by Sasha Wasley
‘Blueberry.’ Aidan looked satisfied.
‘Um, it’s licorice.’
He shook his head. ‘Definitely blueberry. I had one the other day.’
Free wasn’t sure what to do. It was certainly licorice, but Aidan was so adamant. And she couldn’t finish it – it tasted disgusting. She put down the purple monstrosity and transferred her attention to her coffee, glancing longingly at that coconut macaron.
‘It must have been amazing to have your own exhibition,’ she said.
‘Yes. A lot of hard work, but worth it.’
‘Did you sell loads? That would be the best bit about an exhibition, I reckon – off-loading your art to make some space.’
He shrugged. ‘Yes, I sold a few pieces. I was more interested in the exposure – you know, developing my brand – than worrying about selling anything. The market’s dead at the moment, anyway, so it’s more important to have a presence in the arts community than to sell work.’
‘You think the art market’s dead?’ Free’s heart dropped slightly. It was tough trying to make money from art at the best of times. She made a pittance selling her work. She hadn’t noticed a decline in her sales through a local gallery or her online store, but maybe Aidan was right.
‘Absolutely,’ he said. ‘Hopefully, it will pick up now the conservative government’s back in power and the economy can recover.’
Free was speechless.
‘I find that corporate purchasers are the best,’ he went on. ‘They understand that art is worth real dollars.’
‘I don’t think I’ve ever sold anything to a corporation,’ she said. She sneaked the coconut macaron off the plate.
‘They’re great,’ said Aidan, sipping coffee. ‘Good payers, and they appreciate adventurous works.’
‘Perhaps I’m not adventurous enough for corporate tastes,’ Free said. She nibbled at the coconut macaron. Oh, so much better!
‘Have you got any social media pages?’ he asked. ‘We should exchange details.’
‘Yeah, you can find me under “Free Paterson” on Instagram, Facebook, all the sites,’ she said. ‘Or just search for the hashtag Herne365.’
He frowned. ‘What’s that?’
‘It’s a project I’m doing. Posting a photo of the Herne River every day for a year.’
‘Why?’
Free spoke around her mouthful of coconut macaron. ‘I love the Herne.’
‘A photo every day?’ Aidan slurped his coffee. ‘Doesn’t that get a little – samey?’
‘God, no! The river changes constantly. It’s amazing. Check out my photos. You won’t believe how much the river changes day by day.’
‘I’ll look you up.’ Aidan pulled out his wallet and fished out a card. He handed it to Free. ‘Here are my details so we can collaborate, or whatever.’
‘Thanks!’ said Free. Aidan seemed so accomplished. It was a relief to know she had his support. ‘Tell me about this art show submission you mentioned. What are you working on?’
It was another hour of worrying about the poor barista before Free could get away. Aidan sipped coffee more slowly than anyone she’d ever met, telling her in fine detail about his latest acrylic on canvas. He talked about theme and colour, paradigm and juxtaposition. She knew all the words and concepts, but his explanation confused her. He must be super smart.
Free checked out his work online, and noted that he mainly worked on very large canvases, using jarring colours and aggressive streaks across a background of spatters. She struggled to relate to his paintings, but the guy was obviously successful. She looked forward to seeing the end result of this latest work he’d mentioned. Maybe he would incorporate some Kimberley colours or textures now that he was living in the region.
At home, Free pulled her car in to the single garage and heaved down the roller door. Beth had reminded her to be security conscious now she lived in town, saying it wasn’t like Patersons, where nothing ever needed to be locked up. The tabby cat was waiting for her at the front door. He gave several of his funny little meows in his excitement to see her.
‘Hello to you too, Max,’ she cooed in reply. ‘When I go shopping again, I’ll get a cat litter tray so you can stay inside while I’m at work. Then you won’t get hot. Come in and have some Snappy Tom.’
Max accepted her invitation and she sorted him out with a dish of food. Free banned herself from going into the studio, knowing her current canvas would distract her again. Instead, she lugged her printer inside from the porch and plugged it in. She wanted to print the term outline and make sure she knew back-to-front what was expected of her before school started next week. Jay had assured them several times that they didn’t need to worry about the course content; that she would provide guidance. All Free and Aidan had to do was help develop certain skills in the students, and introduce the theory. Their main role was to lead the tile project. But Free couldn’t help but worry. What if she stuffed up? What if she accidentally took the kids off track, or got them confused? It might affect their grades.
She pulled up the documents Jay had sent and hit print. The printer buzzed obediently into life, but before it even picked up a sheet of paper, suddenly made an unhealthy grinding noise and beeped at her.
‘Oh, what now?’ Free loathed technological problems and normally begged Willow to sort them out for her. She flipped open the front of the printer and saw something that made her suck in a frightened gasp.
Scales?
In an instant, she realised what had happened. Because she’d left her printer out on the porch for four days, a reptile of some description had crawled into it and made it home. Free stared at the patterned scales, momentarily paralysed with fear. Then she reached over to flip the cover closed. She ran to the kitchen and snatched up the pot holders Beth had hung from hooks. Barely breathing, and holding the printer as far as possible from her body, Free carried it back outside to the porch table. Then she dashed inside and closed the front door behind her with a shudder. Hopefully the snake would grow tired of its new accommodation and depart. In the meantime, she would have to do without a printer.
The ordeal made Free think a glass of wine might be a good idea. She rinsed out a glass and poured a generous portion of sauvignon blanc, dropping a couple of ice cubes in before she went to her studio. As soon as her hands were steady enough, she picked up a brush and immersed herself in her painting. It was the perfect way to calm down. That portion of rock was shaping up. Free squeezed some more blobs of paint onto her palette and moved on to the glimpse of dark-green river coming around the bottom of the gorge.
When the world outside grew dim, Free realised she was hungry. She put her brushes in the jar, picked up her half-full glass and went to seek out dinner. She hadn’t shopped for a couple of days, so her pantry was in a sad state. Free boiled some fettuccine and stirred bottled pasta sauce through it. Her third pasta meal that week – she should get some frozen dinners. She hadn’t posted her river photo of the day, she recalled, and it was too dark to get a new one. She scrolled back through her camera roll and found a recent picture of a delicate blue damsel fly perched on a piece of grass, the water a dark blur behind it.
A lonely damsel fly looking for a lover on Day 213 of #Herne365. #HerneRiver #NoFilter, she captioned it.
Someone had shared one of her older photos, she noticed with pleasure. Even better – they had used it to speak out against the diversion dam. It felt good to think people were using her photos to raise awareness of the danger of this dam project to their region’s major river.
Free went back to her painting. She was so immersed that she didn’t stop until after eleven, when a grumble of thunder brought her back to the present. No doubt, a storm was about to lash the town. Free put her brushes away, but at that moment, the sound of singing rose from next door. She grabbed her empty jar so she could listen at the wall. She didn’t need it, really – the voice was louder this time. Free listened in breathless excitement, heart fluttering.
Abr
upt silence.
Disappointed, Free headed for her bedroom. She was exhausted, she realised. She whipped off her clothes, shrugged into a comfortable T-shirt and dropped into bed. She was just starting to fall asleep when it started up again. Free caught her breath in the darkness, listening.
Ohh . . . The Pogues, ‘Dirty Old Town’. Free softened inside, remembering that ride out of Dublin on a cheap tour bus to see an ancient battle ground and burial mound, a Pogues album playing on the coach’s tinny speaker.
What a lovely voice this unknown neighbour had. Not pitch-perfect, but real and oddly heartfelt. She tried to imagine what subject he taught. Surely, he was a history teacher – a wild-eyed, dark-haired, whisky-drinking older man from the north of Ireland, perhaps even a freedom fighter in his youth. The song ended and Free sighed.
But he wasn’t finished, after all. The gentle melody of a ballad rose, and although she didn’t know it, the song tugged at her heart. She lost herself in the sound, drifting in and out of sleep. Even in her slightly strange new environment, the song somehow wrapped her in the warmth and comfort of home.
By midmorning on Friday, Free had worked herself into a fever of anxiety about starting classes the following week. To her utter amazement, Aidan left school at noon, declaring himself ready. He even invited her to join him for lunch. Free declined. She desperately needed more time.
Jay had assigned Aidan the Year Tens, and Free the Year Elevens. Perhaps that was half the problem. Why hadn’t Jay given the Year Elevens to Aidan, who was clearly more confident than Free? Year Eleven was an important year – just one step before the challenging final year that included university entrance exams, or at least portfolio preparation for further education. Free would be working with Jay to ensure they covered everything in the curriculum, but it still felt like an enormous responsibility. Gazing at the lesson plans Jay had given her for Week One, Free felt sick.
Stop worrying, she ordered herself. Jay would lead the way. The head of the art department was sympathetic and smart. If it got too much and Free was screwing things up, Jay would take control. Free would rather give up the contract than wreck the kids’ chances through crappy teaching.
Just before three, Jay stuck her head around the storeroom door. ‘Hey, you want a lift to the pub this arvo, Free?’
‘Yes, I walked this morning, so that’d be awesome. Thanks, Jay.’
‘Meet you in the car park in five. Mine’s the red Prado.’
Free pulled off her art shirt. She’d been checking the quality and range of materials so she was probably a bit of a mess. She scooted into the closest bathroom and checked her appearance. Her hair was never quite what she would call tidy – golden wisps and curls escaped no matter how severely she tried to smooth it back into a bun. She pulled it loose and adjusted her basic singlet top. She had accompanied the top with a light crocheted cardigan and a long skirt, uncertain of the dress code, but all the other teachers were wearing variations on shorts, cargo pants and capris, so Free made up her mind to follow suit in future. She bundled the cardigan into her bag. She was looking forward to drinks at Mounties with the staff.
Free headed out to the car park, wet season humidity warming her bare arms after several hours in the air conditioning. The sky was leaden but it wasn’t quite raining. She reached the red Prado, smiling at another teacher who was also waiting for Jay. She’d seen him at lunch. He was an awkward-looking man, perhaps in his early thirties, with a balding head and excessively hairy legs.
‘Hiya,’ she greeted him.
‘Coming to Mounties?’ he asked.
Free nodded in reply. ‘I’m Free Paterson.’
‘Max Drummond.’
‘Max!’ Free looked at the man in delight. ‘That’s my cat’s name!’
He gave her a shy smile. He had the thickest eyebrows Free had ever seen. Her fingers itched for a pencil and a sketchpad.
‘What do you teach?’ she asked.
‘Science.’
‘Oh, is Mr Caporn still here?’ Free asked him. ‘Chemistry?’
‘Yes,’ Max said. ‘He’s been here for over thirty years now.’
Jay appeared, crossing the car park to join them. ‘Pile in!’ she called. ‘I’m gasping for a wine.’
‘Mr Caporn was so patient with me,’ Free said to Max as she climbed in to the back seat. ‘I never understood the formulas.’
‘How long’s it been since you went to school here, Free?’ Jay asked, backing out of her parking spot.
‘Nine years. It feels like yesterday. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to call my teachers by their first names.’
‘Did you get on well with them?’ Jay wanted to know.
‘Some of them. I think I had a reputation as kind of easily distracted.’ Jay and Max laughed. ‘I liked the teachers, generally. My favourite was Mrs Woodley. English.’
‘Hilary’s still here,’ said Max.
‘How long have you been working in Mount Clair, Jay?’ Free asked. ‘When I was at school, we had Mr Tunnidge heading up art. Ten-tunnidge, we used to call him.’ She panicked as soon as the words left her lips. Ack! What an unprofessional thing to say – and it was such an unkind nickname.
However, Jay just chuckled. ‘He was a big boy, all right. He was my predecessor, but he got offered a place in Perth. I’d already done my country service, but I jumped at the opportunity to be head of department. I ditched my job in Perth to come up here, not expecting to fall in love with the place.’
Free understood that. ‘Isn’t it amazing? The sky. The colours! The river. There’s nowhere like it on the planet.’
‘Oh, yes, absolutely. But I guess it’s the people I love most. Everyone made me feel totally at home, like I’d lived here forever.’
Max murmured his agreement. ‘The kids are gorgeous, too. I just love the earthy humour and genuine kindness in the Mount Clair community, even if the wildlife takes a bit of getting used to.’
Free told them the tale of the snake in her printer and Jay shrieked in sympathy.
‘Might be a Children’s python,’ Max said in his soft voice.
‘I don’t know what it is. I just hope it leaves.’
‘I’m a snake handler.’ He said it so quietly, she almost didn’t catch it.
‘Are you? Do you think you could get it out of the printer for me? I’m at 17A Marlu Street.’
He gave a laugh, not exactly agreeing, but at that moment they arrived in the Mount Clair Hotel parking lot, so Free let it slide. Being Friday afternoon, the pub was crowded, and it would only become more so as the night went on.
‘Max, find out where the others are sitting,’ Jay ordered him, leading the charge. ‘I’ll get the first bottle. Wine, Free? Oh, I know! Let’s get bubbly, to celebrate your new job.’
Free followed her to the bar to help with glasses, waving to a few old schoolfriends. Willow’s friend Kate was there, sitting at the bar with Phoebe Challis, a girl Free had met several times and liked. Free greeted them both, exchanging hugs. She would have introduced Jay but the woman was busy shouting her order across the noisy bar.
‘You’re here with the teachers, are you?’ Kate asked. ‘How’s it going in the new job?’
‘Good. They’re really nice.’ Free dropped her voice. ‘I’m peeing my pants about next week, though.’
Phoebe nudged her. ‘Why, Free? You’ll be great!’
‘New-job nerves.’
Phoebe started to ask for details but Kate had spotted Briggsy and a group of other blokes coming into the pub. She shouted and waved to them, and they headed over. The tall Constable Finn Kelly was with them, Free realised. Her heart leapt straight into an excited thudding.
‘Here she is!’ Briggsy’s voice boomed. ‘Miss Phoebe Challis, the most eligible young lady in Mount Clair!’ Phoebe rolled her eyes and suffered a kiss on the cheek from Briggsy.
‘Ouch,’ she remarked, rubbing her face. ‘Stubbly.’
Finn’s eyes landed on Free and lit up. Damn, he was
hot, with that big, strong body and clean-shaven jaw. She smiled back at him, that weird shyness suffusing her again.
‘How’d you go without the willy straws, Free?’ Briggsy asked, accepting a glass from Kate. ‘Was the hen’s do totally ruined?’
‘We managed to drink just fine without them, thanks,’ she answered. ‘Turns out chicks don’t need willies after all.’
He just about spat his drink and Kate and Phoebe howled with laughter. Finn grinned at her and tingles of excitement went to all the right places. I wonder if I’ll get a chance to talk to him tonight . . .
Briggsy recovered himself. ‘Well, I for one cannot wait for this wedding. I’m making a speech. I’m going to shred the hell out of Tom.’
Free grew alarmed. ‘Oh, no, don’t do that. Willow gets embarrassed so easily.’ But Briggsy was already in a loud argument with Kate over whether he had any mortifying stories about Tom, and didn’t hear.
‘Don’t worry.’ Finn leaned down to say it quietly to Free. ‘The sarge is all talk, but he’s loyal. When it comes down to it, he wouldn’t wreck anyone’s big day.’
This close, Free could see his eyes clearly, and they were as bright and interesting as fresh water running over pebbles. She studied them. She could paint those eyes. Or a pebbly river. Finn smelt wonderfully fresh, too, as if he’d just showered. Senses lighting up, her mind wandered towards the image of Finn stepping out of a shower . . .
‘You thirsty?’ he asked, breaking the spell. ‘Can I get you something?’
‘I’m already getting drinks with my crew.’ She pointed, and at that moment Max appeared.
‘I found the teachers’ table,’ Max said in his low, shy voice, so quiet that Free strained to hear it.
‘Okay.’ She smiled at Finn. ‘It’s great to see you again.’
He stepped back, nodding. ‘Likewise. Have a good night!’
Um, nope. No, that wasn’t going to be the end of their interaction tonight – not if Free had anything to say about it. She took the champagne glasses from Jay and followed Max. She could head back and hang out with Briggsy’s group after the first drink, and hopefully get to know Finn a bit better.
