Magpie's Bend Page 4

  ‘Darlings, so lovely seeing you both,’ said Alice Paxton as she met them at the end of the path. ‘How are my favourites?’

  ‘Awesome, Granny,’ said Holly, gushing about ice creams and the kangaroos she’d photographed. As they stopped by the front door Holly stooped down and snapped off a sprig of flowers. She tucked it into her pocket before slipping inside.

  ‘And you, darling?’ Alice said, rubbing Toby’s shoulder. ‘That woman collapsing in the shop must have been a shock.’

  ‘I stood like a stunned mullet for most of it,’ he admitted, following her into the house. He still felt terrible about not knowing what to do.

  ‘How long since you’ve taken a first-aid course? Maybe it’s time for a refresher?’ Alice was a natural at making people feel better.

  It was dim inside his parents’ house, and his father was perched on the couch with a paisley crocheted rug over his knee, despite the mild weather.

  Eric Paxton cocked his head, eyeing the pair of them suspiciously. ‘Whatever you’re selling, we don’t want any,’ he said. ‘I’ve got enough encyclopaedias and vacuum cleaners to last me a lifetime.’ He gestured to the display cabinet, stuffed with a small portion of Alice’s royal commemorative items.

  Toby smiled gently and sat beside his father, inhaling the familiar scent of licorice.

  ‘Hey, Dad.’

  Holly took a seat the other side of him, helping herself to the chocolate bullets on the side table.

  ‘Did you have a nice week, Poppa?’

  The old man squirmed in his chair and stared back and forth at them incredulously. ‘By heavens, this is a bit forward, isn’t it? Coming into my house, pretending you’re long-lost relatives. I didn’t come down in the last—’ The rest of his sentence hung in the air as Alice appeared, a wriggly chihuahua-cross under her arm.

  Toby watched sadly as his father’s face lit up.

  ‘Oh Queenie, there you are. You little scamp! Where did you wander off to?’ The tiny dog scrambled out of Alice’s arms and jumped onto Eric’s lap, bathing his face in kisses before finally settling down on the blanket.

  Eric looked from the dog to his son, then elbowed Toby in the ribs. A fresh wave of recognition crossed his face, and for a moment Toby thought his father’s memory was returning.

  ‘You’re not the travelling salesmen from yesterday,’ said Eric.

  Toby couldn’t hide the hope in his voice.

  ‘It’s me. Toby.’

  ‘You’re the wedding celebrant, aren’t you?’

  Eric’s gnarled hands flew to his face, checking it was clean-shaven. He smoothed down his grey shirt.

  His expression was pure joy. ‘We’re getting married today, did you know?’ he said to Holly. ‘My lovely lady finally said yes, and we’re getting hitched.’ Eric beamed at his granddaughter. ‘And I’ll bet you’re the florist. I can sport an artsy type a mile away. Have you got the flowers ready, then? She wanted red flowers.’

  Holly picked up the geraniums she had laid down on the coffee table when she walked in, the routine as familiar as the photographs lining the walls.

  ‘Sure have,’ she said. She trailed off, but Toby still caught the quiet final word. ‘… Poppa.’

  ‘I’ll freshen up, love,’ said Alice, heading into the kitchen. Toby followed his mother. She flicked the kettle on while Toby chose four cups, each featuring a different member of the royal family. The sight of their formal portraits helped ease the heaviness of these visits, he’d often thought. Each time he’d found himself wallowing about his father’s lost memories, and life’s random unfairnesses, he took a quick glance at Fergie’s ginger bouffant and meringue-like wedding dress. Living proof that no amount of money, fame or good health could guarantee happiness. Charles’s set of wingnut ears offered a similar solace.

  Alice heaped sugar into the teacups.

  ‘Don’t let it get to you, my sweet. Your dad’s happy as a lark. Sometimes I’m jealous that he’s stuck back in the days when we were young and carefree.’

  ‘Any news from the doctors?’

  She avoided his gaze, instead leafing through the envelopes nestled in a letter holder, rubbing the stiff cream card between her fingers. She’d been a royalist since she was a little girl, and normally the letters she received from the Palace—in response to the birthday cards and wedding anniversary well wishes she sent without fail—put a smile on her dial. But not today.

  Alice set the letter down with a sigh.

  That bad?

  She nestled a woollen tea-cosy over the teapot, turned it three times clockwise, then once in the opposite direction, before pouring the first cup.

  Tea splashed out of the spout, pooling on the formica. Worse than I thought. Toby mopped up the spilled tea and poured the rest himself.

  ‘Mum?’ he asked quietly. Alice peered around the corner, into the lounge room. Holly was listening attentively, as if her grandfather hadn’t confided his pre-wedding jitters a hundred times before.

  ‘They keep harping on about moving him into a home. Ever since that midnight stroll, he’s been a little off. Thank heavens you installed the deadbolt. I found him by the door at two this morning, desperate to polish the wedding cars in nothing but a singlet and rubber gloves.’ She rubbed at a mark on the door frame. ‘He’d hate it in one of those places.’

  ‘You aren’t superwoman anymore.’

  Alice wrapped her arms around herself. ‘He still thinks I am, bless him.’

  Toby admired her resilience as she took a deep breath, and accepted the tea he proffered.

  The doorbell rang as they carried the tea into the lounge room. Queenie jumped off the couch, barking as if she were ready to maul unsuspecting visitors.

  ‘That’ll be your sister,’ said Alice.

  ‘Aunty Belinda!’ Holly rushed to open the door.

  ‘Here for the wedding, are you?’ Eric beamed at his daughter.

  Belinda looked down at her lycra leggings and baggy pink jumper, then she handed him the Sunday papers.

  ‘I’ve got your newspaper, Dad.’

  Their father took the Weekend Australian and stared at it for a moment.

  ‘What a mighty practical wedding gift. My boy works at one of these broadsheets, you know. Head of the whole newspaper. Couldn’t be prouder,’ he said, tucking the paper beside him.

  Toby’s heart clanged. He felt his mum pat his shoulder.

  Eric looked up at them all, and gestured impatiently.

  ‘Right then, no time for dilly-dallying. Which side are you on, bride or groom?’

  Four

  Even though it had been years since she’d worked at the Hamilton Base Hospital, Lara had no trouble finding room three.

  A trio of women were clustered around the foot of Mrs Beggs’ bed. They sprang apart as she walked in, and Lara saw the vivid bruise and large dressing on Mrs Beggs’ cheek, accentuated by stiff white bed linen.

  ‘You look like you’re plotting a heist,’ Lara said, shuffling vases to make room for the roses she’d plucked from her mother’s garden. She wasn’t a natural green-thumb like her sisters and her mum, and was happy enough to pick the occasional bunch and leave the digging, watering and endless weeding to those who enjoyed it.

  ‘How’s the patient?’ She looked between the ladies.

  Denise gave a sympathetic wince. ‘Winnie’s been dozing on and off. Poor love. We’re heading to bowls in a minute. Give her our love when she wakes up next, will you?’

  The room fell silent. Lara settled into the chair next to the bed and watched a blue wren serenade itself in the window’s reflection. It fluttered away and she picked up the medical chart, leafing through the pages.

  ‘Have they gone?’

  Lara jumped with surprise, nearly dropping the chart. She laughed. ‘I thought you were asleep?’

  ‘If I have to listen to any more of my friends talking to me like an invalid, I’m going to jump out that blessed window,’ said Mrs Beggs. ‘Falling asleep is a very c
onvenient way of hearing what they really think.’ She gave a weak smile. ‘Apparently I’ve got you to thank for getting me here in one piece.’

  No thanks to Dallas.

  Lara brushed away the thought and assessed Mrs Beggs. It hadn’t seemed that long ago that Mrs Beggs and her mother were lugging their sewing machines into the back of an old station wagon, off for their annual craft weekend with a cask of Moselle, bulging bags of fabric and a stack of McCalls patterns. Or both tied into linen aprons, doing the dreaded end-of-financial-year stocktake at the general store while Lara and Dallas manned the front counter. Or giving a young shoplifter an ear-bashing, before allowing them to wipe the slate clean with an hour or two of service. She was a plucky old dame, no doubt about it. Maybe with some intense rehab, a speedy recovery and return to work weren’t out of the question.

  ‘You had us worried. How did you manage to get under a pile of boxes at exactly the wrong time?’

  The older woman shrugged, then winced.

  ‘Ouch, my shoulder. Even with the meds it feels like a sledgehammer driving through my bones each time I jiggle. I was trying to get a box from the top shelf, and Dallas still wasn’t back from his afternoon tea break.’

  Long smoko break, frowned Lara. Dallas was always lingering in the pub for extended lunches and shooting the breeze on the footpath while a steady stream of customers went in and out of the shop.

  ‘And next thing I know,’ said Mrs Beggs, ‘I’m in here, hooked up with so many wires and thingamabobs I can barely move and the doctors are throwing around big words that end in sepsis.’

  Lara scanned the medical chart. ‘That fracture sounds serious. You had a pretty decent blow to the head, Mrs Beggs, and it looks like you’re on antibiotics for an infection too.’

  ‘Funnily enough, they told me I’m a lucky lady.’

  ‘Lucky for getting knocked for six by a pile of boxes?’

  Mrs Beggs exhaled slowly. ‘No, it doesn’t feel very lucky, but apparently the infection was already lurking. The doctor thinks it’s why I fell off the ladder in the first place.’

  Lara wasn’t a touchy–feely person, but she reached for the hand that had passed papers, pies and postcards across the Bridgefield General Store counter for as long as she could remember. The hand that had gently guided both her and Evie through their first jobs. Lara squeezed it gently.

  ‘You’ll bounce back,’ said Lara, well aware that complications from the infection could be quite serious for someone of Mrs Beggs’ age, not to mention the recovery time from her fracture.

  Mrs Beggs gave a dry laugh. ‘The shop will be the real casualty. I can’t be bothered with the hassle of leasing, and if I close it down, everyone will have to leave town for their mail. Bridgefield will never get their post office back if we let it go. I’ll sell.’

  Lara winced. Sell? ‘And in the meantime?’

  Mrs Beggs looked mournful. ‘That’s where it gets tricky. I love Dallas like my own son, but he doesn’t handle pressure well.’

  Lara held her tongue. Several failed business ventures didn’t lie.

  ‘Everyone who’s visited has offered to help, but I’m not in much of a state to organise things. These painkillers make my brain all fuzzy. I need someone who knows what’s what.’

  Mrs Beggs turned to her, a question in her eyes.

  Lara blinked. Does she expect me to run the shop or prep it for sale? The unspoken request settled like a weight on Lara’s shoulders. She wanted to suggest another candidate, however with no children to shoulder the burden, Mrs Beggs had limited options. Dallas was useless, Penny had a farm and a baby, Angie lived two hours away and Diana had four boisterous boys. Lara picked at her regulation-short fingernails, pushing the cuticles back.

  It’s the least I can do, Lara told herself, battling against the feeling of obligation.

  ‘I’ll arrange the real-estate agent, then?’ Lara tried to cover her reluctance, but even in her medicated state, Mrs Beggs was no fool. Lara tried again, with a little more pep in her voice. ‘I can show him through the shop in my lunchbreak.’

  The postmistress opened her mouth to say something, then closed it, giving a small sigh instead. The room fell quiet. Acutely uncomfortable, Lara decided it was time to leave. The disappointment on Mrs Beggs’ face stayed with her the whole way home.

  The phone was ringing when Lara shut off the shower. Hastily wrapping a towel around herself, she dripped her way along the hallway, craving a dose of Evie-style sunshine to brighten up her day.

  ‘How’s Mrs Beggs?’ said Evie.

  Lara relayed the latest news about the bad fracture and underlying infection. ‘She might still be in hospital the next time you’re home. The Easter long weekend’s not far away, right?’

  ‘Mmm, about that. I might stay in for the weekend, Mum. Hardly any of the other boarders are leaving until the school holidays start. Another boarding school has challenged us to a dance-off, so we’re planning a group routine …’

  Evie’s change of plans landed like a blow. Lara wanted to swear. Instead she walked across the kitchen, opened the pantry door and stared at the calendar inside. The mid-term break was enthusiastically circled.

  ‘You don’t mind, do you?’

  Lara felt her shoulders drop as she drew a big cross through the weekend. All that was left of the month’s pressing social engagements was her twin nephews’ birthday and a visit from the agronomist.

  Lara forced enthusiasm into her reply.

  ‘Of course not, Evie. A dance-off sounds more fun than a boring weekend at home with your old mum. I’ll be fine, I’ve got friends.’ She looked at the Friends DVD box-set Evie had given her years ago.

  A tub of ice cream, a block or two of chocolate and her favourite sitcom would help ease the pain of another long, lonely weekend. Perhaps she would dig out that new recipe book Penny had given her.

  A screech sounded outside Lara’s window and she turned to see a flock of pink-and-grey galahs fly past and settle in the silver gums shading her rickety garden shed. Basil was in hot pursuit, barking and leaping towards the sky. When the ruckus finished, she heard the chatter of teenage girls down the phone line.

  ‘Lunchtime?’

  ‘Nearly. It’s probably the same barf-worthy stew as last Sunday,’ said Evie. ‘Oh, and I’ve got a back-up plan if the general store closes. One of my new friends has a shack at Bells Beach. She said I could get a holiday job at her Dad’s surf school, teaching kids how to surf.’

  Lara closed the pantry door and leaned against it, ignoring the way the brass handles dug into her shoulder blades. First the mid-term break and now possibly the school holidays? This conversation was going from bad to worse.

  ‘But what about …’ Me? Lara shuddered to think of Evie spending all term and all holidays away. ‘What about our Easter egg hunt? It’s a McIntyre Park tradition.’

  ‘Oh Mum, I’m a bit old for that. I won’t earn the money for the school ski trip if I sit on my bum at home all holidays,’ said Evie. The phone line went muffled and Lara heard Evie talking to friends.

  ‘But you barely know how to surf.’

  ‘They don’t know that,’ said Evie with a cheeky laugh. ‘I’ve got my bronze medallion, and if I can wrangle my cousins I can manage anything. Anyway, gotta go, Mum. Miss you!’

  ‘Miss you too, Evie-girl,’ Lara said, wrapping her arms around her waist. The damp towel provided about as much comfort as it did warmth.

  Lara marched into her bedroom, flung on the first pair of jeans and shirt she laid her hands on and stormed out to the wood pile. She’d barely swung the axe before tears brimmed and the firewood blurred in front of her. It wasn’t until she’d chopped a stack of red gum that she set the axe aside. Basil bounded over to her. His tail thumped against her leg and she ruffled the top of his head.

  ‘What a sook, hey, Baz?’

  Lara picked up the axe again and chopped until the loneliness was buried under a hefty layer of exhaustion.

  Toby
flicked through last week’s newspaper over breakfast, but his mind wasn’t on the Bridgefield Advertiser this morning. Instead of the stories he’d written and the photographs he’d taken, all he could see was his father’s face.

  Eric’s confusion.

  His affection for Queenie the dog.

  His pride when he spoke about his children, completely unaware they were standing right in front of him.

  Toby folded the newspaper and crossed the dining room. His bookcase was filled to the brim with paperbacks, except for two shelves—one devoted to books on photography and another to his collection of cameras. A Pentax, a box brownie, a Leica and an old Nikon that had given up the ghost years ago. His father’s first camera, and Toby’s first SLR. He picked up a photo frame and polished the already gleaming glass. It was taken on the day he’d been given the camera, just after his father had looped the strap around his neck. Eric stood proudly beside him in the photograph, his eyes sharp and his smile wide, with a patience Toby tried to emulate as a parent. He preferred to remember his Dad like that, instead of the absent, frail and often bewildered man he now was.

  Setting the frame back on the shelf, Toby ran a finger over the cameras, checking for dust and finding none. His dad mightn’t always know who he was, but his love still shone through.

  I’ll have the Ballarat editor’s job soon, anyway, Toby reminded himself, returning to his coffee. Two years at the Bridgefield paper and then Dad’ll be proud.

  He opened his diary, scanning the to-do list for the day ahead. Photos at the local shearing shed first up, which meant his old boots and dark pants. There was something about the light filtering through the old tin, the worn sheep grates and the smell of lanolin that made him eager to get going. Maybe that’s where he would snap an award-winning pic?

  Toby flipped ahead to the next week, smiling when he spotted Holly’s not-so-subtle nudge: ‘Last chance to enter the Press Club Awards TODAY!’

  She’d written down the website for the annual award, circling it with red pen so he wouldn’t miss it. He couldn’t help admiring her enthusiasm.