Chapter Eight
Some well-meaning person had left a pile of steaming cow dung on the floor outside the doorway to the manager’s quarters above the bar.
Not actual cow dung. Metaphorical cow dung, otherwise known as the psychology journal he’d meant to toss in the skip with the carrot peelings and egg shells the other day, but must have instead left lying about for some nosy (or well-meaning …
possibly both) employee to find. No doubt they thought they’d done him a favour. Ha!
Will looked at it for a long moment. He could pick it up. Maybe. Just bend down and grasp it and lift; no biggie. If his leg let him.
Or he could avert his eyes and walk over it, behave like it was his kryptonite and ask Fergus to bin it for him, but then the questions would follow.
Why can’t you bin it? Why do you have a psychology journal anyway?
We’ve all been talking about it downstairs for days.
Shouldn’t you be subscribing to The Country Publican’s Keg Spearing Gazette?
He could hear the questions coming out one after the other in an Irish brogue: What’s the big feckin’ deal, boss? Do you have a secret past or something?
His contentment with his lot in life was hard won, but this journal felt like a backslide. It had to go.
He could call his sister Daisy. She’d be here in a flash and would happily hold a destruction ceremony for him, eviscerate the thing into paper scraps and then paste them onto an old brick with some flour and water from the pub kitchen and chuck the lot into the Clarence River, if he asked her.
She knew a thing or two about trauma. And about creative recovery.
And about secrets and papier-maché, which, until this very minute, he’d never thought of as being at all useful.
Daisy could be trusted not to push for an explanation.
Only one of his family knew why he’d chucked in his job at the Adolescent Mental Health Unit at Tweed Valley Hospital, and he was happy keeping it that way.
The rest of the Miles family would be supportive.
Problem was, they’d be too supportive. They’d want to talk it out.
Endlessly. And he’d had a gutful of the idea that talking out a problem could help.
Sometimes, time was the only thing that helped.
Time gave a person perspective and distance.
Talking sure as hell hadn’t helped his last patient … and the tragedy was that his last patient hadn’t waited to give time a chance.
Before he could make a decision about what to do with the paper ghost of his failed career, he heard a creak from the timbers of the 120-year-old staircase and a voice that said, ‘Hello.’
He looked up, surprised. ‘Jodie.’
‘The kid in the bar said you were up here.’
He’d be having a word with Fergus later. What part of Private Manager’s Quarters did he not understand?
His face must have shown his thoughts, because she shrugged one shoulder in a sheepish way. ‘I may have inferred you and I had scheduled a medical appointment.’ She even smiled. This was quite a turnaround from the last two times they’d greeted each other.
‘I doubt a medical appointment would have slipped my mind,’ he said. Understatement.
‘It’s day five,’ she said. As though that meant something.
‘Day five,’ he echoed, before the penny dropped. ‘Oh, right. Also known as walk without pain or face the truth of an MRI day.’
‘That’s right.’
She walked up to him and they stood face to face in the doorway of his home. The journal lay between them on the old floral carpet, and maybe only he was the one feeling its malevolent throb, because Jodie took no notice of it whatsoever.
He wondered what that would be like. What he would be like if one day he could look beyond the remnants of his old life.
Contentment had seemed goal enough, but now, looking at Jodie, who was still smiling faintly and appeared to have no idea that she should smile always, every day, every minute, because her smile was a thing of beauty, he realised that contentment had been a low bar.
It didn’t allow room for the giddy stuff like fun.
Happiness.
Love.
‘So? How’s the leg? Any pain? Why don’t I take a look?’
He’d worked the late shift last night, then sat up until three am, debriefing with the dinner cook about how to tackle social issues such as the three-year-old hooligans who apparently ruled at the local day care, who wouldn’t let the cook’s kid play with the dinosaurs in the sand pit.
Psychosocial development theory, in a nutshell.
But explaining that he’d only just woken up at two o’clock in the afternoon felt like admitting he was lazy. A pub manager’s hours could be wildly unpredictable.
‘The leg’s awesome,’ he said, hoping that was the case.
He’d not had to crawl up the stairs last night, but then, he’d poured himself a stiff rum and Coke once the Closed sign was up, and two nips of rum were a hell of an anaesthetic.
‘You can judge for yourself by following me downstairs. I have chores to do.’
‘I hope you’ve not been overdoing the chores since I was last here. Gentle stretching after I say, remember? Too soon, and you overstrain an already strained tissue.’
‘Uh-huh,’ he said, unwilling to admit how many chores he’d been doing on the hobble.
‘The bar’s empty. One couple having coffee out in the beer garden—that’s the way I came in—but they were talking about hitting the road for Kyogle when I passed them.’
He stepped over the journal into the hallway, deciding the floor was the perfect place for it to stay for the time being, and she took a step backwards to give him room.
They almost— almost —touched, torso to torso, as he passed.
She smelled nice, like flowers and rain, and that little waft of woman as he moved past dissolved the ache the journal had given him.
He felt—contentment be damned—good.
Good enough to let himself relax, and grin, and say, ‘I knew it wouldn’t be long before you wanted to get your hands on me again.’
She chuckled. Maybe he wasn’t the only one who was tired of not allowing happiness into their lives. ‘You wish. But have it your way. You go about your business, and I’ll observe.’
He headed for the stairs. Was he limping? He didn’t think so, and the action of going down the stairs pulled, and he felt it, but did it hurt?
That was a question with no short answer; ‘hurt’ was a word with a lot of scope.
Jodie was right about the lack of patrons in the pub, but that was normal for an afternoon that didn’t fall on a weekend, and was kinda the reason why he often took this shift for himself: he could get stuff done.
Stuff like the list of tasks the Christmas Twilight Markets committee had blithely handed over to him to ‘get done’.
He stood in the store room with Jodie at his side and inspected his clipboard. ‘We need twenty trestle tables. How many do you count?’
She’d given his gait the okay, but had drawn the line when he suggested he was right to clamber around in the shed and fling ladders over his shoulder. She’d offered to assist and he’d not overthought it. He’d just said yes.
Now, she twisted and weaved her way through stacked empty kegs and old A-frame signs and piles of other pub clutter to the rack up the back where the tables were kept. ‘Eighteen. Someone’s written a note on this one in marker pen, which says “dodgy leg”.’
‘Let’s call it seventeen, then. The committee can borrow three from the tennis ladies if they ask nicely.
Better let Carol do that,’ he muttered, half to himself, as he scribbled a note down on his clipboard.
‘Hoges and Sal Simpson—she runs the tennis club—aren’t on speaking terms for some fool reason. What about marquees?’
‘These things? Like big beach tents?’
‘Yep. We should have eight, but sometimes we lend them out and they don’t get returned.’
‘No, there’s eight here. All of them appear to be well covered in spider webs, just saying.’
‘You should have mentioned if you weren’t up for wildlife encounters. We regularly spot a python in here that could take down a medium-sized dog.’
‘Now you tell me.’
But she was smiling as she said it. Not everyone would be as calm when told they were sharing shed space with a huge, lurking snake. He wondered what would happen if he suggested they get together later. Like, not at the pub. Would she smile then, too?
‘Um, Will.’
‘Yep?’ Maybe she’d read his mind. Maybe she was about to say, Hey, forget the leg, I really came over today to see if you fancied a walk later. A milkshake. A coffee that you haven’t had to make yourself. ‘When you say Carol is the best one to talk to the tennis ladies …’
Or not. He told his brain to stop with the foolish ideas and just answer the question. ‘Everyone loves Carol. She’s been in Clarence longer than pretty much anyone, she’s on every committee and she has a heart of gold. Why? You’re not still worried she can’t look after herself, are you?’
She hesitated. ‘Something … well … I am worried about her. And I don’t know who else to talk to about it, on account of the fact that you are the only other person in Clarence that I know.’
‘Is this about the spat at Clarence Gardens?’
‘You know about that?’
‘Honey, this is a small town, and I’m the publican. I know everything to some degree.’
‘I see. Do you know what the spat was about?’
He tried to recall. Gossip flowed as freely as lager in the front bar of the pub, and he tended to let it flow in one ear and out the other. ‘Was there a broken plate involved?’
‘I’ll fill you in. Where to start? Okay, Carol agreed to come with me out to Clarence Gardens, where my mum thinks Carol ought to move, and Joan Sloane, who the spat was with, is some sort of bigwig there on the residents’ association.’
That was the second time he’d heard that name. The first time had been from Carol herself, and now he thought about it, her tone had not been warm.
‘Anyway, things got a little ugly.’
‘But not over a broken plate I take it.’
‘The plate was just an innocent bystander caught in the crossfire. You’ll think this is crazy. I can’t believe I’m even saying it. But the whole commotion erupted over fruit cake . Carol accused Joan of stealing her recipe.’
He smiled. Then he laughed.
‘What is so funny? You didn’t see the sugar bowl go flying.’
‘Carol has won the annual Christmas Cake competition at the Twilight Markets every year since 1960-something, according to local legend. Except—’ he let an imaginary drumroll underscore his pause, ‘—for last year.’
Jodie appeared to digest this. ‘Who won last year?’
He shrugged. ‘Look, I was there, so you’d think I’d remember, but I was probably unplugging a drain or spearing a keg or slicing pickled cucumbers at the barbecue station when the results were announced, but you know what I’m thinking?’
‘That this Joan Sloane woman won?’ Jodie pursed her lips.
He nodded.
‘How will we find out? Is there a local newspaper that would have published the results? Or a committee member you can ask who won’t dob on us to Carol?’
‘I’ve got a quicker way. My mother has her fingers in as many pies as Carol does—I can ask her who won last year.’
‘While you’re at it, perhaps you could ask her if she knows why Carol went off her rocker.
She’s refusing to tell me anything, but she is rattled, Will.
Rattled . I don’t like seeing her this way.
But that’s not all. Later that day she went off to some building in town where historical records are kept, and she took something that Joan had donated.
She’s been very secretive and very unhappy ever since. ’
Will rested a hand on Jodie’s arm just for a moment. Not a professional hand—more of an it’s-going-to-be-okay hand. ‘I’ll call Mum and ask her what she’s heard, and let you know.’
Robbo and Patty Miles lived in one of the multiple occupancy communes that dotted the hillsides around Clarence, and while they were still keenly into self-sufficiency and homegrown produce, their stance on such things as mobile phones and internet connections had softened over the years.
Will’s dad answered the phone, and immediately put the call on speaker. That’s how his parents rolled: always together, all the time.
‘Hello, darling,’ his mum said. ‘Why haven’t we seen you lately? I have moussaka in the oven, with eggplant and tomatoes from the garden. You could come out and have dinner with us.’
‘I’d love to, Mum, but I’m flat strap here at the moment. You know how the pub gets on holidays.’
‘I’ll pop some in a container and freeze it for you. Next time we’re in town I’ll bring you some.’
‘I’d love that. Listen—I wanted to ask you both something.’
‘Anything. What is it, son?’ said his dad.
‘Do you remember who won best fruit cake at the Twilight Markets last year?’
‘Oh …’ said his mum. ‘Yes. A shock win. Poor Carol.’
‘It was a retired nurse who won,’ said his dad. ‘From Lismore. Her hair reminded me of Margaret Thatcher’s.’
‘Yes, that’s right. Joan Sloane. She put an entry into the Bush Poetry Muster, remember, Robbo? Last year. Frank Featherstone gave it a Highly Commended.’
‘Why do you want to know about Joan?’ said Robbo.
‘It seems she and Carol had a barney recently. Over fruit cake.’
‘Goodness me. Come on, Will, don’t just drop a bomb on us like that and then withhold the details. Tell us everything.’
‘I don’t know more than that. I heard this second hand from Carol’s great niece.’
‘I didn’t know she had family here.’
‘Jodie.’ The ideal time to ask for more info, perhaps. ‘She’s in town because Carol’s family think living alone in her house is getting too much for Carol. Apparently, Jodie and her brother used to come and stay here with Carol when they were kids in the school holidays.’
‘Is she pretty?’ said his mum.
‘Now, Patty, don’t put Will on the spot,’ said his dad.
‘Thanks, Dad.’ But his mother was as inquisitive as his dad was easygoing, and wasn’t at all easy to fob off, so he summarised the situation for her so she didn’t drive him and his dad mad with questions.
‘Yes, she’s pretty. No, I’m not having some romance you don’t know about.
Yes, I’ve thought about asking her out. No, I don’t know anything about her other than she’s related to Carol, she’s a physiotherapist and she doesn’t smile as often as she should. ’
‘Huh,’ said his mum. ‘You could do with a little romance in your life, Will. Just saying.’
‘Mum, boundaries. Remember them?’
‘All right, keep your hair on. We’ll see you soon.’