Tonight, when Dan dialled Maggie’s number, she answered before the second ring. He was glad. There was lots to talk about.
In his hand he held a letter.
It was from the Rev. Joe Lindeman.
Forgiveness. Finally.
53
Maggie
Joe’s faithful station wagon had made its last trip to Sydney and back again, this time with the final boxes from the flat Maggie and Noah had once called home.
Not any more.
Home was now the Calingarry Crossing Hotel.
The car’s front tyres dug into the soft shoulder at Wilson’s Corner, the sideways skid snapping Maggie from her stupor.
‘You okay, Mum?’ Noah asked. ‘I can drive again if you want.’
‘I know you can drive, but I have the licence.’
‘For now,’ he said pointedly, a cheeky smile warming Maggie’s heart.
‘I’ll be fine. I’m keen to get home though.’
For the first time in a long time, the word home didn’t sound strange. Calingarry Crossing was home, her only home now the flat was handed back, her furniture sold in a garage sale. A few boxes of personal bits and pieces were the only remnants of married life.
What had diverted her attention from the road for a second, and so close to home, was the lone mare grazing in the corner paddock. The old nag had stopped munching on grass to look up as Maggie drove by and she could have sworn the horse gave her a look of acknowledgement, like it could relate to the smallness of Maggie’s world, now smaller still.
Despite not doing all the things she’d planned, the way she’d planned, life had seemed full, but maybe her world had just looked full from inside the cocoon she’d spun. As she’d walked away from her husband’s funeral, she’d made herself a promise. The future would mean making life full of the right things.
First you’d better focus on driving and get your son back to Calingarry Crossing in one piece.
Noah had been quiet for most of the trip, his focus on the old guitar case filled with a lifetime of musical memorabilia. Before attempting to rifle through the contents, he’d explored the scores of stickers—a virtual tour of small-town New South Wales, Victoria and Queensland plastered haphazardly over the hardcover case that had once belonged to Brian’s father. Battered and bent, Maggie had known little about what her husband kept in the case. To her it had been nothing more than something to vacuum around under the bed every Sunday morning. Now it seemed to be a kind of time capsule of an almost-famous father’s life, filled with another almost-famous father’s musical exploits—Noah’s other grandfather. From her brief look while back at the flat, the case seemed to contain mostly keepsakes: pages of yellowing sheet music, autographed record covers and photographs from Mr Henkler’s early career as a touring support act to overseas performers. ‘Always the bridesmaid, never the bride’ she’d heard the man repeatedly tell his son.
Of course!
Why was Maggie only thinking of that now? At family gatherings in the early days of their marriage, Mr Henkler would bang on about this work, dropping names and big-noting himself. He’d drive Brian crazy, especially when his father repeated the same story over and over about how he’d sacrificed his career and declined amazing overseas recording contracts to stay with his family. That’s how, in his later years, father and son had ended up doing the dusty, out-of-the-way country pub circuit. Brian had never understood his father’s decision to ‘give it all away’, as he used to say to Maggie. That bone of contention had eventually forced the Henkler duo to break up, with Brian forever dreaming of being something else, something more, something better. By trying not to be a family man like his father, Brian had paid dearly. Perhaps that box of memorabilia would hold more clues to her husband’s obsession with fame.
Brian’s Sydney funeral had been a sad, small occasion for a man who had talked big and wanted a big life. Long-haired, leather-clad heavy metal types mingled with country belt-buckled blokes, all perfunctorily paying their respects to a fellow musician. Some said hello to Maggie and Noah, while others muttered among themselves. Maggie had no idea who most of the people were, or what they might have been to her husband. She’d felt like a stranger.
Thank goodness for Fiona—not words Maggie had ever envisioned thinking. Despite her own grief, the girl had taken charge, ushering Maggie away from well-wishers when she’d been too crippled by sadness to speak. She’d been even more protective of Noah, staying close throughout the service and deflecting curious mourners away.
Possibly the hardest thing for her son was not knowing the answer to one question—harder still on Maggie. What had led Brian to that road, on that perfectly beautiful day, and into a ravine? Not even the experts could provide an answer.
It had taken almost two months from the day she’d bid Brian farewell at the funeral to find the strength for this saddest, final task: the letting go of special things, like trinkets of no value to anyone but the owner. Why people saved some things at all would always be a mystery, even to those closest. The rest was rattling around in the back of her Dad’s old station wagon.
‘Do funerals get any easier when you’ve had to say goodbye so many times, Mum?’
Maggie felt a stab to her heart. There had been too many goodbyes.
‘No, buddy, they don’t. But you do learn to deal with them differently. How are you feeling about stuff?’
‘I guess I sorta know how Fiona must have felt when her mum died. But now … after Dad dying … I mean, he was her dad too, right?’
She could see Noah’s struggle. ‘We’re both going to need time to come to terms with all this. Fiona more than anyone.’
‘At least she’s got Phillip,’ he mumbled, his face turned so Maggie couldn’t see if the thinness of her son’s voice was from his tears or tiredness.
‘And we’ve got each other, bud,’ Maggie said. ‘I’m glad Fiona’s wised up and is at least giving Phillip a chance. What changed her mind?’
He faced Maggie, his nose red, the same as his eyes. ‘You did, I reckon.’ He grinned. ‘She likes you. Reckons you’re all right for a mum. The accident and all that Luke crap helped. Taught her a lesson, too.’
‘Shame it had to be at your expense.’ Maggie bit back the tiny speck of anger that would probably never go away. Noah had turned out fine, no lasting physical injuries, and Maggie knew anger or blame did little more than destroy lives. There’d been enough lives ruined.
‘I think she’d do anything to take all that back.’
Maggie had to concede, while Ethne’s prediction on that first day of storm season had been spot on, they could be grateful Fiona turned out to be a Category One storm only.
‘Fiona will always be welcome in our lives. I can hardly lecture her about Phillip and espouse the virtues of giving people a second chance and not do the same. I think you’ll be good for her.’
Maggie reached across and ruffled Noah’s hair, lamenting those times she’d been able to slip her fingers through her son’s fringe before he started gluing it in place with styling putty.
‘Muuuum!’ Noah jerked his head away, smoothed the hair back over his eyes and returned his attention to the rusted metal clip on the guitar case he’d been fingering.
Maggie had asked him to close the case a few hours back. She knew if she’d agreed to let him fill in the long trip going through the entire contents her ability to concentrate on driving would suffer.
‘I have an idea.’ Noah had already had a stint of driving on a good dual carriage section of highway a couple of hours back, and although supervising him was hardly a break for Maggie, with him back behind the wheel he’d forget about the guitar case.
Maggie indicated and slowed, pulling off the road, feeling the results of the much-needed engine restoration and wheel alignment; all for next to nothing. For reasons beyond her understanding, Cory had offered to work on the car on his days off. Noah helped, while Fiona, having been made redundant, was back in town and letting Ethne
teach her how to pull beers.
Maggie flung open her driver’s side door. ‘What say we go through that stuff together when we get home? You can drive the last few kays into town.’
Drive us home.
Clouds come floating into my life,
no longer to carry rain or usher storm,
but to add colour to my sunset sky.
Rabindranath Tagore
54
Maggie
Maggie woke to a perfect autumn morning, her eyes sliding open, her body stretching from fingers to toes. She wiggled the painted toenails peeping out beyond her pyjama pants and yawned aloud, letting the sound grow to a little squeal at the end. Sleep had seemed unlikely when she’d fallen into bed late, a little tiddly and bursting with excitement. Now she smiled at the thought of the day ahead. Storm season was over for the year and already March looked full of promise.
The door to her room creaked open and Noah’s face appeared, ‘You awake, Mum?’
‘Sure, bud, come on in.’ She sat up and leaned against the headboard, wedged a pillow behind her shoulders and fussed with her skew-whiff singlet top to cover her belly.
Noah swaggered across the room, flopped next to Maggie, angling his head to share the same pillow. He had his arms crossed over a burgeoning chest and there was a day-old downy shadow to his chin and top lip. What a metamorphosis—that fragile, premmie baby boy to this courageous and capable young man now staring up at the pressed tin ceiling.
‘Thanks,’ he said.
‘For?’
‘Everything. Trusting me. Saying yes to Fi and Europe after school. I’m not sure who was more excited. Her or me.’
Luckily, Phillip had rung Maggie to prepare her for the ambush and to explain that he planned on subsidising the gap year adventure when Noah finished. Fiona and Noah would base themselves with Phillip’s good friend in London, who apparently lived not far from the famous Abbey Road studio that, according to her son, was every musician’s Mecca.
‘Hmm, I’ll tattoo the conditions on your arm.’
He smiled. ‘Yeah, yeah, I know. Homework, dogs, bar shift, Facebook.’ Then in unison with Maggie he said, ‘And in that order.’
The pair lay side by side listening to the early morning sounds of the town they now called home.
‘Mum?’
‘Yes, bud.’
‘I want to feel good about Dad. I can’t be angry. I miss him and I feel sad, but I feel kinda lucky. Is that okay?’
‘Of course. Lucky how, though?’
‘Because of him I have a pain-in-the-butt sister who I’m thinking I can probably squeeze a few years’ worth of favours out of after she outed me like that.’ Noah’s laugh ended with a grunt as Maggie poked his ribs. ‘Ow! Only joking.’
‘I nose you are,’ Maggie said with a pinch to his nose. ‘Shhh! What was that noise?’
A loud bang outside catapulted her off the bed. She thrust the French doors open and stepped onto the veranda, peering over the railing to see Fiona’s canary yellow Saab with the roof up, the compartment crammed with balloons.
‘So, you’ve got big muscles, Cory,’ the girl was yelling. ‘I can see that without you having to prove it all the time. Be gentle, will you?’
The pair’s flirtations were obvious, even from where Maggie and Noah now stood on the veranda. ‘Cory and Fiona?’ She smiled at Noah as he sidled next to her.
‘Of course! From day one.’
Really?’
‘You didn’t notice him hanging around like a bad fart doing all those extra shifts, the cocktail event, working on Pop’s car …?’ Noah laughed. ‘He’s got the worst case of Fiona fever, ev-ar. That’s why he insisted on helping us today, even though I said balloons and him weren’t such a good combo, especially if he’s wanting to impress Fi.’
‘I thought Cory was … I thought he was your … friend.’
‘Nah! He’s a good mate, though,’ replied Noah with a candour that belied Maggie’s fears that awkwardness might distance her from her son, ‘and a bloody good drummer with the band.’
‘I see, and what exactly are you doing with the balloons?’
‘Ethne wants a Priscilla moment. Fi wants to give her one.’
‘Her what?’
‘Just wait ’til you see it. Gotta go.’
With Noah gone, Fiona below yelling at Cory, and a perfect autumn sky without a rain cloud in sight, Maggie felt a sudden urge to shout from the rooftops.
Last night’s red sunset had promised a sailor’s delight by morning and the folklore looked like proving true. Storm season was finally over and so too was the wettest summer on record. News reports had aired every night on the TV above the bar with breaking news bulletins documenting unprecedented flooding in south-east Queensland.
‘A bloody miracle’ was how locals explained Calingarry Crossing escaping the inundation that had struck so many river towns. The storm waters that had taken Charlie by surprise that night had been the start of major flooding in several catchments across north-western New South Wales. Only by being a strong old bugger had Charlie been able to hang on to a tree limb long enough for help to arrive.
While Calingarry’s loss, both stock and crop, had been minor, devastating losses elsewhere had made the New Year a reflective one, a time to think and appreciate all that was good. And what better way to celebrate a new beginning than with a big announcement?
A March wedding was exactly what the town needed.
Something old.
Something new.
Something borrowed.
Something blue.
Something wonderful. And Maggie needed some wonderful.
Three funerals in six months had taken their toll on Maggie. She’d lost Amber, suddenly and tragically, followed by the Rev’s painless and peaceful goodbye, and finally Brian.
Poor Brian. A final call for witnesses to come forward had delivered one tourist who remembered seeing him driving erratically, speeding on the treacherous hairpin bends up around Nine Mile Mountain that day. The actual crash site—a sweeping bend close to where the road plateaued, a break in the guardrail allowing tourists to stop and observe the breathtaking vista across the top of the ranges—had showed no sign of skid marks or second vehicle involvement. An investigation ruled out both mechanical problems and environmental causes as contributing factors, and the coroner found a low quantity of ecstasy and alcohol in Brian’s system did not contribute directly to his death. She also dismissed the text message Brian had sent to Maggie as not significant, and with no suicide note made an open finding.
But Brian did leave a note.
He left it in a song, in the old guitar case, in a faded folder.
Maggie had reread the lyrics so many times they were now stuck in her head. As if the song wasn’t enough, that old guitar case crammed with keepsakes lifted a lid on his lifetime of secrets. Just like the Rev had hung on to his un-posted letter to Dan, Brian had replied to Amber’s letter. He kept his own un-posted letter, along with the song, in a small package—a folder of old photographs and press clippings, mostly social page pictures featuring Amber and Phillip Blair with their small daughter. A kind of dossier on the daughter he’d longed to know.
Maggie had cried when she read his words. She’d cried for herself, for him, and for Fiona. He’d held a torch for Amber for years, only she’d found a new life, one a poor pub musician couldn’t compete with. How long into their marriage had he kept that torch aflame? Maggie told herself it didn’t matter any more. She could hardly condemn Brian for clinging to his memories. Hadn’t she secretly held a torch for Dan Ireland throughout their marriage?
What was clear from Brian’s letter to Amber was the reason he’d never contacted her or Fiona. Brian had said the same thing to Maggie in his text. He wasn’t good enough. Yet, she wished she could tell him now, he’d been such a good father to Noah in those early years.
At least Brian had taught Maggie a lesson. It makes no sense yearning all your life for something w
hen with a little courage it could be yours.
No more wishing, no more fantasising. It was time to make those fairy tales come true.
Maggie checked her watch.
It’s time.
She kicked off her fluffy pink scuffs and slipped into her new shoes—white satin sandals with a woven wicker wedge heel that were only slightly more practical than stilettos. She inspected the finished product, from head to toe, in the mirror. How long had it been since she’d worn an outfit so fancy, so feminine with its frilly, flowing layers in hues of emerald green and turquoise? Noah said she looked like a peacock, while Fiona hadn’t looked twice at the out-of-this-world price tag before handing over her credit card to the surprised Saddleton boutique owner. The girl had even spoilt Ethne with a string of pearls for the wedding and a handwritten note that Ethne had laughed over before tucking it down her sizeable breast and hugging her.
Everyone had changed and grown this past season. No one more than Fiona. No longer the party princess, she’d had to grow up whether she wanted to or not. The evolution of Fiona’s expressions the day Maggie and Phillip had sat her down and shown her Brian’s keepsakes and the song was still clear in Maggie’s mind. At first joy, then confusion, and finally anguish for yet another person lost before she’d had the chance to know them.
Simmering Season Page 41
