town on the old, discarded dragster bike he’d found on a trash heap, resurrecting it by stealing parts off other kids’ bikes—the kids he didn’t like. He figured if it was his only way of getting to church then God would understand.
He’d sneak out of the house early, ride to town and stop at the small stone church, dwarfed by the massive trunk of the nearby Moreton Bay fig tree. He would drop his bike behind one of the alien-like buttress roots—the creepy, crawling protrusions that snaked out along the ground, some a metre in height to make the perfect hiding place. Then he’d climb onto a low-slung limb, waiting with his bird’s-eye view as the congregation trickled out to the sounds of an organ. Once the organ-playing stopped, Dan knew to watch for the pretty girl people called Magpie.
‘Hey, quit it!’ she’d yelled that first day, when the Moreton Bay fig berry dropped on her head as she passed by on her way to the Manse.
‘Sorry. I didn’t do it to hurt you,’ Dan had said from his perch in the fig tree, legs dangling, kicking the air.
‘Then I’d suggest you shouldn’t be throwing things at people.’
Dan jumped from the branch, slipped and landed on his backside with enough force to rattle his brain and send his teeth deep into his bottom lip. His pride, as well as everything else, hurt like blazes and he knew without looking that tears were already beginning to well in his eyes. He braced himself for the taunts; Charlie Ireland didn’t suffer sooks and neither did the kids at school.
‘So, why did you?’ was all the girl said, arms folded, eyes the colour of Dan’s favourite Chocolate Buddies staring at him from under the heavy brown fringe.
‘Why did I what?’
‘Throw the berry at me just now.’
‘Dunno. Just coz.’ Dan kicked a small stone at his feet harder than he’d intended, forgetting he only wore thongs. His boots had worn out a long time ago and he’d yet to score himself a replacement pair, by hook or by crook. As his kick followed through, connecting with a giant tree root, more searing pain and a broken thong added to his acute embarrassment.
‘That’ll teach you for throwing berries, Dan Ireland,’ the girl giggled.
Dan remembered wondering at the time how she knew his name. He figured it would be his reputation, his father’s drinking, his brother’s running away, or his mother walking out. The Ireland family had provided plenty of fodder for the town gossips.
Dan returned the next Sunday, and every one after that. Each week, after the congregation dispersed, Maggie would stop by the fig tree. When every Sunday was no longer enough, Dan started hanging around Michael Lindeman. In Maggie he’d found the connection he craved. Someone who understood losing a mother, someone he could be himself around, while to the rest of the town Dan Ireland remained just plain bad. For lots of reasons, even when puberty pushed and goaded him into making a move, she and Dan never got closer than friends. He was young and insecure, Maggie younger still, and Dan would always be trouble. Besides that, her brother was now Dan’s mate—until that night Mike died and everything changed.
There was movement by the sow shed and for a minute Dan was hopeful it was Charlie, until the small mob of wallabies feeding on the long grass straightened, alert.
Coming out here was a waste of time.
About ten years ago, after some not so gentle persuasion from his benevolent wife, Dan had initiated contact with his father. He sent an occasional letter, with Emma and Mike providing ample subject matter: birthdays, sporting achievements, annual class photos. One year—the kids had been four or five—the Ireland family sent a Christmas photograph, the kind taken on Santa’s knee at the local shopping plaza. That same year, the twins received their first-ever Christmas card from Grandpa Charles. Correspondence from both parties increased gradually and now included a call on Christmas Day so the twins could say thank you for their cards.
Dan was studying his mobile phone, wanting to press the call button each time he scrolled over the number of the Calingarry Crossing pub, when he noticed the time.
‘You win, Dad,’ he called out, as if Charles was truly out there avoiding Dan, rather than simply being old and forgetful.
What now? Should Dan suggest to Tracy they stay in town a couple of days? He could try visiting his father again, maybe bump into Maggie at the pub. Tracy wouldn’t want to stay now the night was over, though. Once the party lights were off, his wife was always the first to flutter home. He certainly wouldn’t stay here alone and pack the mother of his children off to Sydney. Of all the things this town might have once labelled Dan Ireland, insensitive, untrustworthy and disloyal were not among them. Dan was none of those things, not now and not when he’d held his best mate’s hand, taken him to hospital, then taken the blame.
A grown-up Dan always did the right thing and Tracy was the mother of his children and, as he discovered in the early hours of this morning, pregnant again. How had that made him feel?
Surprised?
You bet.
Happy?
Of course.
Frustrated? Confused? Concerned?
Yes. Yes. Yes.
He thought about last night, refusing to admit kissing Maggie was a mistake. More poorly timed and overdue, he told himself. This reunion had been the source of anxiety for him for weeks, and in the mornings leading up to the weekend his jaw had ached from the constant grinding of teeth in his
sleep. Even his after-work squash partner had complained about the unusual level of on-court aggression. Dan confessed to being a little worked up over something, but that he’d sort it out. When he did, he’d start to win a few games. That had given his mate, now sporting a black eye thanks to his over-hitting on a volley shot, something to laugh about at least.
Dan’s biggest hurdle coming home was always going to be seeing his father. Talking to the man over the phone, being able to fall back on the cost of the call when the conversation stalled, that was one thing. Physically setting foot into the old house would whip awake the demons that Dan’s wife and his love for his children had kept dormant all these years.
The only upside to returning would be Maggie Lindeman. He’d made enquiries through his detective network. His excuse? Dan didn’t like surprises. No cop did. Facts were an investigator’s best friend. He knew Maggie was back in town and that her father’s pub was on the market. Dan had been tempted to delve a little deeper into her personal status. He would have if his conscience had let him. Besides that, if he got the chance to talk at the reunion, and he hoped he would, hearing Maggie tell him her own story held a lot more appeal for a man in need of some fascination in his life, especially since hearing his wife tell him something he already knew—their marriage was no longer working.
At least the old woman on the phone earlier had been gracious enough to let Dan know Maggie’s son was doing okay after his clash of pills, booze and joy riding—all too often a devastating and deadly cocktail. The contributing factors last night hadn’t been hard to spot for a seasoned investigator like Dan and the young constable, Callum, had impressed him with his handling of Fiona and Luke. Had he been in charge, however, Dan would have found cause to lock that troublemaker up a bit longer, under the limit or not. Morons like Luke, with more money than sense, were proof that some idiots never learn. Unfortunately, those morons kept blokes like Dan in a job; one he’d prefer not to have. Dan and the rest of his team would like nothing better than to be out of a job completely. He’d look for something else to do to make a buck. A job that didn’t involve scraping kids off the road.
In twenty-odd years he’d never made a difference. More young people still died from crashes than any other driver group. The difference between them and older drivers? Experience. The difference between one kid dying and the next? Luck. For most cops, the death knock was a task that happened too frequently, even in the country where young driver casualties and deaths out-stripped the city stats, and those figures didn’t include the close shave or near miss that went unreported—or was just not remembered in the morning. Even the brightest of the bright, like Noah, became idiots once alcohol and pills entered the mix. One drink was all it took for any sense of right and wrong, good and bad, smart and stupid, to be dangerously compromised. One drink was all it took these days to make some kids feel invincible. Kids didn’t get it. Being reckless was part of being young.
Extreme sports.
Extreme risks.
Extreme consequences. Noah knew all about those now.
Poor Maggie. No forgetting the anguish on her face last night. Dan had wanted to comfort her, but she’d shaken his attempts away, wanting no part of him then or it seemed now, in the harsh light of day. Her message, via Ethne, couldn’t have been any clearer. Maggie’s child was everything.
‘And she has a blasted husband. Who’s the idiot now?’ Dan grumbled, slamming the door on the borrowed ute and spinning the wheels to send a cloud of billowing dust floating over the roof of his father’s old house.
‘Take that, you old bastard,’ he said, putting his foot down.
Maybe consequences weren’t solely the realm of the young driver. Everyone took risks. The risks were just different when you get older.
Right and wrong.
Good and bad.
Smart and stupid. Dan knew all about those now.
But Maggie had kissed him back and the thought calmed Dan, his foot easing back off the accelerator.
She had … Hadn’t she?
The cyclone derives its powers from a calm centre.
So does a person.
Norman Vincent Peale
29
Maggie
‘Do you want some lunch, Noah?’
He didn’t speak. He didn’t shake his head. He didn’t move at all. Her son simply closed his eyes and for the umpteenth time that morning Maggie dabbed at both hers with a tissue—her anger and disappointment and the impending inquisition dabbed away along with the tears. She’d deal with those feelings one at a time.
Slowly and quietly she slid his bedroom window closed and switched on the air conditioner, rarely done given the rising price of electricity. The doctor had prescribed bed rest and Noah’s room would soon become a sweatbox.
A menacing sky had greeted Maggie on the round trip to Saddleton earlier, rolling in before stalling overhead to grow darker and more ominous.
‘Mum?’ Noah’s voice sounded groggy.
‘Yes, buddy?’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Hey, you don’t have anything to be sorry for, okay? The only thing you need to be is resting. We’ll talk about this later.’
‘But, you know—’
‘Shhh, come on.’ Maggie fussed with the sheet, now speckled brown with Betadine. ‘I know you’re going to be feeling pretty sore and sorry for a while,’ she said, guilt twisting into a little knot in her stomach. Was she avoiding the conversation for Noah’s sake, or was she afraid? Did she not trust herself to have this conversation while so on edge about everything? ‘I’ll check on you later to see if you want dinner. I love you.’ She leaned over to kiss his forehead and liked that he didn’t pull away, screw up his face, or complain, as usual. Then, with a final glance, she drew the door closed quietly behind her and let out a shaky breath, relieved the weekend was almost over.
More than anything now, Maggie Lindeman wanted her quiet country life back.
Jennifer basked in the glory of a successful event to the point of implying she’d somehow managed to keep the rain at bay for the fair day. While Maggie had missed the entire Sunday event, reports filtering into the pub over the days that followed were all good. Sara and Will dropped by to see Noah a couple of times, and Val and Lorna had delivered enough leftover lamingtons and scones from the CWA stall to last a lifetime.
For two days it had been all hands on deck to keep the pub operating now that Maggie had two patients to deal with—her dad and Noah. Ethne had been a Trojan, doing the job of three people to allow Maggie to fit in her usual nursing home trips. Over 150 millimetres of rain had fallen overnight, making the usual jogging route a muddy slush, so rather than visiting on foot, Maggie stopped by to see the old mare on her drive to the hospital. Besides feeling sorry for the neglected old girl, the horse was the only one in town with teeth capable of chewing down stale CWA scones.
She’d had one more message from Dan asking her to call him—she didn’t—followed by a single email message with the same request, sent via the hotel email address. Again, Maggie didn’t respond, pressing delete before Ethne saw the contents.
Noah was up and moving about, but not venturing out of his room. With major bruising down one side of his ribs and thigh he was still a little sore. Grazes on both legs, superficial and drying nicely, had needed regular saline baths, but he’d refused his mother’s help, all of a sudden sensitive about his privacy and his mother’s fussing.
When Maggie raised this latest behaviour, Ethne had suggested it was probably the lingering effects of embarrassment. ‘He’ll come good. These things take time.’
‘Thanks for opening today, Ethne.’
‘No trouble, love. How’s our boy doing today?’
Our boy! What a lovely thing to hear Ethne say. Maggie tried to recall if the barmaid had ever referred to her son like that before. The idea of someone else caring, someone else being there, gave her a lightness of step.
Maggie slipped behind the bar, the barmaid’
s hands crimson from peeling a bucket of beetroot for the weekend special.
‘He’s still sore, then?’ she enquired.
‘Hmm, not so sore he can’t sit up and Facebook, or whatever it is he does on that old laptop.’ Maggie shoved a rack of glasses into the washer and pressed the green button, the soft whir of a motor muting the chat in the room.
The main bar was back to the meagre mid-week mob but as Maggie surveyed the room she saw Fiona all primped and painted loitering in the doorway to the beer garden. Among the dusty work shirts and dungarees she looked like a mournful swan in a pond full of quacking ducks.
Fiona stepped towards her. ‘Can I see Noah, please?’ she asked, the once conceited chin not so proud.
A protective growl formed deep inside Maggie’s throat, her first instinct to strike out a warning paw like a lioness protecting her cub. Still unable to look the girl in the eye, Maggie attended to the glass-washer.
‘I don’t think I want you seeing Noah at this time, Fiona.’
Fiona took two tentative steps closer to the bar. ‘I can’t blame you for being mad, and I am so sorry, Maggie. I didn’t know what Luke had done, or that he even had pills. Honest, I didn’t. Besides, they weren’t dangerous.’
‘Not dangerous, Fiona?’
‘No, they were only supposed to—’
Maggie slammed the rack of steaming hot glasses on the bar with such force the room fell silent, albeit briefly. ‘Only supposed to do what? There is no only when it comes to drugs. What is it you kids don’t get about that?’
‘Noah was a bit anxious and Luke thought—’
‘No, Fiona, Luke didn’t think and neither did you. That’s the problem. And if Noah was anxious, I think I’d know.’ Maggie picked up glasses one at a time from the rack, strangling each one with a tea towel. ‘My son is my life. I’ve protected him since he was a baby and I will do anything to protect him until my final breath. That’s what mothers do, Fiona. It’s also what friends should do for friends.’ She flicked the tea towel onto her left shoulder and stared down the pathetic-looking princess. ‘Real friendship comes with trust, and for some reason Noah’s taken a liking to you. Then you go and let this happen. Friends look out for each other. At least, we do out here in the country.’
Simmering Season Page 24
