Simmering Season

by Jenn J. McLeod

‘Sorry, Sara, what did you say?’ Maggie apologised over another rumble of thunder and Jackpot’s barking.

  ‘I was asking you how Noah is,’ Sara said.

  ‘Quiet. Confused.’ Maggie knew she could add to the list: disappointed, angry, hurt, distrusting, sad … ‘Ethne’s looking after the pub for me tomorrow. I was thinking we might take a drive, just the two of us. I can’t ignore things any longer. I’ve just stopped tiptoeing around you. I don’t want to be doing the same around my son.’

  ‘Getting away is a good idea,’ Will chipped in. ‘Try fishing. Jasper and I are planning a boys-only adventure next week. Nothing teaches kids about patience more than dropping a line and waiting for something—’

  ‘Oh bugger!’ Maggie cut Will off and looked at her watch. ‘Bloody daylight saving. I’m worse than a dairy cow when it comes to adapting to the time change.’

  Will slurped noisily through his beer froth, getting a swift jab in the ribs from his wife. ‘We keeping you from something, Maggie?’ he asked.

  ‘No, no, sorry. It’s just … The fishing thing reminded me. Charlie Ireland came by earlier, something about a new fishing spot along the stock route, or something like that.’ Maggie racked her brain to think. She’d been so caught up analysing the features in his face and comparing them to Dan’s she’d only been half listening to where he was going. ‘I don’t think he called in on his way back home.’

  ‘Maybe he saw Ethne.’

  ‘Hang on and I’ll check.’

  Maggie found Ethne in the kitchen, crying over a stainless steel bowl brimming with sliced onion.

  ‘Nope. Haven’t seen hide nor hair. Not likely to either through these eyes,’ she quipped. ‘Sorry, love.’

  Maggie returned to the main bar and asked Cory to pass her a glass. She tapped a knife against an empty beer glass, the clinking sound, like a speech at a reception, muting the mob instantly. ‘Anyone see Charlie Ireland this afternoon? He went fishing,’ Maggie called out, sending a ripple of murmurs through the bar, followed by unanimous grunts and the shaking of heads.

  ‘You saying he was s’posed to check back in and didn’t?’ said Louie the Fly. ‘You sure, Maggie, darlin’?’

  ‘That’s what he said. He was going to bring me a fish and I was going to shout him a beer.’

  Someone guffawed. ‘Not like old Chuck to miss out on a free beer, then. Fish or no fish.’

  ‘One of you needs to go out to his place and see if he’s there. Louie? Can you?’

  ‘No worries, darlin’,’ Louie said in his usual laid-back drawl. But as he left his half-finished beer on the bar Maggie knew that behind that calm was concern for a mate, because it wasn’t like Louie to miss out on finishing his beer either.

  ‘Where did he say this great spot was?’ Cricket asked Maggie.

  ‘He didn’t. Not exactly. Not that I remember. What should we do?’

  ‘You keep the beer cold, Maggie, and let us cover the rest. I’ll call the new fella at the station. What’s his name again? Callum, isn’t it? I’ll let him know and tell him someone’s gone out to Chuck’s place to check.’

  Maggie smiled. Callum had been stationed in town on a part-time basis for over twelve months, yet he was still the new bloke.

  After a general mumbling of consensus and nodding, there was an effort to resume normality in the bar while they waited on Louie for news.

  ‘Relax,’ Sara said, taking her friend’s hand and rubbing it between her own. ‘Why so worked up over crusty old Charlie Ireland? Louie will call any minute to say he’s found the guy washing down his fresh smoked fish with a home brew.’

  ‘I hope so.’

  ‘Maggie, you’re trembling.’ Sara squeezed her friend’s hand tighter, guiding her along the bar to the service gap at the end. ‘Come on over here with me and sit down. Will, honey, can you grab us some water?’

  ‘Oh Sara, why am I such a mess?’

  ‘Sweetie, look what you’ve been through: Amber’s funeral, the centenary, Noah’s accident, Brian, your dad, the pub not selling—’

  ‘Okay, okay!’ Maggie tried a smile. She thought she might have managed a small one.

  ‘Charlie Ireland is not your worry.’

  ‘Get this into you.’ Will grinned at her and wrapped Maggie’s hand around the glass. His hands were big and warm, strong and caring. The man was a king among men. Where was Maggie’s prince? ‘With everything you’ve had on your plate of late, Maggie-moo, sounds to me like you’ve got yourself a perfect storm.’

  Sara groaned. ‘I hate to admit it, but Will’s right.’

  ‘Ah, now there’s something I don’t hear every day. Thank you. Thank you.’ In his wheelchair, Will waved an arm and bowed from the waist theatrically. ‘My job is done. Sara, my love, I’m off to bask in the glory of those words I so seldom hear from your lips.’

  Sara watched adoringly as her husband wheeled across the bar to join Clipper’s table of shearing mates. ‘Pains me to say Will is right, Maggie. You and I both know you can handle—have handled—anything life throws at you. You’re strong, Maggie, but no one would blame you for crumbling under the weight of everything. You’re an amazing woman.’

  ‘So amazing I’ve gone and lost Dan’s father.’

  ‘You haven’t lost anyone. Charlie Ireland got himself lost. Not your fault. As I remember, kids were always telling him to get lost.’ Sara nudged her friend with a shoulder. ‘You just hang on. Storms pass. Life will get back to normal.’

  ‘I don’t remember normal.’

  The shrill ring of the telephone managed what Maggie rarely could—a still bar. She let Ethne take the call, but the barmaid had the best poker face.

  ‘No sign of him at the Ireland property,’ Ethne’s voice boomed out even before she’d returned the portable handset to the cradle.

  ‘Did Louie say anything else, any clues?’

  ‘Said the cats almost ate him alive when he went inside. That’d be Louie’s smell though, I reckon,’ Ethne snorted, the joke relieving some tension in a bar room that was full for the third night in as many weeks.

  Callum’s arrival silenced the banter, the police constable’s full-length Driza-Bone beaded with water, his face glistening from rivulets of rain dripping from his hair.

  ‘Sorry. Was on my way back from Saddleton.’

  ‘Geez, Callum, you look like a walkin’ water feature,’ someone muttered.

  ‘Looks more like a drowned rat,’ chuckled another.

  Callum was used to the shenanigans of pub dwellers, as he called them whenever Maggie needed help getting a patron out at closing. Sometimes he’d return fire for a laugh, always respectfully, aware of his position, his young age, and his lack of local status. Not tonight though. Tonight, Callum wore his serious face.

  ‘This is official business, folks,’ the constable said. ‘It looks like Charlie Ireland might have run into a spot of trouble.’

  The hum of pub prattle ceased with a collective gulp.

  ‘We need to set up a search,’ a voice said, followed by a flurry of activity and hat grabbing.

  Callum held up both hands. ‘Agreed, folks, but this storm’s not going to let us wait, and it’s not going to make it easy. She’ll be real dark out there any tick of the clock, so it will be a controlled and close proximity search first up while we’re waiting for the SES crew. ‘We’ll pair up and stay on designated tracks. No going off-road tonight. Reports are coming in about a wash-away near Coolabah Gully Road. There’s likely to be more, and closer to home. So take it easy and stay close. If we come up empty-handed, we’ll meet back here for Plan B.’

  ‘But mate—’

  ‘No buts. We’ll do what we can tonight and we’ll do it by my rules until I can hand over to the SES. We’re rescuing one person only tonight. Okay?’

  The rabble mumbled in agreement while Maggie did the only thing she could.

  She dialled Dan’s mobile number and prayed she would find the right words.

  43

  Fion
a

  ‘Maggie?’ Fiona stood at the doorway to the pub, a plastic crate in her hands. ‘Do you have a minute?’

  ‘Sorry, Fiona, I don’t right now.’

  ‘But I need to talk to you.’

  ‘Well, you’ll have to wait. I’m—’

  ‘I think I’ve waited too long as it is.’

  ‘All right. Let’s go into the dining room. It’s about to get noisy in here. Ethne?’ she called out. ‘I’ll be as quick as I can. Come get me the minute you hear something.’

  Fiona plonked the plastic container on the staff table as Maggie took a seat, but Fiona couldn’t sit herself. She was too on edge, despite already having practised this speech on her grandmother a dozen times. Cheryl had offered to provide an escort to the pub, or have Maggie come to the house, but Fiona had wanted to do this herself.

  ‘What is it?’ Maggie asked, sounding unusually impatient.

  ‘This is the stuff … The box that your husband … You know?’ Fiona flicked the little blue clips on either side of the crate and lifted the opaque plastic lid.

  Maggie peered inside and said only one word. ‘Oh!’ Her voice was a whimper of regret. ‘This was my mother’s favourite tea set. I was saving it. Something to give Noah’s fiancée when … Well, anyway …’ Maggie put the broken sugar bowl to one side. Then she took the correspondence from the box, frowned and put them with the broken pieces. Next she inspected the cup and saucer and matching milk jug that had miraculously survived the fall. She smiled. ‘Not all is lost as long as he—whoever he turns out to be, whenever Noah chooses—will just have to be sweet enough without sugar. I’m sure he will be,’ Maggie sighed.

  Fiona nodded, her mind racing ahead. Just as she was deciding Maggie might need time to go through the contents of the box on her own, the woman bucked up and pushed the crate to one side.

  ‘The rest can wait, I think. Thank you for taking such care to deliver this to me. I appreciate your concern.’ Maggie looked up, her gaze settling on Fiona. ‘And thank you for being such a friend to Noah these last couple of days. Adults can learn a lot about forgiveness from our children. I see that. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to—’

  ‘There’s something else, Maggie.’ Fiona dropped into an adjacent seat and gingerly placed the letter on the table before sliding it across to Maggie. ‘I read it. Sorry,’ she blurted, as if saying it quickly would make the confession easier.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘I recognised the notepaper first. Then I saw the handwriting. I didn’t mean to read it, but … You’ll see what I mean.’ She paused. ‘You have to read it now.’ But Maggie appeared distracted, her attention drawn to the main bar. ‘Please.’

  Maggie sighed, picked up the letter and with her eyes flitting back and forth from Fiona to the note, she unfolded the paper and read:

  Dear Brian,

  I suspect this letter comes as a surprise and I have no doubt you will be even more surprised with the message it contains.

  I won’t go into detail about my recent stay in Calingarry Crossing. I assume Maggie mentioned she and I caught up a couple of times at the pub. Going home to the country changed me. I hadn’t realised how important family was until I had the chance to reconnect with that part of my life.

  What stands out the most about the Calingarry Crossing of today is that small towns have big hearts and country people are the most forgiving and most genuine people I know. (And I have met a lot of people in my time in Sydney.) Honesty and openness are now an important part of who I am and who I want to be for my daughter.

  Our daughter.

  I’ve made many poor choices, starting with my lies about the night I fell pregnant and agreeing to never tell anyone it was you. At the time, I was immature enough to think a reputation was more important than the truth. (Nothing like promiscuity—real or implied—to make a girl popular!) But you and I both know the truth, as does Phillip, that you were my first time. You had dreams and ambition and that’s why you didn’t want anything to do with me or the baby. I understood then as I understand now.

  That’s why this letter is not about blame. I was drunk and looking for trouble that night. I found you. What we wanted back then is not as important as what we should want for our daughter. I sincerely hope you have enjoyed success with your music and are in a position to get to know Fiona now. She needs to know her real father. At least she needs to have the choice of knowing you.

  I am hoping you will understand and agree that telling her is well and truly overdue. Having your willingness to be a part of this will make such a difference—to me and to Fiona.

  Please contact me as a matter of urgency.

  ‘Maggie? Are you okay?’

  The notepaper floated to the floor, swinging from side to side in slow motion, like a single leaf falling from a branch. Was Maggie about to fall too?

  44

  Maggie

  When she looked up, Fiona’s body was shaking, her face a sombre, sodden mess. ‘How does that make you feel?’ Maggie asked.

  Shrug.

  Funny thing was that right now a shrug was what best described Maggie’s feelings. Numb was probably the most appropriate word she could extract from the chaos crowding her head. The news had shocked, but didn’t hurt. Shouldn’t it hurt more? Shouldn’t she be feeling something, anything: anger, sadness, disbelief?

  The date underneath Amber’s flowery signature was three months ago. He’d had this letter for three months. He knew about Amber’s wishes when they were face to face in the Newtown café after the funeral, yet he’d said nothing. He’d known about Fiona before they married and he’d never said anything. How could Maggie be feeling so unruffled right now?

  What was the saying about the calm before the storm?

  Cyclone Fiona had blown the lid off a lifetime of secrets and the reunion had brought home more than memories for Maggie. One of those memories was on his way out to Calingarry Crossing right now and Maggie couldn’t help but feel partially responsible for that man’s father being out and lost in bad weather tonight.

  As much as Fiona might need more from Maggie, she only had so much to give. There was no blame here, not any more, not after all this time. Fiona had done nothing wrong—this time—except find out the truth, that Brian was her biological father.

  Fiona could wait. Charlie Ireland couldn’t.

  ‘Maggie?’ Fiona was staring. ‘Maggie, are you feeling okay? Your face …’

  ‘My face?’

  ‘It’s … it’s gone all weird.’

  She was even starting to sound like Noah.

  Oh my God—Noah! Noah has a half-sister.

  ‘Who else knows, Fiona? Have you shown this to anyone?’

  ‘No one. Only you and Cheryl—and the arsehole.’ Fiona looked at her coyly. ‘Sorry, Maggie.’

  ‘When did you see Brian?’

  ‘The other night, before I left Sydney, I went over to your place. It was late. When he opened the door and I saw the kind of man he was and how he’d upset Noah, I just lost it.’

  ‘I’m sorry you saw him like that, Fiona. That isn’t who he really is. To know him as a passionate young musician with big ambitions and even bigger dreams was … Well, he was amazing to be around once. We had such big dreams and I …’ Maggie stopped herself. There was so much that needed saying. A rushed conversation at a time like this wasn’t right for anyone. ‘Fiona, let’s agree to take some time so all this sinks in. Then we can sit down and tell Noah.’

  ‘You’re right.’

  Maggie grinned on the inside.

  ‘I didn’t even stay long enough to tell Phillip. My only thought was to show you the letter, but once I got here even doing that … I was so scared you’d think I was making more trouble.’

  ‘What I think is we both need time.’

  ‘Yes, I should talk to Phillip first. He’s my dad.’ Fiona snatched up her mobile phone. ‘Do you think I can ask him to come out to Calingarry Crossing?’

  ‘I think th
at’s a great idea.’

  ‘Maggie,’ Will was calling to her from the door. ‘Ethne needs you to man the bar. She’s suited up and heading out. Should see her, she looks like a Jaffa ball in those overalls.’

  Charlie! For a moment Maggie had forgotten about him.

  ‘I’ll be right there, Will.’

  45

  Dan

  In Sydney, on any ordinary day, Dan Ireland would be just waking to the screech of an alarm, throwing on his jogging gear and thrashing any sleeping cells awake with a ten-kilometre workout. An hour later, life would grind to a halt as he inched his way along the motorway—for which he paid dearly in tolls.

  Yesterday’s early evening telephone call had caught Dan by surprise. After a restless night, followed by a morning shouting from the sidelines at Mike’s soccer finals and Emily’s basketball gala, and a thrashing in the afternoon at squash, Dan had crashed on the sofa. Not until later that night, about to taste his first sip of Scotch as he flicked through TV channels to distract himself from emailing Maggie Lindeman, did he pick up his mobile phone to discover multiple messages from her.

  Now he was behind the wheel, struggling to stay awake. The lights of oncoming vehicles whipped by, one dazzling burst of light after another in the dark. With each passing beam Dan’s thoughts alternated between Maggie’s voice on the phone and his father. She sounded so scared. Dan had tried to reassure her that everything would be fine—his father had been fishing that same river for decades—but Dan knew how quickly an everyday practice could turn fatal. Complacency and familiarity with the roads played a significant role in vehicle crashes, with drivers coming to grief most often when closest to home.

  He forced himself to focus on his own driving. Even for a seasoned driver, a dark country road could kill, and Dan knew better than anyone how overrepresented country drivers were in the crash statistics. People presumed the city, with its glut of vehicles, congestion and tangle of roadways was a hazardous place to drive. City roads, no matter how lousy, were still more predictable than a rural road at night: wild animals, straying stock, soft shoulders and wash-aways to name a few. Dan needed to concentrate if he was to make it to Calingarry Crossing in one piece.