A Roast on Sunday

by Robinson, Tammy

  “Eh, Kia Ora Willow and Nick,” Arihana said from the front passenger seat, her lined face creased up into a smile like a Sharpei dog.

  “Hey Arihana, how was your night?”

  “Oh choice dear, it was fabulous as always. You two behaving yourself?”

  “Yes Arihana.”

  “Now that’s disappointing,” Arihana cackled, her voice throaty and husky from forty years of smoking Marlboro lights. “Your grandmother should have taught you better. Here,” a dollar coin came flying out the window and bounced off Nick’s right cheek.

  “Ouch.”

  “Don’t spend it all at once, you hear?”

  “Yes Arihana.”

  Then the car took off back down the driveway, the stereo cranked up loud again.

  They watched them leave. “Right,” Willow sighed, rolling over and stretching out a fingertip to retrieve a book. “I suppose we better get this out of the way.”

  Chapter four

  The centre of town was already a hive of activity when Maggie arrived. Representatives from the town council and volunteers were busy decorating the town square to give it a party atmosphere and construction workers were at work erecting a wooden stage at one end, from where a procession of local bands would provide entertainment that night.

  It was a well attended event. Even farmers who rarely left the isolation of their properties made the effort, scrubbing up and driving in. It was a good excuse to meet up with distant neighbours and friends, share stories and catch up on any gossip. It was also a chance to support local produce and artists, and Maggie’s soaps in particular were hugely popular.

  As Maggie drove down Main Street looking for a park she spied Ray, camped out on the bench seat in the centre of town under the shade of a giant oak tree.

  Back in the 1920’s the townsfolk had planted some two hundred Oak trees, one to honour every local man from the area that had been killed during the war. Underneath each tree a cross was erected with the name and dates of the serviceman carved into its wood. Most of the oaks had flourished; growing straight and tall and proud, although over the years the odd one had succumbed to disease, lightning strikes and in one infamous incident, a lovers tiff, a bottle of Jack Daniels and an axe.

  But amongst the young seedling trees there had been one that was smaller and spindly and with no leaves. It was basically one big stick with a few little sticks growing out of it. After careful deliberation it had been decided to plant that one on the village green and see what it would grow into. It would prove to be a portentous decision, as the tree had grown into an Angel Oak. Huge and gnarly and crooked, the branches of the tree curved and bowed and stretched out in all directions, some sagging right down to skim the ground. It was as if the tree had known from the time it was a sapling that its purpose was to grow and provide endless entertainment to children over the years, and as it grew it twisted and contorted itself into fascinating shapes.

  Many a mother had left her children under the watchful eye of the tree while they did their shopping. The branches just itched to be climbed, and the mossy seats and leafy green undergrowth had fired up many an imagination. Over the years the tree had been used as a pirate ship and a castle. It had also served well as a witches hut, Peter Pan treehouse and a carriage, transporting many a princess to a ball or other such grand function. The trees uses were limited only to the imagination. A few years back someone had hung a few tyre swings from the lower branches, and the kids made full use of them.

  The adults used it purely for shelter, although many of them could wistfully remember the fun they’d also had in the branches as children. The tree provided protection from the heat of the sun in summer, and in winter the thick canopy repelled the rain.

  Permanent bench seats had been erected underneath, and now old men congregated there on weekends and any other day that also took their fancy, which were most days in summer. It was the best vantage point from where to observe the town’s happenings.

  Today, Ray had been joined by Sam, Henry and Alfred, (although everyone just called him Fred.) The men were musing over the opening of a new bakery shop when Maggie pulled up in front of them.

  “Dad,” she said, getting out of the car and addressing him over the roof, “did you take your pills this morning?”

  “Yes I did,” he said, “stop fussing.”

  “You can’t blame me. Nine out of ten times you forget.”

  “Yeah well, today I remembered.”

  “Where’s mum?”

  Ray shrugged his shoulders. “She and the others went up bush. Probably be back sometime today. Nights are still too brisk for them to be gone for long.”

  At the mention of this the other men’s ears perked up. Dot, Arihana, Hazel and Lois had been girlfriends since their young teens. Their friendship had withstood years of marriages, children, divorce, infidelity scandals and sickness. The women were as tight as knots in a rope and nothing had or ever could come between them, although over the years some had tried. Husbands, lovers and children had long resigned themselves to coming in second fiddle behind the friendship.

  The four women were beauties in their time, envied and despised by some and admired and desired by others. They were a law unto themselves and refused to be dictated to by society. When others wore their hair prim and curled short around the ears like the queen, the four of them wore theirs loose and carefree around their shoulders. When the fashion called for wing tipped eyelids and dark stained lips, they wore nothing but a dusting of golden tan across their cheekbones and the sparkle of life in their eyes. Their lips curled knowingly with secrets only they knew. It infuriated the other women.

  Every now and then the four of them left everything and took off up into the hills that rimmed the lake for a night or two. For years it had been a mystery as to what they were up to, and rumours swirled around lamp posts.

  “They’re up to no good,” the towns’ women sniffed piously some forty years previously. “What kind of a woman leaves her husband and children to fend for themselves while they get up to god knows what in the hills. Mark our words, those girls are meddling in something dark, like witchcraft.” This was meant to scare the men and curb their curiosity, but it had the opposite effect. Immediately their eyes glazed over as they pictured the women dancing naked under the moon.

  Finally, one bright moonlit night back in the late fifties, a group of men had got wind that Dot and the others were planning on heading bush, and they banded together and told the wives they were headed to the lake for a spot of night fishing. Instead, they lay in wait under the ferns at the edge of the path that led up to the hills and when the four women passed by they followed them, from a distance by which they could still hear the women laughing but which they hoped would keep them unseen. The men were whipped into a fever of expectation; near quivering with the possibilities of the delights and wantonness they were to be privy to that night.

  The quivering however, only kept them warm for so long, and after that they nearly froze to death out in the cold trees and undergrowth.

  The women went into a large cave, the entrance to which was obscured from the casual eye by thick vegetation. Once inside they soon got a fire going, and from their hiding spot the men could only watch the flames dance merrily and long for the warmth they offered.

  And that was it.

  There was no nakedness, and no dancing.

  To the men’s immense disappointment not one single act of wanton behaviour took place.

  There was only the clink as a bottle of whiskey was passed from woman to woman, the strumming of a guitar and the murmur of voices pierced by the occasional snort of laughter.

  The men waited all night, trying to catch a glimpse of something, anything, that would make losing all sensation in their toes, (in some cases permanently,) worthwhile. But the next morning they headed home, disappointed and dejected, to face the fury of their wives.

  For Dot, Hazel, Lois and Esme, their time in the cave was simply a chance to
escape from the everyday struggles of life. Hazel’s aunt Jemima had used the cave for the very same thing with her own girlfriends, and before she died she took Hazel and showed her where it was and told her to always remember that when your husband and children drive you to drink, a best friend will always be right there drinking alongside you. “A best friend,” her aunt Jemima used to say, “will always be there for you, even when you’ve told them to get lost.”

  Dot and the others loved their husbands, for the most part. And they adored their children just as a mother should. But every woman needs an escape from it now and then, from the washing and the cooking and the constant background hum of “he started it! No she started it!”Every woman needs a chance to renew herself, and to reignite that spark inside of her that sometimes gets a little dimmed after everyday life gets in the way.

  So every now and then when it all got on top of them, off they would go. And they would drink, and laugh, and share stories, and they would look out over the lake and remember that life stretched further than just the boundaries of this small town. It put things back into perspective.

  And yes, there had even been, on occasion, a spot of nakedness. Sometimes when the whiskey had warmed the soul and spirits were high, they would run shrieking down to the lake and go skinny dipping under the iridescent moon.

  The men just chose the wrong night to spy.

  “Right, well if you see her,” Maggie told her father, “remind her that she’s supposed to be helping me set up the stall and running it tonight.”

  “Will do.”

  “And dad?”

  “Yes?”

  “Why don’t you make yourself useful and help Willow out occasionally with her homework.”

  “The kid does homework?”

  Maggie didn’t bother answering him. On market days most of the car parks around town square, except for a precious few, were roped off, leaving plenty of room for the food stands and craft stalls and people to linger and talk. She had spied one of these precious car parks become available a mere twenty metres down the road and she quickly got back into the car and drove off to claim it. Just as she pulled up though, a black truck cut in from the other side of the road and stole the park.

  “You’ve got to be kidding,” Maggie said furiously. She double parked behind the truck and got out of her car, marching up to the driver’s door and banging on the tinted window.

  “Excuse me,” she called out, “but this park is mine.”

  The door opened forcing her to take a step back and the glint of sun bouncing off the truck’s bonnet momentarily blinded her. She heard a voice say, “show me where your name is and I’ll let you have it.”

  She frowned, the voice was familiar.

  “Don’t be silly,” she said. “You know that’s not what I meant. I was clearly indicating to pull in here and you cut across and stole it, dangerously I might add.”

  “Well,” the man behind the voice stepped out of the truck and smiled at her, “I didn’t see you indicating. So I guess that makes the park mine. First in first served. It’s only fair.”

  She sucked in her breath sharply. It was him, the man from this morning. The one who had questioned her parenting skills and insulted her town. The one she hoped had merely been passing through on his way to somewhere else.

  “You,” she said.

  “Yep, me. How lovely to see you again, Maggie.”

  “Mrs Tanner.”

  “Still cross with me I take it.”

  “Are you deliberately trying to annoy me?”

  “Of course not,” he frowned. “Why on earth would I want to do that?”

  “You tell me.”

  “You’re awfully paranoid, aren’t you.”

  A horn beeped out in the road and Maggie realised that she had caused a minor traffic jam to back up.

  “Well, thanks to you I’m now running late,” she said. “I hope you’re happy,” and she turned swiftly and hurried back to her car, ignoring the chuckle she heard over her shoulder.

  “Happy?” she heard him say, “Of course I’m happy. That’s twice in one day I’ve been lucky enough to run into you.”

  As Maggie drove off again cursing under her breath, Sam and the other men who had been watching the exchange with interest exchanged glances.

  “Well well, I think it’s fairly obvious what’s going to happen there,” Henry said, stretching out a leg that had started to go to sleep from sitting prone for so long.

  “Yep,” agreed Sam. “And it’s about time too.”

  “What are you lot on about?” asked Ray.

  “That man,” Henry said, pointing with a shaky finger to where Jack was standing and watching Maggie as she drove off.

  “What about him?”

  “It’s obvious he’s taken a shine to your Maggie.”

  “Has he now?” Ray studied the man. He was tall and broad shouldered with long limbs. His hair was blond hair and it curled up at the nape of the man’s neck - a touch too long in Ray’s opinion. He couldn’t see the man’s face as he had his back to them, but he could tell from the admiring glances other women were giving the man and the way they pushed out their chests and fluffed up their hair that he must be what women considered good looking.

  “It’s been a heck of a long time since Jon left,” Sam went on. “She’s a beautiful girl. It’s not right for her to be on her own.”

  “She’s not on her own. She’s got me and her mother and Willow.”

  “You know that’s not what I meant. A woman like her deserves to be loved.”

  “Maybe so, but you know she’s not about to start anything. She can’t. Not with the way things are with Willow.”

  “You guys are still pulling that shit? Man that’s crazy. That kid is old enough to know better. You underestimate her. Be straight up, she’ll understand.”

  Ray held up his hands in agreement. “Hey it’s not up to me, it’s her mother’s thing and I’m staying out of it.”

  They watched as Maggie appeared around a corner lugging two suitcases behind her. They could see that her expression was cross even from all the way across the square, and as she passed underneath trees the leaves shuddered and shrivelled away from her wrath.

  Ray sighed and got to his feet, his knees creaking in protest like the branches on the ancient oak above him. “I’d better go help her,” he said. “See you guys tonight.”

  Chapter five

  With Ray’s help Maggie managed to set her stand up in preparation for the night ahead in record time. There wasn’t a great deal she could do in advance anyway, as she never put the soaps out until just before the market started. In the heat of the day they would start to soften and melt quickly, but once the sun went behind the big oak they would be ok. So it was simply a matter of setting up the tables. Three tables made up her little area, and she arranged them as usual in a U shape, with one in front of her and another on each side. The front table she covered with a pale lemon coloured cotton table cloth, the one on her right in mint green and the one on her left in rose pink. She loved colour, could never stand plain white anything. In fact, when she married Jon twelve years previously she had worn a dress made from dusky orange silk, with matching baby rose buds woven through her hair. It was quite out of the norm and hadn’t been a popular choice with everyone who’d attended, but she and Jon had loved it and at the end of the day that was all that mattered.

  Once the cloths were laid she opened the suitcases containing her stands. Ray carefully peeled off the layers of newspaper and passed them to her to arrange on the tables. She fingered their cool surfaces lovingly as she placed them where she wanted them.

  A few years back she’d grown tired of using wicker baskets to display her soaps in. The baskets gathered dust in the months between markets, and if it wasn’t dust it was dirt from the garden after Dot ‘borrowed’ her baskets to go fruit or flower picking or to collect the eggs from the chickens. Maggie would have to scrub them clean every time she needed to use them
, and over time the wicker had started to fray and fall apart and look messy.

  By chance she had ducked into the second-hand shop one day to have a word to Mavis behind the counter about her goat breaking through the fence wires and raiding their vegetable garden again, and while there she had fallen in love on the spot with a vintage blue glass cake stand. It was gorgeous. Straight away she knew she had found a new way to display her soaps. She bought that stand and another one Mavis had, three tiered, ceramic with delicate flowers and birds and gold around the rim. And then every time she had a chance over the next few months she made trips to other second-hand and antique shops in other towns, and now she had an eclectic collection that was her pride and joy. Single story cake stands made from coloured glass and glazed ceramic, milk glass and even a couple made from Jadeite. She also had a big one made out of shiny tin, which she used to display her silver birch soap. When rubbed into the joints the soap eased arthritis and muscular pain, so was in demand from the town’s elderly and sportspeople.

  No two were the same, and that’s what she loved about them, the mismatch of it all. They displayed her soaps beautifully like they were cupcakes or some other such delectable treat, and few who passed by her stall could resist the temptation.

  She had no issue with leaving her cake stands all set up as other stall owners were always around, as well as Ted, the overweight security guard pushing seventy who the council paid every market to wander around and keep an eye on things. Once she had everything where she wanted it she stepped out from behind the tables and surveyed it from the front, just as her customers would see it.