Magpie's Bend Read online

  Bridgefield Lake appeared, vast and glinting in the sunlight, as Toby crested the dusty hill. The Grampians Mountain Range was mirrored in the water, along with fluffy clouds that were more for show than actual rain-delivery purposes. Windmill Track wasn’t the most direct route home—it would have taken him five minutes in the car as opposed to thirty-ish minutes on the bike—and the hill was a killer on the way up, but the view across the lake and paddocks was worth it.

  The old windmill at the top of the track creaked and groaned as Toby stopped to catch his breath.

  The scenery was postcard perfect compared to the old commute. The streets of Ballarat and Melbourne’s laneways held their own appeal, but he didn’t miss the traffic fumes or crazy drivers. The past two months in his new home had instead been filled with colour and sound and wildlife of one kind or another, which suited him just fine.

  He coasted down the hill, finally arriving at the cottage he leased. The lawn he’d mowed the night before looked sharp, and he could see it had flourished after last month’s Weed ’n’ Feed.

  Parking his bike in the small shed, Toby strolled inside, pleased he’d made the effort to do a quick whip around before he’d left for work that morning. He liked it neat and tidy. Especially on the weekends his daughter, Holly, came to stay.

  She’ll be here within the hour, he realised, looking at his watch. He stashed Holly’s soy milk in the fridge, gently placed his camera bag on the table and started fixing dinner. Before long, a bowl of pizza dough was rising on the windowsill, pizza toppings were diced and he was pouring himself a glass of Coonawarra red.

  As the one-man-band running the town’s weekly newspaper, every workday was different. Today’s articles had taken him to the cattle sales, the primary school, a new farm-gate business, and the town’s newly resurfaced netball courts all ready for the upcoming season. He loved the broad scope of his work. Small-town news stories and country articles were a nice change from front-page fatalities, although today at the shop …

  It had been the most action he’d seen since he arrived in Bridgefield. He sipped his wine.

  Lara McIntyre. The name rang a bell. Same surname as the father and daughter at the saleyards that morning. The woman buying cattle had similar features, but her smile had been quick, and she’d happily posed for a picture. Lara, on the other hand, hadn’t even glanced at the photos he’d taken before ordering him to delete them. What was with that?

  Toby was googling recovery software, trying to work out whether he could retrieve the deleted pictures—Just for a look, then I’ll format the memory card—when a small, sleek car inched down his driveway. He strode across the kitchen, taking the front steps two at a time.

  ‘Dad!’

  Holly jumped out of the car before it was properly parked. She launched herself into his arms the way she’d done as a little girl, smelling like vanilla body spray and chewing gum and feeling taller than when he’d hugged her last. He squeezed her tight, rocking her from side to side before straightening his arms to get a good look at her. She turned away, suddenly a fifteen-year-old again.

  ‘Hey Lollypop, how’s my girl?’

  ‘Daaa-ad,’ Holly always protested at the nickname, but he knew she secretly liked it. He kissed the top of her head and slung an arm around her shoulder.

  ‘You’d better hope the wind doesn’t change, Holly,’ said Petra as she leaned out the car window. Toby waved to his ex-wife, trying not to be offended by the glare she reserved just for him.

  What now? Knowing Petra, it could be anything, from the blue polo shirt he wore—identical to another eight in his wardrobe—to her longstanding disappointment that he dared to cope, quite well, in fact, without her. Or, quite possibly, it was something completely new.

  ‘How’s things?’

  Petra’s face clouded with irritation at his cheerful greeting. ‘Fine.’ Her forehead hadn’t creased, her eyes hadn’t wrinkled, but there was no mistaking her grouchy tone.

  Toby folded his arms across his chest, resisting the urge to groan aloud. There was no good response to that one. He backed away to retrieve Holly’s luggage from the boot, trying not to dwell on the rapidly changing contours of his ex-wife’s face. Petra might be thrilled with her new, ‘improved’ image but it was a far cry from the natural look he’d once fallen in love with.

  Petra stayed in the car. She blew a kiss to her daughter, then fixed Toby with another icy glare. ‘Make sure she does her homework, and can you please talk some sense into her about clarinet lessons? She’ll never get into the school orchestra if she doesn’t practise.’

  Toby spotted Holly discreetly pushing the instrument case back into the car boot, and only just managed to keep a straight face.

  ‘Nice seeing you too, Petra. I’m grand, thanks for asking. You coming in or heading straight back to Ballarat?’ They all knew the answer, but he wanted Holly to see at least one of them making an effort.

  Standing together, father and daughter waved until the car disappeared out of sight. ‘She won’t be happy when she realises you “forgot” your clarinet,’ Toby said wryly.

  Two

  Swampy lakes dotted the paddocks, thanks to a soggy spring and damp summer, and the frogs put on their usual dusk concert as Lara ran past. Hereford cattle trotted along the barbed-wire fence.

  ‘Evening, cows,’ Lara called out.

  As usual there was no response from the cows, but the thicket of roadside shrubs twitched. Out dashed Basil the kelpie, in full pursuit of a terrified rabbit. He barely slowed at Lara’s whistle, only returning to her side when she reached the grass laneway dividing the neighbour’s land from her own.

  A flash of black-and-white feathers swooped in front of them.

  ‘Oh sod off,’ Lara snapped, breaking stride to wave her hands above her head. ‘Damn magpies.’

  Basil barked and leaped, but like most evenings, he failed to get within spitting distance.

  The birds followed them towards Lara’s big old homestead, and, much to her chagrin, settled in the flowering gum by the chook house. She could only wonder in frustration how many eggs they had pinched today.

  Lara looked at the grass that needed cutting, the hedge that needed clipping. The line under the verandah flapped with washing: one pair of trousers, one work blouse, one set of running clothes, one set of underwear. The lonely sight was almost enough to make her turn around and head out for another five kilometres, but it was nearly Evie o’clock.

  She dashed through the shower and rummaged in the pantry for a piece of muesli slice. It wasn’t completely decadent, she told herself, savouring the sultanas and chewy oats, not like the chocolate-drizzled Florentines she was saving for dessert, but it would tide her over until dinner.

  The phone rang as Lara settled on the lounge with a mug of tea.

  ‘Hey Evie-girl, right on time!’

  ‘Hi Mum. You won’t believe the day I’ve had,’ said Evie with a groan, before launching into a story about the year-nine class excursion. Lara was entertained by her daughter’s dramatic recount, told with the flair and indignation only teenagers could manage.

  ‘And I’m totally sure all the boarding house will be riddled with food poisoning based on the lunch they served us. It was horrific,’ said Evie.

  It was on the tip of Lara’s tongue to explain that boarding-house meals were part and parcel of the life Evie had so desperately wanted and worked so hard for. The swanky private school had been Evie’s idea, and as proud as Lara had been when they’d awarded her a full scholarship, she selfishly wished her precious girl had stayed in Bridgefield.

  ‘Well, I guess you’re coming home then, so I can make you hot meals and fabulous desserts every night of the week?’

  ‘Nice try, Mum. What’s happening in sleepy old Bridgefield today?’

  ‘It’s been a hive of activity, I’ll have you know,’ said Lara, adding her own mock indignation. ‘And wait until you hear about the action at the shop.’

  Just like Lara b
efore her, Evie had worked as a casual for Mrs Beggs, learning the ins and outs of customer service, money handling and, most importantly, responsibility in the small business.

  ‘Poor Mrs Beggs. Will she be all right?’

  ‘We won’t know more until the X-rays are back, but the fracture looked pretty rough. She’ll be out of action for a few weeks at least.’

  ‘Shall I make her a get-well card?’

  Lara smiled. That’s my girl. Kind, caring and thoughtful. She missed her even more.

  ‘Rise and shine, Lollypop,’ said Toby, flinging open the spare-bedroom curtains. The lump in the middle of the single bed shifted. A moan erupted.

  ‘Ss-too-eeeeearly.’

  ‘Where’s the kid who used to jump out of bed each morning to lace my sneakers? I’ve already got ten k’s under my belt, had a shower and cooked brekky and you’ve barely stirred.’

  ‘Justanotherhour,’ Holly groaned.

  ‘Up to you. Thought we’d head to Halls Gap after the sports photos, take some scenic shots, feed the kangaroos …’ Toby played his trump card. ‘Maybe grab some ice cream?’

  Holly peeked out from under the floral quilt.

  ‘With the homemade waffle cones?’

  Bingo. Toby had known that would be the clincher.

  ‘Absolutely.’

  Toby restocked his camera bag, added sunscreen and drink bottles, and had them on the road before 8 a.m. The rock wallabies were out in force and he barely nudged the speed limit as he drove towards the mountains.

  ‘Which camera did you pack for me, Dad? Tell me it’s not the point-and-shoot one? I’ll never be able to take award-winning photos like you if I don’t practise with a real camera,’ she said.

  Toby took his eyes off the road and grinned. ‘We’ll take turns with mine, but keep the strap around your neck.’ His camera was old compared to the latest digital models, but a replacement wasn’t in the budget anytime soon.

  ‘How’s the portrait collection coming along?’ Holly asked. ‘You’re a shoo-in to win again. I can just see you with that new top-of-the-line Nikon they’re giving away.’

  Toby thought of the photo he’d taken yesterday. As soon as the shutter closed, he’d known the picture would look fantastic stretched onto canvas. If he’d thought it had been hard deleting them outside the shop yesterday, it was nothing compared to looking at them on the laptop screen and then hitting delete.

  He’d felt like a bit of a scumbag recovering the photos after he’d promised to delete them, but it had been worth it to prove to himself that the shot had been near perfect. If only Lara had looked at the photos, she would have seen herself as he had. In those pictures he’d captured a snapshot of beauty, distilled the urgency of the moment, framed her strength through the lens.

  Even if he was the only one who would ever know it.

  ‘The only thing close to award-winning is gone. I’ve got nothing to enter.’

  ‘Not another transfer stuff-up?’ asked Holly.

  The sports club at the foot of the mountains came into view. As far as settings got, this was pretty hard to beat. Toby shook his head. ‘Unhappy subject. To be fair, it was a photo I’d taken without asking during a medical emergency.’

  ‘Cool! Blood and guts? Why didn’t they like the photos? Or did the person cark it?’

  Toby pulled up at the tennis courts and fixed his daughter with a stern look.

  ‘Holly Adeline Paxton. Where’s your compassion? It wouldn’t be cool if there was blood and guts everywhere, and no, she didn’t cark it.’

  Toby explained the hullabaloo of last night, and how he’d called the hospital for an update before turning in for the evening.

  ‘She’s stable, but it’s not something to get excited about,’ he said, giving her his firmest ‘dad’ look.

  ‘Don’t get your back up, Dad. You’re the one who was pointing a camera during a medical emergency. Shouldn’t you have been, like, helping?’

  Toby pocketed his car keys, straightened his collar in the rear-view mirror and tugged a baseball cap over his dark hair. Was that why Lara was so peeved? Had he been transfixed by the photo opportunity instead of the emergency? He shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

  ‘You’ve got me there,’ he said. Handing Holly the camera bag, Toby briefed her on the type of shots he wanted for next week’s back page. ‘Come on, you can help me choose an angle to make these kids look like tennis pros.’

  The Bridgefield Bush Nursing Centre was even busier than usual on Saturday morning, with twice as many senior citizens milling around after Lara’s Move It or Lose It exercise class.

  ‘So, you used the defibrillating machine to get Winnie’s heart started again?’ said Jean.

  Defibrillating machine? Lara sighed. Chinese whispers are in full force, then.

  ‘I heard she was airlifted to the Royal Alfred in Melbourne. Poor Winnie. She was looking fine when I saw her at lunchtime,’ added Olive.

  Denise scratched her head. ‘I thought it was a stroke?’

  Lara knew she had to set the record straight before the rumours got out of hand.

  ‘Mrs Beggs is sore but stable. No de-fib, no stroke, just a nasty fracture. Why don’t you head to Hamilton for lunch and see how she is yourself?’

  The telephone ran hot, too, and by the time Lara closed the centre at midday on Saturday, she was all peopled out. A quick check of the shop and then home, she told herself, looping her handbag over her shoulder and striding down Bridgefield’s main thoroughfare.

  She picked up her pace at the sight of a teenager knocking insistently on the general store door.

  ‘You’ll crack the glass at that rate,’ she said. He jumped at her sharp voice, and as he turned towards her she recognised him as one of the high-school seniors.

  ‘Brody.’

  ‘Mrs Kingsley … ah, Miss McIntyre …’ Lara flinched slightly at the use of her old surname. The young man’s face flushed bright red and he gestured to the store. ‘Mrs Beggs must have closed early? I’m supposed to collect the mail.’

  ‘You haven’t heard? Mrs Beggs is in hospital, but Dallas should’ve been here this morning.’

  ‘Crap.’ His grimace turned contrite. ‘Sorry, I mean, no good for Mrs Beggs, but Dad’s expecting a tractor part. I was supposed to pick it up after school yesterday, but I forgot. He won’t be pleased if I leave town without it again today. You know what he’s like.’ Brody swallowed hard.

  Lara softened. She did know what he was like. Brody’s father reminded her of her ex-husband Sam.

  She glanced up and down Bridgefield’s Main Street. A group of young women with prams blazed a path down the opposite footpath, and a handful of utes were parked nose to kerb. She’d be mobbed from each direction if she waltzed in through the front door of the shop.

  ‘Follow me. I wanted to check the store anyway.’ Lara headed around the back.

  ‘I was going to ask Mrs Beggs about a part-time job,’ Brody said. ‘I know she has Dallas and another lady sometimes, but does Evie like helping out in school holidays?’

  Lara unlocked the door. She located the mail shelf and sifted through the parcels.

  ‘She sure does, it’s a good little earner for her. Especially now she’s at boarding school.’

  ‘Mrs Beggs would be a dream boss. Can’t imagine her yelling,’ said Brody wistfully.

  Lara found the parcel. She knew all too well what it was like living with a volatile man, where a minor inconvenience could have drastic repercussions.

  ‘Thanks, Miss McIntyre,’ Brody said shyly, and then found his way out.

  Lara surveyed the storeroom. Toby must have tidied the fallen boxes while she was dealing with the ambulance last night, a gesture that surprised her. Maybe I was a bit rough to bite his head off about the stupid photo.

  But before she could continue the thought, the sound of a phone ringing came from the kitchen. Lara automatically walked towards it but her hand hovered over the phone.

  Answering the ca
ll would advertise the fact she had keys.

  Dallas was running this place, not her.

  Lara thought of Annabel McIntyre. Mum would have jumped in head first and sorted out the logistics later.

  She retracted her hand.

  The phone stopped ringing.

  Lara snuck out the back door and headed home.

  Kangaroos milled around the Halls Gap oval, unperturbed by the weekend tourists clamouring to photograph them against the mountainous backdrop.

  ‘Hurry up, Hol. Your ice cream’s melting faster than I can eat it,’ Toby said, taking a lick of her ice cream as well as his own. ‘Those joeys will pose for photos all day long.’

  Holly relinquished her vantage point and stretched out her legs, letting the camera dangle around her neck as she retrieved her ice cream.

  Wiping his hands just minutes later, Toby mounted the long-distance lens to the Nikon and passed it to her.

  ‘Try a few shots with this one,’ he said encouragingly.

  ‘I’d love a camera for my birthday. Mum says it’s too expensive, though. She said I’ll like the symphony-orchestra concert more than I’ll like’—Holly reached up and made air quotes with her fingers—‘“a silly camera”.’

  Toby let out a slow breath. He was determined to show respect for Petra and her parenting—even when he didn’t agree—but it wasn’t always easy.

  ‘I’ll talk to your mum. Maybe you can do a few jobs for me, earn some pocket money.’

  Holly’s delight was immediate. ‘You’re the best, Dad.’ The camera shutter fired away as she focused on the wildlife again.

  God, how he missed having her every day of the week. Now he’d settled into his new job, and tidied up his yard so it was less of a snake-haven, he hoped there would be plenty more long weekends like this. Toby lay back on the picnic rug, tipped his hat to block out the bright day and laced his hands underneath his head.

  ‘Tell you what, Hol. I’ll give you ten dollars if you go through my sports pics and delete anything not fit for the newspaper. That’ll kick off your camera savings.’