Bloody hell, I’m rambling. Sorry.
I’m also sorry about not being totally honest and upfront about everything.
Well like I said, I’m better in person, or at least over the phone. So I’m going to send this email before I chicken out.
Call me … if you want. It’s okay if you don’t, too. I’ll understand.
Regards,
Rambling Dan
For the third night in a row, Noah had come home when Maggie was busy with the night’s closing time evictions. He’d waved from the side door to the bar and clamped a palm to his forehead, feigning a headache. So like his mother.
Around midnight, unable to sleep, Maggie stared at the ceiling cursing her absent-mindedness. She didn’t remember if she’d locked the hatch on the cellar. Stealing out of bed, she crept downstairs and over to the hotel to double-check, not that Calingarry Crossing was the crime capital of New South Wales. Old habits died hard. Sleep had evaded her anyway, thanks to the storm bird. The moon seemed unusually bright, enough to cast a faint shadow as she crossed the small courtyard between the residence and the pub. She was tempted to sit and soak up the calmness—‘chill out’, as Noah would say—but a still night like this would see her eaten alive without mozzie repellent, and she was tired of smelling like bug spray twenty-four hours a day.
On her way back, Maggie noticed a line of light spilling across the floorboards outside Noah’s room. She stopped, knocked, waited, then inched the door open, ashamed with herself for having done everything she could to avoid her son today. Ashamed, sad and furious that Fiona had driven this invisible wedge between mother and son.
‘Hey,’ Noah said.
‘What are you doing, buddy? I thought you had a headache. You’ve been sitting at that thing too long. It’s late.’
‘I’m checking out all the cool apps. There’s a Send-A-Card App. I’m downloading it so I can make Dad a birthday card. It’s totally awesome.’
‘Is there anything that gadget doesn’t do?’ Resentment echoed in Maggie’s words. Was she jealous of an inanimate object or the giver of the object—Fiona.
Now Maggie was being the brat. Exactly what she’d accused Fiona of being. Maggie only wished she’d been the one responsible for the grin that had been stuck on her son’s face ever since the iPad had arrived by express courier. A courier from Armidale to Calingarry Crossing had got tongues wagging.
Watching her son’s excitement had been a joy, while Maggie’s own reaction had been somewhat restrained. Sending the package back with a thanks-but-no-thanks note had crossed her mind. That would be after she’d wrestled the thing off Noah, breaking his heart in the process.
Maggie could never afford to buy the 600-dollar iPad, much less the internet access thingy which Fiona’s credit card would be taking care of, apparently. Maggie was still paying off the computer equipment and the amplifier Brian had got ‘a great deal on’ four years ago. In Maggie’s world you paid for your mistakes with your emotions. In Fiona’s world you paid for them with a credit card. On the bright side, at least Maggie now had the clunky old hand-me-down laptop to herself so she could read emails in her room when convenient, rather than commandeering it while Noah was at school.
Maggie peered over the top of the screen, watching her son navigate his way around like he’d been doing it for years. ‘What happened to hand-writing a birthday card and licking a stamp?’
‘That’s so dark ages, Mum. You really should get one of these.’
‘Really? And what will an iPad do for me?’
‘For a start it’ll find you anything you want.’
‘Sounds perfect, buddy,’ she said, picking up a sleeveless hoodie from the floor. ‘Will it find me a cleaner for your room?’ Will it find me a life? My old life? Any life, for that matter! Will it find the husband I used to know who loved me more than anything in this world? Will it find my sanity when I lose it—which will not be too far away now? Until an iPad could do those things, Maggie was happy to stay with old faithful. ‘I’ve read the brightness of the screen is bad for your eyes and can interrupt your sleep.’ Not so dark ages, after all, eh? ‘Not too much longer, Noah, you hear me?’ she added, hanging the garment on the back of the door.
‘Sure, Mum,’ he said, his face eerily illuminated by the iPad, his eyes wide.
Maggie wondered how much interest she should be taking in her son’s online activities, and the thought had nothing to do with his eyesight. There were so many stories in the news these days, things that would make her shake her head and be grateful for the safety of a small country community. But the internet could bring the big bad world to her son. Until now, Maggie had spent very little headspace worrying about Noah getting up to no good or being loutish around town. The idea of him doing anything foolish never crossed her mind. Then again, she never thought Noah would take a pill from a stranger, ride on the boot of a car, or that he’d …
‘Mum?’ Noah was speaking.
‘Sorry. What?’
‘Before you go, can I tell you something?’ His eyes darted about the room before settling on the small rip in his top sheet. ‘I’ve kinda been keeping it a secret.’
The ominous tone in Noah’s voice put Maggie on high alert, her stomach taking a roll, waking a trillion sleeping butterflies. Maggie’s sanity had prevailed partially due to the ability to convince herself that until she heard the news from her son’s lips, it was nothing more than hearsay from a very unreliable source. And as prepared as she had thought she was, she wasn’t. Not at all.
She took a deep breath and said, ‘Noah, buddy, you know you can tell me anything and never worry about what I might think or—’
‘Chill, Mum. Geez! I’m not about to tell you I’m …’ Maggie waited, her lungs bursting with the sharp intake of air, ‘dropping out of school, or anything.’
‘Oh?’ she breathed.
‘It’s about Fiona.’
Why didn’t Maggie feel any relief? ‘What about Fiona?’
‘She’s kinda been working on a surprise.’
In lieu of the profanity wanting to spew out of her mouth, Maggie said, ‘Noah, kind of is two words—kind and of.’ Maggie placed both hands on her knees and tried to squeeze her tension away. ‘A surprise? For who?’
‘You.’
A simple ‘Oh?’ stood in for I can do without any more of Fiona’s surprises.
‘I’ve gotta—got to—download it first,’ her son said with a grin. ‘Hang on a sec.’
Maggie had to stand to let herself breathe while watching the speed and skill as her son tapped, fingered and searched the shiny new tablet. Even more amazing were the images unfolding one at a time. Images Maggie recognised. Images that looked amazing on the screen.
‘They’re my photographs!’
‘I know. How cool is that? You’ve got a website.’
‘I have a website? Why?’ First shock, then scepticism infiltrated Maggie’s thoughts. ‘What do I do with one? And why would Fiona bother to—?’
‘Geez, Mum, what’s with the interrogation? She wants to do something nice to make up. She reckons your pictures will sell. Something to do with photo stock and advertising. She’s been using Mrs Bailey’s computer to scan them.’
Sell? Maggie was stuck on the concept that someone might be interested enough to buy her pictures. Could Maggie make money out of her pictures online? She hadn’t kept up with technology much at all.
‘They sure do look good on screen.’
‘That’s because this iPad has over three million pixels. That’s like four times the number of pixels in iPad 2 and a million more than an HDTV.’
‘I see.’ Maggie was unable to understand gadgetry, with the exception of a camera. Put one of those in her hands and she came alive. But this was different. What if no one bought her pictures? Had she not endured enough stress and heartache already? What if all this website thing did was add to the growing list of disappointments in her life?
‘I don’t think so, Noah.’
Noah
slammed the iPad on the bed. ‘I knew I shouldn’t have told you. I can’t tell you anything without you getting angry these days.’
‘That’s not true. I’m not angry.’ Her son looked up with eyes like his father’s, big, sorrowful puppy-like eyes that said they didn’t understand why she was mad. This was no way to gain her son’s trust. ‘Honestly, Noah, I’m not mad, or anything else.’
‘Then won’t you let her do this? The site’s not finished yet, but you get the idea. At least look.’ Noah turned the iPad towards Maggie, flicking through the three tabs running across the top of the webpage:
MAGGIE’S PICTURES | MAGGIE’S STORY | MAGGIE’S CONTACTS
‘And when was Fiona going to tell me about this herself?’
‘Soon. When it’s finished. She really wants to make up, Mum. You used to tell me forgiveness makes you a better person, and that Pops should have been more forgiving when Uncle Michael died.’
Touché!
‘So you do listen to me?’
‘Mostly.’ He grinned.
‘Well, that’s something. I’m glad you showed me. Maybe we can talk later, about a few things. Okay?’ Noah’s eyes dropped to the hole in the bed sheet again. ‘Well, no rush. Please don’t stay up much longer. Love you.’
‘Mum?’ Noah said moments before Maggie closed the door. ‘Love you too. Night.’
Back in her own room, while still in a forgiving mood, Maggie considered phoning her husband. She would tell Brian they could start over, let him know she needed a husband and her son needed a father. It wasn’t fair to make her do all this on her own any more. She could forgive Brian now, but there’d come a time when she’d be beyond forgiveness. She’d indulged his music obsession and the resultant self-pity long enough. If her son wanted to talk to his father, then Maggie would damn well make it happen.
Maggie needed to collect her thoughts before she rang her husband. Lying on the bed, her mind soon drifted to the words in Dan’s email. How had she arrived at this point? Brian reinventing a life without Maggie in it, and her thinking every second thought about someone else? How could her marriage have changed so much, so quickly? And just when she thought life couldn’t get any crazier, she discovered she had a website, putting her photographs out there into the world.
‘I wonder,’ she said quietly, peeling back the bed sheet while the slideshow of images from Noah’s iPad—her images, the product of her own imagination and artistic eye—flicked through her mind. That long-lost photographer dream niggled. Brian had to see that it was her time now. Maggie needed a goal, some concept of what she’d be doing in a week, a month, a year from now. Not simply find herself a year older and no more enthused, or inspired, or with, according to Ethne, ‘all her juices dried up’. Wasting years waiting was what people like her father did. Maggie wanted her days to be different. Not necessarily exciting or ever-changing, but planned. She’d long ago got over the need for a life with colour and noise. Even planning to do nothing was a plan.
Maggie dialled Brian’s mobile and was about to hang up when he answered. Her husband sounded tired, maybe a little drunk. Probably both. Maggie did most of the talking, starting with a reminder that they could no longer afford the flat and insisting he start packing up the place and moving to Calingarry Crossing. It didn’t take long for the conversation to turn into an argument.
‘Good idea, Maggs,’ Brian said, his mockery unmistakable. ‘I can schedule a tour of all the dusty, obscure little towns from Bonville to Bulwarrawee while everyone talks about me chucking my career down the drain. I’ll be famous all right. Brian-no-balls-Henkler—the bloke who didn’t have the guts to make it all the way, just like his father. Is that what you want?’
‘No, that’s not what I’m saying. Brian, we’ve been over this so many times. There are more reasons for you to quit Sydney and come out here, that’s all.’
‘I won’t and you can’t make me.’
‘Brian, don’t,’ Maggie scolded—a whack to the snout of his defiant puppy act. ‘Grow up. You have responsibilities and it’s bloody time you stopped ignoring them. That goes for Noah. Your son needs a male in his life, someone he can talk to about …’ Maggie stopped, changed tack, ‘… his music. He wants to study music at university.’
‘University? I didn’t know that,’ Brian said, his voice softening to a bemused mumble.
‘You’d know if you bothered to return your son’s calls.’
‘I did.’
‘When? One call out of how many messages, Brian? You raised him from a baby while I worked—’
‘Yeah, yeah,’ Brian interjected. ‘Here we go. Cue the violins for the Oh Woe Is Maggie Having Given Up Her Career Concerto—In Fucking F Major.’
Maggie shuddered, a chill shooting ice darts through her body. She clenched her jaw so hard it locked.
‘It wasn’t my career I missed.’ Her voice trembled all the way from her diaphragm, into her throat and out of her mouth, scorched by a revulsion she had never heard before. It frightened her. ‘IT. WAS. MY. SON.’
Tears streamed from both eyes, silent rivers overflowing.
‘Maggie. Maggs. Sweetie?’
Maggie tried to speak, but no words came. She was over trying, crying now, hands muting each mournful sob so Noah didn’t hear.
‘Maggie, Magpie. Please, darlin’, talk to me. I’m sorry. You know I love you. Please Maggie. Tell me what to do.’
‘I can’t,’ she said. ‘You have to decide what’s more important, Brian.’
‘You might as well ask me to decide between living and dying.’
‘Don’t say things like that,’ Maggie pushed the words out. ‘Don’t you dare talk to me about death and dying.’
‘Why? You’re killing me right now. You know that? Christ! You want me to beg? Okay, I’ll beg. Please, Maggie, let me do this. One more try. I promise.’
‘Oh Brian.’ There was so much more she’d wanted to say, but nothing in his voice or words gave any cause for hope. She hung up, reefed the telephone plug from the wall for the first time in her life, then switched off her mobile so he couldn’t call back.
This was not the life she agreed to when she said that she would honour and obey. Brian was living the life he wanted, even if it was only in his head. Maggie needed to live hers now. As of tomorrow she’d start doing what she wanted. She’d take control, make decisions, think about what she wanted, what she needed.
Maggie knew what she needed right now. She closed her eyes, recalled images of Dan and his mouth on hers and let her memories do the rest.
35
Today was that new beginning and Maggie refused to let a bad night’s sleep stop her from doing what she’d promised herself. The weather was perfect after a night of storm, a sunrise of blue and lilac and a light cloud cover providing the perfect backdrop. All she needed was a quick bite, her camera and a couple of hours before the pub opened. She left a note for Noah and Ethne, telling them that she’d be gone two hours, max.
Time to rediscover Calingarry Crossing, the Maggie Lindeman way.
After grabbing a loaf of stale bread, she headed out of town on foot, stopping by to visit the old mare.
‘G’day, gorgeous.’ She clicked her tongue to encourage the old girl over and while the horse munched on bread, Maggie snapped away. As long as the food kept coming the mare seemed unperturbed by the close-ups. Enthused, and with an hour still free, Maggie detoured away from the paddock, cutting through the schoolyard to connect with the path along the river, the same path she and Dan had walked the night of the reunion. In daylight hours she could comfortably venture further into the scrub, able to see and dodge darting lizards and the spider webs strung between branches. Anything to find the perfect shot.
Nothing mattered and nothing was too small to capture. Often the tiniest insects and bugs were the brightest and most beautiful. She even found a cleverly camouflaged stick insect clinging to a thin branch, the creature’s colours when Maggie zoomed in extraordinary. She’d forgotten how
different and beautiful the world looked through the camera lens. If only she could look at life the same way, zeroing in on a tiny piece of beauty and focusing until it was all she could see, the rest of the world, outside the viewfinder, not mattering. She loved the idea of capturing that single moment in life when everything was just right. The perfect shot with the perfect balance of content and composition.
With the exception of Noah as a baby, human beings rarely caught her photographer eye. This town did have a few interesting characters, though, and one happened to be down river from Maggie. Hidden from his view by a tangle of blue morning glory vine over low-hanging tree limbs, Maggie was able to zoom in on Charlie Ireland’s haggard old face. She knew he wouldn’t hear. Being hard of hearing wasn’t the only legacy for the Vietnam vet. Like so many returned soldiers, Charlie had come home a changed man. When his wife ran off, and his elder son ran away with a shearing crew, Dan had been left to withstand the worst of a man hollowed out by disappointment and anger.
The crusty old bugger had mellowed over time. Through her viewfinder he even looked at peace, standing on the river’s edge in his own world, his fishing line carried by the fast-moving current. Bitterness had devoured Charlie Ireland in the same way it had nibbled away at her father. Maggie thought about her dad’s letter burning a hole in her dresser drawer. She didn’t want to end up in the same downward spiral of bitterness. When the words ‘THE END’ were imprinted on Maggie’s life, hers wouldn’t be the story of a resentful, sad old woman. She would not let that happen. She’d take a leaf out of her son’s book and decide who she was and what made her happy. She’d already dusted off her dreams and started taking her photos again. She could forgive Fiona, forget about Dan, humour her father, be more patient with Brian, and be there for her son.
She would start with Fiona.
Cheryl Bailey brushed dirt off gloved hands and shielded her eyes to the intense early morning sun stretching along Konjulup Road.
‘Hello, Maggie. I’m getting some gardening in before the heat today,’ she said. ‘All this rain and now sunshine. Weeds are going to spring up everywhere.’
Simmering Season Page 29
