‘G’day girlie. How are things?’
Maggie stopped wiping rain off the old pews on the veranda, looking across to see Charles Ireland standing at the bottom of the steps, fishing tackle box and a rod strapped on an old bicycle, the basket on the front stuffed with a yellow rain jacket.
‘G’day yourself,’ she said. How many times had she looked into the man’s face without seeing anything but an old man? This morning all she saw was Dan. ‘Things are getting easier every day.’ Bearable now Noah was back from Sydney.
‘Off for a spot of fishing,’ Charlie said in his gravelly voice, the roll-your-own glued by spit to his bottom lip bobbing up and down as he spoke. ‘Thought I’d better get in before the storm.’
‘Storm?’ Maggie walked over, trying not to breathe in the invisible cloud of nicotine.
‘They’re tracking a big one coming down from the north.’
Ordinarily, Maggie would see the nightly weather report on the television in the pub. Last night at around news time, however, she’d been on her second bottle of wine and rolling drunk. Not that she remembered being rolling drunk; the pounding in her head this morning told her as much. Sara had dropped around again for dinner. Two bottles of wine might not have been such a problem had her drinking partner not been pregnant and therefore, technically, not a drinking partner. She remembered talking to Sara about Noah, laughing over how she’d almost strangled him with hugs when he arrived with Fiona. She’d wanted to talk to him about so many things, but first she needed to let her son grieve. She probably said a little too much to Sara about Brian, speaking the unspeakable no longer a betrayal, but a release.
Charlie Ireland hawked up a spit and made a little choking sound. ‘I’m hoping there’ll be some big bastards coming down stream. Happens when there’s a big wet. As long as you know the right spot.’
‘Oh?’ For a man in his eighties, Charlie stood tall, but with the kind of hunch a tall person might develop from years of bending over pigs. Even the bike he now leaned on for support would be too big for Maggie. ‘And which spot is that?’
‘Ha! You sound like your father, always keen for me to tell.’ He paused. ‘Sorry to hear about the Rev. He was a good man.’
‘He was. Thanks.’ Maggie forced a smile.
‘Nice wake you put on the other day, too. He would’ve liked seeing the pub so full. People loved him,’ Charlie said, wiggling the knot holding his rod to the bicycle’s frame. ‘I’ll be lucky if someone cares enough to nail my box shut to keep the grubs out.’
‘Hey, Charlie?’ Maggie said. ‘If you happen to catch one of those big bastards, you could drop by here, I could dig out the what-a-whopper pan and grill it up in the kitchen for dinner.’
He looked at her, frown lines scribbling their way across his forehead. She thought he was about to ask her why—why after all this time was she interested in getting to know the crusty old guy who’d managed to chase off everyone in his life? The answer might have had something to do with missing her father. More than likely it was about missing Dan.
‘That’s very kind of you, girlie. Doubt there’s a pan big enough.’ His smile wavered, but not the puckish twinkle that brightened his eyes—just like Dan’s. ‘If I do get one, you’d best be planning to share it with me.’
‘I’ll look forward to that.’ She waved and went back to wiping the seats, only to feel a strong hand grip her forearm. With a little surprise gasp she straightened up and looked into eyes clouded with glaucoma.
‘That son of mine was an idiot,’ he growled. ‘Always was a bit of a no-hoper. You did well to be rid of him, girlie.’
Maggie was surprised and sad. She wanted to tell him he was wrong. Instead she said, ‘Be careful out there.’
Sara and Will braved the late afternoon cloudburst to enjoy their regular Sunday after-work treat—a few beers and a meal cooked by someone else. Ethne got a kick out of serving the pair. Maggie would never say it aloud, but she suspected Ethne liked impressing Will with her weekend specials.
‘Mmm, what culinary creation have we got on the board for dinner tonight? Ooh, nice!’ Will winked, yelling loudly enough from the main entrance for Ethne, on the other side of the small servery window behind the bar, to hear. He collapsed his umbrella, making a miniature rain shower on the floor around the old milk tin that looked like it had sat in the same spot for a century, and smiled at Maggie. ‘Couple of the usual, thanks barmaid.’
‘Back off on the barmaid thing, unless you want to wear your beer.’
Will and Sara were a welcome gust of good spirits in what had been a bugger of a week.
‘A little beer is not going to matter given the drenching we just got. Where did this lot come from? Bloody rain! Not enough one minute, a bucket load the next. I saw some lightning off in the distance, too. I don’t recall them forecasting that.’
On cue, thunder rolled overhead. That, and Will’s comment about lightning, was enough to send two local farmers on their way. The threat of an electrical storm meant there were cattle to move away from trees and emergency generators to check.
‘We’re not long into storm season,’ Maggie said, hoping she’d come to the end of hers.
Noah was home safe and sound, delivered as promised by a subdued Fiona who had fairly quickly made herself scarce, aftersupporting Noah at the funeral. Even Noah had mentioned to Maggie how serious—his word—Fiona was being. Other than the wake, when Noah, Maggie and Fiona had shared a hug and lots of tears, the trio’s communications remained strained and polite. With so much happening and so many things to talk about with Noah, Maggie was struggling to know where to start.
Opportunities to broach different subjects came and went, much like Noah’s moods, making it difficult to pick the best time. There had been one occasion when she’d tried, but Noah let her know he wasn’t ready. She could hardly blame him for needing time to get his head around everything. The people he’d trusted had let him down in the worst possible way: Maggie for lying, his father for rejecting him, Fiona for telling his secret—first to Luke, then Maggie. Not feeling particularly strong herself, Maggie had to trust their relationship would weather this latest storm, while giving her son the space he clearly needed.
She could only assume he’d already forgiven Fiona by the way the girl had stuck by Noah’s side as he said goodbye to his grandfather, and again afterwards at the pub. If someone had asked Maggie to rate on a scale of one-to-ten how changed Fiona seemed since the reunion, Maggie would give a definite eight, if not nine. The look on Ethne’s face at the wake when I’m-too-qualified-to-carry-food Fiona had offered to help with platters of cheese and crackers gave Maggie a reason to smile that day, as did the turnout for a man the town had adored. The small town’s support and adoration for the Rev had warmed Maggie’s heart.
As both mother and sole breadwinner for a good part of twenty years in Sydney, Maggie had been too busy to develop close relationships. She’d made friends and enjoyed the social aspects of working various jobs, but any effort required to maintain contact took second place to her family. When she wasn’t working, Maggie’s entire focus had been her son and her husband.
Things were about to change.
Maggie’s friendship with Sara was deepening. Sharing in the grief of losing Amber, and spending time together in Sydney for the funeral, had brought them closer. Sara’s news that she was pregnant further cemented their friendship, and for the first time in a long time Maggie was enjoying the benefit of companionship, the kind of friendship that made Maggie feel relaxed and free to shed a few unhappy layers.
The other night, however, she’d apparently been a little too relaxed, only discovering in the cold hard light of a hangover that she’d shed a little too much, blurting out intimate secrets about her marriage and about Brian’s ridiculous fame obsession. Like the first cloudburst after drought, Maggie had dumped what felt like a lifetime of secrets on poor Sara, with wine like truth serum moving her from happy tattletale to sobbing wreck when it came to sharing her feelings about her son’s sexuality. The next day she’d been horrified. Until she told herself: this was Sara—the person least likely to tell someone’s secret. The woman had still not said anything—other than the standard lines—about the Dandelion House, no matter how drunk she’d been pre-pregnancy. Sara had reassured Maggie that the contents of their Secret Women’s Business meetings would remain theirs and theirs alone. ‘Oh, and Will’s, because he’s an old woman anyway,’ Sara had joked. Maggie had felt such immense relief, knowing she no longer had to keep up the pretence, in front of Sara and Will at least.
‘Sorry, Sara, what did you say?’ Maggie apologised over another rumble of thunder and Jackpot’s barking.
‘I was asking you how Noah is,’ Sara said.
‘Quiet. Confused.’ Maggie knew she could add to the list: disappointed, angry, hurt, distrusting, sad … ‘Ethne’s looking after the pub for me tomorrow. I was thinking we might take a drive, just the two of us. I can’t ignore things any longer. I’ve just stopped tiptoeing around you. I don’t want to be doing the same around my son.’
‘Getting away is a good idea,’ Will chipped in. ‘Try fishing. Jasper and I are planning a boys-only adventure next week. Nothing teaches kids about patience more than dropping a line and waiting for something—’
‘Oh bugger!’ Maggie cut Will off and looked at her watch. ‘Bloody daylight saving. I’m worse than a dairy cow when it comes to adapting to the time change.’
Will slurped noisily through his beer froth, getting a swift jab in the ribs from his wife. ‘We keeping you from something, Maggie?’ he asked.
‘No, no, sorry. It’s just … The fishing thing reminded me. Charlie Ireland came by earlier, something about a new fishing spot along the stock route, or something like that.’ Maggie racked her brain to think. She’d been so caught up analysing the features in his face and comparing them to Dan’s she’d only been half listening to where he was going. ‘I don’t think he called in on his way back home.’
‘Maybe he saw Ethne.’
‘Hang on and I’ll check.’
Maggie found Ethne in the kitchen, crying over a stainless steel bowl brimming with sliced onion.
‘Nope. Haven’t seen hide nor hair. Not likely to either through these eyes,’ she quipped. ‘Sorry, love.’
Maggie returned to the main bar and asked Cory to pass her a glass. She tapped a knife against an empty beer glass, the clinking sound, like a speech at a reception, muting the mob instantly. ‘Anyone see Charlie Ireland this afternoon? He went fishing,’ Maggie called out, sending a ripple of murmurs through the bar, followed by unanimous grunts and the shaking of heads.
‘You saying he was s’posed to check back in and didn’t?’ said Louie the Fly. ‘You sure, Maggie, darlin’?’
‘That’s what he said. He was going to bring me a fish and I was going to shout him a beer.’
Someone guffawed. ‘Not like old Chuck to miss out on a free beer, then. Fish or no fish.’
‘One of you needs to go out to his place and see if he’s there. Louie? Can you?’
‘No worries, darlin’,’ Louie said in his usual laid-back drawl. But as he left his half-finished beer on the bar Maggie knew that behind that calm was concern for a mate, because it wasn’t like Louie to miss out on finishing his beer either.
‘Where did he say this great spot was?’ Cricket asked Maggie.
‘He didn’t. Not exactly. Not that I remember. What should we do?’
‘You keep the beer cold, Maggie, and let us cover the rest. I’ll call the new fella at the station. What’s his name again? Callum, isn’t it? I’ll let him know and tell him someone’s gone out to Chuck’s place to check.’
Maggie smiled. Callum had been stationed in town on a part-time basis for over twelve months, yet he was still the new bloke.
After a general mumbling of consensus and nodding, there was an effort to resume normality in the bar while they waited on Louie for news.
‘Relax,’ Sara said, taking her friend’s hand and rubbing it between her own. ‘Why so worked up over crusty old Charlie Ireland? Louie will call any minute to say he’s found the guy washing down his fresh smoked fish with a home brew.’
‘I hope so.’
‘Maggie, you’re trembling.’ Sara squeezed her friend’s hand tighter, guiding her along the bar to the service gap at the end. ‘Come on over here with me and sit down. Will, honey, can you grab us some water?’
‘Oh Sara, why am I such a mess?’
‘Sweetie, look what you’ve been through: Amber’s funeral, the centenary, Noah’s accident, Brian, your dad, the pub not selling—’
‘Okay, okay!’ Maggie tried a smile. She thought she might have managed a small one.
‘Charlie Ireland is not your worry.’
‘Get this into you.’ Will grinned at her and wrapped Maggie’s hand around the glass. His hands were big and warm, strong and caring. The man was a king among men. Where was Maggie’s prince? ‘With everything you’ve had on your plate of late, Maggie-moo, sounds to me like you’ve got yourself a perfect storm.’
Sara groaned. ‘I hate to admit it, but Will’s right.’
‘Ah, now there’s something I don’t hear every day. Thank you. Thank you.’ In his wheelchair, Will waved an arm and bowed from the waist theatrically. ‘My job is done. Sara, my love, I’m off to bask in the glory of those words I so seldom hear from your lips.’
Sara watched adoringly as her husband wheeled across the bar to join Clipper’s table of shearing mates. ‘Pains me to say Will is right, Maggie. You and I both know you can handle—have handled—anything life throws at you. You’re strong, Maggie, but no one would blame you for crumbling under the weight of everything. You’re an amazing woman.’
‘So amazing I’ve gone and lost Dan’s father.’
‘You haven’t lost anyone. Charlie Ireland got himself lost. Not your fault. As I remember, kids were always telling him to get lost.’ Sara nudged her friend with a shoulder. ‘You just hang on. Storms pass. Life will get back to normal.’
‘I don’t remember normal.’
The shrill ring of the telephone managed what Maggie rarely could—a still bar. She let Ethne take the call, but the barmaid had the best poker face.
‘No sign of him at the Ireland property,’ Ethne’s voice boomed out even before she’d returned the portable handset to the cradle.
‘Did Louie say anything else, any clues?’
‘Said the cats almost ate him alive when he went inside. That’d be Louie’s smell though, I reckon,’ Ethne snorted, the joke relieving some tension in a bar room that was full for the third night in as many weeks.
Callum’s arrival silenced the banter, the police constable’s full-length Driza-Bone beaded with water, his face glistening from rivulets of rain dripping from his hair.
‘Sorry. Was on my way back from Saddleton.’
‘Geez, Callum, you look like a walkin’ water feature,’ someone muttered.
‘Looks more like a drowned rat,’ chuckled another.
Callum was used to the shenanigans of pub dwellers, as he called them whenever Maggie needed help getting a patron out at closing. Sometimes he’d return fire for a laugh, always respectfully, aware of his position, his young age, and his lack of local status. Not tonight though. Tonight, Callum wore his serious face.
‘This is official business, folks,’ the constable said. ‘It looks like Charlie Ireland might have run into a spot of trouble.’
The hum of pub prattle ceased with a collective gulp.
‘We need to set up a search,’ a voice said, followed by a flurry of activity and hat grabbing.
Callum held up both hands. ‘Agreed, folks, but this storm’s not going to let us wait, and it’s not going to make it easy. She’ll be real dark out there any tick of the clock, so it will be a controlled and close proximity search first up while we’re waiting for the SES crew. ‘We’ll pair up and stay on designated tracks. No going off-road tonight. Reports are coming in about a wash-away near Coolabah Gully Road. There’s likely to be more, and closer to home. So take it easy and stay close. If we come up empty-handed, we’ll meet back here for Plan B.’
‘But mate—’
‘No buts. We’ll do what we can tonight and we’ll do it by my rules until I can hand over to the SES. We’re rescuing one person only tonight. Okay?’
The rabble mumbled in agreement while Maggie did the only thing she could.
She dialled Dan’s mobile number and prayed she would find the right words.