House for All Seasons Read online

  ‘Hey!’ Will’s voice cut through the memory. ‘Sara, are you sure you’re feeling okay?’

  ‘Hmm, sorry? What was that?’ she asked, trying not to picture the childish crimson flush now invading her neck.

  ‘Coffee’s poured and hot, just the way you like it. Grab a seat. I’ll bring it over in a minute.’

  ‘Oh, ah, good, great, thanks.’ She slipped onto the bench seat behind a café table, and as Will poured his latte, she asked herself what the hell she was doing here. Not here in Calingarry Crossing, but here, with Will, right now.

  What on earth are you hoping to achieve?

  Two years ago, after her husband had abandoned her, Sara had sat in her flat in Sydney’s western suburbs and compiled a list.

  THE LIST.

  Will was on it. Not as the subject of a silly schoolgirl infatuation or some desperate attempt to revisit twenty-year-old unrequited love, but as a friend. She wanted to right a wrong. In a way, she’d abandoned Will, and old friends didn’t do that to each other.

  More than anyone, Sara knew what it was like to need people, to know that they cared—especially when things weren’t going well. Despite ending up in the same city, she’d never once got in touch with Will. She didn’t visit him in hospital, send flowers, write a note to his parents, join the 500-strong gathering at the crematorium service for his wife.

  Nothing.

  As kids, Will and Sara had been mates—or rather, Sara had been his small shadow, and who ever took much notice of their shadow? The pair had lived a few doors from each other, walked to school together, hung out down by the river with their regular crowd.

  *

  ‘You coming swimming today, Sara?’ Will called from the front gate.

  Sara almost flew from the kitchen, fearful his voice would wake her father, snoring in the brown vinyl rocker.

  Peace at last.

  Already she’d answered the same question repeated by her father a dozen or more times that morning: ‘What day is it, Sara?’ In desperation, she’d ripped two blank writing pages from a schoolbook and in giant letters written ‘SEPT’ on one page and ‘14’ on the other. Then she stuck both sheets with Blu Tack to the wall he stared at most of the time. Some days her father’s obsession was the date. Other days he obsessed over his pills. Had he had them? When? Did he need more? When? In a glaring contrast was her mother’s unresponsiveness, her refusal to think about the days—her days—slipping away. Liz Fraser didn’t want to know the date—not even today—instead burying herself in her crossword puzzle book.

  ‘Shhh, Will.’ Sara put a finger to her lips.

  ‘Sorry, mate. It’s just … Whacko Jacko reckons he can beat Stuey in a swim to the bridge and back. This I gotta see.’

  Sara managed a small smile. ‘Nah! Can’t go right now. Maybe later.’

  Will shrugged. He did that a lot. Then he fashioned his beach towel into an Arabian-style headpiece, plonked it on his head and bolted in the direction of the river like he was scoring a touchdown.

  Disappointment rattled Sara’s sigh and when she turned around her mother was on the other side of the screen door, resting on her wheely-walker, a sorrowful expression on her face.

  ‘I’m sorry, sweetheart.’

  Sara shrugged and ran to her room, knocking against her bedside table as she threw herself onto the bed. The card she’d written to herself—the one with the big ‘16’ at its centre—fell to the floor and she sobbed some more.

  ‘Happy bloody birthday, Sara.’

  The next day at school, the girls had celebrated with her and she’d gone to Gypsy’s in the afternoon. She and Willow had made butterfly cupcakes especially for her birthday. Sara told the girls about Will dropping by and they’d teased her as usual; Caitlin, Amber and Poppy had stirred her all through school about her crush on the man now wheeling across the café, but they never once betrayed her confidence. Not even Amber.

  How plain Sara had befriended such a popular trio back then she never knew. It was possible she’d made each of them look better. Poppy had certainly looked taller and tougher alongside petite Sara. Her inelegance had made Amber ten times more attractive, and while Sara had somehow kept up with Caitlin in the smart stakes, all people saw was her erratic school attendance. When she attended class, no one took much notice of the quiet kid in the corner who stayed out of trouble. Maybe the trio had been friends with Sara because they’d felt sorry for her. Most people did back then. There was ample reason.

  Even more reason now.

  *

  ‘Phew! How can it be so darn hot in October? Water, Will?’ Sara asked.

  ‘Not for me, thanks.’

  There was a water jug and some glasses on a table by the cake display. Sara helped herself to a glass, downing the icy liquid; and brought another one back to the table. When Poppy had pulled out of the spring time-slot, Sara had jumped at the chance to come early, keen to get acclimatised. The summers of her childhood were always a little suffocating. Long, hot, dust-filled days that most kids her age had spent down by the river, or at the local swimming pool in Saddleton, to escape a heat so dry it made your lungs itch. Not Sara. Not with her family obligations.

  ‘Here you go.’ Will transferred the coffees from the tray on the front of his chair to the table. ‘Have you been in town long? And you’d better not say too long or else I’ll wonder why you haven’t looked me up till now.’

  ‘I just arrived. Came straight here.’

  ‘Good to see you’ve got your priorities right. I’ve heard a bit about the house and Gypsy’s will. You know what the rumour mill is like in this town.’ He took a sip of his coffee, peering over the rim of the macho-sized mug. ‘Bloody oath, Fraser, you look exactly the same as you did at school.’

  Sara buried her face behind the rim of her cup, convinced the caffeine was causing her heart to beat faster. There was nothing sentimental about her return. This was about a loose end that needed tying so she could feel better about herself. It was all about THE LIST.

  Still, it was nice to think that she looked much the same, on the surface at least, even if the long blonde hair she had once tied in pigtails with the rubber bands from the egg cartons was now cut in a super-short, feathery style that hugged her face, giving her an elfin appearance and accentuating her ski-lift nose and big, brown eyes.

  ‘Yummo. With coffee like that you’ll probably see too much of me,’ she said.

  ‘Im-possible.’

  ‘G’day, Will,’ a passer-by called.

  Will waved back.

  ‘So, Sara, what’s the real story with the old house? What do you plan to do with it once it’s yours?’

  ‘I doubt I’ll get much of a say. You know what the others are like. I imagine Poppy’s not too interested in attaching herself to anything here. As for Caitlin, I’m not sure what she’ll make of the place. She spent a lot of time at the house, with the animals mostly. Caitlin always had more time for animals than people.’

  ‘You know she came to see me in hospital a few times.’

  Of course she would, Sara thought. Out of all of the girls, Caitlin was the one who always did the right thing. However, knowing Caitlin had taken the time to visit Will only added to Sara’s guilt. Why hadn’t she visited him herself?

  ‘Mind you,’ Will continued, ‘not much of the jillaroo left in her. All very doctor-like and professional.’

  ‘From what I saw of them all when we got together last month, I think the only one who hasn’t changed is Amber. She’s not even been back yet and she’s already talking about putting the place on the market. After everything I’ve read about her father and his property development deals, she’ll no doubt consult with Daddy about how much money we can all make from the sale.’

  ‘So you want to sell up?’

  Sara shrugged. ‘Maybe.’

  The truth was, whichever way it went, the decision would tear at Sara’s conscience. The Dandelion House remained special, something to hang on to. But, after splitting
from Joel, and despite their comfortable lifestyle, she’d come away with barely enough cash from the settlement, minus legal costs, to buy an apartment outright. The unit she’d ended up in was small, the suburb not too flash, the view from the one pot-plant patio even less impressive, so an injection of any money would help. That didn’t change the fact that whatever money the friends made, the sale of the Dandelion House would be bittersweet for Sara.

  ‘Anyway, that’s what the four of us have to get together and work out after Caitlin’s stay. She’s planning her visit over the winter. I’m just glad I …’ Sara hesitated, trying to find the words. ‘I’m glad this thing has given me the opportunity to come back.’ She took a final mouthful, draining the coffee cup. ‘It’s really good.’

  ‘What’s really good—the coming back or the coffee?’

  Sara thought about her answer for a split second, but stayed safe. ‘The coffee, Will. The coffee’s really good. I’ll definitely be back for more. Right now, though, I should go and settle in before it gets too late. I’m probably keeping you too.’

  ‘I’m in no rush these days. Don’t even wear a watch.’ He stacked the empty crockery at the corner of the table and pushed back to let Sara slide out of the bench seat. ‘How about next time I make you a really good burger to go with the really good coffee?’

  ‘Sounds like a really good plan.’ She smiled and hooked the strap of her bag over one shoulder, feeling a little lighthearted as she walked away.

  ‘Hey!’ Will called. ‘Forgotten something?’

  ‘Oh yes, of course, sorry.’ Sara buried her blush in her shoulder bag, pulling out her wallet to pay for the coffee.

  ‘Put that away, woman. I meant a hello hug.’

  ‘It’s way past hello,’ Sara offered as an out.

  Will held out his hands. ‘Come on, I won’t break. Already been done.’

  No, but I might, she wanted to say.

  Standing at not much more than five feet tall, Sara didn’t need to bend too far. Still, she supported her weight with one hand on the arm of the wheelchair, tentatively resting the other on his shoulder. Conscious of the sweat-soaked skin under her top, she lingered barely long enough to breathe in the heady concoction of coffee and spicy aftershave before pulling away.

  ‘It’s been terrific seeing you again, Will. See you soon.’

  ‘You’d better.’

  Back in her car, safely away from prying eyes, Sara Fraser sobbed her heart out.

  Why?

  She didn’t know.

  3

  Sara wished there was another road to get to the Dandelion House from town. She’d take it. Anything was better than seeing the old bridge—no matter how distant the view—and facing that memory. Once the pride of the town, the Calingarry Crossing Bridge had represented a community’s progress and future. That’s why the Class of ’89—that year, also the year the bridge was opened—had agreed with Poppy’s idea to use it as a symbol in their muck-up day activities. No one could have imagined what terrible sadness the bridge would come to represent.

  The first glimpse of the house perched on the top of a hill, skirted with yellow dandelion flowers, lifted Sara’s spirits. Even at a distance, the main building seemed bigger and the property surrounding it looked to be in much better shape than she’d imagined after so many years—not that a state of disrepair would have stopped her from coming. The place could have been falling down and it wouldn’t have mattered. The house was the catalyst Sara had needed. According to the wise-beyond-her-young-years therapist at St Vincent’s Hospital, addressing unresolved emotional issues like unrequited love made a person stronger. Hence Item 7 on THE LIST: Confront unrequited love.

  From certain aspects the property looked like an island perched at a river junction, where the main arm forked to form the smaller Calingarry Creek. From memory, it took about two hours to circumnavigate Gypsy’s island. But it wasn’t an island in the true sense. The land at the rear was a floodplain, with river water cutting off access to the scrubland and mountains behind, except for a short period in the dry. Prior to the punt, the only approach had been by boat. Anyone brave enough, or stupid enough, could try accessing the house by bush-bashing over the mountains, but to do so involved detouring a hundred kilometres away from the highway through dense scrub on unpredictable tracks.

  The small punt made crossing the expanse of water more direct these days, unlike the old dinghy Gypsy once used. When she was twelve, Poppy had made a raft, a floating platform made from old pallets and empty chemical drums. Trouble was, the girls ended up in the water more than out of it, much to Amber’s annoyance.

  Amber was the only one who cheered when the council installed a vehicle punt, the raft retired, made into firewood on cracker night in ’85. Gypsy hadn’t asked for or wanted the island access. Not because she craved isolation—Gypsy had loved company and embraced life and people. Modernisation was what she’d rejected. Hence the two small dinghies and a rusty old pushbike on the mainland to get her to and from town.

  ‘Hold tight,’ Gypsy would instruct a tiny Willow, perched in the cart behind the bike.

  The woman looked so funny on the two-sizes-too-small pushbike, faded handlebar ribbons streaming in the breeze, her capacious kaftan billowing like colourful sails while the makeshift trailer toted little Willow behind.

  Councillor Bailey, Amber’s father, had pressed for a punt capable of taking cars, citing civic duty. More like greed if the rumours had been right about mining interest. Companies weren’t so keen on the island part where the house stood, just the pristine bushland at the back, and rumours were usually never far off the mark in Calingarry Crossing.

  Even at this late hour, with the sun about to set, a heat gust hit Sara as she stepped from the air-conditioned car at the top of the steep dirt driveway. So little had changed about the house, including the swing seat in place at one end of the veranda. How many times had Sara watched Gypsy brushing and braiding her daughter’s hair while sitting on that seat? Afterwards, Willow would insist she braid Sara’s so they looked like sisters.

  ‘How can we be sisters?’ Sara would tease. ‘You’re a string bean and I’m a squash.’

  Willow offered her usual smile—small. It took a lot to make her laugh. ‘We’ve both got dimples,’ she said.

  That was true. One each. Sara’s on the right cheek. Willow’s on the left. Other than that, they were as Sara said—completely different shapes.

  Sara was smiling now, her index finger feeling the indented dimple as she took in the sundry line-up of cobweb-covered chairs pushed higgledy-piggledy against the wall. Miscellaneous pots, everything from margarine tubs to old boots, covered a table beside the screen door. On the other side were the iron boot scraper and the old wooden tea-chest box once filled with toys. The hodgepodge of wax-dripped wine bottles littered another table further along.

  Gypsy never let anything go to waste. Reuse and recycle was the mantra at the Dandelion House long before being green became trendy. Gypsy would say, ‘If you can use it once, you can use it twice. Single use is for the selfish and the squanderers in this world.’ Even though the old house had been connected to the mains electricity years ago, Gypsy had avoided lights and most of the electrical appliances that other people took for granted.

  As Sara stepped onto the rambling old wrap-around porch, the cool shade transported her back to those summer days when she and Willow had played pretend games with imaginary friends. Sara had barely outgrown the dress-ups and pretend tea parties when her make-believe slowly became her reality and she started keeping house and cooking as her mother’s health continued its decline. Opportunities to visit Willow became few and far between. When she did manage the trek over, Gypsy would always give Sara a cake or scones and jam to take back home as a treat.

  A grumble in her stomach reminded Sara she hadn’t eaten since Armidale. Not ideal for a diabetic. She needed to settle in and she needed food. With no idea what to expect at the house, she’d packed a few sta
ples, as well as some frozen meals she’d prepared over the past few weeks each time she’d cooked a meal for herself. Cooking for two still came more naturally after so many years with Joel. She used to get a kick out of creating candle-lit dinners. That was when fairytales, weddings and happy endings were still part of Sara’s reality.

  She’d lugged the two chiller bags from the car first and was giving the inside of the fridge a quick wipe over when she heard a noise at the front door.

  ‘Hello there,’ a man’s voice called.

  Sara’s insides pitched at the sight of a face pressed up against the flyscreen. She instinctively scanned the kitchen. For what? A knife to stab him to death?

  Relax, Sara, this is Calingarry Crossing, not Kings Cross.

  Still, she picked up the first thing she could put her hand on.

  ‘Can I … help you?’

  ‘Was about to ask you the same thing,’ the man replied. ‘I was taking a ride. Saw the car. Thought I’d come over. Say g’day. Carried this bag up. You left it on the ground by your car. Not a good idea around here.’

  ‘It’s not?’

  He shook his head. ‘Anything could crawl inside.’

  ‘Oh.’ Sara noticed the bike helmet dangling from his hand and a bicycle in the distance, propped up against the sandstone of the driveway’s centrepiece garden bed.

  Not exactly the ideal getaway vehicle for a robber or murderer.

  ‘You ride?’ she asked.

  ‘Every day. So this is going to be your home away from home for a bit then,’ the man said.

  Sara felt silly talking through a door that didn’t close properly, much less lock.

  ‘You want me to bring this in?’ He flexed his sizable arm to raise the bag and let it drop again. ‘Or will I leave it outside here—?’

  ‘Oh, no. Great. Thanks. Just inside the door.’

  And not a centimetre more or I’ll stab you with my …

  Sara looked down at the wooden spoon in her hand and felt the giggly bubble of nerves ready to burst.

  He smiled. ‘I get it. No worries. I’m a stranger. I haven’t even introduced myself. Elliott McCabe. Mostly folks call me Idiot McCabe on account of what I do for a quid. Being a bit crazy is a family trait. So is the name. My uncle was an Eli, as in Elias. Same as his dad. Never knew my grandfather, though. He died in Vietnam. Whoa! Listen to me gasbag on. I’m sure you’re not here to learn about my family history.’