Magpie's Bend Read online

  ‘I think so,’ Lara said, gripping the edge of the bench.

  ‘Eddie,’ she continued brightly, giving Dallas a pointed look as she headed into the kitchen, ‘I’m whipping upstairs to air out the apartment before the real-estate agent comes. Can you keep an eye on the front counter too, please?’

  She paused at the landing, flipped through the keys until she found the right one, then opened the apartment door, wrinkling her nose at the stale smell. She ran her finger along the kitchen bench. It was coated in the gritty dust that blew into every Bridgefield building on a hot, dry northerly. Cotton sheets made ghost-like shapes over the sparse furniture.

  Mrs Beggs rattled around in a big old farmhouse out of town, and though Lara had a vague memory of a casual employee once living upstairs, the apartment mostly sat vacant.

  Lara threw open the old sash windows overlooking Main Street in time to see Greg helping a sleek and impossibly made-up woman out of the real-estate agency car.

  Lara couldn’t help but wonder whether the woman had missed the memo about Bridgefield being a tiny country town three hours from Melbourne. She was as city-looking as the other two buyers who’d viewed the shop this week.

  She’ll probably turn tail as quickly as the other two, Lara decided as she headed downstairs and back into the shop.

  The potential buyer used all the right words, explaining her passion for breathing new life into Western District businesses, and Lara almost felt she’d made a hasty judgement, right up until the woman mentioned Concongella, a tiny country town to the north.

  ‘Lure tourists … Shakes and fries … an ode to the Deep South.’

  Lara shuddered as she strode back into the kitchen. She hadn’t been to Concongella since the old mechanics hall had been revamped, but from what she’d heard, every inch of the building’s charm had been replaced with tacky plastic and chrome fittings to fit its new incarnation as an American hamburger joint. Locals avoided it like the plague. It was the last thing she wanted for the general store. And for her town.

  Seven

  The next day saw even more customers through the doors, all intent on updates as Lara replenished the pie warmer and sorted the outgoing mail. The next interested buyer came in after lunch.

  The woman’s accent was so thick, Greg’s sales pitch was made comical by the number of times he asked her to repeat herself.

  Dallas leaned in, engulfing Lara in a wave of strong cologne. ‘Won’t go down well, talking like that around here. Locals will be so busy trying to understand what she’s saying, they’ll forget what they came in to buy,’ he said.

  Lara slapped a handful of mail on the counter. Bridgefield wasn’t exactly a thriving hub of multiculturalism, and unlike many of the regional towns, there was no migrant population. Lara’s experience at the Horsham and Hamilton hospitals, where they struggled to retain staff and gratefully accepted overseas-trained doctors, had given her a healthy appreciation for varied languages, accents and the brave people who spoke them.

  ‘What, you think your Aunt Winnie should insist that the shop only be sold to a fourth-generation Australian, like you or me?’ Lara slipped an elastic band around the different mail bundles. ‘A bit of cultural diversity wouldn’t be a bad thing in Bridgefield.’

  Dallas huffed and rearranged the sauce bottles beside the pie warmer. The buyer and the agent moved through the store before heading up the steps to the apartment.

  ‘Well, even if they can work out what she’s saying, they won’t know where to look. She’s plastic-fantastic. Don’t know how she eats with those puffy lips,’ Dallas said.

  Lara almost found herself agreeing with Dallas, but before she could consider a reply, the doorbell rang and Toby strolled into the store. His crisp yellow polo shirt looked like it had been ironed. Is he one of those guys who irons his bedsheets and handkerchiefs too? From the corner of her eye, she saw Dallas draw himself up a little taller and move closer.

  She handed Toby’s mail across the counter.

  ‘Nice out there?’ she said.

  ‘Sure is. I rode out to the lake at lunch. Pearler of a day,’ he said.

  Lara peered outside. Fresh air and a midday picnic sounded glorious.

  Toby shuffled through his post and cringed when he got to the Ballarat College envelope.

  Lara looked at the window-front, knowing it was likely to be a whopping great bill. She knew exactly how expensive private schools were, and even with Evie’s scholarship, she dreaded to think how much the extras would cost overall.

  ‘Kids, hey,’ she said, giving him a compassionate look. She wasn’t sure about Toby, but she would go to the end of the earth to give Evie the best life, especially after the rough start she’d endured.

  Toby smiled and nodded, then leaned against the counter, his height making Dallas look even shorter. He glanced around the general store.

  ‘How are you for volunteers? I’m happy to lend a hand,’ said Toby.

  ‘All good, mate,’ said Dallas, lifting Toby’s newspapers off the counter as if they were made of lead. He was the only customer who ordered The Australian and the Ballarat paper each day. Dallas thwacked them down on the bench.

  What’s got his goat today? Lara wondered. She opened the roster and ran her finger down the list.

  ‘We’ll take any helpers we can get. How does next Thursday with Karen sound? There’s a morning spot that needs filling, or an afternoon shift with Olive the following Friday?’

  Was it her imagination or did he look a little disappointed by those options?

  Toby leaned over and tapped the next day’s roster. She was supposed to be working with Jim, one of the retired farmers, whose roaring sense of humour had had her in stitches last week.

  ‘What about this spot here? I saw Jim down the street this morning. Didn’t he tell you about his dicky knee? Collapsed on him again in the cattle yards. He’s not going to be dishing up meat pies or buttering bread rolls on crutches,’ he said, giving her a helpful smile.

  ‘Ah, bugger. I forgot about Jim’s knee.’

  ‘I’ll be able to make it then,’ Dallas said quickly.

  Lara turned, cocking her head. ‘I thought you had an appointment that couldn’t be cancelled?’

  ‘It’s no trouble, really,’ said Toby, amusement dancing across his face.

  Lara looked between the two of them and huffed out a breath. It was easier to dislike Toby when she thought he was a snap-happy hack, and though she didn’t want to be caught up in whatever was going on between these two, she suspected he would be much better company than Dallas.

  ‘Toby it is,’ she said, changing the roster. Toby whistled as he walked out of the store. Dallas stormed off, muttering about a lack of appreciation.

  Greg closed the door behind the latest buyer, his shoulders slumping as he made his way back to the counter.

  ‘She hated it,’ he said, studying the pie warmer.

  Lara couldn’t help but feel offended.

  The real-estate agent placed a $10 note on the counter and perked up a little as he bit into one of the freshly baked pies. ‘But we’ve got more prospective buyers lined up for tomorrow. See you then.’

  Hoping to start off on the right foot, Toby arrived early for his volunteer shift. Lara had just finished giving him a quick rundown of the cash register when the shop door opened and Clyde McCluskey ambled in. He peered into the pie warmer, the scowl on his face deepening as he pulled out his wallet.

  ‘Howdy, Clyde,’ said Toby, his tone upbeat.

  McCluskey grunted.

  ‘Still charging like a wounded bull for these pies, are they?’ he said, sliding a handful of gold coins across the counter and eyeing Toby suspiciously.

  ‘Same price they’ve been all year, Clyde,’ Lara called from the kitchen.

  ‘Sauce?’ Toby lifted the bottle of Heinz.

  The older man scrunched up his nose. ‘Not that mass-produced muck. Winnie’s homemade sauce. In the other fridge.’

  ‘You me
an I’ve been buying lunch from this shop for months now, and nobody told me there was homemade sauce on offer? Blatant favouritism,’ Toby said good naturedly. Sure enough, there was an assortment of sauces in the kitchen fridge.

  ‘Localism, more like it,’ offered Lara. ‘Mrs Beggs doesn’t hand her sauce out to any Tom, Dick or Harry, especially not blow-ins. You’ve got to earn the perks,’ Lara said with shining eyes.

  Toby returned to the counter with the homemade sauce.

  ‘I’ve been meaning to have a word with you too,’ said Clyde, turning his frown in Toby’s direction. ‘Can you keep the racket down on the weekends? There’s laws against disturbing the peace at the crack of dawn on a Sunday morning.’

  ‘I’d hardly call 9 a.m. the crack of dawn, Clyde.’ Lucky I’m not the kind of bloke who sleeps in, or I’d be tempted to mention your donkeys, and their early-morning hee-hawing. ‘But if it’s bugging you, I’ll mow the lawns later in the day.’

  McCluskey ducked his head curtly and left without so much as a goodbye. Toby turned to Lara, lifting his hands in a ‘What did I say?’ gesture, receiving a hint of a smile in return.

  ‘Does he get any friendlier the longer you live next door?’

  Lara shook her head. ‘If anything, he gets worse. And heaven help you if you have a dog that veers onto his side of the fence,’ she said.

  The general store was filled with a flurry of conversation as a trio of twenty-something men strolled in, all talking over the top of one another.

  ‘Oh, isn’t it quaint?’

  ‘Down at the heel, but nothing a refurb wouldn’t fix.’

  ‘Get rid of those dirty old lino squares, switch out those ghastly light shades.’

  ‘Yah, totally. New counter, new shelving.’

  ‘Really, if it wasn’t for the bluestone exterior, it’d be easier to bulldoze the lot and start from scratch, wouldn’t it?’ A high-pitched laugh erupted from a chap wearing the tightest jeans Toby had ever seen on a man. The outline of the phone in his pocket was so sharp Toby almost hoped it would ring so he could see if the screen illuminated through the acid-wash denim.

  Lara wiped her hands on her apron.

  ‘I think they’re wearing more cologne than Dallas,’ she said under her breath. The buyers continued their assessment, lowering their volume slightly so only half the town was in earshot.

  ‘I’m thinking smashed avo, I’m thinking vegan-friendly. Really knock the socks off this meat-and-three-veg town,’ said a bloke with a man-bun and manicured beard.

  ‘God, yes. Deconstructed gruyere bruschetta with micro-herbs,’ added the final guy.

  Toby caught Lara’s eye. This bunch was even worse than the last buyer, and it wasn’t just the silent ‘h’ on ‘herbs’.

  Lara spoke quietly. ‘How can Mrs Beggs even think of selling to these people? I’d rather drive to Hamilton to collect my mail than deal with them.’

  She showed Toby how to sort the envelopes and parcels, and they caught snatches of the men’s conversation as they worked.

  ‘Those pies’ll be the first thing to go if we want to raise the standards,’ one sniffed.

  Toby shook his head. He didn’t have a pie-a-day habit like some of the locals, but there was still something comforting about the option of a different handmade pie each day.

  The buyers discussed target markets as the real-estate agent guided them around.

  ‘We could open at six, catch all the yummy mummies on their way to the gym,’ said one.

  Gym? Yummy mummies? Toby forced himself to keep a straight face.

  ‘Yeah, shut at two after the midday rush,’ another exclaimed.

  ‘Definitely! Make Friday open-mike night. Karaoke, baby,’ said the third man.

  Toby turned to Lara, ready to make a joke about the wisdom of a karaoke club in Bridgefield, but his words faded as he took in Lara’s expression. She looked more insulted than amused by their comments.

  ‘I think they’ve mixed up their demographics,’ she said. ‘I mean, who the hell’s into smashed avo and karaoke around here? You’re not, are you?’

  Toby thought of the school concerts he’d hated as a child. His folks had driven him home from the year six performance, distraught and utterly mortified because he’d stuffed up the lines in his solo.

  ‘Nope, not me. I’ve nothing against avocado, but I don’t like paying big bucks for something I can make at home. And singing in public …’ He grinned and shuddered. ‘Let’s just say an inland tsunami is more likely.’

  Another customer came in, one Toby recognised as the cricket coach from a match he’d photographed.

  ‘Who’s that lot, then?’ Kev muttered, gesturing towards the obtrusive trio.

  ‘Prospective buyers from Melbourne. It’d almost be funny watching them try to charm the locals, you should listen to some of their ideas,’ Toby said.

  Kev perused a farm-machinery catalogue and Toby laughed at the sight of his face as he eavesdropped. He leaned across the counter.

  ‘There’s a limit to what we’ll accept around here,’ Kev said. ‘I don’t care how politically correct we’re supposed to be these days. Those three are as gay as Christmas, and—’

  Toby spoke at the same time as Lara.

  ‘Kev—’ said Lara.

  ‘Whoa, back the truck up,’ said Toby. Driven by a strange impulse—perhaps a desire to share something of himself, or curiosity to see where Lara stood on the matter—Toby held up a hand. ‘Before you say anything else, know I’ve got a gay sister, and I voted “Yes” in the referendum.’

  Two sets of eyes fixed on him. He didn’t know Lara well enough to anticipate her reaction, but he hoped like hell she wasn’t about to out herself as a closet homophobe. That would be a deal breaker.

  ‘It got my vote too,’ she said, staring down the farmer.

  Phew.

  Kev threw his hands up in the air. ‘Calm the farm, you two. I’m not suggesting we tar and feather them …’ The buyers had wandered outside with the agent, no doubt brainstorming new signage options and façade renovations. The cricket coach looked out the window. ‘I’m just saying not everyone is as open-minded as you … as us,’ said Kev.

  ‘We’ve got a few thousand people in Bridgefield, average age’s about eighty, and they might be a bit slow to warm to new owners like that,’ Kev added.

  Lara set her hands on her hips. ‘I had a similar conversation with Dallas yesterday about a buyer’s ethnicity, and I’ve got to say, Kev, it makes us sound like a bunch of rednecks. Surely we’re not that backward?’

  Toby cringed. Apart from yesterday, Dallas had been nothing but welcoming to him. It was hard to picture the odd little man making racist remarks, but, he conceded, maybe his welcome wouldn’t have been as warm if his background or skin had been different.

  They watched the keen buyers file inside and head through the storeroom to the staircase. Despite their criticisms, they sounded even more eager after touring the apartment.

  Toby noticed the same enthusiasm from the next keen buyers, who sashayed through the door an hour later.

  ‘I love it, darling,’ said the woman within the first two minutes. ‘Pop a Chesterfield and coffee table in the window, we could knock out the storeroom and put in a little tearoom. Open fireplace over there,’ she said, then frowned as she pointed to the corner where the local artwork was displayed. ‘Gah. We’d get rid of all those dinky crafts.’ She waved a disdainful hand at the patchwork tea cosies, the knitted scarves and small woodwork stall Mrs Beggs ran on a commission basis. They had been perfect when Toby unpacked on his first day in Bridgefield and discovered his linen was still in Ballarat. He had also acquired a liking for the lush jams sold at that stall—it would be hard to go back to the synthetic-tasting supermarket variety again.

  ‘Knock out the storeroom? Where does she think she’ll keep excess stock?’ whispered Lara.

  ‘Everything inside will need a coat of Hog Bristle White,’ the woman continued. ‘Timber-work, walls
, trim, shelving, then I’ll whitewash the floors too,’ she finished, turning to her husband for approval.

  Lara’s face went a funny shade of red as she looked from the woman to the bluestone walls. The husband, who hadn’t bothered to remove his sunglasses, shrugged blandly.

  ‘If another little project makes you happy, then it makes me happy, sweet cheeks.’

  Toby watched Lara. He could see it was on the tip of her tongue to tell them exactly what she thought of her general store being turned into ‘another little project’.

  He laid his hands on the counter and offered the buyer a bright smile.

  ‘It’s a lovely shop,’ Toby said. ‘And there’s a great community initiative on the go. An all-abilities cooking program, isn’t there, Eddie?’ Toby hooked a thumb towards the kitchen. It wasn’t pie-baking day, but Eddie had started coming in more often to lend a hand.

  They all peered around the corner. Eddie waved cheerfully and the oven mitt he’d been wearing flew across the room, landing with a splash in the sink. Soapy water slopped over the floor.

  ‘Well. Um. No.’ The woman blinked rapidly. ‘No, I don’t think it would work with my vision. We have very high standards, you see.’

  Toby’s jaw dropped, and as if she could sense Toby’s disapproval, the buyer looked away and linked an arm through her husband’s, steering him towards the real-estate agent.

  Lara locked the shop door behind the last of the day’s tyre-kickers and blew the loose strands of hair from her face. A few bobby pins wouldn’t go astray right about now. The ginger tresses, which could be considered auburn one day, dark blonde or light brown the next, depending on the sunshine, had a mind of their own after a busy day at work.

  And what a day it had been. The final prospective buyers had been a family of seven.

  Lara couldn’t imagine dragging Evie along to a business meeting, let alone five children. She’d watched with disbelief as the younger kids ran riot around the shop while the teenagers butted in over Greg time and time again.