Simmering Season Page 14

  Both Uncle Nev and Barney were staying cool on the veranda, perched on one of the old pews outside the main door to the bar.

  ‘G’day fellas. Phew! The temp’s not much better out here, is it?’ She plucked at the drawstring around the low-slung neckline of her cheesecloth top and blew a long stream of air down her cleavage.

  Uncle Nev nodded as usual, while Barney said, ‘G’day, Maggie. Another stinker, all right.’

  ‘Guess we should be used to it by now. How you blokes doing?’

  ‘Just reminiscin’ with old Nev here about that display your young Noah and his friend is doin’ down at the school. You should be feelin’ real proud. They done a spot-on job. Seem to be hittin’ it off, too.’ He winked.

  ‘Oh, yes, they’ve done a good job.’ She wasn’t about to contribute to gossip about her son. ‘As a matter of fact I dropped in to the school yesterday for a look. Right now they’re dressing up the beer garden for tonight’s function.’

  Maggie was proud and surprised when she’d called in to the school assembly hall yesterday to see Fiona and Noah putting the final touches on the exhibit. Noah had been busy sticking up computer-generated thought bubbles and embellishments, taking a boring collection of old photos and turning the display into a kind of giant country scrapbook. The gasps of delight from the CWA ladies furthered the flow of motherly pride Maggie floated in as she inspected his work. Noah had always been good with his hands and Maggie liked to think he’d inherited her love of visual arts. But it was music that aroused his passion, and that could only have come from Brian.

  ‘Very impressive,’ she said, her eyes taking in the full length of the display until one picture almost winded her.

  He looked so young with that unruly mop of light-brown hair. And that smile … Seeing his grin made Maggie smile, prompting her to imagine how he might look today. Would the scar have faded? Maybe he wore a beard to cover it. Probably not. Dan Ireland never seemed the beard type. Besides, Maggie didn’t like beards. How did he wear his hair? Like Maggie’s, it was probably lighter in colour and peppered with grey. She was finding more of the little buggers every time she looked in the mirror.

  She sighed aloud and the sound surprised her when it came out with a quiver. This reunion was having an even deeper effect on her than she’d imagined. If looking at a few pictures left her feeling so edgy, Maggie could only hope Dan didn’t show up in person this weekend.

  Bugger Jennifer for not sharing the RSVP list.

  Another photograph was small and crinkled across the centre, but it was also definitely him. Like bookends, he and Amber posed for the camera, sitting back to back on the grass behind the old school maintenance shed, bodies mirroring each other, both sets of legs bent at the knee and chins tilted skyward, heads touching. Their hands flaunted cigarettes and the photographer had captured two perfect smoke-rings hovering in the air above their faces.

  ‘That’s all very cozy, isn’t it? Found that one in Cheryl’s old photos,’ Fiona explained as she sidled up to Maggie. ‘Who is he? And what would the ladies at Mum’s day spa say about that?’

  Maggie pinched back a smile knowing; Amber Bailey could beat the pants off all the blokes when it came to blowing smoke rings. More photos, all featuring a young Amber with a different boy, sat on the table at the far end of the display, yellow Post-it Notes stuck to the back with names scribbled in pencil. Maggie was certain now. No one had thought about a photo display because no one in town had an agenda like Fiona. There was only one reason the girl was throwing herself into this project. What better way to dig around and identify your mother’s many beaus, and any possible birth fathers in the process? She dreaded to think what other strategies the girl might have for finding her father.

  ‘Don’t worry about those,’ Fiona gushed, relieving Maggie of the pictures and dropping them into a big yellow envelope.

  Maggie had been about to probe a little deeper when the mobile phone in her pocket buzzed against her left buttock. She answered. Ethne was having a catering crisis trying to fit the delivery of frozen finger food into the one small box freezer.

  Fiona would have to wait.

  ‘You look a million miles away, Maggie,’ Uncle Nev was saying.

  ‘Hmm, oh, yes, I’d best get back to work, fellas. See you both later.’ Maggie left Barney and Uncle Nev on the veranda while she went to check on progress in the beer garden.

  Fiona was instructing Cory on how to blow up a balloon while Noah was filling glass jars with layers of different-coloured sand, singing along to a song coming out of Fiona’s fancy phone.

  ‘They’re to hold the candlesticks. Cool, eh?’ Noah explained when Maggie inspected the glass jars. ‘Fi calls it “The Sands of Time”.’

  ‘Does she now?’ Maggie raised an eyebrow at the three buckets on the floor. One held a deep orange-red sand, the colour found around Cedar Cutters Gorge. Another was a creamy yellow colour, probably from the sandy beach down by the swimming hole. While the third lot of sand, which Maggie thought looked like garden soil, was probably from nowhere too exotic at all.

  Candles, according to the event manager extraordinaire, were crucial and added much-needed ambience to the rather ordinary beer garden. The only thing looking more frazzled than Fiona right now were the candles themselves, already wilting in the heat.

  ‘I know how you feel,’ Maggie mumbled as she fingered one sad, sagging candle, realising if this heat got any worse the limp-looking things would probably be quite the conversation starter. All she could do was hope the threatening storm would arrive and cool the place down a bit. ‘You three look almost done out here.’

  ‘Not so much air, Cory.’ Fiona scolded Noah’s mate, followed by a dramatic Scarlett O’Hara swipe of her sweaty brow. ‘These conditions are impossible to work in. Please, can’t we do something about the temperature?’

  ‘No worries, Fi. Hang on a sec.’ Noah fashioned a pretend telephone with his fingers and pressed it against his cheek. ‘I’ll give God a quick call. Tell him to turn the temp down ’cause our Fifi’s feeling the heat.’

  ‘I’ll give you heat.’ Fiona poked out her tongue just as another balloon popped. She yelped, thumped Cory’s arm and shouted, ‘It’s not rocket science, moron! Just don’t blow so hard. Argh!’

  ‘Don’t blow so hard,’ the boys repeated, both faces flashing red.

  The chant might have sounded childish, but not the chuckles and ribald grins that followed, reminding Maggie that her son was definitely growing up.

  ‘Hey Cory, mate,’ Noah called, ‘leave the balloons and help me here with the amplifier, will ya? I need to do a sound check.’

  Fiona had suggested Noah play guitar at tonight’s function and Maggie was looking forward to showing off her son. He was, after all, her greatest achievement.

  ‘Forget it, cowboy. I need Cory to finish the balloons,’ Fiona said, ‘and I’m in charge.’

  ‘Ah yes, but I have the power.’ Noah twirled an electrical extension lead over his head pretending to lasso Cory.

  ‘Oh, yeah? Well I may just pull your plug if you don’t stop mucking around, both of you.’

  With Fiona wielding her whip, and more bawdy chuckles from the boys, Maggie decided to get back to her own list of things to do.

  She was starting to feel a little less nervous about tonight, not to mention tomorrow night’s reunion. Despite a long list of negatives in Maggie’s head, Fiona did seem to be having a positive influence on Noah. Watching him goof around just now, smiling rather than moping—maybe even showing off a little in front of a mate—left Maggie hopeful he would stop focusing on going back to Sydney.

  ‘I’ll leave you to finish,’ she told the trio. ‘If you need me I’ll be in the kitchen giving Ethne vodka shots.’

  The mobile phone she’d left on the main bar was ringing as she headed towards the kitchen.

  ‘Hello? Maggie speaking.’ The super-calm voice on the other end of the line flipped Maggie’s stomach. ‘Tell him I’ll be right t
here.’

  Her father had calmed down by the time Maggie arrived. The episode, brought on by her taking his bathrobe home to wash it and not dropping it back, ended the minute she arrived with the item in question. Little things seemed to set her father off. Thankfully, it took very little to restore order to his world these days. On this occasion, a blue bathrobe in its rightful place, hanging on a wall hook in his room. Oh, and an unscheduled, ill-timed, two-and-a-bit-hour round trip by car for Maggie.

  19

  Fiona

  ‘Just what I need,’ Fiona said, accepting a tall lemonade and ice. ‘I’m parched.’

  ‘Parched?’ Noah snorted. ‘Geez, Miss Fancy Pants, you can put it on when you want to. Then again, I guess parched is a bit more ladylike than freakin’ thirsty.’

  ‘Are you always so annoying? Thanks for reminding me—again—why I like being an only child.’

  ‘You really do? I think it sucks. Reckon having a brother or sister—nah, make that a brother—would be cool.’

  ‘I was supposed to have a brother.’

  ‘What’s that mean?’

  ‘His name was Christopher. He died the day he was born—about seventeen years ago now, I reckon. Mum lost the plot. She blamed herself. I think because he was Phillip’s he was special. Maybe that’s why I wasn’t. Anyway …’ Fiona tied the last knot in the last blue balloon and batted it into Noah’s head. ‘So, your mum was okay about you playing tonight? I got the impression she wasn’t keen.’

  ‘Nah, she’s cool. Mum worries about me getting caught up with my music and slacking off on my studies. She likes it when I play. Reminds her of Dad. They met here when Dad played in the pub. He used to write love songs ’specially for her, too. He wasn’t much older than I am now. I think I take after my Dad that way.’

  ‘Oh yeah? You can write me a love song?’ Fiona asked, not really impressed. No place for such family sentimentality in her world.

  ‘As if I’d want to write you a love song.’

  ‘It must be nice knowing you’re like someone. I look like my mother, but that’s where it stops. Sure as hell never saw any of Phillip’s traits in me. Now I know why,’ Fiona grunted and drove the last thumbtack and balloon into place on one of the wooden uprights. Satisfied that the tired little beer garden now looked festive enough, she brushed her palms together. ‘Done—no thanks to your mate, Cory.’ She’d sent the moron packing earlier, unable to tolerate any more exploding balloons.

  ‘Looks good.’

  ‘Speaking of looking good … Is your dad as cute as you?’

  ‘Piss off!’ Noah smacked Fiona’s hand as she ruffled his hair. ‘He’s all right, I guess.’ Noah shrugged. ‘Haven’t seen him in a while. Mum reckons I have the best bits of them both.’

  ‘Lucky you! I don’t know any bits about my father: what he looks like, what he does, what he loves. Does he even know about me?’ Fiona coughed to budge the sob wedged in her throat, blaming the first thing that came to mind. ‘Reckon it could be any dustier or hotter out here?’ She tugged her hair into a twist, knotting it tight like one of the balloons, and felt instant relief as the air cooled the sweat on the back of her neck. ‘So,’ she said, slumping into a chair, ‘what are the best bits of Noah? Tell me everything. Where’s Noah from? What’s he doing? Where’s he going?’

  Noah turned a chair and straddled it, resting his arms on the back and glugging the remaining lemonade. ‘He comes from about as far away as you can get from Potts Point—not geographically, just every other way.’

  ‘Don’t let the manicured gardens fool you. Potts Point is a long way from perfect. Some of us just know how to nip and tuck our ugly bits to hide our imperfections from the neighbours. At least that’s what I’ve discovered lately. Comes from having a plastic surgeon in the family. Besides, my growing up wasn’t as great as you might think. Like I told you before, Mum sent me away to school mostly. Having a kid got in the way of her social engagements.’

  ‘How was boarding school?’

  ‘I’ll have you know I attended a ladies’ college,’ she said, striking a pose and poking out her tongue.

  ‘Nice one.’ Noah laughed. ‘They teach you that classy act at your fancy school?’

  ‘You’d be surprised what I learned at an all-girls school.’ She winked.

  ‘Like?’

  ‘Strictly on a need-to-know basis. Sorry.’ Fiona grinned. ‘We made our own fun, so it wasn’t all bad. Better than being at home, not that I told Mum. Much better idea to milk it so’s every time I did go home for the holidays they’d shower me with apologies.’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘Apologies. You know. Presents ’n’ stuff. I got this one year.’ She thrust the gold locket under Noah’s nose. ‘I deserved that and more for putting up with my parents’ crap.’

  ‘Oh yeah, sounds like a crap life all right.’

  ‘You have no idea just how crap it was at home.’

  Their banter became a game. What was the most embarrassing thing your parents made you do? What was the worst bit of advice, the weirdest present, and so on. Fiona knew she’d win.

  ‘When I was small they made me perform for their friends. I was like the lost freakin’ Von Trapp kid.’

  ‘I’d sing with my dad, until we got too loud for the building and people in the other flats complained, except the two guys downstairs. They were cool as. On the weekends Dad and me would go play somewhere like Centennial Park or the Domain, and Mum would pack sandwiches and bring them down. Dad liked it when people stopped to listen. Some threw coins on the blanket like we were buskers and my Mum …’ He laughed, stood up and walked over to where his guitar rested against the small amplifier. ‘Poor Mum would shit herself every time. So totally embarrassed she’d try to give the money back. Dad would have to stop her so we could get ice creams and buy takeaway pizza on the way home.’

  ‘Your parents met here, then moved to Sydney?’

  ‘Dad was born in Wagga Wagga, but he and his dad toured clubs and pubs playing together. They ended up here a couple of times and one year he proposed to Mum. But Dad says to crack the music business, Sydney is the place. So they got married and moved.’

  ‘Did he?’

  ‘Did he what?’

  ‘Crack the music business? What’s his name?’

  ‘Brian Henkler. You won’t know him. He’s been working behind the scenes—and with some big names, too.’

  ‘Really? Like who?’

  ‘Sorry. The details are on a strictly need-to-know basis.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Fiona couldn’t decide if the supercilious smirk on Noah’s face was because he didn’t know himself, or a show of one-upmanship.

  ‘I wish I was back in Sydney, even just for a visit. Mum says no way can we go back while Pop is sick and until the pub’s sold. Not seeing Dad sucks, big time.’

  ‘You at least have a father,’ Fiona said, jumping up to fix a loose streamer.

  ‘You’re right. You win.’ Noah played a few chords, stopping to adjust the tuners at the head of the instrument that had seen better days. ‘That really does suck—them not telling you, I mean.’

  ‘Like I really give a shit.’ She turned and glared at him. ‘You don’t know anything about me, Noah, aside from how stressed I can get when a deadline’s looming. We still have to finish the photo display. So here’s your hat, cowboy, let’s hurry.’

  Noah caught the hat she frisbee’d. ‘You still planning on doing that thing?’

  ‘What thing?’

  ‘I heard you talking on the phone to your boyfriend. You’re planning on unveiling some big sign. Something to do with those photos you’ve been collecting.’

  ‘What I do is none of your business, cowboy.’

  ‘I think the problem is you do give a shit.’ Noah strummed a few chords. ‘You like to act tough, ’cept you’re not.’

  Fiona was not about to admit he was right. Of course she cared. She cared that the man she’d loved and looked up to all her life was not her father. She
cared that her mother had lied about having a grandmother still living in a dusty country town. The best thing would have been never overhearing the argument between her mother and grandfather that day. Phillip would still be her father and she wouldn’t have to torture herself about what was real in her life, or trying to fit in. One thing from that awful day that remained with Fiona, clear and comforting, was Amber’s determination to defend her daughter; not something Fiona remembered witnessing before. They weren’t that kind of mother and daughter.

  The day her mother had walked out to come back to Calingarry Crossing without warning or explanation hadn’t drawn a single tear from Fiona, not one that anybody saw. Fiona had been crying all her life in such a way that nobody ever saw the tears. When Phillip brought Amber back home a few months later, she was different. She was even trying to be a better parent. The memory of Amber standing up for her that day of the argument would haunt Fiona forever.

  Fiona had let herself into her parents’ apartment after spending the day shopping and lunching with Molly at Bondi. She was about to dump her bag inside the door as usual and drop her keys in the Murano glass bowl on the sideboard when she heard her mother’s voice.

  ‘Listen to me, Dad,’ her mother was saying, ‘Phillip and I have discussed it and we don’t want you encouraging this relationship with Luke. He’s not right for her.’

  ‘Don’t you think Fiona is old enough to make up her own mind? He’ll be good for her, you’ll see.’

  ‘She’s too young to be engaged, Dad, and Luke is too old and too, I don’t know … pushy.’

  The door was ajar enough for Fiona to catch glimpses of her grandfather prowling around the study with its wall of books, enormous L-shaped desk of smoked glass and chrome, and reading chairs that looked like red spaceships. The same predatory stare she’d seen him use on his staff—the look that said don’t fuck with me—was now fixed on her mother. Amber was standing with one hand on the edge of the desk, a bottle of Perrier and two glasses on a silver tray close by. She couldn’t see Phillip, but her mother’s stare seemed fixed on something.