Magpie's Bend

by Maya Linnell

  The drive to McIntyre Park was so familiar she could have done it with her eyes closed, although the stretch of ground between her family’s shearing shed and the foot of the Grampians Mountain Range leading to Wildflower Ridge required her utmost attention. The Subaru bounced along the damp track. She watched the ground carefully for boggy spots that had soaked up the recent rain. Lara unlatched the same gates she’d opened and shut her entire childhood, knowing that the one in the house paddock always needed a little extra elbow-grease, and that the chain securing the east paddock had to be looped through twice to hold against the frisky, freshly shorn rams, high on the heady taste of fresh autumn grass and the weightless feeling of a clean coat.

  New calves skittered away from the fence line as Lara pulled up against the McIntyre Park boundary. The mountains cast deep shadows across the paddock, the shade amplifying the cool autumn morning.

  Lara zipped up her fleece jacket, looped her damp hair into a bun and nestled a baseball cap on her head. After years of running on backroads and grass tracks, the mountainside trail was a piece of cake. She soon found a steady rhythm, admiring the dimpled, lichen-covered boulders that had lain in the same mountainside spot for hundreds, probably thousands, of years.

  It took an hour to climb to her mum’s memorial site. Annabel’s favourite vantage point was marked by a plaque on one of the biggest boulders. There was no sign of the small orchids that gave Wildflower Ridge its name, but the view always offered peace and solace. It was what she imagined church-goers found in chapels.

  Lara took in the panorama of emerald paddocks, bushy shelter-belts and tiny specks of grazing stock. It took her breath away every time.

  She unpacked her picnic. The wind snatched at Annabel’s worn tablecloth, and a few opportunistic ants edged their way onto the blanket before Lara had even taken the lid off the banana muffins.

  Leaning back against the rock, she ran her fingers across her mum’s plaque.

  ‘Hey, Mum. It’s been a while.’

  She breathed it in, waiting for the familiar, comforting smells to ground her. Another breath, but still her heart was heavy. ‘We’ve almost saved the shop. You should see the list of people who’ve pitched in.’

  The living and breathing Annabel McIntyre had always offered wise counsel, patiently listening and considering an issue before weighing in.

  God, I wish you were still here. Sometimes the single vehicle accident that had taken Annabel—fracturing their teenage years—felt like a lifetime ago. Lara wasn’t sure exactly when the horrid, raw loss had eased to a dull grief, but moments of uncertainty always brought back an echo of that earlier pain. Lara blinked until the tears retreated. She spoke into the wind again.

  ‘Sam’s parents are trying to weasel their way back into Evie’s life. Can you believe it? As if we’d take their money.’

  A butterfly floated by on the breeze and a wedge-tailed eagle soared past, its wingspan at least as wide as Lara was tall. She watched cars and machinery—no bigger than matchbox toys—shifting from farm to farm in the paddocks below, and even a crop duster on the far horizon, but the kernel of bitterness wouldn’t shift.

  ‘Mrs Beggs has given us a little longer to raise the money, but the other buyers are keen.’

  She had a sudden vision of Mrs Beggs collecting offers in sealed envelopes, like a Dutch auction. Or maybe Tarquin or that dreadful family would play a game of one-upmanship, topping each other’s bids.

  Toby stole into her thoughts.

  ‘What would you say about him, Mum? He’s different to Sam.’

  Annabel had never warmed to Sam, had never fallen for his charm.

  It had been a bone of contention between them, and Lara had refused to back down. It wasn’t until years later that Lara understood her mother must have glimpsed something lurking beneath Sam’s charismatic façade, something she hadn’t seen until much later.

  Would you trust Toby, Mum? Would you be pushing us together, like Penny and Diana are? Or would you warn me to learn from my mistakes and steer well clear?

  Lara finished the muffin when a wet splash landed on her arm. ‘Eww,’ she said with a grimace, glancing up for the culprits. Bloody crows. The birds cackled, hovering above the picnic, before flying off. Their farewell message felt as clear as the cloudless sky.

  Is that a sign?

  Lara cleaned up the bird poo, dusted crumbs from her pants and glanced reluctantly at her watch.

  The paperwork would keep cluttering up the dining table until she tackled it, and she had a hankering to bake. Cinnamon scrolls maybe, or fruit buns. She loaded everything into the backpack, before resting a hand on the hefty memorial stone, one last time.

  ‘Miss you, Mum.’

  Lara mulled over the decisions she needed to make as she hiked down from Wildflower Ridge. There was a lot she didn’t know, but this she knew for sure: Bridgefield’s General Store needed saving, and Annabel would be proud to see Lara at the forefront of the campaign.

  Toby massaged the bridge of his nose the following morning, hoping that if he did it for long enough, perhaps when he reopened his eyes the front page would magically reappear with the article he’d filed and sent to the printers the night before.

  He drew in a ragged breath and tentatively peeked at the desk again.

  For crying out loud …

  Still the same shocking headline. ‘Friction between committee and community!’ For the first time in his journalism career, Toby felt ashamed to call himself a newspaper man.

  ‘Bugger it!’

  He thumped the desk, impotent rage fuelling the string of scathing curses for the colleague who’d whipped up the one-sided front-pager. The table quivered at the blow, making his mug jump. Stone-cold coffee splashed between the delete and return key. He made another attempt to contact the Ballarat newsroom. The dial tone was busy. Again.

  In all his years at The Ballarat Daily he’d never imagined Mick would betray him like this. But the black ink didn’t leave much room for misinterpretation. Somebody had changed the front page, and it wasn’t Toby.

  The receptionist stuck her head around the door.

  ‘Get up on the wrong side of bed, did you? You’ll scare away the early customers, Toby. And didn’t you say yourself that the Addy couldn’t afford to drop many more subscribers?’

  Toby blew out an exasperated breath. This coming from a woman who got on the grog at lunchtime.

  He lifted the newspaper and turned the front page towards her.

  ‘This! Idiots like Dougal O’Leary writing gutter-trash articles like this will scare away the readers, not me ranting and raving. For God’s sake, Nancy, if Mick or anyone from The Ballarat Daily ever try to reach me when I’m out of the office, I want you to drive over to my house and bang the door down. The Addy is better than this.’ The sense of betrayal was overwhelming. How could Mick do this without telling me?

  And then another, perhaps more disturbing thought: What will Lara think?

  Toby stood up, moving with purpose. He needed to find Lara and explain before someone else did. He looked at his watch. Quarter to eight. Early enough that she’d be up, but if he was lucky, she wouldn’t have left for work yet.

  ‘You said to divert your calls last night, so I did,’ Nancy said with a careless shrug. ‘And you were right shitty when I phoned you the last time you had a migraine. You said—’

  Her lack of initiative was mortifying.

  ‘I would have wanted to be disturbed for something like this, Nancy. Surely you can see what a spot this puts us in?’

  Toby reached into his camera bag for his keys, then swore. Of all the days to cycle to work. The morning’s clear, crisp sky had been replaced by steely clouds and the threat of more rain.

  He held out his hand to the receptionist.

  ‘Car keys,’ he commanded, snatching a fresh copy of the newspaper from the front bench.

  ‘The work car’s getting a service. The mechanic picked it up last night, said he’ll have it
back this arvo sometime. Here, borrow mine.’

  Toby tried not to cringe as Nancy handed over a keyring complete with a fluffy rabbit foot.

  Clouds scudded across the sky as he drove the hot-pink VW Beetle towards Lara’s property. The wind blew straight through the gaps where the white convertible roof was attached to the pink metal frame, and even the galahs flew up from the roadside, terrified by either the hole in the exhaust or the garish paint job. Quite possibly both.

  Light drizzle coated the windscreen as he turned into Lara’s driveway and saw her Subaru parked by the steps. Basil barked a greeting from his kennel, but there was no answer when he knocked on the heavy front door.

  He took in the ankle-length lawn and weeds creeping into Lara’s garden—a ripple effect of all the hours she was dedicating to the shop campaign—and then looked down at the newspaper in his hands.

  And this is how we’ve repaid her.

  He stuffed the paper into his back pocket.

  A series of sharp claps came from behind the corrugated-iron shearing shed.

  ‘Hey, hey, c’moooon.’

  Toby headed across the yard, narrowly avoiding an upturned wheelbarrow. Lara was standing with a trio of large cows. To Toby’s untrained eye, they looked identical to the ones that trotted along her boundary fence line most mornings.

  Her singlet and leggings seemed an odd choice for cattle herding.

  ‘Get out, you buggers. Hey! Hey!’

  She clapped her hands again, stepping between the steers and the small silo behind the shearing shed. A mound of golden grain was piled underneath the silo spout.

  ‘Looks like they found the feed supply?’ said Toby.

  Lara whirled around at the sound of his voice.

  ‘Exactly what I needed after a fifteen-k run. My legs are still sore from yesterday’s hike too. Mind you, it would’ve been worse if I hadn’t noticed it. Now they know where the grain lives, they’ll knock it over trying to get more,’ she said. Toby followed Lara’s lead and together they herded the cattle back into the paddock.

  She threw him a smile as she latched the gate, locking the cattle out of the shearing-shed yard.

  ‘Thanks. You probably saved me another half-hour trying to wrangle them back in. Any longer standing around in this misty rain and I’d be frozen solid. What brings you out here?’

  Toby swallowed, preparing to obliterate the goodwill they had generated.

  Like ripping off a bandaid.

  ‘Actually, you’re not going to be thanking me in a minute.’ He handed her the newspaper and watched the colour drain from her face.

  ‘You let them publish this? This … this bullshit?’ She scanned the article, her face tight with fury. ‘For God’s sake! What type of rubbish is this?’

  He waited for a pause before trying to explain.

  ‘I didn’t know they were going to print it, Lara. The newspaper looked nothing like that when I put the edition to bed last night, honestly. The Ballarat office went straight over my head.’

  Toby looked at the front page again, shame enveloping him.

  Lara’s pale face flushed with anger.

  ‘You’re the editor, though, aren’t you?’ She flipped to the inside page and jabbed a finger at his smiling headshot beside the newspaper’s contact details and social-media handles.

  The cows jostled at the gate, bellowing indignantly. The drizzle segued into heavy droplets that soaked the newspaper.

  Lara swiped a damp lock of hair behind her ear and, with a shaky hand, pushed the newspaper towards him. Rain ran down her face and dripped off her chin.

  ‘I would never do that,’ he said, stretching out a tentative hand. She was well within her rights to slap it away, to rip the newspaper back out of his hands and whack him over the head with it. ‘I swear on my daughter’s life, Lara.’ Suddenly, there was nothing more important than making sure she knew he would never publish something like this. ‘I wouldn’t betray you like that, but I’ll have a crack at nailing the bastards who did,’ he said.

  Lara held his gaze as silence fell between them, leaving only the sound of rain thudding against the silver tin, the cheeky cows lowing and the wind whistling through the gum trees.

  Toby could almost imagine the internal battle going on inside her head. She shivered, rubbing her arms. He quickly pulled his jumper over his head and wrapped it around her icy-cold shoulders.

  ‘There’s no way the town wants you stepping down, Lara. Look how much they rely on you, how you’ve almost singlehandedly raised the money. Are you okay?’

  ‘Apart from freezing my butt off,’ she said quietly.

  They strode towards the house, skirting around newly formed puddles in Lara’s driveway. He hesitated at his car, not wanting to leave her to digest the news on her own, but not wanting to presume anything, or barge into her personal space either.

  She paused on the verandah steps.

  ‘Don’t think you’re getting away that easily. Fill me in over coffee, yeah?’ Even though her tone was gruff, the upswing on her last word hinted at both vulnerability and an attempt at trust.

  The rain hammered down harder. They jogged up the steps but Lara paused at the door.

  ‘Turn around.’

  He turned around in time to catch lightning dance across the horizon, and counted as he waited for the rumble of thunder. Lara was the only person he’d met in Bridgefield who regularly locked her house.

  Samuel Kingsley sure had a lot to answer for.

  ‘Come on, then,’ said Lara.

  He slipped off his shoes.

  Lara led him down the hallway and opened a cupboard door. The scent of soap and washing powder in the linen press was the same as the fragrance he often caught on Lara. She tossed a towel in his direction.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said, wiping his face and then towelling his hair.

  ‘Shower’s through there,’ she said, opening the door directly to his left.

  He took one look at the goosebumps covering her entire body. ‘You go first, you look frozen solid.’

  Toby could see courtesy jarring against common sense, and he was relieved when she didn’t argue.

  ‘I’ll just be a minute. Kitchen’s that way,’ she said, pointing towards the light-filled room at the end of the hallway.

  Toby padded across the floorboards slowly, pausing at the black-and-white prints lined up in mismatched frames. They were mostly of Evie, some alone and a few with Lara, as well as candid snapshots of the extended McIntyre family. The only image of Lara by herself was an action shot from a running race—a marathon, judging by the water bottles strapped around her waist and the streams of people either side of her—an expression of pained triumph written across her face.

  Toby found the living area tucked away at the back of the house. Downlights illuminated the vaulted ceiling. He gravitated towards the freestanding wood fire, relishing the radiant heat and taking in the large, open-plan kitchen. With the high ceilings and large windows, he imagined it would be filled with natural light on a less gloomy day.

  He’d expected it to be tidy, because everything about Lara was organised, but the bold navy cabinetry, high-end appliances and copper fittings were a surprise.

  This was a statement kitchen, the colours and extra-wide oven chosen by a person who knew what they liked. And if those glass cannisters on the bench, brimming with yo-yos, rum balls and Anzac biscuits were any indication, Lara obviously put it to good use. A rustle came from behind the dining table and he turned to see a black-and-white bird in a wire cage.

  A magpie?

  Lara didn’t like birds, though … Hadn’t she been jumping for joy when he’d hit those birds by McCluskey’s shearing shed?

  He hadn’t pegged Lara as the wildlife-rescuing type, but then he hadn’t expected a kitchen like this either. He smiled to himself as he looked around, picking up extra little pieces of the Lara McIntyre puzzle. A boxed set of Friends DVDs rested on the rustic coffee table. Framed landscapes painted in bri
ght watercolours hung on the wall. He took in the shopping list stuck to her fridge, postcards lined up neatly beside the kettle, two matching cane baskets brimming with lemons and eggs and an anaemic-looking house plant. He crossed the kitchen with purpose, and unable to help himself, stuck a finger in the soil. Dry as chips. So, there was something Lara wasn’t brilliant at.

  Easily fixed.

  Toby watered the peace lily, and as the soil moistened beneath the plant’s dull green leaves, he wondered what it would take to revive something that had been neglected for so long. All living things responded to gentle nurturing, surely?

  The rain was bucketing down when Lara unclipped the lock on the bathroom door. She dressed quickly, then carried a bathrobe into the kitchen.

  Toby was practically sitting on top of the wood fire.

  ‘This should fit,’ she said. ‘Toss your clothes out the bathroom door and I’ll put them in the dryer while you shower.’

  Toby’s lips twitched. Amused or suspicious, she wasn’t sure. Did he think she was going to wait until he was naked and feed his clothes into the fire? Or perhaps he thought this was her style of seduction?

  ‘You’re heading back to work afterwards, right? Go ahead and catch your death if you want, but your clothes will dry quickly on the hot setting. Faster than going back home and changing,’ she said through stiff lips. ‘And I want to hear exactly how that front page came about.’

  Lara waited until the bathroom door closed and the shower started before she ventured down the hallway again. Tossing his damp clothes into the dryer, she returned to the kitchen to find two mugs of coffee on the island bench. She took a sip, surprised he’d remembered the way she took it. She smiled for all of a second, until she recalled the newspaper headline.

  The relief of discovering Toby wasn’t responsible for the article was short-lived. Everyone in Bridgefield would be talking about it, regardless of who wrote it. They couldn’t drop the ball on the shop campaign now, not when they were so close to buying it.

  Vegemite flapped in his cage, pecking at the bars. Lara rolled her shoulders, trying to decide which juggling ball she needed to catch first. The magpie squawked. Like the cattle, he would take matters into his own hands if she neglected him.