Magpie's Bend

by Maya Linnell

  Angus winked at her from the front of the crowd, and Angie, who had driven up from the coast, gave her a nod. She took reassurance from their encouraging smiles and the big thumbs-up Mrs Beggs gave her from the front row.

  Don’t look at the Kingsleys.

  She hadn’t wanted Edwina and Karl at her house, and their unexpected presence at the meeting rattled her further. She wondered suddenly if this was what Clyde McCluskey felt every time he saw strangers in town.

  They don’t belong here.

  Lara cleared her throat, but was thrown off her train of thought when she saw her neighbour in the crowd. And judging from the arms folded across his chest and the frown on his face, McCluskey didn’t look like he’d warmed to the idea yet.

  She glanced down at her notes and began.

  ‘You’re all here for an update on the general store sale, so let’s not mess about. Mrs Beggs has had two firm offers from interested buyers, so we need to better the asking price,’ she said. A ripple went through the crowd. ‘We’ve got an excellent leg up with all the fundraisers planned, and the shares purchased so far, so we’re optimistic we can make it, but we need to have a firm offer in by mid-June.’

  The murmuring increased. McCluskey’s hand shot up and he stood quickly.

  ‘I can’t fathom why you’re so hell bent on outbidding them. If there’s a willing buyer, then why don’t we let them run the shop and everyone can still have their eggs, their milk, their mail and their papers, but we don’t have to slave away volunteering, scrimping and saving for enough donations to keep it going.’

  The old man looked around the hall, confident he’d captured everyone’s attention, then sat back down.

  Lara noticed a flush creeping up Mrs Beggs’ neck. Grumpy old coot, thought Lara, annoyed Clyde was making Mrs Beggs uncomfortable. She crossed her arms tightly over her chest, then uncrossed them as she realised she couldn’t speak into the microphone that way.

  ‘It depends on the type of general store you want, Clyde. I can’t imagine you’re going to love the early opening and closing hours. If we buy the shop as a community, then we can more or less keep the status quo,’ she said, buoyed by the enthusiasm sweeping through the room.

  ‘I heard they want to ditch pie day,’ called a voice from the audience.

  ‘The cheek of them. I’ll buy double the shares to stop that happening,’ called out another.

  Lara smiled as she identified the voice. ‘For real, Bert?’

  The man gave a salute. He was one of the chicken-and-leek devotees, and was quite partial to a lamb-and-rosemary pie too. Lara grinned at Penny, who pulled out her notepad, quickly writing it down.

  ‘The newspaper’s given us fantastic coverage,’ she paused and smiled at Toby. ‘So, you’ll know we’re planning many events to bridge the financial gap. At the moment we’re three-quarters of the way to the asking price, so how about a round of applause for everyone who’s pitched in so far, and those who’ve helped while Mrs Beggs was crook,’ she said.

  The clapping sounded like a herd of bulls en route to a paddock full of heifers. Mrs Beggs glanced around gratefully, and Lara hoped she knew Clyde McCluskey was in the minority.

  ‘And make sure you get a copy of the Sunday paper next weekend, you’ll recognise some handsome locals in there.’

  Eddie and Tim Patterson beamed at her from the crowd.

  ‘The apartment raffle has been very popular,’ said Lara. ‘Please, keep selling those tickets and spreading the word through your networks. As well as the Bridgefield Advertiser’s coverage, and the Sunday tabloids, the Weekly Times is printing a story in their next edition.’

  Angus stood and faced the crowd.

  ‘Not many places you can rent for fifty bucks a year, are there? Tell your cousins, tell your city friends. It’s a lottery, but a darn fine one at that,’ he said, smiling proudly.

  A woman up the back raised her hand, waiting for Lara’s approval before standing shyly.

  ‘What happens to all the money if we don’t meet the target?’

  Lara waited for the woman to sit down.

  ‘Great question. Like the donations and the shares, the raffle tickets will be refunded if we don’t buy the shop, but hopefully we won’t have to worry about that,’ she said, feeling her confidence lift. ‘We also have a few generous offers in the pipeline that might be a fall-back option if we can’t raise the capital, though some of them have quite onerous conditions,’ Lara told them.

  A man she didn’t recognise stood up. ‘Mick from The Ballarat Daily. I’d like to ask whether all the donations and shareholders are made public? Where can the community find a list?’

  Lara looked from the Daily bloke to the Kingsleys. Edwina was fidgeting with her scarf.

  ‘Anyone interested can join the committee,’ Lara said, keeping her voice steady. ‘I should’ve made that clear right from the start, but we absolutely cannot accept donations with conditions attached.’

  ‘But is the list public or not? Surely transparency is paramount?’ The old hack was like a dog with a bone. Lara felt her heart hammering as a twitter floated up from the seats. The room seemed to heat up another five degrees.

  ‘Transparency is crucial,’ Lara agreed. ‘The committee’s keeping detailed records, and I’m happy to discuss the details with anyone who’s interested. But I don’t think we need to list all the donations and shareholders on stage, do we?’

  She looked into the crowd again, reassured by Toby’s encouraging smile.

  McCluskey pushed his chair back, crossing his arms over his chest as he stood and said: ‘Some of us have to work in the morning. Can we get to the bit about the fun run, and whose properties will be impacted by all these strangers galloping over our land?’

  Lara felt a rare wave of appreciation for her neighbour.

  A dairy farmer who lived near Windmill Track lifted her arm, not bothering to stifle her yawn.

  ‘Will the public liability insurance cover our properties if people come a cropper on our land?’ she asked. ‘I don’t want to be sued if a jogger slips in cow poo and goes belly-up.’

  ‘Great question, Rissa. I’ll hand over to Toby Paxton, our fun-run guru.’

  Toby had already set his camera down and was waiting by the side of the stage.

  Lara passed the microphone over and sat beside her sisters in the front row. She swivelled in her chair, looking from the newspaper man to the Kingsleys, and back, her mistrust intensifying.

  If the handful of extra donations and the list of willing volunteers for the fundraisers were anything to go by, the community meeting had been a success. But it wasn’t until the hall was almost empty that Lara finally allowed herself to digest the Kingsleys’ unexpected appearance. How dare they set the city media on me because I wasn’t falling over myself to accommodate their wishes?

  Lara pushed the thought away as a local lady made a beeline for her.

  ‘I still can’t believe someone wanted to paint the shop bright green and call it the ZingleDangle Store,’ said the young mum. ‘It would have been worth telling that story on stage just to give everyone a laugh.’

  Lara exhaled. She already regretted discussing Paul’s ridiculous offer with the Strong Mamas Group at the Bush Nursing Centre. Giggling about the preposterous idea in private was one thing, but a whole town meeting wasn’t the time or place.

  ‘I don’t think his grandparents would be quite so amused,’ she said, sending silent apologies to Paul’s family, who were still perplexed that she hadn’t accepted the donation on the spot.

  The young woman continued. ‘I’ve told all my online mums’ group about the apartment lottery and they’re itching to go in the draw, especially since I told them about the awesome classes you’ve started at the centre. Of course, I want to win it myself—the money I’d save on my normal rent would almost cover a house deposit,’ she said, jiggling the baby in her front pack.

  Lara wished her luck and helped pack up the hall in a daze, trying to
work out why the Ballarat paper was covering the meeting. Was that Toby’s boss? Surely Toby wouldn’t have told him about the Kingsleys’ donation? She caught a glimpse of his tall frame across the room, helping Eddie with a tray of tea-cups. Nope, she discounted the idea straightaway. She looked towards the door that Edwina and Karl had stalked to as soon as the meeting closed. Coincidence? Not likely. It must have been Edwina stirring up trouble.

  ‘I’ll take that, missy,’ said Pearl, breezing in with a waft of lavender and lifting the tray from her hands. ‘You did a good job tonight.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Lara said, pulling a face. ‘Bit of a wobble in the middle, but we got there.’

  Pearl studied her. ‘You’re stronger than you realise, Lara. Though I’m surprised your in-laws are resorting to media intimidation? Surely they realise the spotlight will fall on them too?’

  Lara met Pearl’s concerned gaze with a grateful smile. It wasn’t just her being paranoid and jumping to conclusions.

  ‘Ex in-laws,’ Lara corrected. She stooped to pick a stray serviette off the floor. ‘It’s not the way I’d go about things, but they’re a rule unto themselves.’

  ‘Don’t let them get the better of you. You’re doing a good thing.’ Pearl looked around the room. ‘Speaking of that, young Toby looks like he needs a hand.’

  Pearl sounded almost mischievous as she looked to the far corner, where Toby was stacking chairs against the wall. Pearl was right, he’d be there all night at this rate. Lara fell into step with him and together they shifted the old church pews. His brown hair was ruffled and she could see he’d missed a patch under his jaw when he’d shaved. They moved the final bench, and when he fixed her with a smile, Lara decided she could either nurse her anger and annoyance at the Kingsleys, or she could focus on the future. In for a pinch, in for a pound.

  Lara fell into step with Toby and they collected their things from the hall kitchen.

  ‘Sorry I didn’t get back to you on the weekend,’ she said. ‘Don’t suppose you want to grab a drink tonight?’

  Toby’s face lit up momentarily, then fell.

  ‘I’d love to, but my boss is in town. He’s arranged dinner …’

  Lara studied the soldiers’ portraits on the wall, trying not to let her disappointment show.

  ‘Right, of course,’ she said. ‘The guy from Ballarat? That was pretty random.’

  ‘Not sure what’s going on there,’ Toby said, grimly. ‘But I plan to find out.’

  The Bridgefield Pub was doing a roaring trade for a Monday, and Toby found himself mobbed as soon as he stepped inside.

  ‘Great meeting, Toby.’

  ‘Top work, mate, we’ll make a local out of you soon enough.’

  Toby recognised half the patrons and he knew there would be many keen ears turned in their direction. It took every bit of his patience not to interrogate Mick the second he slid into the corner booth.

  ‘Ordered you a steak, just the way you like it,’ said Mick.

  Ramona leaned back to let the waitress place their plates on the wobbly table.

  ‘And can you bring us a round of scotch-and-dry too, please,’ said Toby. He was going to need something to loosen him up. He studied his boss. What had made Mick leave his city office and trek out here, with Ramona no less, and act like an ambulance-chaser?

  ‘What’s the deal, Mick? Bit of a heads-up would’ve been nice,’ said Toby, curbing his annoyance.

  ‘Ah, the old Dorothy Dixer question, eh? Gotta love setting a cat among the pigeons,’ said Mick, liberating his chips from underneath the whopping great hunk of beef. He chewed, watching Toby’s reaction. ‘Bit more spice for the next edition, anyway.’

  Spice? Cat among the pigeons? It was almost as if Mick had enjoyed making Lara squirm. Hadn’t he noticed the way her hands had clenched, or heard her sharp breath?

  ‘You should’ve asked me, Mick. I’m on the committee too, I could have saved you a drive all the way out here if you wanted to know about donations and transparency.’

  But would I have answered honestly, or would I have protected Lara’s privacy?

  ‘Where’s the fun in that, Paxton?’

  Ramona looked up from her vegetable-and-tofu stack.

  ‘And then we wouldn’t have had a night away from the daily grind,’ she said, placing her hand over Mick’s. ‘And that cute little farm B&B is nestled in the most romantic setting,’ she added with a wink.

  Toby loaded his fork with steak, loath to imagine his boss’s sex life, which clearly was more active than his at the moment. ‘More spice? Mick, this is a small country newspaper. Front-page fatalities and political campaigns don’t wash down here, you said so yourself. What made you question the donations anyway?’

  ‘An old friend of a friend, Karl, tipped me off that there was something a bit hinky with those donations. Said the committee was being finicky about whose money they accepted. The whole save-the-shop campaign is sweet and fluffy—’ Mick held up a hand as Toby protested. ‘Now hang on, full credit for solid reporting, and it’s a great angle if there’s nothing else to report, but a controversy like this is pure media gold. Surprised you weren’t all over it, Paxton,’ he finished.

  Toby shook his head. ‘I’m not a fan of mud-raking, Mick. The committee voted against it, so there was nothing to report.’

  Mick broke into a coughing fit. He accepted the napkin Ramona passed him, and thumped his chest, his coughs echoing around the pub’s generous dining room.

  The waitress appeared with a glass of water. Mick gulped it down.

  ‘Jesus, Paxton. You’re killing me. Don’t tell me you’ve gone soft after a few months in the country? Blind Freddy could see it’s a front-page angle. I’d print it in Ballarat without a minute’s hesitation. You would’ve printed it in Ballarat without even thinking about it. And don’t get me started on turning down that whole advertorial feature.’

  Toby thought of Lara. ‘What about the personal conditions? Conflict of interest and airing committee-meeting minutes? It’s not fair to make one person dance to Kingsleys’ jig, for the benefit of the whole town.’

  Mick resumed eating. ‘Then get off the committee. Or offer the committee equal space to tell their side of the story. Report the facts, let the good people of Bridgefield form their own conclusion about what’s fair. You’re the media, not the judge and jury, remember. Either way, it’s news.’

  Toby frowned at the blood pooling on his plate. Medium–well done, my arse. Or has Mick’s memory failed him along with his conscience? When he looked up, Ramona was assessing him shrewdly.

  ‘You like her, don’t you?’ she said. ‘The one organising this whole shop thing. Lauren? Laura?’

  Toby began to hack the steak off the bone. Any rarer and it’d still be mooing.

  Mick snorted into his scotch and clapped a hand on Toby’s shoulder.

  ‘Paxton’s a chip off the old block. Married to his job, like muggins here. Besides, that ex-wife scared him off women for good, didn’t she, mate?’

  A surly waiter came by, whisking away empty glasses and frowning at Toby’s barely touched plate. He loitered, shamelessly eavesdropping as he wiped down the neighbouring tables. Toby lowered his voice.

  ‘Her name’s Lara. Lara McIntyre. There’s nothing between us, but it doesn’t make it right to outline her personal issues in the Addy. I’m not doing it, Mick.’

  Toby set his knife and fork in the middle of his plate and pushed it away. It wasn’t only the rare beef or the blood-stained chips. There was something in his mentor’s dismissive laugh that had completely killed his appetite.

  Nineteen

  Lara gave up trying to sleep when the digital alarm clock ticked over to 4 a.m. The only consolation of such an early start was knowing she would be unlikely to bump into Toby on the road.

  Her run was hard and fast, almost enough to take her mind off everything that was bothering her: the Kingsleys; the way the reporter from Ballarat had flustered her on stage; and the swirling f
eelings that cropped up every time she thought about Toby Paxton.

  The full moon highlighted glossy snail tracks criss-crossing from one neglected garden bed to another. Lara had been looking forward to her first day off in months. Not that I’ll be relaxing at a day spa, or putting my feet up with a good book, she thought wryly, wondering who on earth had time for those luxuries. The garden needed attention, but it too would have to stay on the back burner for a little longer.

  She jogged lightly up the steps, careful of the slick layer of dew. The homestead door creaked as she unlocked and opened it, eliciting a squawk from Vegemite and the steady thump, thump, thump of Basil’s tail on the floorboards. She tossed her sweaty running cap in the direction of the washing machine and shed her sodden singlet and shorts as she walked towards the shower. The dining table was strewn with paperwork from shop donations, raffle promotions and volunteer-wrangling timetables, items that would gobble up most of her ‘day off’—but first, a hot shower and coffee.

  Basil was waiting by the pantry when she padded back into the kitchen, towelling her hair. She scooped dry food into his bowl, surprised to see it empty by the time the kettle had boiled.

  ‘On the mend, old boy?’

  He cocked his head at her, and she couldn’t help but smile at the sight of his droopy lip. She grabbed her phone, snapped a photo, and texted it to Evie.

  Look who’s getting his appetite back. Good luck with your science test this arvo. Heading out to Nanna’s memorial rock today, will call tonight. Miss you xx Mum

  Basil followed as Lara carried her backpack to the door. For the first time since the snakebite, he dashed out ahead of her and did a lap around the homestead while Lara laced up her hiking boots.

  ‘Maybe next time, buddy,’ she said, chaining him up at the kennel. He turned three times clockwise, then once anticlockwise before settling down on a patch of lawn in the golden sunlight.

  My life might be going to hell in a handbasket, but it’s good to see someone else’s is moving in an upward trajectory, she decided.