Simmering Season Read online

  ‘You don’t get it. You’re always thinking small-town, Maggs. This is the ultimate adventure.’

  Brian guzzled his third VB, courtesy of the latest pub gig that had paid in kind rather than in cash.

  ‘Maybe I am small-town.’

  ‘Well, Maggs,’ he burped the words, crushing the empty can in a powerful fist. ‘Time you started thinking big. Think what if. I mean, this is one hell of an opportunity. This really could be it, the break I’ve been working towards all these years.’

  Working towards? Maggie imagined the look on her face—stunned, confused, like she’d whacked her head on an invisible pane of glass.

  ‘The break you’ve been working towards?’ she started, then stopped.

  She wanted to scream. Since when was playing guitar for two hours then drinking for two hours working towards anything but a hangover the next morning? She was the one working, the one putting actual money in the bank, only to watch the cost of living siphon it back out again.

  ‘What’s that mean?’

  ‘Never mind.’ She was wasting her breath. Brian’s gigs around town were as haphazard as the method of payment each time: cartons of beer, contraband, cash if they were lucky. Brian never questioned the payment, accepting whatever the pub owners dished out, telling Maggie, ‘What’s the diff? If we got cash we’d only have to buy the tinnies anyway.’ Maggie wanted to suggest they might buy fresh vegetables, or even eat out as a family occasionally. She always refrained. Brian acted like an eager puppy most times and such statements were like a smack on the snout for peeing on the carpet. He never understood what he’d done wrong.

  Those big, Weimaraner-blue eyes had beseeched her the day the i-ICON contract arrived.

  ‘And you’re not going to get this contract looked at by a solicitor?’ They were the first words that came out of Maggie’s mouth after seeing the costs the production company seemed prepared to cover: aeroplane fares, personal stylists, PR advisors, new wardrobes, new hair, new everything. The i-ICON people claimed to be the first-ever no boundaries talent show: the goal to discover an international music icon. From the look of it, the production budget was just as boundless. It smacked of ‘too good to be true’ to Maggie.

  ‘A solicitor?’ Brian baulked. ‘What the hell for? Why spend hundreds of dollars we don’t have so some pompous, overpaid prick can tell us what we already know? You need to relax, Maggs. I know how all this works,’ he said, going for another beer in the refrigerator. ‘Production costs like this don’t come out of anyone’s pocket. It’s all advertising dollars. Companies do this kind of stuff all the time for exposure. Everyone wins, you see. And we’re talking international recognition, Maggs. Forget Tamworth, we’ll be talking Nashville, for fuck’s sake.’

  ‘Shhh, Brian.’ Maggie moved to shut the door to the hallway so Noah wouldn’t hear them and flopped onto the sofa to sulk.

  ‘I’m sorry, Maggs.’ He was trying to whisper, as instructed, but it was like asking an excitable dog to bark quietly. ‘Imagine what this might mean for us—for Noah. Our dreams don’t have to stay dreams. Don’t you see, Maggs?’ He was kneeling on the floor now, forcing her knees apart with his body, nudging her skirt higher and peering up into her eyes.

  ‘People like me finally have a chance. That’s the great thing about reality television. Someone has to win. Why can’t it be me? Look at that Susan Boyle chick. Look how it catapulted her to fame and fortune.’

  But look how people treated her, Maggie wanted to add. How wrong it could have gone for her.

  She smoothed the hair falling around her husband’s ears, loving the power of his body pushing between her thighs and the gentleness of his teasing fingers tantalisingly close to their mark. Brian’s wild side had captured the heart of the country girl in the beginning. He was young, impetuous, exciting and exactly the sort of distraction Maggie had needed following her brother’s accident and Dan’s avoidance.

  ‘Susan Boyle was a nobody. Then she was the biggest star in the world. That could be me.’

  There was an element of truth to Brian’s words. Reality TV had the potential to pull nobodies from obscurity and let them shine. Ordinary people with a passion for cooking, renovating—even game show participants—could all get their fifteen minutes of fame. That’s all Brian wanted, to have his moment in the spotlight. The prize money wouldn’t go amiss either.

  ‘We’re so close, Maggs.’ He thrust his body closer, his breath laced with beer, although it wasn’t his breath that had Maggie’s attention now.

  She groaned.

  ‘Shut your eyes. Imagine, Maggs,’ he whispered, his mouth nuzzling the buttons on her shirt, a finger working its magic higher and higher between her thighs. ‘Feel it, Maggs. Feel the fame.’

  ‘Brian,’ she breathed. ‘Brian, we can’t. Not here. Not now.’

  ‘We can do anything, Maggs. Let me take you with me. I’m so close I can almost touch it. I want to taste it, Maggs. I want to taste you.’

  ‘Please, Brian, I’m trying to talk to you.’

  Maggie held in the gasp as his finger found its mark inside her knickers, the serious conversation quickly losing importance.

  ‘Brian, I really think—’

  ‘Shhh,’ he said, his breath warm on her wetness, his hand moving to his trousers.

  He was doing it again, being Brian, controlling her, and here she was rewarding the behaviour.

  No! Maggie dragged her skirt back down. ‘Stop, Brian, please,’ she insisted. ‘Noah is in his room and I want to talk about Calingarry Crossing. We have to talk about Dad.’

  He didn’t stop. He just lifted his face to hers and smiled. ‘You talk. I’ll keep doing what I’m doing and listen at the same time. I’m talented that way.’

  ‘Come on, Brian,’ Maggie said, wiggling her body back into the seat. ‘You know Dad’s not doing well.’

  Brian persisted, managing to talk while his tongue feasted, his beard stubble grazing soft skin.

  ‘Ethne’s a lazy old bag afraid of too much work. It’s about time she earned her keep. My career is more important.’

  ‘What about this contract?’ Maggie groaned and squirmed, the words ‘stop’ and ‘don’t stop’ fighting for top honours. ‘It says you agree to your communications being monitored. Why would they want to do that?’

  Brian sat back and huffed. ‘In case you didn’t notice, I’m trying to fuck my wife here and your questions are kind of killing the moment.’

  She sat up and adjusted her shirt and skirt. ‘Well, in case you didn’t notice, I’m trying to have a conversation with my husband about our family’s future. So, tell me why they would want to monitor our telephone conversations?’

  ‘Because they don’t want any leaks. The surprise element is everything in these shows. That’s why they use secret locations and put everyone in a big house together for the duration, and why there’s a family confidentiality agreement to sign. We can’t tell Noah either. He’s under eighteen.’

  Killing the moment was no longer a problem. The moment was now well and truly buried.

  ‘And what do I say to our son? How do I explain? What if I slip and accidentally say the wrong thing? Lying doesn’t sit well with me.’

  ‘Everyone knows how to lie, Maggs—even you. If it makes you feel better, look at this as keeping a secret. Besides, you won’t slip. We’ll make up a story that’s easy to stick to.’

  ‘Like?’ Maggie asked, trying not to dwell on that ‘even you’.

  ‘I dunno. You’ll figure out something. Better it’s in your words anyway. A lie’s easier to remember that way.’

  ‘Is it?’ she asked pointedly.

  ‘Whatchya doing in here with the door closed?’ Noah said, one eye, half a nose and thick fringe of mousey brown hair visible through the gap in the lounge room door. He’d just turned fifteen.

  ‘Oh, nothing.’ Maggie leapt off the sofa, almost kicking Brian in the head as she swung her legs together.

  Brian pulled a face, winked a
nd said, ‘We weren’t doing nothing at all, mate. Just talking.’

  Maggie fussed with her skirt, her shirt, her hair.

  ‘Talking about what?’ Noah nudged the door.

  ‘You’re supposed to be asleep. You’ve got school tomorrow. Back to bed.’

  ‘Come ’ere a minute, matey,’ Brian said.

  ‘Brian!’ Maggie chided. She hated him usurping her like that with Noah, always the good guy, the fun guy.

  ‘Hey, matey,’ Brian said as Noah slumped into the closest chair. ‘Your dad might be going away for a little while.’

  Fear and confusion melded into one heartbreaking expression on her son’s face. Maggie hated lying to him, but she wouldn’t cement his fear by arguing with his father.

  ‘You can take that look off your face, buddy.’ Maggie feigned a smile. ‘Everything’s fine. Your dad is—’

  ‘I might have to go OS for work, mate.’

  ‘OS? Like, you mean, another country?’ Noah asked. ‘Awesome, can I come?’

  ‘No, mate, sorry. I might be incommunicado for a bit.’

  ‘Whatdaya mean? Like for how long?’

  Noah’s excitement fizzled out, replaced with questioning glances between his father and Maggie.

  ‘No need to look so worried, mate.’ Brian roughed up his son’s hair. ‘Nothing definite. Just letting you know something like that might be happening. Means it could just be you and Mum for a bit. You’ll have to take my place as head of the family. Okay?’

  ‘No wuckin’ furries, Dad,’ Noah said, high-fiving his father.

  Brian had thought the phrase hilarious, leaving Maggie to shake her head. ‘I really wish you wouldn’t let him think that’s funny.’

  ‘Isn’t it?’ Brian laughed while Noah walked over and buried his head in the fridge.

  ‘Beer, Dad?’

  ‘Good onya, mate.’

  When Noah emerged with a crunchy green Granny Smith apple in his other hand, rather than a fizzy drink, Maggie found a reason to smile. At least Noah wasn’t all his father.

  ‘It wouldn’t hurt you to follow your son’s example.’

  ‘Gotta be wary of them apples. You know what happened in the Garden of Eden.’

  ‘Brian …’ Maggie shushed.

  ‘Aw, come ’ere, Maggs. You worry too much.’

  Maggie let Brian pull her close and kiss her the way he always did—a finger pressed to her lips, a tap on the tip of her nose, and their song in his best Count Dracula voice, ‘I lurve my Magpie, just a little-biddy peck and with a love bite on her neck. Bwah ha ha,’ before plunging his teeth into her neck.

  The ritual ended with Maggie pushing him away and laughing.

  ‘That’s my Maggs. I love it when you laugh. Everything will be great. You’ll see. Have I ever let you down?’

  Maggie sighed. There’d been a dozen moneymaking schemes over the years, but with the attention span of a pre-schooler no idea got the chance to grow, discarded instead in favour of a brand new toy. That’s how things were in the beginning, before Noah. Nothing delivered a reality check like a baby and a zero bank balance. After nearly twenty-one years of marriage and sixteen as a family, their marriage had seemed hardly strong enough to weather a willy-willy, much less the storm that was simmering, intensifying with every argument over money, or the lack of it. Noah was still coming home from school scuffed up and bruised, adamant Maggie didn’t need to intervene and insisting—to his father’s amusement—the other kid always came off worse. With news of Joe’s decline, Maggie’s guilt became the cause of even more arguments. How had she not recognised each time she telephoned that the Rev’s vagueness was something more sinister than old age and not coping? With no other choice, she’d left Sydney for Calingarry Crossing almost immediately, bundling a few weeks worth of gear for her and Noah in bags and leaving her husband behind to follow as soon as practical.

  Where has the time gone?

  Maggie tossed and turned for a while, feeling the smallness of the stuffy little room she now called home. Just as she was turning off her head to Brian, the ‘Old McDonald Had A Farm’ ringtone sounded again and she almost knocked herself out with the telephone receiver in her haste to answer.

  ‘I wanted to talk to Noah,’ Brian said.

  ‘For goodness sake, Brian.’ She rubbed the spot on her forehead, imagining the bruise she’d have by morning. ‘Don’t you know how late it is? Of course you can’t. Why do you do this? Why call when you won’t even remember—?’

  Click.

  Fine! This time Maggie remembered to leave the phone off the hook, throwing a pillow over the top to mute the beeping.

  At least late-night calls allowed Maggie to answer the phone, not her son. To her, Noah was still that little boy who idolised his dad and who wanted to grow up to be just like him. Maggie shuddered. She would not let Brian hurt their son.

  Protecting Noah came first.

  Protecting Brian came second.

  She closed her eyes again to wait for sleep and wondered, What about Maggie?

  Who’s protecting me?

  18

  Despite another night of tossing and turning—the third in a row since Brian’s last late-night telephone call—Maggie woke on the day of the cocktail party unusually optimistic, rested and keen to get stuck into her to-do list. There’d been no more praying mantis images, finally convinced Noah’s puffing up around Fiona was nothing to worry about and relieved that her son was not into pretentious princesses. Better things awaited smart, funny and affable boys like Noah and Maggie wanted—no, she needed—him to have it all: the big, exciting life with colour and noise, and the freedom to make his own choices in his own time. No pressure. He could marry at thirty and it would still be too soon for Maggie.

  To think Amber had been Noah’s age when she’d fallen pregnant with Fiona, the boy responsible probably not much older. Who was he? No one really knew. The father himself probably didn’t even know. Instead, Jack Bailey had whisked Amber out of town. Maggie shuddered at the idea of Noah getting a girl pregnant, denying the thought entry to a mind already full to overflowing. Yes, she looked forward to being someone’s Nana one day. No rush though. Noah, she hoped, was many years, several girlfriends and a million adventures away from the responsibilities of fatherhood. Right now all Maggie could think about was the million jobs awaiting her today.

  ‘Starting with the ironing basket,’ she grumbled, plucking a top from the bottom of the pile and giving the indestructible chemise a shake. ‘All hail the cheesecloth!’

  The flimsy, no-iron fabric had been the best op-shop find ever. Teaming the burnt-orange-coloured top with a pair of cut-off jeans that sat just above her knees—as opposed to Fiona’s that barely covered her backside—Maggie twisted her hair into the clasp, a gift last year from one of her regulars. Known by everyone in town as Uncle Neville, he’d hand-painted the flap of bark, which was about the size of Maggie’s hand, with dots of white, yellow and ochre to surround the image of a black and white magpie. She secured the bark around her ponytail by threading a stick, sanded smooth, through opposing holes.

  Stopping briefly to look in the mirror, Maggie felt an unexpected kick of anticipation in her stomach at the thought of how her hometown would spring to life this weekend. They’d enjoyed annual fairs and fetes growing up, but nothing on this scale and never a reunion. Hard to believe it was almost here. Where had the days gone?

  ‘And what is it with this bloody heat?’ she gasped as she left the residence, crossing the small courtyard to the hotel.

  For five days, climate change had continued to be the talk of the bar, prompting some louder than normal conversation over whether it was La Niña, El Niño, climate change or the same old same old. Maggie found the passionate debate amusing and a refreshing change from talk of sheep dip and stock prices. The weather, however, was anything but refreshing. Each afternoon billowing grey storm clouds teased the town with a promise of rain, but the only thing to fall were a few extra swear words off the
tongue of locals fed up, like Maggie. Temperatures remained on the up, but then so did beer sales.

  Fiona and Noah were already hard at work in the beer garden. Although, a more accurate description might have been Noah and his mate Cory were hard at work while Fiona was busy bossing them around. Telling others what to do was yet another qualification of hers, one Fiona had amply demonstrated during the final frantic committee meetings, much to Jennifer’s chagrin. To Fiona’s credit, though, the girl had batted her big blue eyes and persuaded Noah to do things when Maggie couldn’t get him to feed the dogs on time, even with their big brown eyes begging him to. The beer garden was the best setting for the cocktail party, except in the event of rain. Should the heavens decide to open, the dining room, now clear of Fiona’s centenary retrospective which had been relocated to the school, would be Plan B.

  News of the display had circulated around town and the curious had called into the pub for a quick squiz, with a few old-timers even dropping off memorabilia. Over the last couple of days Maggie had worked around the various bits and pieces in the dining room, inspecting them as she went. There’d been the old brass school bell—the type with a wooden handle that only the prefects got to ring, trophies and sports day pennants, a complete set of the colourful although faded wooden Cuisenaire rods from maths class—which Maggie was certain were still officially property of the school, and finally Frank Ryan’s milk crate crammed with old chalkboard dusters. The story was he’d kept every one the teachers ever threw at him for mucking up in class.

  Around lunchtime, having eradicated at least ten Daddy Long-leg spiders from the cornices of every guest room, wiped a tonne of dust from each ceiling fan, sprayed each window with Easy-Glide spray-on lubricant, and opened every room to air, Maggie took a breather herself, hoping a breeze on the veranda might refresh her. She knew telling Ethne about her looming headache would result in a strong aromatic brew being shoved in her hand. Only one cure existed; getting tonight’s little shindig over and done with and letting her anticipation over tomorrow’s guest list subside. With Brian’s last late-night call still playing on her mind, her delayed start today had meant half the morning’s tasks remained undone. After lunch, after she’d relieved Ethne in the main bar, there would be more tasks to tackle before her first-ever full house of guests.