NINETEEN
Nineteen
‘I swear to God, if I hear one more “just checking in” from Daphney, I’m going to Lose. My. Shit,’ Cher ground out through tightly clenched teeth.
Lottie had barely seen her friend lately, between Cher overseeing her cabaret show rehearsals and Lottie spending so much time with Damian. They’d been summoned yet again to a meeting, hopefully for the last time, and the committee was currently inching its way through a final pre-festival agenda with agonising slowness.
‘They’ve been pretty full on,’ Lottie agreed.
‘The woman is unhinged.’
‘It’ll be over soon and things will go back to normal,’ Lottie offered soothingly. ‘How are the rehearsals going?’
‘Fabulous. I can’t wait for you to see the show,’ Cher said, instantly brightening. ‘I’ve had some girls up from Melbourne for a full dress rehearsal on stage. It’s going to be amazing. I’m thinking we’ll maybe add a matinee,’ she informed Lottie with the tiniest of malicious smiles, as she fastened her narrowed gaze under heavy, butterfly-like eyelashes on Daphney, who was deep in discussion at the other end of the table.
‘Wow. That’s great.’ Daphney could say what she will about the show, but even she couldn’t deny that Cher and her performers had a pull on an audience. The number of people her musical alone would bring in for the weekend was impressive. It was all great for the town and businesses.
However, right now, Lottie just wanted to be at home, in her comfy PJs, snuggling up on the lounge with Damian. It didn’t seem to matter how much time they spent together, it was never enough. She missed him whenever they were apart and found herself counting down the hours till they were together again. Even more so when they were filled with these endless, pointless questions dragging out the already painful meeting. Lottie was struggling to keep her frustration under wraps.
‘What’s wrong with you tonight?’ Cher asked as Lottie wriggled in her chair.
‘Nothing. It’s been a long day and I would rather be at home.’
‘Rather be with a certain motorbike-riding history geek, more like it,’ Cher murmured.
‘I’m sorry, ladies, is there something you needed to share?’ Daphney’s clipped tone cut through the whispered conversation.
Feeling like a schoolkid caught in class for talking, Lottie resisted the urge to say, ‘No, miss.’
‘So it’s okay with you both if I continue?’ Daphney asked pointedly.
‘Could we stop you even if we wanted to?’ Cher asked under her breath.
It was close to nine o’clock when the meeting finally wrapped up. Lottie barely stopped to say goodnight to Cher as she dashed out the door. As she stepped outside, she felt her whole body light up as she spotted Damian waiting to walk her home.
This really wasn’t like her at all, yet none of that mattered once they were together. The man was like a drug, and around him she didn’t have or want any self-control.
And then it was Friday, the day before the festival, and Lottie had never seen the town so busy. She spent the day helping to set up at the showground, organising tent spaces and last-minute booking issues. Her mother had come in to look after the shop for her while she ran around doing committee work, then Lottie was going to help her set up her tea stall early the next morning, before the big day began.
Daphney had been on the radio, plugging the festival far and wide, and had even done a live TV appearance on the local news the evening before. There’d been flyers placed in all the surrounding towns and the event had been featured in a number of the area’s tourism brochures. There was no excuse for anyone not to have seen something about it somewhere, and the early reports about crowd attendance were sounding positive.
All the accommodation in town had been booked out, and the towns within a fifty-kilometre radius had been pretty much booked out as well. Even the weather was playing nice. It was cool, but not freezing, and there was none of the initial rain that had been threatening to make an appearance on early forecasts.
That evening, the festival officially opened with an invite-only cocktail party. The mayor was there, and the entire council board—directors and councillors alike—drank and toasted and mingled with the festival committee, the town’s business owners and various influential community members. Flitting about like she was born to host and hobnob was Daphney, who—as expected—outwardly looked like she had everything under control. It was only by the onslaught of last-minute emails, including some bearing time stamps of ungodly early hours, that Lottie knew Daphney must be functioning purely on caffeine and determination.
Lottie couldn’t even get close to Damian, who was encircled by the mayor and his wife, Daphney and her husband and a number of other important officials. She would have been terrified, but he seemed to find chatting with the mayor about goodness-knows-what as easy as talking to Terry about horseracing. She had known this was part of his professional life as a lecturer and author but it was still odd to witness. For a moment, she tried to imagine herself in that world—talking to important intelligent people—and a flutter of uncertainty flitted through her. She wasn’t a historian; she owned an antiques store in Banalla. What if she embarrassed him somehow, or simply didn’t fit in?
You aren’t even part of his life yet , a small voice of logic pointed out, which was enough to quash the slight anxiety attack that had been threatening. She took a gulp of wine to steady her nerves, wishing Cher was here.
The crowd quietened as Daphney, acting as MC of course, addressed the audience to introduce their ‘very, very special guest speaker’.
Lottie tuned out, choosing instead to admire her view of that same speaker. He was dressed in a navy suit, white dress shirt and polished black shoes, looking well dressed and very sexy. And now, as he walked over to the podium to give his speech, Lottie was bursting with pride.
He spoke in such an engaging and entertaining way about his research, his books and, of course, Jack McNally, that the crowd seemed spellbound. Tomorrow, Lottie knew, he would give a speech prior to the re-enactment, but that would be more of an introduction to the event. She tuned back in to what he was saying.
‘History, though, is often revisited when new evidence comes to light, and sometimes these details have the power to rewrite what we thought we knew. As historians, we often only have limited eyewitness accounts—if any—and so need to base our conclusions on the knowledge we already have of society at the time, the landscape and any evidence we may have discovered along the way. But we are always striving to ensure the truth comes to light, be that for better or worse. Sometimes, what we discover doesn’t always sit well with current social norms, but we have to keep an unbiased view and remember that by uncovering the sometimes darker side of history we’re able to give a voice to previously silenced or untold stories and to learn from them.’
Lottie knew he was talking about Catherine and her disappearance. They’d managed to uncover small hints, vague possibilities about what had happened—but nothing solid as yet. She understood his need to find out the truth about what happened to her. Finding out what had happened to Catherine would ultimately give her a voice, and rewrite a story.
Later that evening, Madame Dubois crackled with excitement. The bar was filled to capacity and the chatter vibrated like a loud engine. Banalla and its guests had turned out in spectacular form—everyone dressed to the nines—and everywhere she looked, from her front-row table with Damian, Lottie saw a sea of happy, smiling faces. Some people stood around chatting to old friends they hadn’t seen in a long time, while others sat at long tables with friends and family. Everyone was embracing the start of the festival and celebrations.
Notably absent was Daphney, who had sent her apologies to be passed along to Cher. She simply had far too much to finalise before the festival’s main day.
A loud chime sounded and the lights dimmed, announcing the commencement of the entertainment, and as people found their seats and conversations hushed an almost blinding spotlight lit up centre stage, exposing a curvaceous woman in a blood-red sequined dress, posing theatrically with one hand in the air and the other on her sumptuous hip.
‘Good evening, beautiful people,’ she announced in her deep, sexy drawl, ‘and welcome to the highlight of the Banalla Festival. Tonight, you will be entertained and dazzled—entranced and seduced,’ she cooed, lowering her tone and wiggling her eyebrows suggestively, ‘by the talented beauties I’ve personally selected from the glitz and glamour of Melbourne—in the most stunning costumes ever seen outside a major theatre—to present to you an original production of the life and trials of our very own Kate O’Ryan!’
She glided off the stage and the red velvet curtain behind her lifted slowly.
‘That was …’ Damian paused, seemingly searching for words to describe what he’d just watched.
‘Something.’ Lottie grinned.
He chuckled. ‘Definitely something,’ he agreed. ‘I’m trying to figure out which part I liked the most—the six-foot four drag queen with rugby player shoulders playing a prostitute called Daphney, or the chorus line performing the cancan as Kate O’Ryan’s eff-you to the troopers.’
Lottie giggled. There’d certainly been something for everyone but, those bits aside, Cher had written some poignant monologues that were truly heartfelt and beautiful, depicting the struggles and discrimination suffered by pioneer women.
‘I haven’t laughed so much in ages,’ Hannah said, coming up to the bar where they stood.
‘There you are,’ Lottie said, leaning in to kiss her mother’s cheek. ‘I was looking for you when we first came in.’
‘I was running late, as usual,’ her mother said flippantly, but her eyes had fixed upon the man at her daughter’s side. ‘You must be the guest of honour,’ she said extending her hand gracefully. ‘I’m Hannah, Lottie’s mother.’
‘It’s nice to finally put a face to the name,’ Damian said, taking her hand. ‘I’ve heard a lot about you.’
‘I hope it’s all scandalous,’ she said with a smile, glancing at her daughter briefly.
‘Not at all. I’ve even sampled some of your tea. I’m a big fan.’
‘Really?’ Hannah replied, tilting her head like a small sparrow. ‘Then I’ll have to get you some of my special reserve stock to sample.’
‘That sounds great.’
‘Damian! There you are, great show, wasn’t it?’ Terry said, slapping Damian on the shoulder heartily. ‘I’d like to introduce you to some people.’ In Daphney’s absence, Terry had apparently taken over as committee leader. ‘You don’t mind, ladies, do you?’ Terry asked, already half turning away, his prize in tow.
‘Not at all,’ Lottie said, sending Damian a regretful look. But he was here as the guest of the festival, and Lottie knew she couldn’t just keep him to herself, no matter how much she wanted to.
‘You look happy,’ Hannah said, sipping her water, having given alcohol away when she’d started on her health jaunt.
‘I am. He’s really nice.’ Lottie watched Damian shake hands with people across the room and accept a beer handed to him.
‘Hmm.’
Lottie sighed. ‘Don’t start, Mum.’
‘I didn’t say a word.’
‘You don’t have to.’ She never did. The woman had a way of delivering a lecture with only a few well-placed sighs.
Her mother kissed her on the cheek and said goodbye, heading home to rest before the early start.
It was getting late and Lottie was tired, with no sign of Damian returning as Terry continued to introduce him to the crowd. There was no chatting to Cher either. She was busy with her Melbourne friends and the rest of the performers, although Lottie did get to kiss her cheek and briefly congratulate her.
Between the noise and the crush of the crowd, Lottie finally decided she’d had enough. She sent a text to Damian telling him she was going home and would see him later before leaving the din of competing conversations and loud music behind and heading up the hill to the blessed silence of home.
Lottie pulled on her warmest jumper and slid her feet into woollen socks and gumboots before shoving her arms into her favourite lined jacket and heading out to her car. She had some of the boxes for her mother’s stall in the boot, as well as extra signage. Her headlights lit up the carpark at the showground, and she saw there were already many people bustling to and fro in the eerie shadows of the lights through a thick early-morning mist.
‘Oh God, how cold is it,’ Cher said in lieu of a greeting. ‘This is insanely early.’ She was dressed this morning in a grey jumpsuit, leather jacket and blonde hair tied back with a red bandana. She was the very image of the pin-up girl in the original WWII poster Lottie had on the wall of her shop.
Lottie shook her head in amazement. Even at this early hour of the morning, Cher’s outfit and make-up were immaculate.
‘At least, with all this fog about, it’ll be a nice sunny day.’ If not cold, she added silently.
Inside the large tent that had been erected as festival headquarters the day before, there was thankfully hot tea and coffee available, and Lottie gratefully held the takeaway cup between her freezing hands and blew on the hot contents.
As they worked on the final stages of setting up, the sun began to rise and the sound of birds high up in the tall trees surrounding the grounds began to welcome in the new morning, adding a backdrop to the noise of pegs being hammered in for stall tents and the murmuring of voices as they worked to unpack stock and displays. The tantalising smell of cooking bacon and sausages began to fill the air.
‘Will all committee members please report to the festival headquarters tent immediately,’ Daphney’s voice screeched.
Beside her, Cher jumped. ‘I swear, I’m going to stick that megaphone up Daphney’s—’
‘Here, have a lolly,’ Lottie said, shoving an opened bag of sweets under her friend’s nose. ‘Keep your blood sugar levels up.’
‘She’s doing my head in, Lotts,’ Cher snapped, taking a snake confection from the bag and biting its head off savagely. ‘Marchin’ around with that thing issuing orders like she’s the Queen of bloody Sheba.’
‘I know,’ Lottie soothed. Boy, did she know. The woman should be running a dictatorship somewhere. It was going to be a miracle if a coup didn’t end the festival before it even started.
Later in the morning, with clear skies overhead, Lottie straightened from unpacking the last of her mother’s box of teas. She accepted a mug of hot coffee from her mother gratefully and took a long sip.
Across from them in the centre ring, the large draught horses for the show later in the morning were being led out from their stables and given some time to walk around and graze. Lottie had stopped by the previous day, the aroma of fresh straw on the ground and the pungent smell of horse, leather and feed hitting her full force. She’d been allowed to pat and feed the massive creatures some carrots. She’d always loved horses, but had never owned one of her own. She couldn’t wait to see them in the re-enactment.
‘It’s looking great, Mum,’ Lottie said as Hannah arranged the teas in their gorgeous packaging along the table. The rustic boho look set off the ‘Made with Love’ theme of her mother’s teas to perfection. Alongside the tea sat a range of pottery mugs and teapots she’d sourced from local artists.
Around them, as far as Lottie could see, was an ocean of tents and people busy unpacking station wagons and small trucks. She could feel the atmosphere of good cheer and camaraderie—after all, this was a chance for local producers, crafters and artists to showcase themselves and their region. There was a great deal of pride among the different stallholders to stand in front of the products they’d poured their hearts and souls into, not to mention blood, sweat and tears in the case of the primary producers, who’d had a number of terrible seasons.
There was a happy excitement all around as the first early-bird arrivals started to filter in. This was it—this was what the last two years of planning had all been about.
It was Banalla’s time to shine.