by Jennie Jones
‘Good for her.’ He couldn’t halt the swell of satisfaction, but he’d bet his left arm she hadn’t expected the dogmatic will of small-town inhabitants to bring her plans in Swallow’s Fall to a standstill. He smiled. He might feel a tug of pride for her but Red had no patience. Nothing new there.
But what had brought her back to her native country? Charlotte’s battle had happened nine months ago. She’d been in Australia a couple of months now.
The answer probably lay in the reason why she’d left in the first place. The article said she’d lost her home, not just her business, and stated she’d been in England since childhood. Yet she hadn’t let anyone think she was anything other than British. Why would she hide the fact that she was born in the same country as those who were against her? It was as though she didn’t want them on her side. Or had no reason to seek their acceptance.
He shut his laptop down, pushed from the desk and moved from the contemplative atmosphere of his room into the all-consuming silence of the empty bar. He grabbed a cold bottle of beer from the fridge, gripped the top in the palm of his hand, unscrewed the cap and flicked it into the metal bin beneath the counter. He took a long drink of the beer and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
Charlotte would be worth a bob or ten now but she hadn’t bragged about her success. If Firecracker Red had moved to Swallow’s Fall because she wanted out of the rat race and into the slow-placed groove of country life—remote country life— there’d be only two reasons why: either she was running from or searching for something. Whichever reason, she hadn’t been egged along by some life-changing wish to come here, she’d made a deliberate move. She’d chosen this town.
He took a slower pull of his beer. Hadn’t he done the same?
Six years ago he’d been in north Queensland, flushed with more than the heat. He’d worked hard, had his fun and played the field with a choice of attractive, decent women, not to mention the occasional adventurous one. He’d made his money—a considerable amount—but apart from his success as a draughtsman and his ability to put in dedicated hours of hard graft as he renovated a dozen properties for resale, not one calculated and disciplined task he’d set for himself had fulfilled his expectations. He’d forced himself to sit back and think about where he was and where he wanted to be.
Funny he should see now how clear that choice had been, as he looked out of the window onto Main Street and the town he had such a blistering fondness for. It hadn’t been a desire to change gear that had been his motivation for moving back to the country either. It was the culmination of a cycle. He hadn’t bought the hotel and moved to Swallow’s Fall to transform himself, he’d bought it to come home.
Charlotte stared Daniel in the eye, hand on the flyscreen door. ‘If you’re here to chat about the bet you think I accepted, please don’t bother.’
He held out a takeaway coffee. ‘I just love that happy face of yours. What’s got your back up this time?’
Charlotte took the coffee from him. ‘My wallpaper steamer.’
He looked over her shoulder, down the hallway. ‘Not going to ask me in?’
She stepped back. ‘Watch your step.’
‘Man, what are you doing with all this stuff?’ He pointed to the under-stairs cupboard where the tools Charlotte had bought in Canberra were normally kept neatly.
‘Getting on with my renovations.’ Before purchasing the property, she’d been shown enough photos to know about the peony-flocked wallpaper, the peeling kitchen and laundry bench tops and the 1960s farmyard-scene paper lining the back of cupboards and wardrobes.
‘And what’s wrong with your steamer?’
‘It won’t steam.’
He walked towards the jumble of boxes and tools in the hallway. ‘Want me to take a look? What a mess,’ he added, stepping over extension leads, a sander and a large plastic tool box.
Charlotte clamped her lips together, trying to hold back the sulky frame of mind she hadn’t been able to shake all morning. On the one hand, it was great the townspeople had agreed to her suggestion to have Grandy stay, but on the other hand—what the hell had she been thinking? The older Mr Morelly might be sitting on her veranda through winter—this year and the next. She could see the newspaper advertisement now:
For Sale. Delightful B&B tucked in quaint country town. Goodwill included in the form of a 95-year-old man with a stubborn temperament who stays free of charge.
On Monday she’d said yes to dinner at Sammy’s place. By Wednesday she’d offered her house to Grandy. She’d also taken up some fanciful challenge from Daniel and put her concentration into running and getting fit when she should have been renovating. At this rate, she’d never get Ethan alone. Never get out of this town. Never get her new life.
‘How come you’re suddenly working so hard?’ Daniel asked.
‘I need to do as much as possible before Grandy moves in.’ And she could move out.
‘You’ve only got four days.’ He unplugged the steamer from the socket, checked the tank she’d filled with water, then pulled and tugged the hose that ran from the tank to the rectangular steam pad. He unscrewed it from the base, shook it and screwed it back in.
‘I’ve got to start somewhere,’ Charlotte said, her voice filled with the frustration building inside her.
‘Okay, stop getting touchy.’ Daniel hooked the hotplate pad onto the steamer stand and bent to turn the machine on at the wall socket. The water tank gurgled. He twisted her way and grinned.
‘That was lucky,’ she told him.
He switched the steamer off. ‘How come you softened up and offered to let Grandy stay here?’
‘I’ve been told by practically everyone it’s not certain he’ll want to stay.’
‘He will. So wallpaper first, then what?’
‘The upstairs rooms.’ They only needed decorating but the back bedroom—her room, the one she’d offered to the old man—was in need of the most renovation and would now have to wait.
‘What’s the sander for?’
‘After I’ve taken up the lino in the kitchen, I’m going to sand the floorboards. But I can’t do that until Grandy leaves.’
‘Grandy won’t mind the noise, he’ll probably help you.’
‘Yes, good idea. Until the dust from the sander gets on his chest and sends him right back to hospital.’ Imagine the furore. They’d kick her out of town for sure. Or bury her alive in the pioneer cemetery. Who’d feed Lucy then?
Lucy. Charlotte’s shoulders sank. Who would take the dog when she left? Taking Lucy back to Britain meant getting her through all the regulations. She’d need a pet passport, which might take months to obtain, and vaccinations, and perhaps a stay in quarantine. Miss her though she would, Charlotte couldn’t put the young animal through the loneliness of all that.
‘When are you starting work on Grandy’s house?’
‘Got to draw up some plans first, then order gear from Canberra. What’s wrong, Red? You’re looking real sulky.’
‘Thanks for the observation. How much do I owe you for the coffee?’
‘Fine.’ He raised his hands in surrender. ‘I get it. You’re having a bad day.’
Her ‘day’ had started at three a.m. when she’d woken for the fourth time. But it wasn’t because of the dream—her mother had been on her mind in the shadowy hours of the night. She wrapped her hands around the coffee and sipped. At least the caffeine kick would keep her going for a few hours. ‘Put it on my tab. If I’m allowed a tab?’
‘Well, now, if you want a tab I’m going to have to ask a few questions about your credit rating.’
‘Fine. I’ll pay cash.’
‘What’s wrong, Charlotte?’
Charlotte chewed on her tongue but the question she needed to ask danced on the tip of it. ‘Why did I offer to let Grandy stay?’
‘You don’t want him now?’
‘Of course he can stay, it’s just that …’ She was getting caught in a mesh of charm called Swallow’s Fall.
‘Could be you’re coming round to us.’
‘Huh.’ Her sulkiness was a defence mechanism aimed at hiding her nerves and one sleepless night too many meant she couldn’t keep the tone of it out of her voice.
Pulled from her bed by an intense force—a will she wasn’t sure was hers alone—she’d settled in the warmth of the kitchen, with Lucy at her feet, and made a list of exactly what it was she was here to do: see Ethan and pound him with questions until all the fearsome ones were answered and she was free to leave. But there was something else hovering—and unattainable. A quest for happiness … a chance at happiness? Charlotte didn’t understand it, and pushed it to the back of her mind.
‘Any news on my weatherboard colour?’
‘I’m going to see Ted now, see what I can do for you.’ He paused. ‘What was your B&B in England like?’
‘Home.’ A single word, but an all-encompassing, dreamy depiction for her Starfoot habitat.
‘So why’d you leave it?’
‘I sold up. After my gran died.’
‘Couldn’t bear the memories, eh?’
All her memories had been bulldozed and now sat beneath the eighteenth hole.
‘I did the same thing when my grandfather died. Just sold up, and moved on.’
‘Where are you from?’ she asked, sipping her coffee.
‘Small town in south Victoria.’ He bent and picked up the extension cord. ‘Went to Queensland after that and made some money. I was a draughtsman, then I got into renovating properties.’ He glanced at her. ‘You must have made a reasonable living in your B&B. I hope you get the same here in Swallow’s Fall or you might have wasted your investment.’ He put the extension cord on top of the tool chest and put both into the under-stairs cupboard. ‘Hope you haven’t got a large mortgage.’
‘Worried about my tab?’
He hauled the sander into the cupboard, followed by all the other bits and pieces Charlotte had pulled out to get to the steamer. ‘Coffee’s on the house.’
‘Any time I want one?’
‘Any time.’
She’d found friends here in Swallow’s Fall and all she was doing was knocking them back; Sammy, Julia—Daniel. His handshake yesterday—a simple touch but a gesture of strength she’d responded to, along with his likeable, easy grin and the energetic, peppy fragrance of him … All of it had become as familiar and as tasty as the whisky-orange marmalade she scraped on her toast each morning. But she wasn’t supposed to be getting acquainted with any of these people. This wasn’t her home. She didn’t have a home.
‘Okay.’ Daniel moved to the front door. ‘Enjoy your coffee, Red. I’ll check in with Ted about the weatherboard.’
The lump in her throat threatened an emotional storm. Charlotte swallowed it.
‘Hey. You fancy a run today?’
‘No, thanks.’ Even her voice sounded thickened. ‘Wouldn’t like to think of you trailing behind me for so long.’
‘Stamina, Red. How much have you got?’
Was he talking about the renovations or the run?
‘Might take more endurance than you think you’ve got to get yourself sorted here.’
The renovations then. But she sensed there was more; something to do with her. ‘You watch out for your own back, Hotshot.’
‘I’ll do that. You watch out for yours. I’m right behind you. Catch you later.’ He left, closing the flyscreen door behind him.
Charlotte held her breath and counted to five. Tears stung her eyes. Thank God they hadn’t fallen in front of him. She put the takeaway coffee on the hall table and scrubbed at her face.
Slivers of memories, once gold, now a little tattered from overuse, like the broken spine of a beloved book, crowded her thoughts. The back of her legs itched on the coarse fabric of the train seat. Her knee-high socks kept slipping to her ankles. We’re going on an adventure, her mother said. We’re starting again. Or had she said, It’s just you and me, it always has been and always will be? The shudder that ran through Charlotte ripped at her skin. Her memories were twisted with so many theories about what had happened before the vicious, horrible night her mother was killed by O’Donnell that it was no longer clear if that train ride was real, a dream, or just a wish to make the possible circumstances of her parentage better than they actually were. The mere thought of having the monster as her father made her want to retch.
Ethan was the person she needed to sort it all out. He’d have the answers about O’Donnell.
The train journey, if she and her mother had taken it, had been exciting and probably felt longer because she’d only been four or five years old. Her mother moved them from the city of Sydney to the suburb of Campbelltown, where Charlotte had started school. That little girl’s world had been a playground with laughter and a Raggedy-Ann doll called Lucy. Lucy had been with her in the wardrobe. Lucy had clung tight. Lucy had been frightened too.
‘Cooee.’
‘Mrs Tam—just a second.’ Charlotte walked to the front door and opened the flyscreen. ‘Come in.’
‘Thank you, Charlotte, but I can’t stop. Just wanted to give you this.’ Mrs Tam handed over a bottle filled with dark syrup. ‘Blackberry wine. Here—’ She produced a small glass from her pocket. ‘Have a taste.’
‘It’s just gone lunchtime. I’m not going to make the right impression if people see me slugging your wine at this time of the day.’
‘Oh, go on with you.’ Mrs Tam thrust the little glass forwards. ‘Just a tot. It’ll do you good—you look a bit peaky.’ She peered around Charlotte’s shoulder. ‘Out with the old, in with the new, is it?’ Mrs Tam stepped inside. ‘This house was built in 1860, you know.’
‘Really? I thought it was later.’
‘It’s the oldest house in town. It would have been a slab and bark hut to begin with. Built by the grazier whose son later built the Grangers’ place on Burra Burra Lane. Then someone rebuilt it in stone and corrugated iron. There wouldn’t have been anything fancy like the veranda and all those intricate mouldings on the posts and railing. Those were added later, as was the weatherboard.’
Charlotte hadn’t been given any history of the property. Might be worthwhile looking into its provenance—for resale value, not because she was overly interested. Mention of the weatherboard made her think of Ted and the committee, and the ten-litre pots filled with sunflower yellow paint she’d been planning on buying. They hadn’t been meeting up on her front lawn recently, due to Ted being in bed.
Mrs Tam took the bottle off Charlotte and poured a shot into the glass. ‘Word association, Charlotte.’
‘For what?’ Charlotte sipped the blackberry wine. ‘Mmm, this is good.’
‘Make it every summer. Have a tot more.’ She poured another measure into the glass before Charlotte had a chance to stop her. ‘Sunflower yellow. Nobody grows sunflowers around here.’
‘Are you saying I should consider keeping the weatherboard pink?’
‘You’re a smart woman, Charlotte. I’m sure if you think about it you’ll come up with an idea for changing the name.’
‘But not the colour?’
Mrs Tam took the empty glass out of Charlotte’s hands and handed the bottle back. ‘The sunflower is a lovely plant—but rather large and in your face, don’t you think?’
A bit like me, thought Charlotte; swaggering around, too big for my boots. She screwed the cap onto the bottle of blackberry wine. She’d danced into town with her ideas of sunflowercoloured paint jobs. The people in this quaint, slightly weird little town would recognise the sunflower but wouldn’t identify with it.
Grapefruit yellow? Lemon, citrus? Too insipid. That would be like Julia calling her place Snip ’n’ Shimmer. She needed something countrified. ‘Honeyeater yellow.’
Her neighbour’s interest sparked. ‘Now there’s a colour I wouldn’t mind seeing on the weatherboard of this house.’
A tingle brushed Charlotte’s spine. The regent honeyeater birds—what was left of them—lived
on the eastern side of New South Wales, in the wooded forests. She knew that because she’d bought flora and fauna books from the art and craft centre, but it didn’t matter where the honeyeater birds’ habitat was, it was their history that would tie in with the townspeople. The bright yellow on their chests would be the perfect colour for the weatherboard too. ‘With wagtail-white trim.’
Mrs Tam’s eyes twinkled. ‘Why, I can practically see it. Sitting proudly at the entrance to town.’
So could Charlotte—she saw her house blending in. Swallow’s Fall was a little piece of country not yet taken over by the economies of commercialism. They’d been forgotten in the industrialisation spurt of the last fifty years and had been hindered by that but they didn’t care. They liked what they had because it was precious to them. Something Charlotte understood only too well. They preferred the old ways. They were private landowners too, each and every one of them. How many towns, in today’s world, could boast of that? Nobody rented in Swallow’s Fall. They lived in Swallow’s Fall and put their hard-earned money not only into their own coffers but those of the town. No wonder they were stand-offish. It was pride.
Mrs Tam patted the bun on top of her head, a sagacious gleam in her eye. She nodded at the bottle of blackberry wine in Charlotte’s hand. ‘Have another, then put it in the refrigerator, it’s best when cooled.’
As Mrs Tam walked down the path and onto Main Street, a tentative burst of sunshine entered Charlotte’s world. She walked along her veranda and looked east towards the hillside hiding the roots of the wildflowers she hadn’t seen. Nor was she likely to now she’d finally got an understanding of how to move forwards. Maybe when she left town they’d appreciate that she’d created something for them to hold on to. Maybe that would atone for the friendships she was shaking off and guarding against.
‘Honeyeater yellow,’ she said quietly.
‘He’s in bed but he’s up for visitors and looks respectable,’ Grace said as Dan followed her down the hallway of the home above the stock feeders’. ‘I’ve got him where I want him.’
