He swept up the sawdust from around the front door and then tested the latch, opening and closing the door three times. The sun streamed through each time, and she liked the soft click the door made when it closed. He’d been quick and efficient with the taps and the window, and then he’d told her that the septic tank needed emptying. Regularly. A more embarrassing moment she could not remember.
‘There you go. Nice and smooth,’ he said. He was in faded dirty jeans again, and a tight T-shirt that bulged across his tanned biceps.
‘Thanks. What do I owe you?’ she said, looking away.
‘Two hundred’ll do it,’ he said, squatting down to pick up his tools and return them to his battered red toolbox. Pocket tried to get his nose inside it. Rowan shooed him away gently with a grunt.
‘Okay, I’ll just get my wallet,’ she said. Pocket trotted along behind her as she went to the kitchen.
When she came back Rowan was outside, loading his toolbox into the van. He rolled the side door shut and turned to face her as she approached.
‘I didn’t want to say anything when we were at the pub last week,’ he said, reaching for the cigarettes in his top pocket.
‘About what?’
‘The Clancy thing,’ he said, in a way that didn’t invite a response. She handed him the cash and waited while he lit up a cigarette. ‘Lot of racism in this place, you know.’ He stood with one finger cocked over the waistband of his jeans as he blew a long stream of smoke from the side of his mouth. ‘Sure, they like ’em to win footy games, but the rest of the time they prefer ’em out of sight, out at the Plains.’
Still not finished, thought Clementine.
‘Heard a couple of blokes from the Plains at the pub last night. They’d had a few, got a bit rowdy. They reckon you should’ve replaced Clancy with some other Indigenous kid from the reserves.’
She rolled her eyes. ‘I pick whoever is most suited to the position. Simple as that—doesn’t matter what colour they are,’ she snapped.
Rowan didn’t move, just raised one eyebrow. ‘I wouldn’t have a clue either way—just thought you oughta know what people are saying.’
‘Yeah, well, I get plenty of advice about what I should and shouldn’t do. I’m not about to start listening to a few punters with a gutful of beer.’
Rowan shrugged. ‘I should get going,’ he said, and took out his keys.
As he walked to the front of the van she followed him, not wanting to miss an opportunity to talk to someone who knew people around town. ‘Do you know Clancy at all? Do you know anything about why he might have quit the team or lost his job?’ she asked.
‘Nah, don’t know him. Plenty of people I know who wouldn’t be sad to see him gone, though. You know he testified, don’t you?’
‘No. Testified about what?’
‘The bashing. He was the only one of the victims to stand up in court and say who was there.’
‘Bashing?’
‘Yeah, Earlville, a few years back, around the time of that Adam Goodes drama. Bunch of teenagers set upon three blackfellas, beat the shit out of ’em.’
She felt her stomach turn. ‘I’d hoped that whole Goodes affair might have changed things for the better,’ she said.
‘Wishful thinking out here. Just turned up the heat,’ he said kicking a large chunk of mud off the rim of the front tyre on the van.
‘Anyone convicted?’
‘Don’t make me laugh,’ he snorted. ‘They gave each other alibis.’ He got into the cab, turned the key in the ignition and hung an elbow out the open window. ‘Let me know if you want me to fix that flapping roof on the shed. Might lose it if it blows.’ He gave her another of those half-smiles, and with that Rowan Dempsey was off.
Clementine sipped the cheap bubbles fizzing idly in her glass and looked around the room. The high ceiling of the school gym made it look half-empty, but it was a good turn-up for a country footy club. She had delivered her speech and spent what seemed like an inordinate amount of time cosying up to the eager crowd of sponsors under Gerard’s watchful gaze, finally managing to escape to the ladies’, where she’d sat in a cubicle for as long as she thought she could get away with it. Emerging some fifteen minutes later, she’d sat herself in the shadows at an empty corner table, wondering if it would be bad form to leave before ten o’clock.
The band from Earlville was well into ‘Shake a Tail Feather’ and a dozen players were gyrating beneath the garish lights with their dates. Torrens sat in the far corner, his legs spread wide and a young woman in red draped around his neck. A large group of parents and relatives were gathered around a few tables in the centre of the room, half-empty jugs of beer in front of them, talking loudly over the music as two waiters (high school students?) cleared away plates smeared with cheesecake remains. At another table, to Clementine’s right, were the families of the six Indigenous players on the reserves team.
Towards the back of the room stood a cluster of men in suits and women in expensive evening gowns: Gerard telling a story, John Wakely to his right, Tiny Spencer to his left with a young woman standing close by his elbow—surely not his wife?—and next to her the boss from the IGA supermarket—what was his name? Nicholls? Yes, Bob Nicholls—and, presumably, Mrs Nicholls, in a low-cut green dress. Directly opposite Gerard was his wife, Bernadette Holt, tall, slender and regal in black, with a silver necklace around her long neck.
Clem had spoken with her earlier in the night, the first opportunity they’d had for a real conversation other than small talk at a few football games and that time Clem had been summoned to present to a club committee meeting at the Holts’ house. Tonight Bernadette had made an effort to engage, asking insightful questions about Clementine’s strategy in the lead-up to the finals. They had moved on to discuss Clancy’s departure from the team. Bernadette was adamant that no individual was indispensable, that an outflow of talent would create a vacuum for others to fill. She believed women in leadership roles had a knack for finding talent and allowing it to flourish.
This was the first and only mention of gender throughout the conversation. It seemed it was just as irrelevant to Bernadette as it had been to Clementine and yet, in the presence of this powerful woman, she had felt a wave of energy, a feeling of camaraderie, like she wasn’t alone in this caper—the leader of an organisation jam-packed with men.
It was at that point that Bernadette leaned forward, touched Clementine on the arm and said, ‘You know sharks can only swim forward, don’t you? We’re sharks, Clementine, you and I. We swim forward, every day, and we don’t stop for anything.’
Clem took this as an invitation to ask something more personal.
‘So do you find it difficult, being a woman in a senior role?’
Bernadette thought about it for a moment. ‘In Sydney, with my peers, definitely. A room full of male egos. Katinga’s different. I guess when you hold the power to fire someone, they tend to be a tad more respectful. I think half the time here, though, people are just plain flabbergasted.’ She laughed, waving her champagne glass. ‘I mean, a woman being the boss of her husband—my God!’
Clem laughed along. ‘Yes, well, there’s that! A very odd state of affairs to have husbands obeying their wives.’
Bernadette’s laughter died away. She took a swig from her glass, swallowed grimly. ‘Odd. Yes. The bloody odd couple. That’s us.’
Clem was taken aback. She’d only just met the woman. ‘I expect it must be difficult,’ she said, tentatively. ‘Home and work. Marriage and business…never getting a break from each other.’
A visible stiffening in Bernadette’s jaw. The corners of her mouth turned down, then settled in a sour flat line. ‘Never undervalue convenience and appearances, Ms Jones,’ she said coldly.
Clem thought it best to change the subject. ‘So tell me about the public listing,’ she said. ‘That must be taking up all your time just now.’ Bernadette seemed relieved to move on, opening up about the challenges in the lead-up to the CTS listing—keeping staff committed, dealing with union pressures and meeting the demands of head office in Sydney for higher revenues and lower costs, so important for the sale price.
Clementine decided to risk another question. ‘So are you thinking of taking on the executive director role in Sydney?’
A slight flush rose in Bernadette’s cheeks. ‘Well, I’m surprised you’re following the happenings at CTS so closely,’ she said, ‘but that reminds me—I was wondering if you’d be interested in a role here at the Victorian office? We need smart women like you, and I’m all for giving other women a hand up.’
Bernadette’s deft but obvious deflection of the question was enough. There was no doubt she was in the hunt for the job, a shark chasing a very lucrative bait.
It was after ten-thirty, and a few people had started to shuffle out the doors, which were now propped wide open, the cold rushing in like a late guest. Good, she thought, safe for her to slip away as well.
Her eyes swept the room. Every person here was so much a part of this town, so much more a part of it than Clementine. What did they know about Clancy? Someone here must be hiding something—but who? Whose secrets was Clancy protecting?
On the other side of the room Bernadette was deep in conversation with Mr Nicholls.
She turned her gaze to Wakely. Why hadn’t he made more effort to secure the CCTV footage? And even more concerning, why hadn’t he investigated further? He’d treated it like it was just one of those things, and yet a young man’s livelihood was on the line. He looked trim and neat in his somewhat dated double-breasted suit and waistcoat, holding a red wine and listening intently to Gerard telling a longwinded story, nodding and chuckling at the right moments.
And Gerard, in his tuxedo with his perfect hair? Well, his resistance to her inquiries, though appropriate in a legal sense, felt unnatural, like a coat he seemed unused to wearing. She had a sense too that there might have been something in that look he’d given Cranfield across the car park. But then again, maybe she was reading too much into things.
She moved towards her table to collect her handbag. Jenny Rodham turned to greet her.
‘Fine speech tonight, my lady. Dollars are rolling in. Never seen so many pledges in all my time as treasurer, and Bob Nicholls from the IGA just told me he’s going to give a grand for every man of the match to the end of the season. A grand! I remember when he used to give a box of breakfast cereal.’ Her neat bob above her shoulders bounced with the beat of her laughter.
Clem smiled. ‘That might be just the lift the boys need for the finals.’ She tried to sound enthusiastic, but Bob Nicholls’ generosity was just another reminder of how much the team’s success meant to the town—and the disappointment they’d feel if she failed them. It was her job to make this money mean something.
‘Ah, come on, Clem. Don’t get scared on us now.’
How did Jen know? Am I that transparent? thought Clem. ‘Yeah, yeah, I know—you’re counting on me too, right?’ she said.
‘Actually I’m not, you know.’
Clem raised an eyebrow.
‘You’ve already changed lives around here, Clementine Jones, and all I’m asking is that you see out the season. Don’t go shooting through.’ God, it was as if this woman knew her thoughts. Clementine hoped she didn’t look too stunned.
‘Just stick around to the end, win or lose,’ Jen said. ‘You can tell us we won anyway, you know—the journey, the struggle, all that jazz. Trophy or no trophy, that’s all we need you to do, honey.’
For the second time that evening, Clementine felt the strength of the women of Katinga, a warmth and solidarity she realised she’d been missing since she left the firm.
‘By the way,’ Jen said, ‘you’re coming to our house for dinner, madam. No more putting it off—you can’t hole up there in the hills on your own forever. We’re free every night this week—pick one.’ Clem’s mum had bossed her like this. There was something comforting about it.
‘Yeah, thanks. I’ll think about it,’ Clem mumbled, and changed the subject. ‘You know, I met Bernadette tonight. I mean, I’ve met her before, but I’d never really spoken with her, not properly. Amazing woman. But do you think it’s strange she’s with Gerard?’
‘Ha! Not at all. Gerard’s a known social climber. And he’s probably the most ambitious man I know, but geez, he puts in, Clem. And you need that sort of energy in a club president. God knows nothing happens otherwise. Bloody handy he’s married to the boss lady too. You know the sponsorship deal with CTS is seventy per cent of our revenue?’
‘Really? Impressive,’ said Clem. Jen was a talker, and one of those locals who seemed to know everyone.
‘Gerard’s having a great night, eh?’ Clem flicked her head towards him just as he was landing another funny line, Wakely bursting into a round of laughter at his elbow. ‘Seems like he and John Wakely get on well.’
‘Oh, yes, they go back a while. Wakely used to be club president, but it was him who got Gerard on board. Thought he might be able to bring in more sponsorship. Well, he was spot on there!’ Jen took another swig from her wineglass. She’d obviously had a few drinks and was even chattier than usual. Clem decided to spring something from left field, see what turned up.
‘And what about Frank Cranfield, Gerard’s mate? I don’t see him around much. What’s his caper?’
Jen’s smile disappeared and her face set solid. ‘Cranfield? A mate?’ she asked, incredulous.
‘They’re not friends, then?’
There was a momentary pause as Jenny appeared to hold herself back. ‘No, Clem, Gerard is not mates with Cranfield. For one, Gerard doesn’t mix with the plebs.’ Her tone was sharp, bitter. ‘And certainly not with Frank Cranfield.’
‘Oh, well—I guess I had that wrong,’ said Clem. The band were still playing, and the drummer started on a deafening solo. She turned to watch the frenzied young man, hair flying, sticks a blur, the beat chaotic for a moment, then blending back into the rhythm of the song.
Jen turned back to Clementine. ‘You’re curious all of a sudden. What’s got you interested in Gerard?’
‘Oh, nothing specific, just that—’ She felt a shove in her back and almost fell forward onto Jenny.
‘Oh, geez. Sorry, Jonesy. Tripped on that cable. Sorry.’ It was Todd Wakely who’d sent her flying. He was looking particularly awkward in a pair of navy trousers a size too small for him, his tie skewed to the left like a noose.
‘You had too much to drink, Wakely?’ Clementine shot him an accusing look.
‘No, Jonesy. No way. Just the three beers, like you said. I swear. Look’—he pointed to a loop of power cable arching up from the floor—‘I got my toe stuck under there.’
‘Well, watch where you put your clumsy feet, all right,’ she said, smoothing down her dress. ‘Anyway, I’m off. Good night, Jen,’ she said, ‘and thanks for your support.’ She turned to leave, but Wakely stepped in front of her.
‘I’ve been meaning to speak to you, Jonesy,’ he said.
The band was getting louder again. She raised her voice. ‘Well, I’m here, man. Let her rip.’
Todd stood up taller, squared his shoulders. ‘It’s about Clancy. I just wanted to say, because you’re not from round here and all, well, me and most of the rest of the blokes, we’re not worried or anything about him not being on the team.’
‘Oh, really. Well, that’s good.’ She was alert, wondering what might be behind this unsolicited reassurance.
‘Yeah, the less darkies the better.’
He’d shouted these words above the sound of the band. She glanced sideways, but it seemed only she had heard. Jen had already moved away to join the big group in the centre of the room. Was Wakely joking? Clementine looked at the young man, searching for some sign of humour in his eyes, but saw only an earnest intensity.
He saw the look of confusion on her face and rushed on, thinking he hadn’t explained himself properly. ‘I mean they run hot and cold, you never know if they’re going to show up or not—’
‘Shut up, Wakely,’ she said urgently. ‘Shut the fuck up. I don’t want to hear this. It’s not true. In fact it’s the biggest load of bullshit I’ve ever heard. Clancy was our best player and you know it.’
A frown swept across Wakely’s brow.
Clementine swallowed and gripped the handbag strap on her shoulder. Todd was the stand-out for most improved this year. If you made him feel important, pumped him up to believe in himself, he was a line-breaking defender, clever at covering his opponent but able to create the play up forward.
She didn’t want a scene with this young buck, not here, so she decided to let it slide, turn it into a coaching opportunity, ‘Hey, I hear you’ve stepped up your training at home during the week. Well done. I need you to run all day, yeah?’
He relaxed his stance slightly. ‘Yep, that’s what I’m aiming for, coach.’
‘The more you run at home, the easier it’ll be to break through in the final quarter. Your opponent just won’t have the fuel in the tank. So good work, Wakely.’ She patted his shoulder. ‘Keep it up. I want to see you bursting into the midfield with the ball under your arm and your man left standing there with a stupid look on his face.’
Todd had a smile from ear to ear, so proud he looked like he might burst as she turned to walk away.
The band started up the first of the slow songs, ‘My Island Home’, and Clementine felt a hot rush of shame at how she’d handled the situation. She thought of Clancy, working, studying for his future, and on the field—the way he dominated the midfield, his grace and precision. He should be here tonight, with Melissa. Her thoughts ran to their neat home, the worn carpet and the forty-dollar pram; to Melissa’s pride in the strength of the women of her family through the ages, the certainty of support from her community. The high school gym suddenly felt smaller, the band out of tune, and indigestion from the cheap bubbly formed an uncomfortable plug of pain in her chest.
Damn Todd Wakely, damn this town and damn its small-minded people. She strode off towards the open door. She would swim forward, all right—she’d finish the season and then tell the whole lot of them what she thought of their racist shit. I may have denied you in this moment, Clancy Kennedy, but I am not giving up on you, you and your secret, whatever it is.