by Maya Linnell
‘Righto, Vegemite, keep your hair on,’ she said, removing the bulldog clip and unlatching his cage.
He hopped out, walked along the bench to the fruit bowl and helped himself to a grape.
Feed the animals, eat breakfast, work my arse off to fix this mess, then save the shop—just a regular day, she told herself, mixing vitamins into the raw mince for the bird’s breakfast. And that’s without trying to work out exactly how the Kingsleys were involved in all this mess.
Washing her hands, she pulled last night’s cinnamon scrolls from the pantry and placed two on a plate. The microwave dinged as Toby walked into the kitchen. His hairy legs looked out of place poking out beneath her bathrobe. Even though it gave more coverage than the sports gear he normally wore, there was something much more intimate about a blue fluffy belt being the difference between clothed Toby and full-frontal-nude Toby. She focused on serving up the warm scrolls.
Come off it, Lara.
She snuck another look at him as she pushed his plate across the island bench.
‘Thanks,’ he said catching her eye, his gentle smile nearly her undoing.
Gah.
Any minute now she’d rip the damn robe from his fine body.
‘Help yourself,’ she said, biting into the soft, sweet icing. The magpie hopped down from the fruit bowl and tiptoed across the bench. ‘Not you, cheeky,’ she said, scooping Vegemite onto her hand and placing him on her shoulder. Lara offered a morsel of cinnamon scroll to the bird.
Toby looked from her to the magpie, amusement written in the curve of his lips.
‘So, how are we going to fix this?’
Twenty
The Subaru’s windscreen wipers worked at full tilt as Lara drove into town.
Parking as close as possible to the general store’s back door, she tugged her hooded jacket over her head and sprinted inside, only to see Karen, Denise and Pearl spring apart, as if they’d been caught snooping.
‘Your ears must’ve been ringing, love. We were looking at this sorry excuse for a newspaper.’ Pearl jabbed the latest edition with her finger.
‘Now, brace yourself, dear,’ came Denise’s kind voice, her face crinkled with concern. ‘There’s a nasty story that beggars belief, but—’
Lara held up a hand. ‘It’s okay, I already know about it,’ she said, flipping the newspaper over so it was face-down on the counter. The headline was even larger than she remembered.
‘I spoke to Toby—’
The doorbell jangled and a familiar Driza-Bone-clad figure walked through the door, water beading off the jacket and pooling on the large mat. Her father removed his Akubra.
‘Where’s Paxton, then?’ Angus growled. ‘He’s got a lot to answer for, the double-crossing so-and-so. I’ve cleaned my rifle, reckon I’ll do a little target practice around his place tonight, make sure he knows how we feel about reporters stirring up trouble.’ It would almost have been funny, the combination of anger and disappointment so foreign on her father’s face, if he hadn’t been deadly serious.
Penny and Diana came through behind him, doing their best drowned-rat impersonations. Baby Lucy popped out from underneath Penny’s buttoned-up raincoat like a Jack-in-the-box, her giggle instantly lightening the mood.
‘We don’t want you to step down—you know that, right?’ Penny looped an arm through Lara’s. It had been the hardest part of the article to digest. A quote from an anonymous source implying exactly that.
‘Definitely not,’ chimed Pearl. ‘You should sue the paper.’
‘You should sue the Kingsleys or Toby more like it,’ grumbled Angus.
Lara took a deep breath. She’d hoped this would be the reaction from her committee, but it was nonetheless a relief to hear their support voiced out loud.
‘Holster your guns, Clint Eastwood,’ Lara said, looking at her father. ‘Toby said he had nothing to do with it.’
‘And you believe him, love?’ Angus eyed her warily, reaching for the newspaper.
‘Yep,’ said Lara. ‘He came around early this morning, as soon as he found out.’
‘It probably doesn’t feel like it now, Lars, but all publicity is good publicity,’ offered Penny, squeezing Lara into a hug. ‘And we can sic the Press Council onto them, make an official complaint when we’ve got a second to scratch ourselves.’ Penny looked at the calendar on the wall. Winter was not far off and the fundraising weekend was in three weeks. ‘Which isn’t right now. Best we can do is ignore it and hope Toby can pump our fundraisers up in the two editions between now and then. Anyone who matters is smart enough to make up their own mind.’
‘It’ll just make everyone even more determined to support the cause,’ added Diana, ratcheting up her optimistic tone at the sight of their father’s doubtful expression.
Angus jabbed a finger at the newspaper.
‘But it’s complete fiction. It’s not the committee versus the community. We’re all working together.’
‘Penny’s right, Dad. We’ve got bigger fish to fry now. Toby called head office from my kitchen. His editor is off sick but they were adamant they wouldn’t issue a retraction,’ she said.
‘I can’t understand why they’d print such tripe. Did the Kingsleys tip them off, then? Is that why they were at the meeting, to see if you could be forced into accepting their donation?’ Angus looked around the room.
‘It could be a coincidence,’ Penny offered.
‘No such thing,’ said Pearl. ‘Newspapers aren’t what they used to be.’
‘Toby said his boss was keen to add more spice to the newspaper, but this is taking it a bit far,’ Lara said.
‘So, you’ll stay on as the head of the committee, despite this … this garbage?’ asked Pearl.
Lara nodded. ‘If you want me to.’
Everyone in the general store agreed. Lara’s heart soared.
‘Right, onward and upward, then. While you’re all here, let’s go through everything that needs doing this week. We can’t afford to let this derail us, or you can say goodbye to the Bridgefield General Store and hello to man-buns, soy lattes and tofu quiche.’
Just like she’d done all those years ago, Lara mentally pallet-wrapped the Kingsley family dramas and forklifted them into a box right at the back of her mind, to be unpacked at a later date. She would give them a piece of her mind afterwards, maybe sew a few yabbies into the seams of their sumptuous dining-room drapes, but right now, she had a shop to save.
Toby stood up and stretched, feeling like a half-opened pocket knife as he did his closing sweep of the newspaper premises. It felt like an eon since he’d left home this morning. He’d copped flak all day, and though he’d been almost as livid about the front page as Lara, he hadn’t expected such strong hostility from the Bridgefield residents who thought he was responsible.
‘You should get a T-shirt printed saying “That front page had nothing to do with me”,’ Nancy had marvelled, after watching Toby explain himself to yet another customer. It hadn’t mattered that he’d printed a dozen good stories about the shop campaign beforehand, or that the next edition and the one after would be resplendent with factual and optimistic articles.
A light on the office landline flashed. How had he missed that one? Probably another indignant community member calling to give me a serve. With a yawn, Toby sat back down into his office chair and pressed the blinking light. At least Lara’s on my side, he reminded himself. It had made the storm a lot easier to weather.
Mick’s gravelly voice came through on the voicemail.
‘Got your message. I know you’re pissed off, but you’re there to report the news, Paxton, even if you don’t agree, or it upsets the apple cart. Something else has cropped up, call me back.’
There’s more?
Toby groaned and redialled his boss’s number.
Ramona answered, her tinkling laugh like chalk on a blackboard.
‘Toby, we were just talking about you. I’ll hand you over to Mick so he can share the good news.
’
Good news?
After the front-page fiasco, Toby couldn’t imagine what now constituted Mick’s version of good news. Exclusive scoops on car-accident victims? Slander campaigns? Football WAGS overdosing?
Mick cleared his throat when he came on the phone, then said simply: ‘We’re having a baby.’
Toby wasn’t sure what he was expecting, but it wasn’t that. He almost laughed out loud. Is Mick nuts? He couldn’t imagine going back to nappies and toddler tantrums himself, let alone as a first-time parent with an extra twenty years on the clock. Ramona’s excited chatter carried on in the background.
‘Congratulations …’ Toby drew the word out, unsure if it was the right answer.
‘Cheers,’ said Mick with a gruff laugh. ‘Never thought it’d happen to me, but I’m going to give it all I’ve got. Ramona’s beside herself with excitement. I wanted to tell you before she pasted it all over social media. Fancy coming back to the Ballarat office sooner rather than later? You can shadow me a few months before I take an early retirement.’ Mick coughed. ‘If you still want the job, that is?’
Toby leaned back in his chair. He’d planned to blast Mick about the front page, not congratulate him or stand slack-jawed and speechless. Headlights flickered through the gaps in his office blinds.
It was what he’d always wanted, wasn’t it? The job his father had encouraged him to work for since high school. But now it was within his grasp, his thoughts didn’t linger on the city job. He swivelled around on his chair, taking in the office plant that thrived on a diet of 10 per cent rain water and 90 per cent cold coffee dregs, the stack of newspapers with his by-line scattered throughout, the colourful thank-you cards from the Bridgefield Primary students, and the whiteboard that contained the most important info for the upcoming fun run.
‘Who’s going to head up the Bridgefield paper?’ he said slowly.
‘Christ knows, Paxton. I’m more concerned about the hair dye Ramona bought the same day the pregnancy test came back positive. She reckons it’ll prevent me being mistaken for the kid’s grandfather. What’s it to you anyway, mate? That little posting was a stepping stone for the Ballarat job. This is your get-out-of-jail-free card. Surely you’re not going to turn it down because you’re still peeved about today’s little front pager?’
Little front pager?
Toby’s mobile buzzed. He pulled it away from his ear and saw a message from Lara.
5 a.m. at McCluskey’s gate? Fun-run planning meeting while on the run? ☺
It wasn’t the first text she’d sent him, but it was the first time she’d added a smiley-face emoji. He stared at the message. Murphy’s Law was a bitch. Two mutually exclusive things arriving at the exact same time.
Mick was halfway through a sentence when Toby put the phone back to his ear ‘… and there’s a keen reporter we might shove in the hot seat at Bridgefield. He wouldn’t know a sheep from a goat, but he’ll find his feet quick enough. It’s hardly the Sydney Morning Herald, right?’
Toby raked a hand through his hair and stood up. That scenario seemed about as counterintuitive as letting three urbanites turn the general store into a juice or karaoke bar.
‘I don’t know what to think, Mick. Give me a week or two to get my head around it, yeah?’
He heard the incredulity in his mentor’s response. ‘A week? What’s to think about? Don’t leave it too long, Paxton. Every journo in my newsroom would give their eye teeth to take over my spot. If I’m honest with you, that little paper’s a slowly-sinking ship. There’s only so long we can keep propping it up.’
Toby locked the back door, and as he ran his hands along the bluestone walls, the blocks cut from the same quarry as those used to build the pub and the general store, he realised how much the small town had grown on him over the past six months. The newspaper, the town or the people? He asked himself, placing his camera bag in the boot of the Volkswagen.
Or maybe, just maybe, one particular person?
A mangy fox ran right in front of Lara as she turned out of her driveway and onto the limestone road the following week. She scrunched up her nose against the acrid smell of fox spray lingering in the air. If Basil had been there, he would have made it his mission to track down the fox and stir up McCluskey’s donkeys in the process. She was grateful he remained tucked up in his kennel.
She could see Toby approaching the shearing shed—or what remained of it—a minute after her. The bones of the building had long since stopped smouldering, but the smell of ash and smoke lingered.
‘East or west?’
‘East, then we’ll see the sun peep over the horizon,’ he said.
Lara led the way and her cattle announced themselves via a stampede of hooves along the fence line.
‘Morning, cows,’ Lara called.
‘Morning, cows,’ Toby echoed, the amusement in his voice making Lara smile again.
Who even am I? Grinning like a loon because I’m no longer the only one greeting the local bovine community. Lucky it’s dark. She checked herself. And it’s not a date anyway, it’s just a run. A fun-run planning run, at that, just like the last two.
‘So, what loose ends need tidying up before the weekend?’ she said. ‘Evie has a student-free day Friday, so I’ve added her to the early-bird registration table.’
‘Holly’s keen as mustard too. That’ll be perfect. I’m pretty sure it’s out of the goodness of her heart, nothing to do with your nephew,’ he said dryly. ‘Entries keep flooding in, we’re sitting at about two hundred registrations overall.’
Lara nearly stumbled. ‘Two hundred runners? Last I heard, you had one-fifty?’
‘I called in a few favours in the athletics industry, bartered some website copywriting, a few media releases in return for them bombarding their contact lists with the details. But, how about those raffle tickets?’
‘They’re coming along. Penny’s virtual tour of the apartment has had over a thousand views already,’ said Lara, not bothering to hide the pride in her voice. Raffling off the apartment had gone down better than she’d dared to hope. ‘And as much as I hate to admit it, the “Save the Shop” campaign did pretty well out of that awful front-page article,’ she said. ‘Even if it was fake news.’
Toby groaned. ‘Don’t say that too loudly, I’m still not happy with Mick’s half-hearted apology. Sorry I didn’t see it coming either, I’m sure it was the last thing you needed.’
‘Stop apologising, I’m relieved it at least generated more ticket sales. And we’ll pump the raffle up over the weekend. Mrs Beggs is planning to draw the winning ticket on Sunday at the end of the fun run.’
They turned towards the lake and started to weave their way downhill. Lara snuck a look at her watch. They were setting a good pace.
‘And what about your in-laws?’ Toby asked. ‘Did you confront them about the newspaper tip off? Bet it felt good telling them you’ll raise the money without their help?’
Lara looked out at the shimmering lake, its rippled surface reflecting the moon, the low-hanging clouds, the soft glow of the fresh day ahead. She hadn’t heard from the Kingsleys since the night of the town meeting, and though Evie hadn’t mentioned any more visits, she’d texted her a photo of a beautiful new top with the caption, ‘OMG look at this, Mum!’ Edwina had dubbed it a late birthday present, but Lara knew exactly what it was: a bribe.
‘To be honest, I’ve spent way too long caring what other people think, especially them,’ said Lara. ‘I mean, I won’t stop Evie from seeing them, but I’m not going to send them a told-you-so letter to prove we could raise the money without them.’
She hesitated. It was easier to dismiss the Kingsleys’ offer for the shop, but what about Karl and Edwina’s budding relationship with Evie? Was showering their granddaughter with new clothes and fancy meals only the start? Would it lead to tropical getaways and overseas expeditions to far-flung places Lara could never afford? The ‘what ifs’ nagged at her more than she’d like to admit.
/> Lara looked across at Toby. Should she confide in him?
Maybe every parent felt this rush of guilt and worried they would never be able to give their child the world. Or was it a single-parent speciality?
‘What’s up?’
She shook her head.
‘Nothing,’ she said eventually. This morning was too beautiful for dwelling on fears or insecurities.
Toby changed the topic smoothly.
‘You excited about the ball?’
This made her laugh. ‘I was planning on avoiding it with a ten-foot barge pole. My sisters seem to think single means miserable and I wouldn’t put it past them to slingshot me into the middle of the desperate and dateless punters.’
His soft chuckle made her heart beat faster. ‘I think your sisters have been talking to my sister.’
Lara squeezed in next to him to accommodate the narrow pedestrian bridge. His arm brushed against hers, sending a delicious tingle right through her.
‘I’m not big on those type of things,’ she admitted.
‘Me neither,’ he said, a smile in his voice, and as the sun peeked over the east side of Bridgefield Lake, Lara felt something stirring deep inside her. Hope.
Twenty-one
Toby came home from work on Thursday afternoon, poured a glass of red wine and set his laptop on the bench.
He had the freezer open, deliberating between a frozen curry and a frozen tomato soup when the computer started to chime.
‘Perfect timing, Lollypop,’ he said, putting the curry into the microwave and answering the Skype call. She waved at him from the computer screen.
Toby took his glass of wine and dinner to the dining table, eating while they Skyped. Whitney Houston blared from the stereo in the background and Belinda danced into view.
‘Yeah, I wanna dance with somebody,’ Belinda sang, offering her wooden spoon microphone to her niece, who declined.
‘Aunt Belinda’s music-appreciation classes continue, I see?’ Holly shook her head. ‘Tell me the DJ you’ve booked for next week’s ball has a bigger range than just eighties and nineties music?’
