House for All Seasons

by Jenn J. McLeod

  The room spun faster once her head hit the pillow and she tried not to think about the spiralling sickness wending its way up her throat.

  You made it, Pops—that final and very elusive barrier.

  There had been plenty of barriers over the years and she’d broken through every one, although not without her share of cuts and bruises, like tonight. Johnno’s rejection cut the deepest.

  Always had.

  Always would.

  Lying alone in the dark, Poppy focused on the positives. This award was testament to her tenacity. The pinnacle for a career journo.

  The bloody Walkley Awards.

  She’d worked so hard and finally the ultimate accolade was in her hot little hands. The sad thing was, though, the award wasn’t appreciating her, celebrating with her, or making her feel any less alone.

  That night, Poppy Hamilton—rock-hard reporter—rocked herself to sleep.

  *

  The shrill ring of the telephone shocked her awake, fingers searching out her mobile phone from amid the pill packets and snack bar wrappers on the crowded bedside table.

  ‘Woo-hoo, Poppy!’ the voice squealed. ‘You rocked, babe. You were the life of the party.’

  ‘Calm down, Kristen.’ Poppy squeezed her eyes closed several times, attempting to focus on the watch face dangling over the tissue box. Her gaze fixed on the lilac-coloured envelope leaning against the lamp, In Madgick We Trust printed in the left-hand corner. The letter had arrived several weeks ago, a reminder of her agreement to spend some time over spring at the Dandelion House. Poppy remembered flicking the letter into her tower of to-be-read correspondence on the office desk downstairs, or so she’d thought.

  ‘Shit, Kristen, what’s the time?’ She flopped back on her pillow, wedged the phone between her chin and shoulder and tore open the envelope. The card inside, with an old brass skeleton key stuck to the bottom with tape, read:

  Enjoy your Dandelion House stay, and remember …

  The key to happiness is making the right wish.

  ‘What the …?’ Scrunching her face hurt. So did Kristen’s continued squealing down the telephone line. Poppy dropped the envelope and smeared sleep from her eyes with the heel of a hand.

  ‘What are you going on about, Kristen?’

  ‘When are you coming into the office, Poppy? Everyone’s here and Max has popped the cork on some champers.’

  ‘Champagne? But it’s not even …’ She snatched up her watch. ‘Shit! Ten o’clock already?’

  ‘Max said he’s pouring yours now and to get your scrawny backside in here before the bubbles go flat.’

  Flat was a good match for Poppy’s mood this morning as she ended the call and ran fingers through her hair.

  ‘Oooh, crap!’ The lacquered tangle of hair still in its half-up, half-down state of confusion was enough to launch her from the bed and into a hot shower.

  Thirty minutes later, her shoulder-length black waves back to normal, the simple side part leaving a fringe to cover half her forehead, Poppy still felt blah. Not even the hot shower, the Berocca or the strong black coffee had recharged her. Once in the taxicab, she spent the twenty-minute ride into central Sydney practising her happy face, while her fingers toyed with the old-fashioned key in her pocket. Her mind played over her commitment to the girls, the message on the card, and the place she’d once nicknamed The House of Wishes.

  *

  ‘You look like crap,’ said the perpetually pretty and only recently post-pubescent office receptionist, Kristen.

  Max raised his glass and handed one to Poppy before she’d even had a chance to put her bag down.

  ‘Who’s my award-winning reporter then?’ He clinked glasses. ‘I think I saw our prime minister offering her congratulations at one point last night, didn’t I, hmm?’

  ‘Cheers!’ Poppy put on her fake happy face and sipped the champagne she didn’t want.

  ‘I personally can’t stand the woman, the hair, or the voice,’ Kristen effervesced between sips. ‘As far as I’m concerned, prime minister or not, some women should never ever be on camera.’

  ‘As if the woman has a choice, Kristen,’ Poppy said pointedly. ‘And if she didn’t make herself so accessible, most of us wouldn’t have half the stories or the jobs.’ Poppy threw back the remainder of her drink. ‘No doubt people say the same thing about my occasional on-camera appearances.’

  Poppy had never considered herself pretty. Flat-chested, close to six feet, and with a diet of little more than Coca-Cola, coffee and confectionery bars masquerading as health snacks, she verged on scrawny. The only perfect thing about her was her plainness, which made her meteoric climb through the cutthroat media industry even more impressive. Batting mascara-muddied eyelashes, flashing tits and sleeping around had played no part in Poppy’s escalation through the ranks. Occasionally her moral code took a hit, and while in the beginning she’d stamped her foot and stood tall, refusing to stoop to gutter journalism, all those tit-flashing, mascara-batting bimbos were getting the good assignments. So she decided, as long as her reports weren’t defamatory, as long as they boosted the show’s ratings or the newspaper’s sales, there was nothing wrong with doing what every other journo did—make a boring news item newsworthy. Nothing wrong with that.

  So, she was a slow starter. But didn’t she show them all.

  In the beginning, as a media trainee straight out of uni, she did local TV reports in Newcastle. Then segment presenter, including a short stint at anchoring the Later-than-late-and-no-one’s-even-up-so-why-bother news bulletin. It took a shade over three months as an assistant researcher in Canberra, watching the likes of Laurie Oakes and Peter Harvey, to understand the real politics of the press. Along the way, she’d learned how to suit up and look the part.

  Her move to war correspondent meant several trips to Afghanistan, the overseas posting yet another rung up the ladder, made even more rewarding when she was at last able to dress down. And for once in her life Poppy’s timing had been spot on. The ‘War on Terror’ era had utilised every spare journalist, including those within coo-ee of a degree and those just short of retirement. Poppy took a gamble, leaving a minor role with a major network news team to sign on as a freelance reporter with the Maximilian Coffey Agency. The ABC snapped her up almost straight away as researcher and producer. Ever since, it had been khaki dungarees and Doc Martens—except for last night.

  ‘They say no such thing about you, Poppy. Do they, boys?’ Max eyed the rest of the staff as he raised his glass to his number one reporter. ‘In fact there’s no comparison. You made it on your own. No power brokers or faceless men required to see you reach the top of your game. She might be PM, but if you ask me, unlike you, Pops, she still has her nose firmly pressed against that glass ceiling. I don’t doubt she’ll eventually break through, but—’

  Poppy exploded, piqued by the blokey display of head bobbing and grunts of agreement among the rest of the team.

  ‘You know what? You men so piss me off. She’s prime minister, for God’s sake. Does the fact that she’s actually already made it not compute in your testosterone-fuelled brains? Why should the how matter? Seriously, I don’t get it. Why is it not enough to be the best you can be? Why do women have to win popularity polls, beauty pageants or bloody awards to prove ourselves to you blokes?’

  ‘Take cover, everyone, Poppy’s armed and firing today.’ Max’s strained laugh through a frozen smile told Poppy she’d crossed the line. He took her gently by the elbow and waved a guiding hand. ‘Let’s step into my office, shall we? We have things to discuss.’

  Shit!

  Being called to the principal’s office had felt like this, and even though Poppy knew she and Max shared a special relationship that allowed her to get away with pretty much anything, the niggle in her gut was an all-too-familiar experience from her schooldays; although no principal’s office ever smelled of leather and cedar like Max’s did. And rather than the usual Queen Elizabeth II portrait that had adorned Principal
Weaver’s wall back in the eighties, Max had an Archibald Packers’ Prize original behind his desk.

  After nudging the door closed with his foot, Max shut the venetians with a snap.

  ‘Now sit.’ He nodded towards the sofa, while he perched on the corner of the desk, his three-hundred-dollar loafers kicking the cedar legs with riling regularity.

  ‘Sorry, Max. I was out of line. It’s just I—’

  ‘Sit!’ He raised an eyebrow, no doubt at her brattish slump into the over-stuffed cushions. ‘We’ve known each other a long time, Poppy. We’ve shared the good, the bad, and the downright ugly. I can talk to you about anything. I wish you would talk to me. I do know what this is about.’

  ‘Really? What?’ She immediately regretted the challenge in her voice, but she couldn’t help it. Max might think he knew her. In reality, no one knew what lay behind the impassive mask Poppy wore in public.

  ‘I dragged you into my office for two reasons. One, I couldn’t let the junior staff think they can get away with speaking to me like you did just now; and two, since we’re behind closed doors, go ahead. Fire away.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Come on, let it out. Get whatever the problem is off your chest. I’m assuming Johnno’s behind your mood. His not showing up for the awards really got you going. I saw it in you last night.’

  How? she asked herself. Poppy thought she’d done an amazing job of hiding her hurt from everyone—including Max.

  A sigh escaped her lips—part frustration, part relief—and she blinked back tears as she sank her body deeper into the sofa, hoping the cushions would swallow her up so she could avoid admitting anything, to Max or herself. He was the most understanding boss—an even more tolerant friend—and she felt comfortable enough confiding in him, but usually in the darkness of the editing room where, if her mask slipped, her silent tears stayed undetected.

  Why she was letting last night bother her, Poppy didn’t know. Johnno had abandoned her before, and while she was used to him drifting in and out of her life, for some reason this time she’d let herself believe he’d attend the awards and she’d finally hear him say he was proud of her, if not to her face then at least to Max. His not showing up without sending word told Poppy one thing: her father was about to go incommunicado and disappear from her life—again.

  Right now, under the scrutiny of her boss and best friend, disappearing sounded like a good idea, and thanks to Gypsy, Poppy had the perfect vanishing act lined up. Spur of the moment decisions were not unusual in a journalist’s life and she was used to reacting fast, usually for some professional advantage, taking a last-minute flight to a devastated region, or chancing an early-morning stakeout of a politician’s favourite hangout. Springing a member of parliament in a compromising situation always found a spot on the nightly news. Only this wasn’t professional. This was personal.

  A quick decision is a good decision.

  ‘I need some personal leave, Max.’ She flung the decorator pillow she’d been hugging to the far end of the office sofa. ‘I need time off. I have to go away.’

  ‘Time off? Now? Are you serious?’ His laugh sounded guarded. ‘I’ve been trying to get you to do that for how long and you choose now? This is your time, Poppy. I’ve already scheduled a meeting with the boys upstairs. There’s a twelve-month fill-in gig as anchor on WS just waiting for you to say yes.’

  Poppy jolted forward, her eyes slamming wide open in disbelief. ‘Why on earth would you do that?’

  ‘Aw gee!’ Max took a walk around his desk, stopping to straighten the picture frame that hardly needed straightening. ‘Let me think about my answer for a nanosecond. Because, Poppy, everybody wants to anchor World Snapshot. So their ethics are questionable sometimes. Whose aren’t? WS has catapulted how many people’s careers into the stratosphere? Seems like an obvious next step to me. But then what would I know?’ He shrugged.

  ‘You do know why they call the role anchor, don’t you? That’s exactly what it would do—anchor me.’

  ‘So what? You saying it would be insufferable to stay put in one place for a bit, give that passport a break, have a relationship maybe, focus on your personal friendships and—’

  ‘I don’t have time for personal friendships.’ Poppy deliberately ignored the relationship line. ‘Besides, I can’t even look at myself in the mirror. What makes you think I’d be any better looking at myself on a television monitor as anchor? You heard Kristen. Some people aren’t meant to be onscreen. I like my life behind the camera these days.’

  ‘You don’t have to decide now. Take some time to think.’

  ‘I don’t need time to think. I need time to get away.’

  ‘You mean run away.’ Max may have mumbled the words for effect, and they may have raised the hackles on the back of her neck, but Poppy chose to ignore the remark, glaring at his thinning crown of grey hair instead as he yanked the top drawer of the desk open and slapped a pad extra hard, driving his point home.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘A leave application form.’ He tossed a pen at Poppy, then the pad. ‘I realise you’ve never seen one before. People generally fill one out when they request leave. Annual leave, in case I need to explain, is the thing most people—’

  ‘So you’re saying yes? I can go?’ she asked, already filling in the blanks on the form.

  ‘You know I always say yes no matter what you ask. It’s a word I’m quite okay with and one I wish you’d practise next time I want to take you out for a decent meal. A real meal with real food.’ He tipped his head to one side, his eyes narrowing, his voice softening. ‘So, time off—how long are we talking exactly?’

  Poppy shrugged and handed the form back. ‘I don’t know. A month, maybe more.’

  Poor Max, she thought, wishing it could be different, wishing she could be different.

  He was wasting his time trying to change her. He’d been wasting his time for far too long. Max had tried to encourage Poppy to find a relationship, settle down, focus on her personal life, but she was not the sort of person who fell in love easily or believed in forever. Forever was for fairytales. She’d never seen herself as wife, mother or homemaker. Too nomadic. Never was it a case of There’s no place like home for Poppy. It was more like There’s no home at all, just constantly finding a place on the run.

  ‘No work for a month or more? I can’t see you surviving, to be honest.’ Max signed the form and returned the pen to his shirt pocket. ‘I assume you have plans. I certainly hope wherever you’re going they lock up all sharp objects. Besides go nuts, what are you going to do?’

  Poppy knew if she told him he’d think she already was nuts.

  ‘I have a few things in mind.’

  Max examined the form, then consulted the calendar on his desk, his wide-eyed response telling Poppy he’d noticed the date. ‘And your leave starts today? You can’t be serious.’

  ‘I have to. Sorry, Max. I really appreciate this.’

  ‘Are you going somewhere in particular? The airport? I can give you a ride.’

  Poppy let herself smile. Max was a father and a best friend all in one comfortable package. He’d reluctantly settled for the role a long time ago. For some reason, she couldn’t let him into her life any more than that. Maybe because she’d stood on her own for so long. Maybe because the thought of arms wrapped around her did not comfort Poppy, they trapped her, pinning her to one place. Max was right about one thing, though: Poppy didn’t do well in one place for too long.

  ‘Max, I’ve travelled to the war-ravaged Middle East. I think I can make it back to Calingarry Crossing on my … Oh shit!’ she said, realising her slip.

  ‘Calingarry Crossing? As in where you grew up?’

  Poppy pounded a fist into the cushion beside her. ‘How the hell do you do that, Max? I wasn’t going to tell, but you have this way about you.’

  ‘What can I say? I’m an old newspaperman. I may not always get the girl, but I always get my story.’

  ‘We
ll, best you get the facts right then.’ She took a deep breath and let the explanation flow out in one long sentence. ‘Yes, I’m going home and I’m supposed to go alone because of some bizarre get-back-to-your-roots thing of Gypsy’s, who was into all that Mother Earth and tea-leaf stuff.’

  ‘Who’s Gypsy? You’ve never mentioned her before. This isn’t some weird cult thing, is it?’

  Poppy gave a little snort and settled back into the sofa, hugging a new pillow to her stomach and smiling as she pictured the Gypsy she remembered in billowing rainbow kaftans with flowers in her hair as some whacko cult leader. She’d worn kaftans all year, even in the middle of winter. Only then she’d cover up with a bulky, homemade cardigan, or the well-worn Driza-Bone coat that always hung on the hook inside the front door of the Dandelion House.

  Gypsy’s wardrobe was as loud as she was, and as colourful as the stories she used to tell. For a woman around sixty—as she would have been last time Poppy had seen her, give or take five or so years either way—her skin had always been smooth and shiny, stretched taut over a big moon face. The widow’s peak at the top of her forehead was the most pronounced Poppy had ever seen, and she wore her long, grey hair in a single plait, the ratty, wiry end bound by an elastic band. Sometimes she’d twist a scarf and the plait together into a bun at the nape of her neck. A big woman with a big smile and a boisterous belly laugh. Poppy could almost feel the warmth of Gypsy’s hugs as she tightened her own arms around the pillow on her lap, drawing it into her body as she tried explaining to Max.

  ‘When I was little, Gypsy used to scare me. Different did back then. She kept to her home on the other side of the river, and preferred her own company to that of others in town. The kids at school had called her the spooky lady and for a while I’d believed the stories about her boiling little children and using them for bait. I’d even perpetuated those stories to be popular.’