Magpie's Bend Read online

  Toby tugged on a polo shirt and the least wrinkled trousers in the closet. Brilliant blue skies heralded a clear day ahead and he packed lunch before hopping into the car.

  Toby negotiated the rough driveway, then turned onto Duck Hole Flat Road. He took his attention off the road to admire the donkeys belonging to his grouchy neighbour, Clyde McCluskey, when suddenly a flock of birds swooped in front of him. Toby braked hard, but not in time to avoid the thunk-thunk-thunk of bodies hitting the windscreen and bonnet.

  ‘Bugger!’

  Feathers floated through the air. Toby looked at his watch and cursed again. He was officially late. Luckily he was the boss, and the receptionist only came in once a week to help with the bookwork.

  He flicked on his hazard lights, then stepped out and grimaced as he assessed the damage. Four magpies lay motionless in the middle of the road. A little crow was wedged into the grill underneath the number plate. A mix of blood and feathers now decorated the Volkswagen’s duco.

  Toby knew he couldn’t bring them back to life, but he was determined to at least minimise further damage. If he left them in the middle of the road, more curious birds would follow a similar fate. Instead, he gently carried the dead birds and nestled them in the long roadside grass.

  He wiped his hands on his trousers and laid a sprig of pink gum blossoms over the birds.

  When Lara drove through Main Street on Monday morning, she slowed to look at the A-Frame sign on the footpath outside the general store.

  Dallas’s English hadn’t improved over the years.

  Lara parked, sighing as she strode into the Bush Nursing Centre.

  ‘What type of idiot puts a hyphen in the middle of mushroom?’ Cindy the receptionist set down her pen and peered through the glass double doors, where she had a clear view of the general store.

  ‘Poor Dallas, he tries,’ she said. ‘Has Mrs Beggs rustled up a casual or two? I don’t see anybody else beating down the door to volunteer.’

  Lara’s cheeks burned. She’d lain awake last night, recalling Mrs Beggs’ disappointment. She still felt bad for taking the easy option, but the general store was a major ask. Nope, not happening.

  ‘Hope Dallas is better at running a shop than managing a drive-in cinema.’

  ‘Don’t forget the alpaca-yarn business,’ said Cindy, tapping her biro against the desk.

  Lara ignored the sinking feeling in her stomach as she called the real-estate agent, Greg. He waffled on about the current state of the market and the legalities of acting on a seller’s behalf, until she cut him off mid-speech.

  ‘How soon can you come?’

  She wrote the time on the back of her hand and rushed to set up for the Strong Mamas class. It was one of her pet projects, along with the Move It or Lose It seniors’ class.

  Surely Dallas can’t bankrupt Mrs Beggs in one afternoon? She looked out the window again as the first young mothers walked through the door, followed by a heavily pregnant woman with her toddler, and another wheeling a double stroller.

  The store weighed on Lara’s mind as she led the ladies through their exercises. After the class was over, she strode across the street, wallet under her arm.

  ‘Lara McIntyre, you’re looking as lovely as ever,’ said Greg, throwing his arms open. She’d met him briefly when she’d bought her property, but now he greeted her like a long-lost friend, as if sensing a potential commission.

  She frowned, stuck out a hand and looked over his shoulder as he shook it.

  ‘Tsk.’ Lara clicked her tongue as she stared at the store’s A-Frame sign and then bent down to rub an extra ‘L’ from the middle of the word welcome. ‘I’ve only got a half-hour lunchbreak,’ she told Greg. ‘The quicker this is sorted, the better.’

  Dallas beamed at the real-estate agent as he walked into the store.

  ‘Roll up, roll up. We’re all sold out of hot mushroom pies but I can pop one in the microwave if you like,’ he said optimistically. ‘Or can I tempt you with one of my homemade muffins? Pumpkin and goji berries,’ he said, pulling a Tupperware container out from under the counter.

  Lara gasped. It had been two years—at least—since Dallas’s goji-berry farm was decimated by an exotic fungus.

  This is worse than I thought. Lara stepped out from behind Greg, and immediately Dallas’s mega-watt smile faltered.

  ‘Lara, I didn’t see you there!’

  ‘Dallas Ruggles, does your aunt know you’re using her store to flog your poxy old berries? The health inspector would have a coronary.’

  Dallas slipped the baked goods back under the counter and retucked his tacky floral shirt into his jeans. ‘Just the newspaper and mail then, Lara?’

  Lara gestured to Greg. ‘We’re actually here for an appraisal, so Mrs Beggs can get a fair price for her business.’

  Dallas’s eyes boggled. ‘Aunt Winnie said I could take care of it.’ His pout reminded Lara of Diana’s twins, when they had been told to choose between the lemon meringue pie and the sponge cake instead of sampling both.

  ‘Mrs Beggs is selling the shop, Dallas,’ Lara said firmly.

  The real-estate agent shifted uncomfortably in his shiny shoes. ‘I’m sure she’ll take all reasonable offers into account,’ he said, handing Dallas a business card.

  Before she’d thought it through, Lara found herself lying through her teeth. ‘Actually, I spoke to Mrs Beggs before lunch and she was delighted with my offer to arrange a volunteer roster and spread the load across the community. We can’t have you wearing your fingers to the bone, can we, Dallas?’

  Lara began the tour of the store, making sure to highlight every good feature the building had to offer. After a lifetime of service to the Bridgefield community, Mrs Beggs deserved to get top dollar for the business and the beautiful bluestone building housing it. Nobody was going to rip her off, not if Lara had anything to do with it.

  Five

  Lara returned to the Bush Nursing Centre and sank into her office chair.

  What have I got myself into?

  Her hands shook a little as she dialled the hospital and asked to be patched through to Mrs Beggs’ room.

  ‘Lara, dear. The real-estate agent just called. Thanks for showing him through. It’s officially on the market as of 9 a.m. tomorrow. Did you have any luck with another casual? Poor Dallas will be run off his feet. Even if it’s just someone to sort the post while he serves,’ she said. ‘I’m sure Dallas can handle the rest.’

  Like hell, thought Lara, thinking of the steady stream of traffic through the general store.

  ‘Actually, I’m arranging a team of volunteers to help out. It’ll be better than paring it back to a skeleton service,’ she said. Or Dallas running it into the ground before it sells.

  ‘Lara, you’ve made my day. I must admit I was a little worried about how he’d handle it.’

  A little?

  Mrs Beggs thanked her so effusively that Lara felt guilty for not offering to sort it out immediately.

  Lara arranged a few days off work, which was quite easy considering she had a backlog of annual leave and RDOs, but her confidence faltered when she phoned Diana and Penny. Both were busy—one with sick children and the other with lamb marking.

  Penny had to yell to be heard over the cacophony of bleats. ‘Sorry, Lara, next week will be okay, though. Try Nanna Pearl. Will Eddie still be able to work Wednesdays with the baker?’ Lara cringed. She’d forgotten Wednesday was pie-baking day. ‘Everyone loves the pie of the day, we can’t let that fall by the wayside,’ Lara promised.

  Tim’s grandmother answered on the first ring, and Lara almost fell off her chair when she heard Pearl’s busy schedule.

  ‘Of course I’ll volunteer,’ said Pearl. ‘Though I’ve got bowls on Tuesday plus cards, craft group on Thursdays, yoga Mondays and Fridays, and I deliver the Meals on Wheels to the oldies every second Friday.’

  The oldies? Lara let out a snort. Nanna Pearl was over eighty herself.

  ‘How about Wednesdays?�
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  ‘Done. And Eddie can probably help out more often too, he’d be more reliable than Dallas Ruggles.’

  Lara made more calls after work, and was walking towards her Subaru when Angus phoned her back.

  ‘I’m good for Thursday. Surely we can round up a few more helpers between us,’ he said.

  A whistled tune came from across the car park, and Lara spotted Toby Paxton walking down the street. With broad shoulders, tanned skin and a square jaw, he was impossible to miss. His polo shirt was tucked into his trousers, he wore a belt that matched his shoes, and she noticed a pair of sunglasses perched on his head.

  Wayfarer sunnies, I bet. Was he deliberately trying to look like a Ralph Lauren model, or did he just wake up like that? She almost forgot she was on the phone until her father’s voice rattled in her ear.

  ‘Why don’t you ask that chap at the newspaper? He’ll write an article, I’m sure.’

  Toby gave a wave and started in her direction. He was taller than she remembered. Maddeningly cheerful. And athletic, if those arms were any indication.

  Lara lifted a hand in response.

  ‘Speak of the devil. I’ll ask him now. Thanks, Dad,’ she said, ending the call.

  Toby greeted her with an easy smile. ‘Beautiful day.’

  ‘Your ears must’ve been burning,’ she said.

  He made an exaggerated show of protecting the camera dangling around his neck. His blue eyes twinkled.

  ‘I hate to think in what context. You don’t belong to a group of anti-photography campaigners, do you?’

  She shook her head. ‘I don’t go around smashing cameras, honestly. You just—’ She looked back at him. ‘You just caught me by surprise on Friday. I didn’t know you were photographing me.’

  Her ex-husband’s sex-tape scandal had put Bridgefield in the spotlight for all the wrong reasons, and although it had been Sam Kingsley’s name splashed about in the media, not hers, Lara had found the shame almost as traumatic as being secretly filmed. The online news coverage had been terrible, with vitriol from victim-shaming trolls. She could only hope that Toby hadn’t read up on it before he came to town.

  Lara squared her shoulders. She’d spent enough money on counselling to know she couldn’t change the past. She looked down, noting Toby’s socks—one navy, one striped, close enough in colour they almost matched. Her lips twitched. ‘Nice socks! I was just about to ask you a favour, actually.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘I’m all ears. Am I allowed to take notes?’

  Lara squinted into the late-afternoon sun, trying to work out if he was laughing with her or at her. Deciding to ignore the amusement in his expression, she inclined her head.

  ‘I need to spread the word about a volunteer roster for the general store.’

  ‘Volunteers? I’ve just filed a story for this week’s paper about the shop sale. I thought Mrs Beggs’ nephew was stepping up to the plate in the interim?’

  Lara gave him a potted version of Dallas’s entrepreneurial background, which was as colourful as the Hawaiian shirts he favoured. ‘The more residents who help keep this ship sailing, the easier it’ll be,’ she said.

  His pen raced across the notepad as she spoke.

  ‘It’s just until it sells, mind you,’ said Lara. ‘Should be pretty quick, seeing it’s an established business. The new owners could live above it too, in that little apartment. Nobody’s lived up there for ages, but it should be serviceable.’

  Toby turned as she gestured to the small window above the store. ‘I never even noticed it had an upstairs,’ he said. ‘Too busy admiring the street at ground level, I guess.’ He rocked back on his heels, taking in the view.

  Lara swept her gaze up and down Bridgefield’s main street. The raised flower beds were nice enough, she supposed, if you liked frills and frippery, and the silver princess gums looked striking now they’d outgrown the awkward spindly stage. But to her, the beauty of Bridgefield was rooted in the sense of community, the scent of lush crops wafting across from neighbouring farms and the sound of the livestock in the nearby paddocks, not the bluestone buildings, the streetscaping or the striped verandahs.

  She ran a curious eye over Toby while his attention was still on the buildings. His clothes looked preppy, especially compared to the faded work shirts, woollen jumpers and no-nonsense jeans that were standard uniform in these parts. Dark, heavy eyebrows framed his face, and his brown hair was better tended than most of the blokes she knew, with clipped sideburns and a clean-shaven jaw. A little piece of black and white caught her eye.

  ‘You’ve got a feather in your hair,’ she said, pointing to his ear. He tried but failed to brush it away.

  ‘Nope, here,’ Lara said, reaching up and plucking it out. He smelled good, like coffee and washing powder. God, Lara, you really need to get out more.

  She stepped back quickly and frowned at the soft downy feather.

  ‘Bird watcher?’

  His lopsided grin faded, and she suddenly regretted her tone. She hadn’t meant it to be quite so derisive.

  ‘That’d be from the birds I hit this morning,’ he said. ‘Half a flock of them, poor buggers, right out the front of that beautiful old shearing shed on Duck Hole Flat Road. I’ll miss their warbling in the mornings,’ he said, shaking his head.

  Lara’s spirits soared. ‘Magpies, you say? At McCluskey’s shearing shed?’

  He nodded slowly. ‘And a crow.’

  ‘Yes!’ Lara said, punching a fist in the air. ‘Those thieving bastards. I’ve been trying to get rid of them for months. They’re driving me around the bend.’

  She spotted the puzzled expression on his face and felt more than a little mean. He looked pretty cut up about it.

  ‘Riiii-ght.’ He tucked the notepad into his back pocket and stuck the pen behind his ear.

  ‘I’m down the road from you,’ she said quickly. ‘Those birds have been stealing my eggs. I haven’t worked out if it’s the crows or the magpies or both, but either way, you’ve done me a big favour.’

  For some reason, she felt the urge to defend herself, to tell him how many times she’d found holes pecked in egg shells, the luscious, deep-orange yolks oozing out the sides, or how the birds swooped in after feeding time, bullying the hungry hens out of their food.

  ‘Gotta run,’ said Lara. ‘Let me know if you need anything for the article. And …’ She gave a tight smile. If he hadn’t thought she was odd before, he was probably convinced she was a lunatic after the bird comment. ‘And thanks. For the newspaper story,’ she added quickly. ‘Not for killing the birds. Obviously …’

  Not a lunatic, a raving lunatic.

  ‘Just doing my job,’ he said, raising a hand as she climbed into her car.

  Lara chastised herself all the way home. It wasn’t until she’d swapped her soft-soled nursing shoes for work boots and walked around the property to ensure the pumps on the water troughs were all working, that she realised something was missing from the early evening. She looked from the tall eucalyptus to the she-oak, and then across to the banksias. The finches, honey eaters and kookaburras were all present, plus the galahs and the corellas in the far corner of the yard, but their songs weren’t quite the same without the cawing crows or the magpies’ melodies.

  Lara muscled the shop’s sandwich board out onto the footpath. She had a few volunteer shifts under her belt, and had been pleased to find the routine familiar.

  She looked around the shop before flipping the door sign to ‘Open’. Pies were in the warmer, newspapers were sorted into alphabetical order and everything looked in place. With some luck, the morning would flow smoothly.

  ‘Morning, Lara,’ called Karen. ‘Just checking if I need to bring anything special in for my first shift this arvo?’

  Lara reached for her paper and mail. ‘Only your good self. Thanks for pitching in.’

  The doorbell rang again as Lara counted out change. Her brother-in-law Tim walked in with little Lucy strapped snugly against his chest.

  ‘
Morning, ladies. I’ll have three copies of the Advertiser, thanks. I believe it’s got a pretty special article in it today?’

  Lara passed him a copy and waited for his reaction.

  ‘Fame suits young Eddie Patterson,’ Karen laughed, unfolding her edition. The full-page photograph of Nanna Pearl and Eddie making pies with the baker had come up beautifully. Eddie wore an apron and a cheesy grin, and Pearl had given her hair a purple rinse specially for the occasion.

  ‘Their smiles couldn’t get any bigger if they tried,’ said Tim, clearly proud of his family.

  He read the headline out loud: ‘Community volunteers keep shop in business.’

  Lara had to admit the story was a charming read. Toby Paxton mightn’t be able to match his socks, but he could string a sentence together while tugging at the heart strings. She studied the photo. And an eye for composition, evidently. The doorbell clanged again. Yesterday’s volunteer, Denise, walked in.

  ‘He’s got a way with words, for sure,’ said Tim, engrossed in the article.

  ‘Handsome lad, too. If only we were twenty years younger, right, Denise?’ said Karen, as she picked a copy off the pile and pointed to Toby’s headshot.

  Twenty? Lara assessed the two laughing ladies. Even if they were thirty years younger, they’d still be pushing the age difference.

  ‘This Toby Paxton … I hear he’s single,’ said Denise. ‘Won’t be unattached for long in this town, not with those sky-blue eyes.’

  Lara snorted, then busied herself with the mail. His eyes could be any shade of the rainbow for all she cared. Frivolous rubbish, the lot of it.

  But what about his smile? asked an inner voice triumphantly. And how good he smelled?

  Dallas walked out of the storeroom clutching the mail bag. He’d given Lara a distinctly cold shoulder the past fortnight, but it didn’t bother her a bit.

  ‘Yeah right,’ said Dallas. ‘I bet he’s been sent out here as a demotion. Must have done something pretty bad to get banished to a one-horse town like this. Wouldn’t trust him as far as I could throw him.’