Season of Shadow and Light Read online

  ‘Small business can make a difference,’ he said with fire in his voice, ‘especially if you care about quality. Attention to detail gets noticed and gets repeat customers. Paddock to plate is an opportunity with growing demand, and it doesn’t stop with meat. Fresh food should be fresh. Pick it, prepare it, plate it. People are getting wise to mass produce that’s been cold-stored to death before it even hits the supermarket shelves.’

  Or canned to death, Paige added to herself, thinking about her recent promotional blog post on the nutritional value of the company’s latest offering. Little did consumers know the product was the same jaded recipe as before with a different look to comply with new voluntary labelling initiatives. Not proud of her blogging job and not keen to share too much of herself, Paige kept the focus of their conversation on Aiden.

  ‘You grow and sell to local businesses only?’

  ‘Early days. A couple of customers at the moment: The Feedlot Brassiere at the Federal in Saddleton, where this load’s headed, and I’m also chatting to The Edge at Calingarry Crossing pub. Someone’s throwing a bit of money at the place and sprucing things up, including the restaurant. I was getting some extra hours out there until recently. Cook’s back from her honeymoon and you know what they say about—’

  ‘Too many cooks?’

  Aiden laughed. ‘Especially this one. Old Ethne is a bit stuck in her ways and doesn’t take too kindly to advice from outsiders. Can’t say I blame her. I get the odd shift every now and then. At least I get more time to spend on business planning, although that’s my least favourite part. Playing in the dirt is a lot more rewarding.’

  ‘So, this bison and goat meat idea . . . You’ve got your own land?’

  ‘Not my land exactly. My brother’s. Make that my parents’, although it’s just Dad and Eamon these days and I’m afraid my brother and I . . . He has a few strong opinions. Mostly about me.’

  ‘Eamon and Aiden?’

  ‘Irish, of course, but with a pinch of Italian.’

  No wonder he was good looking. Paige was beginning to notice the intriguing combination: the olive complexion, the colour of his eyes, framed by long, dark lashes.

  ‘We got Irish names—Dad’s favourites, rather than following tradition. The Irish are big on names and tradition.’

  ‘Oh, I know.’ Paige chuckled. ‘I worked with a girl who fell pregnant and married into an Irish family.’

  He shot her a knowing glance and nodded. ‘First son named after the father’s father?’

  ‘Yes. Unfortunately that name was Gearoid, which she’d told me reminded her of haemorrhoid, and that her father-in-law was being about as painful as one over the whole christening naming tradition.’

  They laughed themselves to tears over Paige’s telling of the story. Aiden then told one of his own, and so began a game of tit for tat—a kind of who-can-be-funnier match for two, which only made them laugh harder.

  As The Beast groaned its way up another set of hairpin bends, and the hilarity petered out to an awkward silence, Aiden said, rather solemnly, ‘Kind of fitting that my brother’s named Eamon.’

  ‘Why’s that? Paige asked, dabbing moisture at the corners of her eyes.

  ‘It means Guardian of the riches, and he’s a half brother, but that’s a longer story than we’ve got time for.’ He pointed. ‘Almost there.’

  The smooth sealed section of roadway was a welcome relief—widening, flattening and straightening out into a shimmering ribbon of grey to signal the start of the Saddleton township. The road divided a patchwork of fields, fences slowly morphing from rickety, rusty wire on the outskirts of town to solid enough constructions to support remote mail boxes—the letters RMB and a number painted in big letters on the side.

  Farmhouses shifted into view, large and small dwellings randomly deposited on vast acreages, all dwarfed by huge, shade-giving trees. The Beast was travelling too fast for Paige to count how many ceramic toilet bowls formed an unlikely guard of honour at the entranceway to one property, each of the dozen or more disused white dunnies sprouting a colourful floral display along the driveway.

  ‘Saddletown not Saddleton?’ Page queried the spelling as they whizzed by the roadside welcome sign someone had struck through with red paint. ‘That’s weird. Which is it?’

  ‘The Saddleton newspaper ran a poll a while back. Apparently the local ‘hysterical’ society got together with the Progress Association and claimed it was Saddletown. A bit like Coffs Harbour, over those mountains. It was originally known as Korff’s Harbour after a fellow with that name. Someone misspelled the name and the error stuck. Our Progress Association wanted to revert back to Saddletown; nothing says progress like living in the past, I guess. The other side of the camp, the practical ones with their signage and business stationery, wanted Saddleton to remain.’

  ‘So it was originally Saddletown?’

  Aiden nodded. ‘Probably. Craftsmen on every corner once. If you wanted good gear for your horse, you came to Saddletown. Rumour has it there was a few early Melbourne Cups won on a Saddletown saddle. The town holds its own Saddler’s Cup every August first, of course.’

  ‘Why “of course”?’

  ‘The horse’s birthday.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Paige said vaguely, the conversation suddenly overshadowed by early memories of Nancy who would dress up for their Melbourne Cup Day picnic in the backyard; one of the little traditions Paige regretted letting slip with her own daughter. But Matilda wasn’t into horses, with the exception of Bean. Besides, horse racing was a cruel sport with too much emphasis on prize money and not enough attention to the horses’ welfare.

  She continued to stare out the window, fond memories forcing a smile and a sudden urge to share. ‘When she was alive, Matilda’s grandmother loved having a flutter on special race days. We’d get dressed up, make afternoon tea and pretend we were at the races, even though Mum was never too fond of horses—not that I knew of. Me either.’

  ‘I give up,’ Aiden said, snapping Paige back to the moment.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘I thought Nana Alice must have been—’

  ‘Oh, no, um . . . Mati’s maternal grandmother—my mum—died when I was young.’

  ‘Ah, right,’ he said. ‘Alice is your mother-in-law.’

  ‘Not exactly. No.’

  ‘Aw, of course. Sorry for being nosy.’

  Awkward moment—one that Paige decided not to dwell on.

  ‘Sweet Alice, I’m glad she’s part of our lives. She dotes on Matilda.’

  After a few moments of silence Aiden said, ‘For someone who isn’t fond of horses, I have to say you looked pretty comfortable around them earlier.’

  ‘Not sure why. I’m a city girl through and through, although I admit to admiring the strength and beauty of a horse, and this morning was kind of nice.’ Remembering the feel of horse hair, muscle and body heat under her hands reignited the soothing sensation, and she remembered Sharni’s comment about the therapy of horses. ‘Do you ride much?’

  He shook his head. ‘Not for a while. Not much time these days. I’ve been back less than twelve months and pretty busy with two jobs going for the most part. The move here isn’t permanent either. Together, Eamon and Dad can be a force and I’ve always felt a bit out of the loop, even now. Anyway, I prefer my own space. Less chance of Eamon reminding me I’ve never been a good fit with family.’

  Paige nodded. ‘I know about the demands of family.’

  ‘How about your dad?’ Aiden asked, not bothering to hide his desire to change subjects.

  ‘Mum was it. No father,’ was all she said.

  ‘No interest in finding him?’

  His asking surprised Paige, but perhaps what surprised her even more was her lack of reaction. Had anyone else she’d barely met interrogated her family situation she would have told them to mind their own business; defensive responses came naturally after growing up in a non-traditional family. Rather than baulk, Paige thought about Aiden’s question and
what it was about this guy that seemed to make her want to tell him her life story. Even more intriguing, she was keen to listen to his. Maybe the connection was desperation to speak to a male who actually talked back. Discussions with Robert remained family or money oriented. Had she been sitting next to her husband discussing anything remotely left of centre, like inexplicable bonds with strangers, old kindred souls, or some other mumbo jumbo, Robert would argue such things only existed in the minds of needy people, or tell her she’d been watching too much TV. Once he’d accused her of imagining things, like she imagined people breaking the window to Matilda’s bedroom in the dark.

  Something told her that Aiden could never be compared to Robert. Still, her unconventional family situation was not a topic to throw about with someone she’d met yesterday.

  ‘Ignore me. You don’t have to answer that,’ Aiden said, as if reading her mind. ‘Way too personal. Not real cool of me to ask, actually. This road must be rattling my brain.’

  ‘No problem. I don’t mind you asking. I prefer transparency and honesty to people who talk behind backs. I’ve grown a tough skin over time, too. No choice when you have the name Paige Turner.’

  ‘Paige . . . ?’

  ‘Go ahead and groan,’ she said, noting the single, sarcastic eyebrow lift. ‘Most people snigger when they hear my name.’

  ‘They do? People actually laugh? That’s a bit rude,’ he said dryly, which only made Paige’s outpouring of personal trivia even more cringe-worthy, prompting a further uncharacteristic amount of personal prattle to pour out of her mouth.

  ‘Paige isn’t even my first name. Mum decided after she named me that she preferred my middle name because I apparently represented a new chapter in her life.’ Paige laughed. ‘Okay, so it’s complicated and even I’m starting to think my family sounds weird. Weird has been trending in my life recently. I dread to think what your thoughts are right about now. If you don’t stop me I may spew the full story of my life and that might put you to sleep at the wheel.’

  ‘I don’t need the full story,’ he said through a silly smirk. ‘A P-A-I-G-E will do.’

  ‘Argh!’ She groaned and the back of her hand swiped at him, connecting with a rock-hard bicep. ‘Very funny.’

  Where had all that come from? As if the man was interested in her childhood. Thankfully she’d stopped short of telling him about trying to reconnect with her dead mother’s past by driving to a town in the middle of Woop Woop. One good thing had come from their conversation. She knew, should she decide to delve into her mother’s time in Saddleton—if indeed it was Saddleton and not Saddletown—the local historical society would provide a starting point.

  ‘Welcome to Saddleton,’ Aiden said, The Beast groaning as if 50 kph was too slow. Even the dog’s barking lost gusto as they entered the town centre. ‘See that “Road closed” sign? This is where we would’ve come out had the regular road been passable. That’s the Calingarry Crossing road.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Your boatshed? That’s where you’ll come out once they reopen the main road. Calingarry’s another hour that-a-way.’

  ‘Of course. Right. Thanks.’

  Four wide shop-lined streets converged at a junction, an elaborate town clock atop a stone obelisk at the centre with the memorial surrounded by colourful annuals doing a delightful job of camouflaging two ugly caged floodlights. The streets seemed deserted in spite of the clock’s hands showing it was close to noon. An enormous two-storey hotel occupied one corner at the intersection, and diagonally opposite was a post office and a bank, both buildings with the hallmarks of a bygone era. Next to that a hardware store was bustling, the small crowd outside working together to shovel sand into hessian bags and unfurl rolls of black plastic, the same plastic and bags that littered shop fronts on the opposite side of the street. Aiden drove on about twenty metres and pulled up in a parking space opposite the swollen river.

  Paige asked about the telegraph poles, the lower portion of each painted with different patterns and colours. He explained they were jockey’s colours and each represented a ride that had been won or lost on one of the many racehorses that had a connection to the district. Among them were the Melbourne Cup winners, but he couldn’t tell her which ones and Paige didn’t follow horseracing at all so it hardly mattered. Lining the riverbank, a low concrete barrier, delightfully devoid of graffiti, was instead painted in the distinctive black, white and ochre of Indigenous art. The levy protected a park with shady picnic tables and a children’s playground which enjoyed dappled sunlight from a small forest of tall trees. Groups of people dotted the river levy, watching, pointing, discussing.

  So this is why the town centre is deserted.

  ‘She’s running high all right,’ Aiden said as he parked The Beast nose to kerb, pointing over his shoulder. ‘There’s your pharmacy, over the road about five shops back.’

  He suggested they do a fast turn around and meet back at the car in half an hour, leaving Paige little opportunity to do anything else other than arrange Mati’s prescription and pick up a few staples. Paige would definitely have to forget about tracking down the historical society today. The town clearly had other things on its mind.

  When Paige returned, Aiden was folding a green canvas tarp while the dog on the tray-top slobbered his way to the bottom of a chipped enamel water bowl.

  ‘Got what you needed?’ he asked, flinging the water dregs on the ground before tossing the bowl in the toolbox under the cabin’s back window. ‘Give me your shopping.’ He placed the carry bag in the box and dropped the lid, a signal for Cargo to take his place on top. The dog had two legs on the box and hind legs on the tray, muscles shimmering under the short, glossy caramel-coloured coat, nose poking the cabin window in a kind of hurry up.

  ‘I got the prescription, yes,’ she responded, leaving out the other item on her town list: to miraculously stumble across the path of a long-time local, one who remembered a young woman called Nancy who used to ride in a town known for horses—and no doubt riders—and, oh, only about forty-plus years ago.

  Their car doors creaked, then banged shut in unison, both occupants surprised into laughing. They were in sync on so many levels. Was Paige the only one to feel it? His expression and that lazy smile suggested not.

  ‘Any other day I would’ve stayed longer, grabbed a coffee and sat for a while, but maybe not in the circumstances.’ He thrust a paper cup towards her. ‘Here you go. Reckon things always taste better when you don’t make them yourself. What do you think?’

  ‘Taste?’ Even to Paige the reply sounded absentminded, and the tiny tilt of his head, like a curious puppy, said he’d noticed.

  ‘Coffee to go,’ he explained. ‘It’s a latte. Something said you were a latte person. I figured, well, I’m addicted to the stuff. I assumed everyone was the same. Assuming—another bad habit of mine. Sorry.’

  ‘I love caffe latte. Thank you for being so thoughtful.’ It wasn’t a lie. She’d craved the taste of coffee for two years.

  ‘You right to go? We need to be back on the road.’

  ‘Of course, but . . . Perhaps, on the way, you wouldn’t mind pointing out where they hold the Saddleton Campdraft?’

  ‘Saddleton Campdraft?’ he repeated; his blue eyes sparked with a mix of amusement and curiosity. ‘I’m not sure they’ve had one of those in a while. A lot less horse people in town these days and even less call for local events. Farms are getting smaller, not bigger. A lot of land sub-divided and sold off.’ Aiden shook his head, sipped on the hot coffee. ‘Sadly, the only thing growing around here is the number of city people who think they can buy land and be weekend cowboys and farmers.’

  ‘You talk about city people as though they’re aliens. We’re not all useless. Besides, my stay is most definitely a short one. I’m not here to buy, sell or grow anything.’

  Aiden buried his embarrassment in the cardboard coffee cup, but not before flashing a cheeky grin. ‘You hoping to rope yourself a bull or something?’


  Paige’s laugh surprised her. Shouldn’t she have been miffed? Wouldn’t she normally baulk at such blatant boof-heady statements? Instead she’d laughed and it felt good. She liked Aiden. She liked that there were embers of life behind the gruffness, making him a little less cane toad, but not quite prince. At least the Saddleton trip had settled several things in her mind: Banjo had been right to suggest her Audi—all-wheel-drive or not—would never make it safely; the publican was not a machete-wielding Mr Magoo; and her chauffeur was turning out to be a pleasant distraction and a rather yummy bit of eye candy. But it was time she got back to her reality. They’d been away long enough and Alice would be getting anxious.

  With one mountain road looking identical to every other one they’d driven over as they’d headed into Saddleton, it was hard to track the progress of the return journey; Paige refused to ask for fear of her enquiry sounding like one of Matilda’s Are-we-there-yet? whines. Surely the river crossing couldn’t be far away, and with that perfect blue sky giving way to some ominous grey clouds forming she wanted to make the cottage before the predicted rain.

  8

  Alice

  Alice took in the view beyond the cottage’s window, across the field towards the homestead, then back to the distant dirt road. She was searching for an answer, even though she didn’t know the question. She didn’t know anything, feel anything other than a sense of foreboding, the type best described as a heaviness in her heart, weighing her down with what ifs and counter arguments about inconceivable happenstance.

  What were the chances of being this close to Nancy?

  How close exactly? She had no way of knowing. But anything was possible now they were actually in Coolabah Tree Gully. If someone had told Alice that she would one day find herself back in Nancy’s hometown with her curious and sagacious daughter, she would have been wiser about storing certain keepsakes.