FOUR
Four
Daphney Hindmarsh entered the room in the rear of the pub, which was set aside for corporate functions—although no one could recall the last corporate function held there. The closest thing was the Chamber of Commerce meetings the first Tuesday of each month. She strutted in, her long flowy skirt swishing around her high heels, a benevolent smile she’d learned in her Miss Banalla Show Queen days plastered across her face as she greeted her loyal subjects. Behind her trailed her ever faithful sidekick-cum-committee secretary, Lisa.
The usual suspects were gathered around the table; Shorty, Terry, Christine, Carol and Janelle, all Banalla born and bred, along with some of the new blood—the blow-ins, as the locals sometimes referred to them—newcomers from the city who’d made a tree change. They sat together on the opposite side of the table: Skye and her partner, Tori, who ran the organic vegan cafe; Corbin, who owned a landscaping business; Elijah, who had opened and been the instigator of the town’s very successful art gallery and cafe; and Solene, who ran the health food store.
The mix of new and old should have been a recipe for disaster, and may not have worked in some small towns, but the committee had been dwindling and in dire need of new members, so the willingness of the newcomers to be part of something to better their community had been welcomed with open arms. It hadn’t gone without the occasional disagreement—after all, change in any capacity was always going to meet with some kind of resistance—but, on the whole, everyone wanted the same thing: give Banalla a new lease of life, keep it relevant and ensure the businesses in town had the opportunity to thrive.
The committee had taken on a huge role in organising this festival. They had a number of subcommittee members, who were usually not the most reliable at turning up to meetings but did lend valuable hands when the need arose for extra volunteers, which they’d be needing on the day. From a tiny idea, the festival had suddenly morphed into a massive undertaking, and if they managed to pull it off, it would be something the whole town could be proud of.
‘I’m sorry to have called you all here tonight so unexpectedly, but I have some exciting news to share that simply couldn’t wait until our next meeting,’ Daphney said, beaming and clapping her hands together like an excited kindergarten teacher in front of her class. She paused, waiting expectantly.
‘The suspense is killing us,’ Cher said with great irony.
Daphney shot her an unfriendly look. ‘I was going to let you try and guess,’ she twittered. ‘But I can’t wait that long. You might recall earlier in the year, I suggested we send out a few feelers for a guest speaker to come along to our festival. Well, I did, and today I received a confirmation,’ she announced. ‘Professor Damian Loxley from the University of Sydney has agreed to come along as guest speaker!’
‘Why are we having a professor speak at the festival?’ asked Terry Fuller, a gruff man in his early sixties from a local farming family.
‘Because, Terry, Professor Loxley is an expert on early colonial history and in particular the bushranger era. He’s also in the process of writing a book on, among other things, Jack McNally, so he was planning a research trip out here anyway. It was meant to be,’ Daphney said simply. She went on to list an impressive résumé of published works and accreditations, as well as a list of fictional works based on major historical events. There was no doubting the man’s credentials, but Lottie wasn’t so sure replacing their original plan of a celebrity with some stuffy professor would draw the crowds they were hoping for.
‘Are we supposed to pay this fella for the privilege of coming out here to tell us all about our local history?’ Shorty Norton asked. Shorty was at least six-foot five and built like a brick wall.
‘This is one of the things we need to discuss,’ Daphney admitted. But she rushed on. ‘We have money set aside and I’m recommending we use some of it to secure this speaker. It’s very rare that a man of this calibre would even consider attending a festival like this.’
‘So he’s lowering his standards to rough it for a day or two? Nice of him,’ Terry muttered.
‘He was kind enough to waive an appearance fee, so I think it would only be fair that we pay for his accommodation and host a dinner the night before the festival in his honour.’
‘How much is that gonna cost?’ Shorty asked.
‘Once we vote on the decision tonight to accept his offer, I’ll find some prices and options, but it’s considerably less than if we had a celebrity accept,’ Daphney snapped.
‘Did you ask any celebrities?’ Cher asked.
‘I sent out a number of invitations, yes.’
‘And none of them accepted?’ Cher prodded.
‘No. They were all booked out.’
‘So basically, this professor guy was the bottom of the barrel and the only one to show any interest?’ Cher surmised.
‘Does it even matter, Cherise?’ Daphney sighed impatiently. ‘The point is, this works out perfectly. He is the ideal person for the job.’
‘He’s just not famous enough to attract any of the publicity we were supposed to be trying to get,’ Christine pointed out, disappointment heavy in her tone.
‘I was hoping we’d get that Grant Denyer fella. I reckon we’d get a few people comin’ along to see him,’ Janelle said.
‘I wanted Larry Emdur. He’s so dreamy,’ Carol put in.
‘We wanted Sam Armytage. Now, she would have brought in the crowds,’ Shorty said, and Terry nodded his agreement with more enthusiasm than Lottie had seen in quite some time.
‘Well, we got Professor Loxley instead,’ Daphney said briskly.
‘Come on, everyone, let’s just remember we’re all on the same team,’ Skye the twenty-something-year-old inserted calmly. ‘I’m sure Daphney has done her best.’
‘Thank you, Skye,’ Daphney said somewhat stiffly, her gaze falling on the younger woman’s dreadlocks with a slight twitch. Two more opposite women in a room you could not have possibly conjured up. ‘I could only work with what I was given. Let’s just vote and get on with it. All those in favour?’
A slow, less-than-enthusiastic show of hands went up around the table accompanied by a low mumble of discontent. Daphney looked across at Lisa and gave a brisk nod. ‘Please note that the majority has voted in favour of accepting Professor Loxley and that terms of the offer will be finalised at the next meeting and a letter of offer sent out. That concludes this extraordinary meeting. I’ll see you all here next week.’
As usual, Daphney wasted no time, gathering up her paperwork and striding out of the room while her minion, Lisa, hastily gathered her things and scampered along behind.
The rest of the committee lingered over their drinks and socialised for a few more minutes before calling it a night.
‘She’s lost the plot! I can’t believe we get stuck with some nobody history teacher, old fogey instead of a celebrity … even a minor one would have been fine,’ Cher muttered as they walked out of the pub. ‘I told Daphney I had contacts who could have helped but she point-blank refused my offer.’
‘Well, I hate to admit it, but she probably has a point,’ Lottie said. ‘Someone with a historical degree would really suit a festival about a bushranger a lot better than a celebrity.’
‘Who cares? People don’t want to hear about that stuff, they want to get a photo with someone they’ve seen on TV,’ Cher said. ‘You won’t hear stories about the day I went to Banalla and met boring old Professor Doodlebug and got this photo, will you?’
Lottie grinned and shook her head. ‘I guess not.’
The planning for the festival had started years before, in the lead-up to the anniversary of Jack McNally’s death one hundred and sixty years before. Then Covid had struck and the festival had been put on hold. Now they were finally going ahead with the festival plans, but it wasn’t the nice round number of one hundred and sixty; it was now the one hundred and sixty-third anniversary, which just seemed an odd number to be celebrating. Still, it was what it was. They had funding for the event, and it needed to happen.
It was their usual practice for Cher to drop Lottie at her house after a meeting, despite Lottie protesting that she could walk home. She supposed old city habits died hard, despite the fact Banalla didn’t have much of a crime rate. Lottie stopped beside the massive, candy-floss-pink ute and waited for Cher to unlock the doors.
As far as statements went, this vehicle pretty much shouted from the rooftops that the owner was anything but understated. From its massive tyres and pink bull bar to the hot pink numberplate that read HOTTIE , everything about it perfectly suited its owner.
‘Anything promising on the dating front?’ Cher asked after starting the huge ute.
‘Nope.’
‘Have you even opened your dating app recently?’
‘No, I haven’t,’ Lottie said firmly. ‘I told you last time, I’m done with all that.’ She’d only joined an online dating service in the first place to shut Cher up. She’d had nothing but creepy, rude men who seemed to want nothing more than casual hook-ups and an incessant need to send photos of their genitals to her. No thank you very much.
‘You haven’t even given it a chance.’
‘There’s not even anyone on there remotely close enough to date anyway.’
‘Only because you refuse to look at anyone who lives nearby.’
‘I don’t want strangers recognising me if they happen to come into the shop. How weird would that be?’
‘That’s the whole point of doing online dating, to actually meet people. Usually nearby,’ Cher said, rolling her eyes.
‘And what if I meet someone and they turn out to be sleazy? I’d run the risk of bumping into them whenever I was out and about in Armidale or Tamworth. How awkward would that be?’
‘I seriously don’t know what I’m going to do with you,’ Cher muttered, shaking her head.
‘It’ll be fine. We’ll just grow old together and end up in the same nursing home. We don’t need no man.’ She grinned.
‘Speak for yourself, sweetheart.’
‘Oh, lovely,’ Lottie said, taking off her seatbelt as they pulled up outside her house.
She watched Cher’s tail-lights disappear up the road as she closed the front door. She didn’t need a man in her life complicating things. She was happy being an independent businesswoman with her own house and people she loved surrounding her. She didn’t need no man , she told herself determinedly, adding a defiant nod just to drive home the point.
Lottie glanced at her ringing phone and saw her mother’s name on the screen. ‘Hi, Mum.’
‘Did you catch the sunrise this morning? Absolutely stunning,’ her mother said, continuing without waiting for a reply. ‘So, what was the big emergency meeting about?’
‘Oh, that,’ Lottie said rolling her eyes. ‘Daphney finally had someone accept the invitation to be the festival keynote speaker.’
‘Really?’ her mother’s interest picked up notably. ‘Anyone interesting?’
‘Not really. I mean, that’s not true,’ Lottie corrected herself quickly. ‘They got a history professor to do it.’
‘Oh.’ There was definite disappointment to the sound.
‘To be fair, it makes sense to have someone knowledgeable about history to open a festival based on a historical figure, I suppose.’
‘Yes, but … I mean … we wanted someone famous, didn’t we?’ her mum replied bleakly.
‘Yeah, that was the idea, but apparently Banalla isn’t really a celebrity drawcard kind of place.’
‘What a shame. Oh well, I’m sure the festival will still be a big success. I’m almost finished making up the last of my tea blends for the stall.’
Her mother’s tea was stocked in a number of local cafes and was a big hit with the wellness groups. ‘That’s great. The stall registrations have gone through the roof. I think the last count was about eighty. The market day alone will draw lots of people to town.’
‘Absolutely.’
The committee had worked tirelessly to get the market and food stall part of the festival up and running. They wanted to make sure that local producers were able to showcase all the amazing produce and artists Banalla had to offer. They had local musicians booked to play venues throughout the day, with wine and beer tasting from nearby vineyards and the town’s own boutique brewery. Not to mention the jewel in the festival crown: the re-enactment of the infamous stagecoach robbery. Lottie knew there were quite a few locals who rolled their eyes at the whole idea, but secretly she was really looking forward to it. They’d secured a stagecoach, horses and driver from Queensland, which had depleted the bulk of the committee’s funding which, Lottie suspected, had largely been responsible for the lack of monetary enticement needed to lure a celebrity. Local riders had been persuaded to dress up as Jack and his gang of lawless sidekicks, happy with payment in alcohol and a free feed at the pub afterwards. Of course, the re-enactment wasn’t going to take place out in the original location—a few kilometres out of town—but in the centre ring of the showground. It wasn’t really going to be the same, but still, there were horses involved, so that should make it worthwhile. Everyone loved an event that included horses.
‘I think it’ll be a fantastic day. The whole town seems to be buzzing and it’s still a few weeks away.’
‘The place does have a definite vibe happening,’ Lottie agreed. The council had been noticeably out in force, mowing, landscaping and giving the parks and showground a facelift in preparation for the festival. She’d never seen so many fluorescent yellow work shirts around town at one time. So that the whole town would benefit, they’d decided to spread the venues all around, including the local hotels and restaurants, as well as having buskers along the main street so visitors would be able to enjoy shopping at local retailers as well as the markets. As a result, the main street was looking extremely festive. The majority of shops had got involved and been throwing themselves into creative window displays.
‘Oh, I’ve got another call coming in. I’ll talk to you later,’ her mother said and promptly ended the call, leaving Lottie to finish her coffee before she headed to the shop.
While being on social media throughout the day would be frowned upon by most employers, in this case, Lottie was technically working. She listed a lot of her stock online and also ran an online store for some of the smaller items that could be reasonably posted to buyers. It took up a large portion of her day, but it was proving quite successful.
Managing the online side of her business had its own dangers and temptations, though, and as she finished filtering through her various platform messages, Lottie accidentally clicked an article about the discovery in the UK of a painting that had been purchased for twenty-five pounds at garage sale and turned out to be worth over five million pounds . An hour and several related articles later, Lottie’s eye caught sight of the time and she shook her head. Her finger was poised over the close screen button when a heading caught her eye.
Missing Gems: Twenty Jewels That Were Lost and Yet To Be Found
An attached slide show automatically began playing and showed an exquisite diamond necklace. She quickly clicked on the link to open the full story.
Lottie scanned the article, which talked about the mysterious disappearances of various pieces of jewellery, ranging from necklaces gifted by royalty and brooches smuggled from Europe during wars. There was an alarming number of museum pieces that had simply gone missing, and the stories behind them were like something out of a spy movie, but there were also other interesting stories, such as those about pieces that had belonged to wealthy socialites who had sunk with ships during storms.
As an antique dealer, she was often approached by relatives offering various pieces of jewellery and other bric-a-brac from deceased estates. She liked to think she had a keen eye for detail and for selecting quality pieces, and she had a jeweller in the city she often took pieces down to for appraisal. It was her dream to discover that one of the pieces she’d purchased was worth a small fortune, but to date, it hadn’t happened.
Still, reading this article gave her hope that she might strike it lucky. She glanced at the small but pretty collection of jewellery in the glass cabinet on the counter and smiled wistfully. Not today, but who knows … maybe one day.