Was that another symptom of old age that nobody mentioned? There was the public face of being old: the wrinkles, the deafness, the fading eyesight. The obsession with health problems and doctor’s visits. The sudden close relationship with one’s local pharmacist. What Lola was noticing lately, however, was a change in her own personality. It wasn’t fear of death looming closer, though heaven knew she didn’t want it to come any day soon. It was impatience mixed with exasperation. An urge to act, and act now! Quickly, before it was too late.
She wished sometimes she had friends in Clare who’d known her all her life, who would answer truthfully if she was to ask them whether she had always been this way. Jim had, of course, known her for the longest, for his whole life, literally, but she would never ask him. She didn’t need to. She knew he loved her, and he knew she loved him. Theirs was the simplest of relationships. She wouldn’t change a bone in his body, and she felt sure he wouldn’t change a bone in hers.
Geraldine was another matter. Geraldine would cheerfully have her deboned in the blink of an eye. She knew Geraldine saw her as the mother-in-law from hell, interfering, bossy, meddling, overbearing. A whole thesaurus entry, in fact. And very possibly, just perhaps, some of those words might be accurate descriptions of how things had been in the time they’d known each other. But Lola only ever behaved that way if she genuinely felt she had to, if she saw something drift, or a problem start to form that she could avert through action. Was that being overbearing or being proactive? Proactive, of course. Sensible. Practical. Otherwise what would happen around her? Chaos? Mayhem? Yes, Lola thought. Perhaps that had always been her main personality trait. She was A Fixer.
She had a dim memory of her teachers in Ireland scolding her, using words like incorrigible and unmanageable. And certainly, she and her husband had shared a fiery, if thankfully brief, relationship, before she had left him as quickly as possible, preferring the difficult life of a single mother to the even more difficult life of being shackled to a bully, a weakling and a drunk. But if she hadn’t had that desire to change things, to make her life better, to make Jim’s life better, the best it could be, then where would she be today? Beaten down? Dead even, from exhaustion and sorrow? She’d had to act, and act now!
Hmm, perhaps this impatience trait wasn’t a sudden thing after all, she thought. More memories floated in, backing this new, slightly alarming theory. All right, perhaps it had been a tiny bit annoying for Geraldine sometimes to see her mother-in-law not so much ‘fixing’ as ‘interfering in’ some of their family situations. The ridiculous feud between Anna, Bett and Carrie of a few years back, for example. But if it hadn’t been for Lola’s plotting and plan-hatching, the three girls might never have talked to each other again. How much more of a tragedy would that have been, if Anna had fallen ill while they were still estranged? Not that Geraldine had ever thanked her. Nor had Jim, but he was her son. He didn’t need to thank her.
The difference in this personality trait of hers now was the depth and scope of her feeling. Previously, she’d been happy to confine her fix-it-ing to her own family and perhaps one or two close friends. These days, she was feeling an urge to fix the whole town and everyone in it. The state. The country. The world. Was it normal? Was it a rush to get things done before the Grim Reaper came a-reaping?
She’d raised the subject with her friends and fellow charity shop ladies recently. They already had so much in common, and not just the fact they were all widows. She’d come at it in a circuitous way, asking whether they felt they had changed at all mentally as they got older. And not in a forgetful way that might hint at Alzheimer’s or anything similar. Purely from a personality point of view. A sudden urge to Get Things Done.
Margaret – a grey-haired sixty-seven-year-old – had given it some thought. No, she’d decided. If anything, she’d become more relaxed. ‘All the hard work’s done. I’m coasting down the hill now,’ she’d said. Patricia, a beautifully groomed fifty-seven, had dismissed the idea immediately too. In her opinion, her personality was now set in stone and she liked it that way. ‘I don’t like physically aging, but there’s no way I’d go back to all the angst-ridden thoughts of my thirties or forties. It’s a miracle I’ve got this far, when I think of all the things that could have happened to me. I might have been hit by a bus. Or fallen out of a plane. Even got run over by a train.’
‘I hadn’t realised you’d been starring in silent movies,’ Lola said.
‘You know what I mean. People die in odd accidents every day. Electrocution by toaster. Drowning in paddling pools. Spider bites in toilets. I’ve made it this far. I plan to take it easy to the end now too. No point tempting fate or putting myself at risk.’
‘You don’t have the urge to try something new? Use what time you have to do something, I don’t know, spectacular? Important? Life-changing?’
‘Like what? Skydiving?’ Patricia laughed. ‘Win a poker tournament? Of course. I just do it all online.’
The conversation had immediately turned to their various online activities. Lola was left vaguely dissatisfied. She’d wanted to be told that the way she was feeling was normal. But it seemed she was on her own.
She sighed now. Once upon a time, she might have brought up the subject with Bett. Of her three granddaughters, she’d always been closest to her middle one. But Bett had moved into that chaotic land known as Parenthood, and while Lola knew she would have tried hard, listened as best she could, perhaps even made suggestions, only a percentage of her would have been paying attention.
Lola knew from her own experience with Jim, and then the girls themselves, that one’s mind was never truly one’s own once children came along. Yes, on the surface, conversations took place, opinions were offered and listened to, but underneath it, at all times, there was a constant soundtrack of maternal worries, organisational lists being made, scenarios being played out. Parenthood was exhaustion mixed with elation, anxiety with contentment. It was why mothers naturally gravitated to other mothers. There was a shorthand language, a mutual understanding.
But if Lola did ask for Bett’s opinion, she knew Bett would encourage her. ‘I’m sure there’s nothing you couldn’t do if you set your mind to it, Lola.’ The same advice Lola had spent many years giving her three granddaughters, and now, even Ellen and the other great-grandchildren too.
But what was there for people her age to set their minds to? Those who weren’t ready to play bowls, or be admitted into old folks’ homes? Who didn’t only want to reminisce, but also wanted to look forward, to plan, to hope? She ran through a mental roll call of famous people her age who were still active, still filled with energy. Clint Eastwood. The Queen. Rupert Murdoch. Marvellous. All she had to do was direct a few films, become a monarch and run a global media empire and she’d sleep easy at night.
A sudden call from Margaret broke into her thoughts. ‘She’s here!’
Drat, Lola thought. She’d hoped they might have had a last-minute reprieve, a call to say her car had broken down or her drains needed fixing. Sadly not. ‘Coming,’ Lola said, with a sigh.
‘She’ was Mrs Kernaghan. Her first name was believed to be Barbara, but from her first appearance at the charity shop three months earlier, she’d made it clear she wasn’t to be treated as ‘one of them’. She’d introduced herself as Mrs Kernaghan and Mrs Kernaghan she’d remained at all subsequent fortnightly meetings.
Lola had had her measure from the moment Mrs Kernaghan stepped into the shop. Lola had moved so many times herself over the years that she recognised the key types of new arrivals. The ones seeking a sea change. Those searching for a fresh start in a country town. The city ones making a show of bringing their expertise to their simple country cousins. What people forgot was that the town had got on perfectly well before their arrival and would continue to prosper after they left.
Mrs Kernaghan was clearly a fierce combination of all the types. She also managed to get under Lola’s skin in the first minutes of their meeting. Their c
ommittee of five had been sitting around the table in the back of the shop. Patricia was unofficial chairwoman, introducing everyone to the new arrival. Mrs Kernaghan acknowledged each name with a regal nod. When it was Lola’s turn, the nod changed into an even more condescending smile, as she made a show of taking in Lola’s outfit from head to toe. ‘Good heavens,’ she said, eyebrows raised. ‘Are you on your way to a fancy-dress party?’
Someone – Kay, perhaps – had gasped. Margaret leapt to her defence. ‘It’s not fancy dress. Lola always dresses up like that.’
She did. That day’s outfit hadn’t been out of the ordinary by any means, either – pink culottes, silver strappy sandals, an electric-blue tunic topped with a shimmering silver lamé bolero. A flower in her hair. Three strands of coloured glass beads and large plastic daisy clip-on earrings. Lola had always enjoyed dressing the way she did. It cheered her up and she knew it cheered up others too. Amused them as well, she suspected. But she’d never been publicly criticised before.
Mrs Kernaghan’s rude remark and mocking expression had instantly reminded Lola of other soul-sapping people she’d met in her life: bullies at school, her husband with his constant drip-drip-drip of low-level insults, government officials when she had been trying to find her feet as a single mother and a businesswoman. The sneerers. The pessimists. People throughout her life who’d told her again and again, in many different ways, ‘You can’t do that’, ‘That’s not how things are done’, ‘Who do you think you are?’ She’d made a point of being polite and then completely ignoring them. That evening, and in subsequent meetings, she tried to do the same thing with Mrs Kernaghan.
It proved difficult, unfortunately. Mrs Kernaghan was soon a regular fixture at the shop, sweeping in unannounced, issuing decrees and then sweeping out again. She prefaced everything with her business, fashion and artistic credentials – for twenty-five years she and her late husband had, among their many other business interests, owned a number of high-end fashion boutiques in leafy, wealthy suburbs of Adelaide and Melbourne, as well as upmarket art galleries in Sydney and on the Sunshine Coast in Queensland. If Lola, and her friends Patricia, Margaret, Joan and Kay, happened to be rostered on during Mrs Kernaghan’s visits, they would listen to her commands and then do nothing about them, except perhaps laugh and roll their eyes afterwards. Some of the volunteers, however, found her impossible to ignore. There was a chaotic week when she bullied two of the more elderly volunteers into rearranging the shop’s contents by size, rather than colour. She apparently helped with the first rack, before pleading an urgent appointment and only returning at the end of the day to ensure she was happy with their work.
‘This place is still a mess and we’ve a long way to go, but it’s a start at least,’ she’d apparently said.
If she was happy, no one else was – their customers in particular.
‘Where’s the fun in going to your own size rack?’ one said loudly.
‘I already know I’m size sixteen and above,’ another said, ‘I don’t need anyone else in the shop to see me at that rack.’
‘It was so much more restful in here when it was arranged by colours,’ another sighed.
Lola had worked until nine p.m. the following night, personally moving everything back. Two days after that, there was a showdown of sorts with Mrs Kernaghan.
‘It took me hours to organise it properly into sizes,’ she said to Lola, voice raised and hands on hips. ‘I have more than twenty-five years’ retail experience and I know what I’m talking about.’
‘It took our oldest volunteers, not you, those hours, and then it took me even more hours to return it to the way it was,’ Lola said calmly. ‘Thank you for taking such a keen interest but we prefer it this way.’
‘You’re all wrong, then.’
There was a peaceful fortnight when she stayed away from the shop, but Lola had heard from two impeccable sources (Kay and Margaret) that Mrs Kernaghan had phoned to confirm she’d be attending today’s meeting.
Sure enough, it was Mrs Kernaghan arriving now, all fuss and bustle. Lola greeted her cheerfully, then greeted the three other volunteers who came in behind her even more cheerfully and far more sincerely. Five minutes later, with tea poured and biscuits offered, the meeting got underway. The subject was a vote on whether the shop should participate in the Main Street Traders’ Christmas Window competition. A recent initiative, it was growing more popular each year. This year, for the first time, a prize was on offer: $500 for the best display.
‘What do you think, everyone?’ Kay asked. ‘Shall we give it a go?’
Mrs Kernaghan answered first. ‘We hold a prime real estate position in the town. Of course we should.’
We? She’d only been in the town for three months. Lola dug her nails into the palms of her hands to stop herself from answering back. Hadn’t she just been thinking that she needed to tone down her personality? Was now the time to start? Even if sitting here saying nothing was a kind of torture?
Mrs Kernaghan continued. ‘I’ve already given this a great deal of thought, based on my own extensive retail and artistic experience, and I’d like to propose a modern approach to our window display. I’ve done a preliminary sketch. Here, there’s a copy for each of you.’
She passed them around. The sketch wasn’t preliminary. It looked like it had been done by an expert, either a set designer or an architect, all firm lines and detail. There wasn’t a Christmas tree, brightly wrapped present or Santa Claus to be seen. In the centre of the page was a female figure in silhouette, with dozens of multicoloured strands wound around it in intricate patterns. Mrs Kernaghan’s signature and a copyright symbol took up the bottom right-hand corner.
‘Very nice,’ Margaret said tentatively.
‘Very nice,’ Joan agreed.
They both looked to Lola. Lola was having trouble holding her copy while digging her nails even more fiercely into her palms. On the verge of agreeing that she thought it was very nice too, she decided she couldn’t lie. ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Kernaghan, but I’m not sure what it’s supposed to be.’
Mrs Kernaghan lifted her chin. ‘It’s a visual interpretation of the summer heat, rendered primarily in traditional red and green Christmas colours, with the addition of splashes of gold, white and blue highlighting the burning centre of the sun against the wide summer sky. The figure at the centre is a metaphoric representation of us, the human race, battling against the harsh elements ever present in the Australian landscape.’
‘Oh,’ Kay said.
Nope, Lola thought. In her opinion, Mrs Kernaghan’s drawing looked like a store dummy tangled up in a few coloured bedsheets. She did one more nail-dig and tried to be diplomatic. ‘Mrs Kernaghan, I think our Traders’ Association was thinking more along the lines of nativity scenes. Or three wise men. Or Christmas on the beach, Australian-style.’
Beside her, Margaret and Joan were nodding enthusiastically. Joan had even arrived that morning with her family’s old nativity set. Joseph was held together with yellowing sticky tape and there were only two wise men, but she’d been very proud that she’d managed to find any survivors at all, after more than forty Christmases with her rambunctious family of sons.
Mrs Kernaghan thumped her hand on the desk. Margaret and Joan jumped. Lola had to fight an inclination to slap her.
‘What’s the slogan for the Main Street Traders?’ Mrs Kernaghan said, too loudly. ‘Tell me that? Exactly! They don’t have one, do they? But I’ll tell you what it should be. Moving forward. Looking forward. A slogan of go-getting energy. And that’s what our window should demonstrate! That we have ambition, attitude and energy.’
Lola kept her voice level with some difficulty. ‘Mrs Kernaghan, we’re a charity shop. We sell old things cheaply and then give the proceeds to people in need. We’re not here to make huge profits or win awards.’
‘What kind of attitude is that? I say, let’s push the boundaries, use my display and if I – sorry, if we – don’t win this year, then yo
u can all go back to your old ways for next year’s competition.’
If Lola had to bribe the traders to award the charity shop final place, she would. ‘Excellent idea,’ she said brightly. She ignored Joan and Margaret’s surprised look. ‘And I also think we should be sure to put “Designed by Mrs Kernaghan” in large letters at the bottom of the window, so everyone knows it was your work, don’t you think?’
Mrs Kernaghan preened.
Half an hour later, Lola was alone in the shop again. Mrs Kernaghan had left immediately after the meeting. She always had somewhere better to go, yet found the time to tell them about it. Lola had even heard a whisper she was thinking about running for mayor. She’d definitely get Lola’s vote. With any luck, her mayoral duties would keep her so busy she’d have to stay away from the shop.
Margaret, Joan and Kay hadn’t wanted to leave afterwards. ‘The hide of her!’
‘Who does she think she is?’
‘Why did you just give in, Lola?’
‘I don’t know,’ she said honestly.
After another five minutes of their outrage, Lola had been glad to say goodbye to the three of them too. Not only because the meeting had been unpleasant and all their complaining was starting to give her a headache. The truth was she wanted to get on to the computer before her shift was over. It was two days since she’d had a chance to check her emails and she was getting twitchy.
Now, she felt the familiar tingle of anticipation as she opened up her email account. Four new emails and none of them spam! She quickly read through them, her smile growing wider with each one. They were all responses to her Christmas bait! No, not bait, how could she call it that? Her Christmas special offer was a much nicer way to put it. Thoughts of Mrs Kernaghan and unfathomable window displays disappeared in an instant. Now she really had something to plan and look forward to.
Lola's Secret Page 6
