House for All Seasons

by Jenn J. McLeod

  ‘In that case I’ll be making sure the ladies have plenty of jams available for you.’

  ‘So this farmhand? Can I call him?’ Amber retrieved her mobile phone from her bag.

  ‘Ah, speak of the devil!’ Cheryl beamed—again—craning her neck to peer out the living room window, and following the sound of shoes scuffing up the front steps. ‘Don’t slam the—’ She grimaced, braced her body, and as the screen door banged predictably she giggled, held out both arms and welcomed the young man—a boy, really. ‘Good. You’re home. I want you to meet someone.’

  ‘G’day,’ the boy said cheerily.

  Did Amber look as crushed as she felt, hearing the casual way her mother used the word home? Or watching the way Cheryl’s arm draped over the boy’s shoulders in a See how proud I am kind of way? Amber stared at the bold, bubbly burst of autumn with tan freckles and a red-gold frizz and a thought slammed through her head so hard she almost didn’t hear his greeting.

  Except for his podgy stature, he could have been her brother.

  ‘Ahh, yes, hello there,’ she said, trying to guess the age of the boy whose head now rested in the crook of Cheryl’s shoulder. ‘And who is this?’

  ‘Apart from my saviour …’ A mutual squeeze suggested the term was a common one with the pair. ‘This is your farmhand, Amber. He’s very good with animals and he’d love to earn some pocket money. Wouldn’t you?’ Another adoring look at the boy. ‘You did say you’d pay whatever it takes, didn’t you?’ Cheryl grinned.

  ‘I … ah … he’s younger than I was thinking. Perhaps he’s—’

  ‘I’m older than I look.’ The boy’s eyes fired up. ‘And I’m a good worker.’

  ‘This is my daughter, Amber. She’s staying out at Gypsy’s place for a while and needs a hand with the animals.’

  ‘I’ll be fifteen next month and I’m good—for a farmhand job, I mean. I’m used to workin’ the land with me dad.’

  Bingo!

  The words were an invitation—a gift. It was like stumbling upon a wrapped parcel in a cupboard with your name on it two days before your birthday—and Amber had to shake the parcel, just a little.

  ‘And who is your dad?’

  The boy’s face scrunched up and Cheryl Bailey gave her daughter the kind of look a mother gives a child when she says something inappropriate in public.

  ‘Oh, what?’ Amber whined with growing impatience as she struggled to return the mobile phone to the inside pocket of her bag. ‘What are you looking at me like that for? What did I say this time?’ Amber was even starting to sound like a brat again.

  ‘Christopher’s father runs the cattle station out west I was telling you about.’

  Amber barely contained the gasp as her hand stopped in her bag to tighten around the small silver filigree picture frame. ‘Christopher?’ She whispered the name as if something had seized her throat. She tried not to stare. ‘That … that’s a lovely name.’

  ‘I can come out with you now if you want, take a look around, see what needs doing. Is that all right, Mum-Two?’

  ‘Go change your clothes first. And I want you back before dark.’

  The motherly kiss on the boy’s head had Amber tasting resentment for the second time in as many minutes. An uncomfortable silence followed and never before had Amber understood how much awkwardness could feel like shame.

  ‘He calls you Mum-Two? So what’s that about?’ Amber quizzed, more demand than innocent inquiry.

  ‘I happen to like the name,’ Cheryl said over the cross clattering of cups on saucers.

  ‘But he’s not—’

  ‘Amber, I had no one to call me mum. I missed it. I still do and that’s all there is to it. You have no idea of the hurt you and your father caused, so you’ll just have to put up with an old woman’s foolishness.’ Cheryl’s breathing was laboured, her frustration growing. ‘Why have you come here? What do you expect of me?’

  ‘You’re hardly old,’ was all Amber could say.

  ‘I’m ready.’ Christopher barrelled back into the room. ‘Can I put my bike in the boot to ride home after?’

  ‘Sure! Why not!’ Amber huffed with a petulant hand wave.

  Time to escape.

  ‘Bye, bye, Chris,’ Cheryl smiled and called out. ‘You be careful. I’ll see you for dinner. I’m cooking your favourite.’

  As Cheryl Bailey turned her back on her daughter, Amber knew then just how much her mother still hurt.

  32

  The pint-sized chatter-box didn’t stop talking all the way from Konjulup Road to the Dandelion House.

  Amber had managed a couple of strategic questions to encourage Christopher to tell her about his first visit to Calingarry Crossing three years ago, and how he’d come out from his parents’ cattle station every year since to stay with Cheryl.

  At least he wasn’t a half-brother, which had been her first horrific thought. Of course that notion had meshed with the memory of the baby boy she and Phillip lost fifteen years ago, the boy whose photograph she still carried, the boy with a mop of red hair and Phillip’s bluebottle-blue eyes. This fifteen-year-old sitting next to her today could be her child. What a shame she had no idea how to relate to one.

  ‘I’ll get it,’ Christopher volunteered once they were parked on the punt.

  He jumped from the car, straddled the wooden barricade and reached over to the big red GO button.

  ‘Be careful,’ she called out.

  The sub-marine cables engaged and the floating platform started its controlled drift. Christopher stayed at the front of the punt, darting from one side to the other and mumbling words Amber couldn’t hear—only see—like he was playacting, amusing himself. She guessed an only child from an isolated property might do that a lot. When they neared the opposite bank and the boy launched into a Leonardo DiCaprio I’m King of the World stance at the railing, Amber had to laugh.

  ‘Open the gates and get back in the car, Christopher,’ Amber called, her smile fading as she stumbled over the boy’s name. Why? Had she never met a person called Christopher before today?

  Not one that looks like this boy.

  Back in the passenger seat beside her, Amber had to ask. ‘You seem very familiar with the punt. How come? Do you know this place?’

  ‘Yup! Mum-Two used to come out here a lot.’

  ‘Oh? So, Cheryl would visit? That’s nice, isn’t it?’ She tried keeping the questions conversational.

  ‘We came lots when Gypsy got real sick. Mum-Two cried heaps after she died.’

  ‘She did?’

  Amber hit the brake hard forcing the car to jerk to a stop in front of the house, one arm instinctively pinning the small fifteen-year-old to the seat.

  ‘Yup! That’s how come I know where most things is.’ The boy grinned and Amber decided against correcting his grammar. She wasn’t his mother. She wasn’t anyone’s mother, never had been—not really. ‘And I know what needs doing.’

  ‘Then you’re the best man for the job.’

  Christopher seemed to like that, his squat frame puffing up a little as he got to work, disappearing around the back of the house while Amber went inside to change. While she hadn’t exactly packed a feed-the-chickens outfit, she was determined to find something a little less Gucci to ruin. There was a pair of gumboots by the front door—she’d noticed them last night—and while hardly glamorous, they were definitely more practical for traipsing around paddocks. Gripped by the idea of something lurking inside them, waiting for a tasty toe to bite, Amber banged the boots several times, first against each other, then against the railing, and finally on the stone steps, only then inching her feet inside.

  ‘Cinderella, eat your heart out,’ she muttered, making a mental note to look in town for a more suitable option. ‘Now, where’s my prince?’

  Christopher appeared, jumping two steps at a time onto the porch.

  ‘Whatchya laughing at?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh, nothing. Are you ready to start?’

  ‘All
done,’ he announced.

  ‘Done? Everything?’

  ‘Chooks fed and locked up. Gates checked. Filled the troughs. I can get a few logs and get a fire goin’ for ya if ya like.’

  Amber didn’t say no, banishing the notion of child exploitation. She was paying him, after all.

  ‘Thanks. I’ll be in after I get these boots back off.’

  The ones I just spent five minutes putting on!

  Grey storm clouds now blanketed the sky directly overhead and she thought she heard a distant rumble of thunder. The day of sun had lulled Amber into a false sense of the season. But that was autumn in Calingarry Crossing.

  The faintest smell of smoke suggested Christopher had already achieved what would have taken Amber three times as long. A fire would be nice after the cold last night, especially if rain was on the way. Rain did seem inevitable, the air already thick with moisture, the sort that ordinarily made her hair scream, as strand by strand the slow and certain frizz took over.

  Thud. Thud. Splat.

  The first few drops hitting the tin roof served as a warning, a very short warning. Then, as if someone flipped a switch, the drizzle turned into a deluge, an almighty, thunderous torrent thrashing the tin roof so hard her ears hurt. A clap of thunder sent her dashing for the front door, colliding with Christopher, who raced out with a look of sheer terror. He leapt off the porch, clearing the steps completely, and screeched.

  ‘Christopher, what are you doing? Come back inside.’ The poor kid was obviously terrified. Hell! She was terrified. ‘Quickly, Chris.’

  Could he not hear her over the rain?

  The boy didn’t move, his face fixed on the sky, his mouth gaping. Should she worry? Was the child having an epileptic seizure or something? She’d once seen a similar situation during a hospital fundraiser—a child in a petrified state, unmoving. Perhaps Chris was a bit slow or underdeveloped. He was certainly small for his age, and yet he had a maturity. Nothing like the brash fifteen-year-olds she saw in the city.

  ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake!’ She reefed the brolly from the tin bucket by the door and popped the button, the rainbow-patterned nylon exploding open as she padded down the stairs in stocking feet and across the already saturated drive.

  ‘Christopher, what’s wrong?’

  ‘Wooooooow! Awesome!’

  ‘Awesome? Please, Christopher.’ She yanked his arm. ‘Come inside. You’re soaking wet.’ The ridiculously small umbrella was a perfect handbag size. Shame it wasn’t a perfect rain cover. A wind had whipped up and was now sending the rain sideways, saturating most of her body. ‘Please, Christopher.’

  He easily resisted Amber’s gentle tugs, looking up at her, blinking, his face one big grin.

  ‘What is it? Why are you smiling?’

  He poked a soggy index finger towards her face and announced with some amusement, ‘You’ve got curly hair.’

  ‘Unfortunately, yes, I do now and I’m glad you find this so entertaining. I also have frozen feet.’ She tugged at his arm again, a little rougher this time. ‘Look at you. You’re soaking. I’m not sending you home to Cheryl like this. Come inside.’

  ‘But this is fun, Amber. Stay with me.’

  ‘It’s just rain, Christopher. You’ve seen rain before.’

  ‘Never.’

  Amber baulked, the umbrella now totally useless as a cover for two. ‘You mean it’s never rained where you live?’

  ‘Dad says it did when I was a baby, but I don’t remember. Seen plenty of thunder, though.’

  ‘Heard plenty of thunder,’ she corrected without thinking, horrified at sounding like her father during his Pygmalion phase, when he’d somehow wangled a place for his daughter at the Governor-General’s debutante ball.

  The first hailstone hit softly, then another and another until frozen balls started bouncing over the ground. They might have been small and spasmodic, but they still carried a sting.

  ‘Ouch!’ Christopher cringed and launched himself at Amber, cradling his head into her body, the two of them squeezed together under the pathetic excuse for a brolly.

  ‘Now are you ready to get inside?’

  The deafening noise under the tin roof of the veranda had the boy staring wide-eyed at the now golf ball–sized hail smashing on the ground. Amber was thankful the dented duco of the car in the driveway did not belong to the Saab.

  Then, as if a switch flicked back to OFF, the hail and the rain stopped.

  ‘Woooooow! How cool is this?’ Christopher cried out, leaping off the veranda.

  Cool?

  It was bloody freezing. She should be cross, but the excitement on the boy’s face as he formed balls of ice and smashed them against the ground actually warmed her.

  ‘Come on, Amber.’

  ‘I’m fine where I am. And you need to get dry.’

  ‘But it’ll melt. Hey, watch this,’ he hollered, pretending to skate on the thin layer of the fast-melting ice.

  ‘Be careful.’ All she needed was to hand her mother’s saviour back with a broken limb.

  ‘Come on, come on. This is fun.’

  The words You know you want to banged around inside her head. Appearances didn’t matter out here; it was a nice break away from her usual regime. Even as a teenager, Amber had put her appearance before fun. She was all about dressing up and showing off. The only time she could recall playing in hail like this was …

  ‘It was right here,’ she muttered wistfully. ‘Right here one day with Gypsy and Willow.’

  Sara had insisted Amber come with her to the Dandelion House, begging her to bring her makeup bag. Amber had the best collection: the latest eye-shadow colours, kohl liners, nail polish—the sort with sparkles—and every shade of lipstick.

  ‘How do we look, Amber?’ Sara had asked.

  ‘Fine,’ Amber said aloud. Like a couple of freaks! she told herself.

  The two of them looked ridiculous with their small, freckled faces smeared with makeup. Why Sara had cut her own beautiful blonde hair just because Willow had to cut hers was beyond Amber’s comprehension.

  ‘Come on, Amber. We’re supposed to be a trio,’ Sara called, putting the cassette tape in the portable player and turning up the volume.

  The Pointer Sisters blared out of tinny speakers, Willow and Sara screeching over the top, hairbrush microphones shoved in their faces. The veranda did make a great stage for an invisible audience of adoring fans. Amber draped herself in one of Gypsy’s old kaftans smelling of incense and swept her hair into a clip. Then she took her position onstage in time for another chorus of ‘I’m So Excited’. The young trio giggled and gyrated through several tracks until out of nowhere, the sky tipped a bucket of hailstones on the veranda’s tin roof.

  Amber’s scream almost outdid the thunderous clatter. Terrified, she ran towards the front door, colliding with Gypsy, who cushioned her frantic body in her protective arms.

  ‘Come on, Amber. Don’t be scared,’ Sara called as she darted across the ground with Willow, their kaftans providing makeshift buckets in which to heap hailstones.

  ‘I’m not scared,’ she insisted.

  ‘Of course you’re not. So why don’t you go on, love,’ Gypsy coaxed, nudging Amber. ‘You can take this with you.’

  She handed Amber the frilly sun parasol that lived in the old milk tin by the front door.

  ‘But that’s so pretty. I’ll ruin it.’

  ‘That’s okay. Better the parasol than you,’ Gypsy smiled. ‘Now, off you go.’

  Under the cover of the brolly, Amber ran out to join the other girls, now hurling moulded balls of ice at a shed. Willow passed her a ball and said, ‘Smash it.’

  And she did.

  BANG.

  Then they handed her more ice balls, urging Amber to throw harder. There was something almost therapeutic about smashing every ball they handed her harder and harder.

  Bang. Bang. BANG.

  ‘Okay, Christopher, gangway, and I’ll show you what we used to do when I was your age.
’ Amber cast aside the rainbow umbrella, pressed together a handful of hailstones and hurled the snowball against the side of the old garden shed that sat at one corner of the house.

  BANG.

  Christopher whooped. ‘Do it again. Do it again.’

  ‘You try it. See that knothole in the panel there?’ She pointed. ‘The one who gets closest wins.’

  They took turns slamming snowballs, Christopher easily claiming victory with each throw.

  Bang. Bang. BANG.

  *

  Amber had run home—late—and found her mother and father in the living room.

  ‘What on earth have you been up to, young lady?’

  Amber glimpsed her face in the hall mirror, a streaky mess of makeup from playing in the rain.

  ‘It wasn’t my fault,’ Amber bleated, going with the first thing that came to her lips. ‘It was Sara and Willow. They made me be late.’

  ‘I thought I told you to stay away from those two.’ Her father was mad, shaking mad, and the look on his face confused Amber. ‘You’ve had your mother crazy with worry.’

  ‘Sorry, Mum,’ Amber said, seeing the woman curled up in the corner of the lounge, legs tucked underneath, eyes lowered towards the half-glass of something tilting dangerously close to the cushion.

  No response.

  ‘Your mum’s a bit upset tonight. She’s had a fall.’

  ‘Oh, another one?’

  Amber had heard the same words and the same tone in her father’s voice many times. Her mother was always falling, and Amber was used to coming home to find her father doing his I’m here for you, honey routine, making excuses for his wife, comforting her, forgiving her, even though the woman continued to embarrass Amber and tarnish their family’s good name. Amber would never end up like her mother, a lonely, unfulfilled and socially inept woman with no purpose in life.

  ‘She’s not feeling her best, are you, love?’ Jack Bailey took his daughter’s hand, pulling her close for a hug while her mother stayed silent on the sofa. ‘Amber, honey, how about you take yourself off to bed. I’ll take care of Mum.’