House for All Seasons

by Jenn J. McLeod

  By the end of Main Street, she’d decided against riding down memory lane. Cheerless childhood reminiscences were sure to ruin the joie de vivre she’d absorbed from Will just now. She rode hard out of town, down the old punt road and back to the Dandelion House, both legs now threatening to cramp.

  *

  A walk around the property did two things. It worked the cramps out of her calves and worked up a mental list of potential to-dos. Forgetting the million-and-one odd jobs that would enhance the general appearance of the house, the yard alone was in need of major work. Garden beds overflowed with weeds, paddocks needed slashing, fallen-down fences would benefit from propping up. There was a small cow, a pair of scruffy-looking sheep and some chickens in an elaborate, oversized coop. Other than the chooks, the place seemed remarkably devoid of birdlife.

  Or the birds have more sense than to be out in this heat—unlike you.

  Enjoying the noticeable decrease in temperature as she wandered towards the river at the rear of the property, Sara dropped onto a dense patch of clover under the sprawling canopy of a peppermint tree, its bent-over branches tickling the grass as they swayed back and forth. She kicked off her shoes, tucked her socks inside them and let her toes wiggle in nature’s cool green carpet. Then she untucked her loose-fitting shirt from her shorts to let air circulate over skin speckled with sweat.

  Lying back, arms folded under her head, she closed her eyes. The trickle of lapping water let her thoughts drift back to when she and Willow had made their paper boats, launching them, probably not far from this very spot, and watching their often-perilous journey downriver. Sara used to try so hard to make a boat that would survive the journey, but no matter how carefully she folded and moulded her paper boats, she could never predict their course.

  ‘Do one for me,’ Willow called out to Sara one day as they ran and squealed, chasing one of Sara’s more successful creations as it scooted out to the middle of the river, carried by current, buffeted by breeze.

  But as hard as Sara tried, she could never make it the same way twice. Some of her creations never made it past the first bend, their fate obvious from the moment they hit the water, while others sailed for ages before snagging on fallen tree limbs, only to be dragged under, drowning beneath the water’s weight.

  ‘Wow, watch it go!’ Sara would squeal, bursting with optimism. ‘Come on, Willow, come on.’ But when Willow struggled to keep up, the pair would stand together, puffing and panting and watching the boat disappear, hoping it reached that magical, out-of-sight place she and Willow imagined rainbows ended.

  Those paper boats had been young Sara’s first lesson in destiny. Gypsy had said people were a lot like boats, most opting for anchorage in safe harbours, happy to bob about in the same spot, too scared to venture from familiar shores for fear of what was around the bend. Not Gypsy—not with her parents part of a carnival troupe. For Sara, who’d always felt trapped in Calingarry Crossing, it was hard to understand why anyone would choose a small country town and give up the chance to travel. Gypsy’s answer back then had been simple. She stayed for Willow. ‘Sometimes, Sara dear, you have to choose the safe harbour for the sake of those you love.’

  Remembering that, Sara wondered if that’s what her father had done by choosing to stay in Calingarry Crossing when they could have moved permanently to the city, closer to hospitals, treatment and care. Sara knew she’d been conceived out of love and her parents’ desperation to have a family. Liz Fraser had been forty-six when Doctor Wynter, Caitlin’s dad, gave them the news they’d waited their entire married life to hear. But as Sara often heard, the risks pregnancy posed to her mother’s health had been a source of great stress for sixty-year-old Barry. At his insistence, Dr Wynter arranged specialist care in Sydney. Months of dedicated treatment in a private hospital ensured a healthy mother and baby came home to Calingarry Crossing. A besotted Barry had boasted to his mates at the pub about his clever wife and baby Sara, who he referred to as his little princess. Sara used to love hearing her father tell the story about how he’d shouted Doc Wynter and everyone in the hotel one day a beer. Not until her early teens, when Barry started telling her the same princess-daughter story every few days, had Sara realised poor Barry was reliving that moment.

  By the time Sara was thirteen, Liz Fraser’s lungs required oxygen throughout the day and night. Barry was having enough trouble just looking after himself, leaving Sara to shop, cook, clean and cope with her mother’s increasing dependence. It took two more years for doctors to stop ignoring Barry’s deterioration. As the inevitable crept closer, Sara had assumed the quiet depression was a response to his beloved wife’s pain and frustration. Only after he’d almost blown up the house one day while changing over the oxygen bottle did Sara let herself see the dementia stealing her father away.

  Once diagnosed, his decline had seemed swift—and shattering—the family’s needs dictating Sara’s life, including her schooling. Barry was a war veteran, so there was some respite from nursing services and a caring community’s best intentions. That meant some days Sara was able to be a regular teenager, but her erratic school attendance left her struggling to keep up. Some kids poked fun at Barry’s increasingly childlike behaviour. On several occasions, Sara found him wandering Calingarry’s streets. Soon, those who didn’t talk about the Fraser family behind their backs fell over them with pity. Sara didn’t know which was worse. She’d tried just being there for her parents the best she could and ignoring the rest, until doctors insisted the job was too great for a teenager. Broken-hearted at sixteen, Sara settled Liz into Saddleton Nursing Home. She could have argued, fought to keep them together as a family a bit longer. She didn’t, accepting she’d perhaps given enough and it was time to start breaking free of the mooring and drift in search of her rainbow.

  Freed from some of her familial responsibilities, Sara was finally able to be young—and didn’t she make the most of her new-found freedom. That same year, she attended her first B & S ball and got rolling drunk. Someone told her she’d flirted with Will Travelli. Probably not something she wanted to remember. Unfortunately, it was also the year Amber Bailey and her father set out to ruin innocent lives by levelling scandalous accusations at Will. Within months, Will’s parents had shuffled their son off to the city. For two more years Sara did her best to care for Barry before authorities again deemed her not capable, placing her father into permanent care.

  Sara was alone.

  ‘Worst year of my life.’

  ‘Talking to yourself now?’

  ‘Elliott!’ Sara squinted into the sun and fidgeted with her shirt, tucking it back into place. She couldn’t see his face under the broad-brimmed stockman’s hat, just a toothy white smile. ‘You weren’t supposed to hear that. Just crazy talk. It’s these darn flies.’

  ‘It’s the heat making you crazy. Even the chooks are flat out on the ground up there. I just delivered some fresh straw bales and sand for the coop. If you’re a chook, there’s nothing better than a dust bath on a hot day.’

  ‘Hmm, let me lock that away in my memory box of useless information. If only I was a chicken.’ Sara grinned.

  ‘No worries. I have just the fix for the heat.’

  ‘You do?’

  He edged closer to the water, his bow-legged strut suggesting someone born in a saddle, his legs as muscle-bound as his arms. He was short but stocky. Sara had always hated being short and blamed it for her premature wrinkles; all that looking up at people and squinting into the sun had etched permanent scrunch lines at the bridge of her nose and the corners of both eyes. With wrinkles the single telltale sign of her thirty-six years, Sara still managed to fit into clothes from the Miss Shop racks. Being small and agile had also helped her stay active these last two years, even on those not so good days when she would have preferred eating worms to exercising.

  Today was a good day, though, in spite of the onslaught of memories, and Elliott’s unexpected arrival added to Sara’s enjoyment. Already she was settling
into the laid-back country life Calingarry Crossing offered, the contrast with city living becoming more obvious every minute. Back in Sydney, had a strange young man appeared at her door, then turned up the next day and startled her, she would have reported him as a stalker. What was it about Elliott that put Sara so at ease? Maybe the same thing that made it all of a sudden acceptable to leave windows and doors unlocked at night, the keys in the car, a bag unattended.

  Elliott had rolled up his jeans, exposing lily-white legs as he waded into the river up to his calves. ‘Hey, Sara! This’ll cool you down.’ He filled cupped hands with water and launched three quick sprays at her, securing direct hits each time.

  ‘Are you crazy? Stop! I said stop it!’ she yelled, as if it was acid and not harmless river water wetting her shirt through to the skin. She leapt to her feet, and as she stormed towards the house something between a sob and a scream pushed its way out, the stunned expression on Elliott’s face burned into her brain.

  ‘Argh!’ she growled, dropping to the stone steps at the front of the house and burying her face in both hands. ‘You are a crazy girl, Sara Fraser.’

  She half-expected Elliott to appear. When he didn’t, she guessed he was probably running full-pelt out of her life.

  Just like everyone else.

  Poor man. She had to apologise, but what would she tell him? The truth? No. People didn’t need to know. Anyway, she didn’t want to face him in her current state. She’d track him down tomorrow or the next day. Right now she had to pull herself together before going to Will’s, or was tonight a mistake?

  Sara, Sara, Sara. You’re making way too much of everything as usual. Besides, the man’s going to soooo much trouble with that microwave dinner.

  She made herself laugh, picked herself up off the step, and hoped a shower would wash away her bad mood.

  5

  No cycling into town tonight. Driving meant Sara could wear one of the two skirts she’d bought before leaving Sydney. A cheap, chic designer line now in suburban department stores was as haute couture as Sara’s budget allowed. The inexpensive, cool cotton and soft, flowing fabrics were perfect for a hot summer and a small budget. She’d also stocked up on comfy, loose-fitting tops in a couple of different styles and colours to mix and match.

  Taking it slow, conscious of the mob of wallabies she’d seen sheltering under gum trees in a disused paddock earlier in the day, Sara spent the last few kilometres willing herself to relax. Will’s invitation tonight was simply country hospitality.

  Two old friends catching up—right?

  Calingarry Crossing’s main street was almost deserted, with the exception of a half-dozen cars parked nose-to-curb further up the street outside the pub. Sara pulled into a parking spot opposite the café, remaining partially hidden behind the massive Hillii fig trees growing high from the wide nature strip running down the centre of the bitumen roadway. From her vantage point she could watch Will tug on the ropes to raise the shade awnings. Hand over hand he worked the pulley ropes to roll the canvas into place before securing the cord around a cleat, his fitted black T-shirt accentuating the power in those arms. With a nervous check of her barely-there lip gloss and light covering of mineral powder makeup, Sara sucked in some courage and stepped from the car.

  An older man, probably in his early fifties, with a big belly and wearing traditional black and white chequered chef’s pants with a grubby white shirt, bumped into Sara at the doorway to the café.

  ‘Ah, buonasera.’ He snatched up Sara’s hand, pressing it against his mouth. ‘Mwah. You are the beautiful and clever one.’

  ‘Hey, Dom! Back off, big guy.’ Will propelled his chair into the back of the big man, gently nudging him aside. ‘You can’t trust these Italians, Sara.’

  ‘Eh!’ The man gestured with his hand. ‘At least we do not need no maths teacher to help us count such little money, eh?’ He winked. ‘You are to help the boss. This is good news. To get the right pay for once will be molto bene!’

  ‘Watch it, old man.’ Will whipped Dom on the legs with the tea towel from his shoulder. ‘Can you believe I pay clowns like this, Sara?’ He laughed. ‘This is Domenico—the cook.’

  ‘That’s chef to you.’

  ‘Cook,’ Will insisted louder.

  ‘Cretino!’ There was a loud smack as Dom’s open palm landed against his forehead. ‘Make sure he feeds you, bella.’ Then he walked away whistling a Dean Martin tune.

  ‘He seems sweet,’ Sara said, following Will inside.

  ‘Sweet like a big boiled lolly, you mean? You obviously didn’t hear what he called me just then.’ Will chuckled. ‘Best you be careful of fat Italian men.’

  ‘Oh, but big oafish footballers are okay?’ Sara instantly regretted her flippancy. ‘Argh! Will, I’m so sor—’

  ‘Uh-ah.’ The chair turned on a penny almost tripping her, and Will held out a finger. ‘None of that, remember? Besides, I’m still a bit of an oaf, I guess, and not too good on the arithmetic either. I figured you with a calculator would be much better—and faster.’ He winked.

  ‘I figured that was what Dom meant just now. Did you want me to help?’

  Will whooped. ‘Never thought you’d ask. I’ve set everything up at the table in the corner. I’ll pour us a wine. You can start calculating while I drain the dishwasher.’

  ‘Wine? Better let me finish the pays first, otherwise there’s no guaranteeing Dom’s wages will be right.’

  ‘Well that would make things pretty much normal, but if you insist … I won’t be long.’

  She made herself comfortable and tried to concentrate over the crashing and banging in the kitchen.

  ‘Not sure why you still do all this manually,’ she called out, hoping to make herself heard. ‘A spreadsheet on the computer would be much easier, not to mention foolproof.’

  ‘Bed-sheets? Com-pu-ta?’ Will poked his head into the café. ‘Can you speak English?’

  ‘Okay, okay. You’re funny. Now back to the kitchen and leave me alone.’

  Back to the kitchen!

  Sara giggled as Will did as he was told, never imagining she’d hear herself say that to a bloke and have him obey.

  *

  Sara closed the pay book with a snap. ‘Done.’

  ‘How can you be? Takes me twice as long.’ Will slid a wine under her nose.

  ‘I’m fast when there’s wine and food on offer.’

  ‘Oh? Another thing I never knew about you, Sara Surprise. Best I feed you then.’ He winked before spinning one-eighty degrees and wheeling back into the kitchen, stopping to switch off the stark overhead lighting, leaving only the glow of the cake display now it was dark outside. ‘If you light the candles you can open the front door a bit and let in some air. With the lights off the bugs won’t be so bad. They’ve been real bad this year.’

  ‘Can I do anything else?’ Sara stopped at the door to the kitchen, taking in the commercial equipment: deep-fryers, toaster-press, stovetop and grill, plus several towers of white plates and bowls stacked on a long shelf under the stainless-steel workbench. ‘Gosh, this is impressive. I don’t remember a kitchen.’

  ‘Used to be just a burger joint. Nick used to do all the cooking out front. We put this wall in, moved the deep-fryers, put in a new stove, dishwasher. Basically everything you see.’

  ‘I did enjoy working here.’ Especially that Christmas holiday when you worked here too. ‘Anything that got me out of the house was good. Things got a bit quiet after everyone left town, though.’

  ‘We did all leave you. I left in a hurry. That wasn’t very nice.’

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ Sara scoffed, waving a blithe hand as that familiar warmth strangled her neck and branched out across her cheeks. ‘You didn’t leave me. You left because you had an amazing opportunity.’ The microwave beep was like a bell, saving her.

  ‘Reckon that’s a timely opportunity if you were to ask my mother,’ Will mumbled. ‘Let me grab the food. You sit.’

  Will emerged, ma
noeuvring his chair with one hand and balancing two plates on the other.

  Garlic, oregano and chilli were the dominant aromas wafting up from the dish of steaming red sauce and spaghetti he set on the table.

  ‘Dig in.’ He took a bowl of parmesan cheese from his lap and placed it at the centre of the table.

  ‘Smells divine.’

  After a few silent mouthfuls, Will stopped eating and without looking up from his meal said, ‘Sara? Can I just say something … It’s about Amber …’ Neither Will nor Sara looked at each other, staring instead at the mountain of spaghetti twirling around and around his fork. ‘You do know it wasn’t me, right? What Amber Bailey and her father said. I wasn’t part of that night.’

  ‘Of course, Will.’ Sara looked up, hoping she sounded convincing. ‘Never in a million years did I think that.’

  ‘You’d be the only one.’ He pushed his unfinished plate to one side. ‘What a mongrel, taking Amber away from her mother. Shame the gossip didn’t go with him.’

  ‘Calingarry’s bush telegraph was always pretty good from memory. Your parents believed you, didn’t they?’

  Will shrugged. ‘Took a while. The old man was cool, but you know Caroline.’

  Sara nodded even though she didn’t really know Will’s mother—not personally.

  All the time Sara had hung out with Will, growing up as one of the gang, she could count on one hand the number of times she’d gone to his house when his mother was at home. She knew of Caroline Travelli’s reputation—a pushy sidelines mother determined her boy would go far. In contrast to Caroline, Will’s father had been a quiet man, an accountant with a busy practice in Saddleton.