Season of Shadow and Light Read online

  ‘Here we go, then.’ Banjo held out two glasses of ice-cold lemon squash.

  ‘We could do with something to eat as well, I guess, Banjo,’ Paige said, teetering momentarily as Alice’s ever-protective presence closed in.

  The woman opened her mouth to speak—an objection, no doubt—when Banjo whooped, frightening Matilda off the chair and back between her mother’s legs.

  ‘You’re in luck,’ he said. ‘We do a good little dinner here on a Friday. And besides dinner, what would make you smile, little one?’

  ‘ABC for Kids.’ Mati was waking up—that or the fizzy drink was kicking in and with a belly filled with lollies, and now lemonade, dinner was not her priority.

  ‘My nephew does the cooking. Young Aido’s had something going on the stove all afternoon. Smells good, don’t it?’

  ‘Mmm, yes,’ Paige said convincingly. She missed her sense of smell more than anything else—more than sex—and tried to remember a time when something simmering on the stove, or spices toasting in a pan, made her drool like a dog over an empty dinner bowl.

  Dog!

  ‘Toto,’ Paige gushed, hurrying back to the car.

  Grateful for the jacaranda’s speckled shade on a hot afternoon, she reefed open the door and there was the little white fluffy dog—or not so white after several pee stops on muddy roadsides—Matilda had insisted they bring along on their road trip.

  ‘Perfect, Toto, many thanks for that little present.’ Paige plucked a poo bag from the packet in the centre console to collect what was an unnaturally large deposit for a dainty Maltese-X-Shih Tzu. Thankfully she couldn’t smell that.

  ‘Where you planning on bunkin’ down tonight?’ Banjo asked when Paige returned with Toto at her heels. ‘Needin’ a room after dinner?’

  Drinks, dinner, a room for the night? Paige wondered how many more services this country entrepreneur would try to sell them. Any minute now she expected him to ask if they wanted fries with that, confirming that behind the bumbling Mr Magoo act lurked a marketing genius. Too bad his offer of a pub meal whipped up by his young nephew brought to Paige’s mind images of the old Western spoof, Blazing Saddles, with its baked beans and burping scene.

  ‘We have an accommodation booking already, but in Saddleton,’ she explained. ‘A rental for two weeks. Greener Pastures Realty is holding the keys.’ She reached into her jeans pocket and pulled out a folded sheet of paper. ‘Barnacle Bill’s Boatshed. It’s on the water, I believe.’ The qualification sounded more stuck-up than she’d intended, sending a heated surge of embarrassment through her cheeks that then broke out as sweat on her lips and under her eyes, enough moisture to feel some cooling effect as her hand fanned her face.

  ‘Never seen a boatshed that wasn’t on the water.’ Banjo smirked. ‘And it’s a bit past Saddleton. Closer to two hours, that-a-way.’ The publican again thumbed north. ‘As I said, this here is Coolabah Tree Gully.’

  ‘Two hours?’ Paige queried over a rumble in the sky. Then—CRACK—the clap of thunder startled them all. ‘It’s okay, sweetheart,’ Paige consoled her daughter. ‘But, Banjo, when I asked the man on flag duty at the road closure he—’

  ‘Ah, yes, that’d be Walt,’ Banjo offered, unperturbed by the now barking dogs.

  Walt? Suspicion swirled in Paige’s brain—what was left of her tiring brain. Was the flagman who gave them directions somehow in on Banjo’s business-making strategy? Had the worker even been telling the truth about the flooded roadway? Maybe not. Maybe it had been nothing more than a ruse to lure Paige into this weird Mr Magoo trap. A real-life Wolf Creek where the three of them would fall victim to menacing men with . . .

  Stop it, Paige!

  ‘Country’s pretty flat as you get out Saddleton way, on the other side of those mountains there,’ Banjo was saying. ‘Coolabah Tree Gully on the other hand . . . Well, we’s in a gully. And if you’re talkin’ about Barnie’s boatshed, that’s definitely closer to Calingarry Crossing.’ Banjo rattled off various town names and distances as Paige, her head struggling to keep up, imagined that young occupational therapist with her not-so-silly-after-all brain exercises having the last laugh. ‘My nephew will know the drive time. He done a bit of work out that way at the Calingarry Crossing pub a while back.’ Banjo glanced at the sky, the earlier golden glow deepening to a burnt tangerine, the bold brush strokes striking against ominous grey cloud. ‘Seems your problem might be you missed a sign to get you back on the right road.’

  ‘I missed a sign?’ Paige wanted to laugh.

  ‘Doubt you’ll be makin’ it before nightfall. Storm’s coming, too. But if you wanna try . . .’

  Okay, good, so she was free to take her family and go. They weren’t about to be locked in a dark shed or tormented at knifepoint.

  Paige fanned her sweating body with several sharp flicks of her shirttails and waited for the inevitable heat from Alice’s I-told-you-so stare to burn into the back of her neck. She clamped a hand over the imaginary spot, sighing, defeated. ‘I suppose you’re going to tell us the boatshed is a rat-infested dive and I should stay here instead?’

  ‘Nah, she’s a nice old place. Barnie done a good job sprucin’ ’er up ’fore he left town with his new missus. Thing is, with all the rain we’ve had lately, them water views might be a bit too close, if you know what I mean.’

  Paige didn’t. Her face must’ve told Banjo so.

  ‘Last night’s downpour was the straw that broke the camel’s back. The Calingarry’s close to bursting point. She’s a real beauty, that one—not too skinny, not too wide, just the way I like me women—and with a mighty current this time of year, normally. Throw in too much rain coming down the mountain from up north and those easy curves she’s got don’t cope. The north arm’s already broke. That’d be where Barnie’s boatshed sits. Add the rain we’ve been havin’ in these parts overnight and, well . . .’ He shrugged. ‘There are no more bends in the river. More like one almighty mess washing some roads clean away and carving a destructive new path through a lot of river towns along her banks. Damaged a few bridges, the boys were telling me. Not sure how bad until the SES fellas get back. I’m thinkin’ that boatshed of yours—even if you can get to it tonight and she’s dry—wouldn’t be the safest place for a little-un.’

  Paige heard a sound from behind her—the sound of a fed-up Alice Foster flopping her weary body into a plastic chair with a huff. Toto abandoned Paige, running across the veranda to spring onto Alice’s lap.

  ‘It’s not as bad as all that,’ Banjo offered, coming to Paige’s rescue, possibly saving her from a round of ‘I told you so’s. But Alice’s focus was on plucking out the burrs Toto’s coat had attracted at the last toilet stop. ‘Plans might need a re-think, that’s all. If ya want, first thing tomorrow I can radio the crew working out that way and put a call into young Gil from the realty in Saddleton for an update on the boatshed.’

  ‘Yes, please. Having Toto in tow means the accommodation has to be dog friendly. She’s part of the family and no trouble, but finding a place that accepts pets . . .’

  ‘Kinda partial to a furry mate myself.’

  The publican indicated the matted ball of brown at his feet, semi-reclined and grunting, back leg frantically scratching its stomach, tongue flopping about, teeth bared in a kind of ecstatic snarl.

  ‘Ooh-wah! That dog’s showing his boy thing, Mummy.’ Matilda screwed up her face and pointed.

  ‘Hey, put it away, skite.’ Banjo nudged his furry mate into a sit, just as an excited squeal from the far end of the veranda startled them all. ‘Sorry ’bout that,’ he said, before alarming all three of them with a shout: ‘Oi! Boy! Steady on there.’ He chuckled and shook his head at the youngster who’d appeared from around the corner, screeching and dragging a toy car over the slot circuit set up in a shady section of the veranda. ‘Boys,’ he quipped. ‘Snips, snails and puppy dog tails. Not like Miss Sugar and Spice here.’ He looked back at Paige. ‘Now then, whatchya wanna do about tonight?’

 
; ‘I, ah, I don’t know what to do. There were so many detours and, like you said, I must have missed the signs.’

  Paige groaned inwardly. How much did that sound like her life?

  She watched the magnetic effect of the young boy and his racing cars on her normally shy daughter now inching her way closer. The boy stopped screeching, looked up at Matilda and surprised Paige by smiling and silently offering the little girl one of the cars. Not something Paige had witnessed much in the snooty, non-sharing pre-school environment that Mati had attended. That had been over two years ago when Paige’s life had been remarkably like a slot car, locked into a track, course predicable, fast lane all the way and speeding towards that ultimate career goal—the chequered flag of any food writer’s dream—as editor of the best gourmet food magazine in the country. Not even finding herself six weeks pregnant with a brother for Matilda had put the brakes on Paige’s career. She’d been so in demand, she could negotiate extended maternity leave on top of a generous salary package, and flexible hours upon her return thrown in for good measure. She’d missed so much of Matilda as a baby, leaving the daily, sometimes nightly routine to Alice or the local day-care centre. Never again. Paige wasn’t going to miss out on a single milestone with her second-born. Only thing was, in her attempt to do it all for as long as possible, she hadn’t seen the warning signs, completely ignoring her body’s cry for help, until that early morning when she crashed and burned.

  More screeching car noises from the boy with the toys prompted a loud, ‘Oi! I said settle down over there, boy.’ Banjo laughed and whacked a fly from his knee. ‘Yep, those darn detours will get ya every time. Easy to miss, ’specially late afternoon driving into a settin’ sun. Night’s worse. Not much of a moon neither tonight. She’ll be a dark one. Stormy again, too. Best you stay put.’ He stood, bony knees bent under the weight of a typical beer-belly build. ‘Come on inside and I’ll give Gil at the realty a quick call, let him know youse won’t be needin’ the boatshed.’

  ‘Tonight!’ Alice blurted, startling Paige and tipping Toto from her lap as she rose commandingly. ‘We won’t be needing the boatshed tonight,’ adding, ‘We’ll make our own enquiries regarding access tomorrow.’

  ‘Yeah, ’course, just tonight. No worries, love.’

  A Pajero pulled up, dwarfing Paige’s car. A man and a woman alighted, slowly unfolding old bones and blinking out squints set from a drive staring into the sinking sun.

  ‘How are ya?’ Banjo stopped to wave, welcoming the newcomers to the veranda. ‘Still hot, eh? Wanna take a load off? Use the amenities maybe? Most folk buy a drink, too. Could do with the business. Come on inside and I’ll get ya sorted.’

  Okay, Paige thought, following Banjo inside, if Coolabah Tree Gully turns out to be some weird town, or this Banjo character turns out to be an axe murderer, at least they won’t be alone.

  3

  ‘Well, this is quaint,’ Paige said, having opened the door to the guest room, her daughter’s excitement off the scale after launching herself onto the double bed to find her name printed over the doona cover. The words from ‘Waltzing Matilda’, intermingled with cartoon drawings of jumbucks, swagmen and Coolabah trees, had Matilda’s fingers tracing every image, counting aloud, ‘One, two, three, four . . .’

  Paige had temporarily left the panting dog outside the door, the lead hooked over a wonky handle. Alice would have to take Toto for the night. This wasn’t a room for three. The ceiling, Paige estimated, was higher than the room was wide, and featured a decorative rose at its centre from which a bare bulb dangled on a cobweb-covered electrical cord. On an antiquated dressing table, with chunks of fake mahogany veneer chipped away at every corner, sat a large cream-coloured doily bearing a red glass vase sprouting five fake sunflowers. The room was stifling, with only a skinny set of French-style doors that opened out on to an equally oppressive area—most probably the original balcony that connected each street-facing room. Someone had fitted panels to enclose the space; Paige hoped the fibro sheeting was not old asbestos.

  ‘Here you go, Toto,’ she said, relocating the dog, positioning his travel bowl of water in the corner of the veranda and testing the suitability of a section of exposed pipe before tying one end of the lead in a knot. She tipped some dry kibble in another bowl. ‘You wait here. We won’t be long.’

  Only as long as it takes to wolf down baked beans on toast!

  ‘I’m hungry,’ Mati piped up, her doona discovery done.

  ‘Not sure how you can be after everything you’ve eaten today, but come on. Grab Mummy’s bag from the bed,’ Paige said, glad to see door locks on the inside, chalking up another This-isn’t-a-Return-to-Wolf-Creek moment. Maybe Robert was right. Maybe she did have a problem deciphering reality from fantasy, and maybe she did watch the box too much. But daytime television had also been a kind of saviour, an easy and convenient way to occupy her mind while recuperating. Even now she enjoyed the odd, enduring midday movie, justifying her habit by insisting she was better off shedding tears over soppy daytime sagas than being miserable watching the glut of cooking shows from which she derived no pleasure anymore.

  ‘Hold tight to Mummy’s hand,’ she said, scooting Mati along the corridor with its crooked floorboards. The definite lean reminded her of the decks of the Manly ferry en route to the city she’d taken when she’d started work as a newspaper cadet.

  She clasped Mati’s hand in hers before negotiating the pub’s steep internal staircase with the narrow, carpeted steps—slightly curved—difficult enough for a grownup.

  As they neared the bottom, Matilda lifted her nose and sniffed. ‘Yummy, Mummy.’

  ‘Do the baked beans smell good, sweetheart?’ Paige smiled at how her daughter’s face puckered in confusion. ‘Lucky you like them.’

  Blackboards framed a hole-in-the-wall style kitchen servery, with chalk scratchings detailing everything from special meals to happy hour times and community announcements. In the largest of letters above the servery, and with a big, pink arrow, were the words: ORDER HERE.

  ‘I guess we order at the counter.’

  On the other side of the servery, stooped over the stove in the open-plan kitchen and stirring a pan loaded with a rich red sauce, was a tall man decked out in black and white chequered pants and a black double-breasted chef’s jacket with red buttons; a man too far past puberty to be wearing his black peaked cap back-to-front. Finishing a phone call, he tossed his mobile. It skidded to a stop beside a stack of plates.

  Then, without looking up, he mumbled, ‘Won’t be long.’

  ‘I was just wondering—’

  ‘Sharni! Counter!’ the cook called rather rudely over the top of Paige’s enquiry. ‘Sometime this year would be good.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah,’ droned a heavily made-up female in a tight singlet and khaki shorts. She’d pushed through a set of swing doors that separated the dining area from the main bar, skipped behind the cook and whipped him on the backside with the black apron before wrapping the ties around her skinny waist. ‘Hello.’ She smiled at Paige and leaned over the tall counter to eyeball Matilda on the other side. ‘You must be Matilda.’

  ‘I’m hungry,’ she replied.

  The girl laughed. ‘Well, hello, Hungry, but I think I prefer Matilda.’ The waitress with a Marilyn Monroe mole above painted lips winked at Paige. ‘She’s adorable.’

  ‘Thanks. There are three of us. I wasn’t sure if we sat anywhere . . .’

  ‘Anywhere that doesn’t have a reserved sign. I’ll bring menus, plus there’s the specials board.’

  Reserved sign? Paige pinched back a smirk, recalling similar statements from embarrassed owners whenever she arrived for a review assignment at an empty establishment. She guided her daughter past two tables set for ten in the centre of the room, finding a smaller one in the back corner.

  ‘Birthday bash. They want to be close to the bar,’ the waitress explained as if reading Paige’s mind and dropping three freshly laminated menus on the table. ‘I know Grum
py Drawers over there can be a bit like cuddling an echidna—and that’s on a good day—but he can cook better than anybody. Word got out after he came back home last year and the place has been rocking Thursday to Sunday ever since. We get a few in most nights. I’m Sharni, by the way.’ She extended a hand, the inside of her wrist sporting a tiny tattoo: Liam.

  ‘Hi, I’m Paige Turner.’

  The girl stifled a grin, as most people did whenever Paige introduced herself, then called back to the cook who was ringing his kitchen bell for a second time. ‘Hold your horses.’

  Paige gave her a sympathetic smile. ‘I know all about cooks. They’re not easy.’

  ‘Grumpy Drawers?’ She flicked her head so that the heavy blunt-cut fringe of strawberry blonde hanging over one eye swung away briefly, jerking back into place. ‘He’s not so bad. Has his moments, but don’t we all? Here you go. Check out tonight’s menu while I tell Mr Ding-a-ling where he can shove his bell.’

  Matilda giggled.

  ‘Whoops! Sorry, I forget not all kids are like mine.’

  ‘You have children?’ The girl looked so young, so skinny—a blonde Barbie Doll whose tiny waist and buxom cleavage would be better suited to a Hooters franchise than a country local.

  ‘A boy. Liam. He’s seven going thirty-seven and into slot cars at the moment. Thank heavens it’ll be a while until he’s behind a real wheel.’

  ‘I’m nearly seven,’ Matilda gloated.

  ‘Well then, you’ll get on famously. He’s having dinner with his Nana right now.’ The waitress smiled and tapped Matilda’s nose before striding off to another ring of the kitchen bell.

  Once Alice arrived—a little more talkative, as if a dab of fresh lippy had restorative powers—they ordered a meal each from the impressive blackboard menu. Matilda had a bowl of chips—the perfect finish to a day of snack food and lollies. There had been no mistaking the disapproval on Alice’s face when Paige let her order them.