by Fiona Greene
‘I don’t think there’s a polite term for that.’ She reached for a wad of paper. ‘This is the script so far. It isn’t complete, but you need to get yourself familiar with how scripts are written, and how direction and staging is communicated. So, read that.’
‘Got an electronic copy?’ His slimline laptop was the only thing he had on his desk at Council.
‘No.’ She stared back at him. ‘Sorry about that.’
She didn’t sound sorry. He gathered the pages and said, ‘I’ll start reading.’ The sooner he started, the sooner he might be able to whip this into shape and get out of here.
Although that wouldn’t let him work on the mayor’s unwritten request, to be on site when they needed information for the Rivervue Revitalisation, the mayor’s current scheme to inject a bit more Sydney into their quiet country town.
Jeez, if he’d known this job was going to be a carbon copy of the one he’d ditched in Sydney, ripping down old buildings and replacing them with eyesores, he would never have taken it. That was politics for you. Kilpatrick, the eighty-year-old ex-mayor had to go sometime. Mark wondered if he’d been recruited solely to allow that to happen.
It didn’t matter, he was here now. And his job was his job. Whether it was helping out a theatre that seemed to be a mismatch of passionate locals, led by Lexi; or organising building and demolition permits in his role at Council.
He gritted his teeth. He knew which option he’d prefer.
Lexi was sitting silently, probably praying that he would disappear. While he was busy wishing a trapdoor would open and transport him back to his office.
He was on page two when she slapped her hand down over the page he was reading. He raised his eyes and was blown away again by how a different hairstyle framed her face. ‘One more thing.’
‘What?’
‘Nothing from this script is mentioned outside these premises. Number-one rule of theatre. Until it’s on the stage, you don’t talk about it. No matter what you see in the script.’
Such passion.
Was this because she was writing it? Was she worried it wasn’t any good?
‘Got it.’
She nodded and returned to her desk.
He went back to reading but it didn’t take long for his attention to wander. The script was going all over the place with some sort of time travel or something, and there were so many pages that said, ‘to come’. All he knew for certain was that it was about Ron de Vue, and his life, but other than that, he had no idea.
Probably didn’t help that he’d never been to a live theatre performance.
He added that to the list of things never to tell Lexi.
‘Is that what I think it is?’ His voice was loud in the silence of the office.
He watched Lexi put down her pen. ‘What?’
He gestured to the intricately beaded gown in its dry-cleaning bag, hanging on the coat hook. ‘That.’
‘I would think, with the white satin, beading and lace, even Blind Nelly could see what it is. It’s a wedding dress.’
Oh, the next two months stretched before him like two years. ‘Yes, I see that. Wrong question.’ He slid into the chair opposite her desk. ‘Planning on getting hitched?’ His tone was light, but his eyes held hers and probed. The thought of Lexi in that gown was messing with his head.
There was a flash of defiance in her eyes. ‘Not your business. You’re here for the play, remember.’
He sat back. ‘Do we need a wedding dress for the play? Because that one looks expensive.’
‘It’s not for the play.’ Lexi picked up her pen and returned to the script in front of her. She found the line she’d been working on, then something alerted her to the fact that he hadn’t moved. She glanced up.
‘And …’
‘And, nothing. It’s only here temporarily. It’ll be gone tomorrow.’ Lexi paused. ‘Look, it’s just a dress. We theatre folk have a lot of stuff in our offices that isn’t what you’d expect. The dress doesn’t have some sort of contagion, that if you sit too close you might start sprouting proposals or planning engagements. If it’s worrying you, you could go and sit somewhere else. Maybe across town in the Council chambers.’
He leaned back in the chair, trying to portray a picture of relaxation. ‘No, I’m good here. So, who’s the lucky bride?’
‘Not going to let it go, are you?’ Her tone was irritated as she capped her pen and laid it with precision across the top of the script. ‘It’s not my wedding dress and there’s no lucky bride. No luck actually. I volunteer for Angel Gowns.’
‘Angel Gowns?’
‘It’s a volunteer organisation that takes beautiful gowns like this one, and makes outfits for babies who’ve died, either during or before birth.’
The Lexi of his imagination—gowned up and glamorous—disappeared. He sat up so quickly he nearly tipped the chair. ‘I’ve never heard of it.’
‘Most people haven’t. Until they suffer the loss.’ She turned and reached out to trace the beading that cascaded down the full skirt.
‘How do you get involved with something like that?’
‘Brachen, and Rivervue, is a community of volunteers. A family. Everyone contributes, somewhere. This beauty is thirty years old, belonged to a lady called Millie who lives in Nowra. She only had sons, so she had no daughter to pass her dress on to. She has cancer, and she knows she’s not going to see the year out. She wanted it to go to someone in need. So, she donated it to Angel Gowns.’ Lexi dropped her hand and turned back to face him. ‘Some of the Rivervue costume team work there as well, but you don’t need to worry, it’s not like they’re using Rivervue’s resources for this. They’re all volunteers here as well.’
‘I wasn’t worried about that.’ Nope, he’d been solely focused on what Alexis, no Lexi, would look like walking down the aisle wearing that dress. The reality, though, was so not what he was expecting. It was confronting, that there was enough demand to have a volunteer network dedicated to filling it. He fumbled around in his pocket and pulled out his phone. ‘What was it called again?’
‘Angel Gowns.’ She watched as he started a note and two-finger typed it in. ‘Why?’
‘Council has access to all sorts of grants and funding for volunteer organisations. I’ll keep an eye out, and let you know if something comes through.’
‘You aren’t going to use these guys to campaign at the next election or something, are you? Because that would be low.’
Mark’s jaw tightened. ‘No. Firstly, the CEO is an appointed position—it’s apolitical. Secondly, I’m good at what I do, and sometimes that can be as simple as putting someone in need together with someone who has what they need.’
Lexi stared at him.
‘Here’s a tip. I need work time.’ She took a deep breath. ‘If you really want to help, stop pushing for Rivervue Revitalisation. Rivervue needs to stay here, in the building Ron de Vue bequeathed. It’s central to town and an integral part of Brachen’s economy and growth.’ She pushed to her feet. ‘I don’t begrudge anything you can get for the Angel Gowns program, so thank you for thinking of it. But please, if what you say is true, reconsider moving the theatre. If you move it, it will die. A doorway into Brachen’s history will slam shut. When the visitors stop coming and the businesses on Main Street are dying, there won’t be anyone to buy your riverfront apartments.’
‘There’s no decision on the proposal as yet.’
‘Spoken like a true Council CEO.’ Lexi pushed to her feet and grabbed her purse out of her desk drawer. ‘Sometimes, it can be as simple as putting someone in need together with someone who has what they need. Your words. I need Rivervue to stay here. You have the ability to make that happen. You might want to reflect on that.’ She headed for the door. ‘I’ll give you some time to think. I’ve got a list of jobs a mile long. I’ll be back in a couple of hours.’
Mark watched her go. There was no way he could fault her passion for what she did here at Rivervue, but surely, if the con
cept worked here, it would work anywhere.
Maybe this secondment to Rivervue might give Council everything it needed to proceed with the Rivervue Revitalisation. Maybe it wouldn’t. His job was to explore all options.
Ron de Vue bequeathed Rivervue to the town, not to its arts community, specifically. And thanks to the plaque on his door that said CHIEF EXECUTIVE OFFICER he was officially Brachen’s boss. That meant the decision ultimately rested with him.
Even if Lexi Spencer might, arguably, be the boss of him for the next eight weeks.
Chapter Three
Lexi finished her errands mid-afternoon, but rather than going straight back to sit in the office with Mark Conroy, her visiting distraction, she stopped in at the rehearsal room where the younger members of CJ’s Youth Theatre were working on their puppetry skills. She loved live theatre, but she came alive for puppets.
It was where she’d had her start in creative industries, and it was still her guilty passion.
She slipped Banjo out of his cupboard and over her hand.
She flicked her wrist, so he faced her and asked him, ‘Want to go see the kids?’
‘Yup,’ he confirmed in his signature drawl, nodding his head.
‘Well, let’s go.’
One of her first creations, Banjo had first seen life as an oversized stuffed dog wearing a Christmas hat. She’d rescued him from a local charity shop, freed him from the hat and some stuffing, and now he was her resident goof-ball, all tongue and paws and floppy ears.
And attitude.
Banjo was in that awkward ‘too big to be a puppy, but not quite a dog’ stage, and he pushed boundaries every time he came out to play. For Lexi, he was a continual reminder of days gone by and how far she’d come.
This group of CJ’s juniors were in Orla Wood’s group, practising freestyle. Orla, one of CJ’s group leaders, had the juniors using scarves from the dress-up area and wrapping them around their hands to make a simple puppet—one of her all-time favourite activities.
Clever draping made a brow that could raise and lower, and a mouth that moved. The lack of obvious features meant that the body language the puppeteer added was vital. Everyone started with the same blank canvas, and it was fascinating to watch those that could create personality while playing with these imaginary friends.
Lexi stopped to don a black shroud, then Banjo bounded into the middle of the lesson. ‘Wanna play?’ he asked, tongue lolling.
‘Banjo,’ the kids shrieked. ‘Cool.’
And it was cool. They started a game, a hybrid of tag and fetch, with Banjo only engaging with the children’s puppets. After a few false starts all the kids were on board, with their creations playing, rather than themselves. Banjo made sure to spend a bit of time with everyone, with Orla helping with scarf positioning and co-ordination.
The session flew by and Lexi was starting Banjo’s favourite song, when one of the puppets stopped singing and whispered, ‘Uh, oh.’
Banjo didn’t miss a beat—it was his song after all. Lexi turned slightly to see Mark had slipped in, and was standing near the door, watching. He didn’t look all that impressed, and the kids picked the vibe straight away.
Under the shroud, Lexi considered ditching Banjo and heading back to the real world. To Mark’s world.
Then Banjo took over.
And decided it was time he met Mark Conroy.
‘Stop. Stop.’ Banjo shook his head and the puppets, one by one, stopped singing. ‘What is the rule?’ He looked at Orla.
‘Everyone has a puppet.’ Orla sprang into action with a purple and orange paisley scarf and seconds later Mark was in the chorus, had his hand up and Orla was draping him a scarf puppet. She gave Mark a few quick tips then withdrew. Twenty tiny faces watched his every move.
A bead of sweat formed on his temple.
Good.
Under the shroud, Lexi smiled. Well, he did say he’d do anything.
‘You ready?’ Banjo asked.
Mark nodded, and the ensemble of puppets all shook their heads to say no.
‘Not you.’ Banjo bounced over to the newcomer. ‘You, Mr Purple Paisley.’
Hesitantly, Mark moved his hand, and the newest puppet started to nod.
‘Great.’ Banjo leaned in close, then tore away. ‘From the top, troops.’
‘Up in the hills, out in the sun, Banjo watched the sheep,’ Lexi sang at the top of her voice, sending Banjo sashaying across the room and back, as the junior puppeteers and one very uncomfortable Council CEO made up the chorus.
To start with Mark’s arm was rigid, and his puppet’s lip-syncing wasn’t great. But then the magic, as she liked to think of it, engulfed him, and he started to relax and to sing.
Maybe even enjoy it.
Another side to Mark Conroy she’d not seen before.
All too soon the session was over.
The scarves were folded, and the parents were arriving to pick up CJ’s juniors.
‘Great job, Orla,’ Lexi said as she emerged from the shroud. ‘They’ve come such a long way.’
Orla smiled shyly. ‘Thanks Lexi, I love the puppets.’
‘Me too.’ She paused as Mark joined them. ‘Have you met Mark yet? Mark is on loan from the Council, to help with our play for the bicentennial. He wants to know everything there is to know about Rivervue.’ Lexi smiled at Mark, daring him to contradict her. ‘Orla is in her senior year at Brachen College. She works here two afternoons a week, with CJ’s juniors.
Mark stuck out his hand, and gently shook Orla’s. ‘Nice to meet you, Orla. You’re a great teacher.’
Orla ducked her head. ‘Thanks.’
‘Orla’s hoping to get into uni next year. We’ll miss her when she goes, but she’s so good with the little ones, she’s going to be an excellent teacher.’
They finished tidying and Orla left, leaving Lexi and Mark alone. The space, so alive minutes before, morphed into an empty shell that echoed as they walked.
Lexi folded the shroud, then gently returned it and Banjo to his cupboard. The magic that was performing with a cheeky puppy was evaporating fast. As she closed the cupboard on him, reality crowded back in.
‘So, that is one of the CJ’s Youth Theatre junior classes. Always lots of fun. We’ll be using children from CJ’s in Larrikin.’
‘On loan from the Council?’ Mark gave her a look. ‘Really?’
‘Technically, you are on loan from the Council.’ Lexi stopped. ‘I don’t want to make a fuss about you being here. I was hoping to keep the proposed relocation on the lowdown until after the Bicentennial Festival, but the mayor announced it. People are worried enough about what’s happening with Council’s plan without your presence here making it worse. I don’t want the kids to worry.’
‘Proposed revitalisation,’ Mark corrected. ‘And I do know a bit about CJ’s.’
Lexi raised a brow. ‘How so?’
‘Emma Conroy is my daughter.’
Lexi’s mouth formed an O. ‘Emma “my father is never on time because he has a very important job” Conroy?’
A flush rose from under his collar. ‘There have been times when I’ve been late.’
‘Like every session.’ Lexi couldn’t believe the man she’d sworn at in her head so many times, when Emma was the last one left, was sitting in front of her. ‘That bit in the newsletter about picking kids up on time, that’s for you, Mister.’
‘I’m sorry. You saw the mayor. Sometimes it’s hard to dissuade him that something is critical.’
‘Okay, I’ll grant you that. But it’s gotta stop, okay. We use a lot of highschool students as our group leaders, and they’re all on bikes. So, if you’re late, they’re riding home in the dark.’
‘I’m sorry. Emma never said a word.’
‘That’s because we don’t blame the child for the actions of the parent.’ Lexi did one final check of the room then locked it as they exited. ‘You know, if you revitalise us by sticking us out in the Butter Factory, I won’t be able to of
fer work to the high-school students, because they don’t get their licence until the end of school. It’s too far out to bike back to town as we don’t want them riding after dark. I’d probably have to cancel the youth program. Kids like Orla wouldn’t have enough money to go to uni. Kids like Emma wouldn’t have an afternoon activity.’ She preceded him up the stairs to the office. ‘There’s more to Rivervue than the occasional nighttime performance of community theatre. You need to get that clear before you start revitalising anything.’
Chapter Four
‘No, Dad, I do not want you to pick me up.’
Mark Conroy watched as his daughter Emma forced the cool bag containing the lunch he’d so carefully baked, then wrapped, into her school backpack. He crossed his fingers that the combination of food items—from recipes in the Brachen College–endorsed cookbook Lunchbox—and the plastic-free lunch wrappers were going to survive the mauling his daughter was currently dishing out to them. And they hadn’t even left the kitchen yet.
Who knew what the healthy choices lunch would look like by the time twelve-thirty rolled around? Not for the first time, he wondered when the sandwich and an apple combo had fallen out of favour as standard lunch fare. He shot a quick glance at the clock over the sink and tried reasoning. ‘It’ll be dark when you finish at practice tonight. Too dark to ride your bike home.’
Emma’s mouth stayed in its tight little line. ‘I didn’t say I was riding. I said I didn’t want a lift home.’
‘Did one of the other mums say she’d drop you home?’
Indecision waged war on Emma’s face. Finally, she fixated on something fascinating on the front of her backpack and said quietly, ‘No.’
Mark stared hard at his daughter as realisation dawned. Had he been solely focused on the outcome of the discussion, he might have missed that brief play of emotion across Emma’s face. She might be learning acting and production as her main after-school activity, but what she’d learned thus far hadn’t yet transferred into her everyday life.
Her face told him what was going on in her head as clear as if she’d yelled it out loud.
