Loved your comment that the movie Home Alone should be remade as a middle-aged fantasy. And I totally identify with wanting to be a hermit. Where can I sign up?
My primary job was as a columnist, which necessitated the production of around five hundred pithy words per week. These words needed to be a mix of wisdom and wittiness, with the occasional topical allusion, aimed at a target audience of mainly women. The best columns, according to my editor, were the ones that generated the most feedback – both for and against. I wasn’t as convinced, not just because I had no desire to be controversial, but because I had to answer most of the mail.
In addition to my weekly column, I now had a blog titled The Middle-aged Spread. The topics were varied: work–life balance, spare tyres, cosmetic surgery, menopause, empty nests, full nests – a cornucopia of midlife-related issues. This had been driven by my editor also, intended to ride a surge in publicity following two horrid murders that had occurred last year, in which I had become inadvertently entangled. So now each week I had to find those five hundred pithy words, plus a corresponding blog entry, plus behave like someone all interactive and extroverted. Instead of someone who didn’t even enjoy conversations on the phone.
On Mondays, however, all that was put aside when I spent the day working in my mother’s bookshop, Renaissance. This was a practice of long standing, not just because the money had been invaluable in my early career, but because this way I was forced to get dressed and be sociable once a week. Another advantage was the book club I ran in the afternoon, where we selected a female author more successful than I and then generally ripped her to shreds. It did wonders for my self-esteem.
Sharon, my mother’s offsider, had already opened up the shop by the time I arrived. She was a small but buxom woman, whose penchant for purple and orange meant that her appearance was as vibrant as her personality. We exchanged greetings and then I detoured through the communal door into the cafe to order coffee. It was breakfast-noisy there, with a dozen conversations punctuated by scraping chairs and cutlery. I could see Ruby in the back, toasting slabs of focaccia, wispy threads of smoke suggesting she was not totally committed to the task. I read the noticeboard while waiting, learning, among other things, that the Caldwell family had lost their black dog yesterday while Grace June Rae had found one. Which seemed a little serendipitous.
With coffee in hand, I crossed back into the bookshop and headed for the back room, along the way grabbing a copy of Abracadabra: The Makings of Majic from its display box tucked away near History. There were actually two back rooms connected to Renaissance, one which was quite open plan and used for book clubs and special events, while the other was tucked away behind a door marked Strictly Staff Only. It was the latter room that was my destination this morning, where the chances of being disturbed were relatively low. I made myself comfortable and opened up the slim volume. Abracadabra was quite well-known locally, having been written by a Phillipa Sheridan many years ago and updated by the Historical Society on a regular basis. After which the local council would launch the latest version with great fanfare and take most of the credit for themselves.
I took a sip of coffee and flicked the book open, being immediately faced with a sepia image of Petar Majic himself, along with a fellow named Mate Dragovic and a dog. The two men were seated on wooden chairs, staring stiffly at the camera. Petar looked uncomfortable, as well he should, dressed in check pants and a mismatched vest, along with a shirt collar that indented his chin. But he was handsome in a burly fashion. Sitting squarely, with hands planted on his knees and a hint of amusement behind his copious facial hair. I liked him instantly.
‘Hello there.’ I ran a finger over the image. ‘So who was your beloved then?’
The booklet began with a tedious explanation of the goldfields and the lay of the land in the mid-nineteenth century. Finally Petar made his entrance on page six, when he and his shipmate Mate arrived in Melbourne aboard the Weidemann and promptly jumped ship to make their way up to Bendigo and join the gold rush. Rather fortuitously, given there appeared to be no Plan B, they struck gold in 1856 and then sold their claim the following year. The photo was taken around that time. Thereafter the two friends followed divergent philosophies, with Petar investing heavily in alcohol supply and Mate working on demand. In 1862, Petar made the famous sunset ride and his house was completed in 1865, by which time an embryonic town had sprung up around the site. He died two years later, leaving everything to his friend and overseer, James Sheridan. That family featured largely in the town from then on. In fact, it seemed that whenever something significant occurred, there was a Sheridan nearby. I knew the feeling.
‘Taking a break, are we?’ asked my mother, holding the door open. ‘I can see how you would need one, having started – let me see …’ she consulted her watch, ‘twenty minutes ago. Would you like me to leave you in peace?’
I closed the booklet. ‘No, that’s fine. And don’t jump to conclusions.’
‘Who’s jumping to conclusions? I’m trying to be considerate.’
‘If you must know, I was just checking Abracadabra –’ I lifted Exhibit A ‘– for inspiration regarding a window display. To mark the hundred-and-fifty-year celebration. I was thinking we could paint some stones gold, have a pick and shovel, then scatter around some gold-rush books, souvenirs, that sort of thing.’
My mother paused. ‘That’s not a bad idea. Not a bad idea at all.’
‘Thank you.’
‘I’ll get Lucy on to it. She’s more creative.’ She closed the door before I could respond and then opened it again quickly. ‘While you’re back here, can you go through the lay-bys and ring those due? Excellent.’
The door closed once more, then reopened. ‘And do something about your hair. You’ll scare the customers.’
I put the booklet down as the door closed for the final time. I finished my coffee while leaning back and surveying the ceiling. One of the polystyrene tiles had an inkblot-like stain that looked like the type used in psychiatric tests. Actually, it looked like a splattered person. Female, possibly older; which probably said more about me than the stain. Woman who pushed own mother off cliff takes Rorschach inkblot test. Fails.
The door opened again and Lucy poked her head through. ‘Mum, do you have a pick and a shovel? Grandma wants to borrow them.’
‘Not on me.’
‘Ha ha. Are they in our shed? Hey, is everything okay?’
‘Hunky-dory.’ I tossed my empty cup into the bin and rose. ‘Tell Grandma I’ll get them. I’m also going to pop up to the community centre and borrow some other props.’
‘But she said –’
‘Tell her to ring me on the mobile if she’s got any issues.’ I put the booklet in my bag and fished my mobile out, turning it on to ring Quinn briskly to inform her that I would be early. I then switched the phone off again. It annoyed me.
There were several customers in the shop now, all tourists. Lucy was helping a man who wanted something to read while on holidays, something interesting, like A Clockwork Orange. I made crazy eyes at her behind his back and then slipped outside before my mother could interfere. Forty-seven years old and I was still avoiding her.
Ten minutes later and I was honking the horn in the driveway. I left the car and ducked through the side gate up to the shed. This building had been as neat as a pin during my long marriage, surface-sprayed each quarter and with every piece of equipment allocated a particular spot, marked by Dymo tape. Since our separation around eighteen months ago, however, things had become somewhat neglected. I sympathised.
This last thought gave me pause as I mulled over the possibility of using the metaphor for a column. I nodded, pleased, and pushed my way past a jumble of whipper-snipper and chicken wire to the back wall where the tools hung. I unhooked the pickaxe and stared at the painted shadow of an absent spade. A few minutes’ searching finally located it by the door, liberally covered in spider webs and dog poo. The car horn sounded.
I examined the spade for living occupancy before beating it against a tree, the looser fecal matter flying off into the garden. Quinn was standing by the car, frowning, the driver’s side open so that she could press the horn. Her face cleared when she saw me. ‘God, Mum, you gave me a fright! I thought you’d been kidnapped!’
‘Good lord. What have you been watching?’
She grinned sheepishly. ‘Texas Chainsaw Massacre.’
I wiped the spade against a rough-barked pine and then wrapped it in a recyclable grocery bag from the boot. After storing both implements, I slid into the car and turned to face my daughter. ‘Did you use the spade to de-poo the backyard?’
‘You told me to!’
‘Did I also tell you to put it away covered with crap? Literally?’
‘Well, you didn’t tell me not to.’
I stared at her, and took a deep breath to underline the message. I knew from experience it wasn’t worth verbalising anything that could lead to a debate. Quinn was quite skilled at debate, and didn’t seem to have grasped the concept that sometimes a simple apology was the easier option. I removed Abracadabra from my bag and opened it to page six before passing it across. She read while I drove, the silence permeated by an increasingly pungent reminder that my clean-up job had been less than thorough. I wound my window down.
*
Sheridan House, also known as the Majic Community Centre, was situated alongside the football oval just behind the main street. It was a bizarrely beautifully building, with panels of red brick within creamy render and plump, forest-green domes crowning an assortment of rounded rooms on the second and third floors. It had been gifted to the town by the Sheridan family about a century ago, and had since done service as a school, a hospice and, for the past fifty years, as the community centre.
While the centre occupied the majority of the ground floor, along with some smaller organisations, such as the Citizens Advice Bureau, and the second was made up of larger function rooms, the third floor had been given over to any not-for-profit organisations willing to stake a claim. The Wine and Cheese Society, Fellowship of Northern Writers, Trauma Survival Support and Paranormal Activity Appreciation were just some of the community groups that shared a rabbit warren of cubicles. In fact, the only local clubs not in residence were those with my mother as secretary, which were bullied into holding their meetings in the back room of Renaissance.
The centre was busy this morning, with the usual activities plus various groups working on projects for the commemoration. I stopped to watch half a dozen women who were piecing together a patchwork of crochet squares in the centre hall. The overall picture appeared to feature a galloping horse with rather protuberant eyes. Unfortunately one of the rear legs was considerably shorter than the others, giving it the appearance of a well-endowed amputee.
‘It’s a horse,’ said Grace June Rae, rather needlessly. She was one of the older members of my Monday afternoon book club. ‘Except Loretta needs more leg.’
Loretta Emerson sniffed. ‘Only because I was given the wrong measurements.’
‘It still looks … effective. Compelling.’ I shifted my gaze away from the horse’s eyes. ‘Ah, Grace, did you know that the Caldwells have lost a dog like the one you found?’
‘Good-o! I’ll ring this afternoon. That old dog’s eating me out of house and home.’
‘The note was right next to the one you … never mind. Loretta, do you know if there’re any historical people upstairs?’
‘Always,’ said Loretta with feeling. Her husband was a founding member of the society. ‘Actually I think the mayor’s up there too.’
‘C’mon,’ hissed Quinn from behind me. She was holding a pyramid of possessions: the box containing the plaque, Abracadabra, and her mobile phone. The latter was vibrating skittishly and, according to the screen, Griffo was calling. Interesting.
I said my goodbyes, sprinkling a few more compliments regarding their project, and then Quinn and I trudged up the three flights. There was an elevator, but it was so slow and noisy that most patrons emerged at their destination with some degree of temporary hearing loss. Instead I arrived out of breath, a clear sign that I needed to spend more time at the gym. Which probably meant I would have to join one.
The ample proportions of Edward Given came into view, standing at the third-floor elevator and jabbing at the down button as if the device fed on urgency. He looked across and beamed. ‘Nell! How are you?’
‘Good thanks.’ I paused, glad of the chance to regulate my breathing. ‘And you?’
‘Can’t complain. Although I’ve been having some trouble with my back, most annoying. The doctor says I have the spine of a ninety-year-old.’
‘Better than having no spine at all,’ I replied, rather wittily. I had known Edward Given for as long as I could remember. He grew up on the same street, attended the same school, we were even occasionally in the same class. Nevertheless, we had never been friends, exactly, but even as a child this had nothing to with his obesity and everything to do with his temperament. Edward, or Ned as he preferred to be called, was a gossip. And this tendency was oiled, albeit lightly, by a maliciousness that set my teeth on edge.
‘True, true. And how’s Darcy going then? Heard from him lately?’
I blinked. Darcy was my husband, or rather my ex-husband, given he had deserted the marital nest over a year ago. ‘Yes, actually. All the time. He rings regularly.’
‘Can we go?’ Quinn nudged my foot with her shoe. She was frowning.
‘Good idea.’ I returned my gaze to Ned. ‘We’re off to the Historical Society to see Sam Emerson.’
‘Oh, I’ve just come from there. I’m the secretary, you know.’
‘Really? I thought you were more involved in the Richard the Third Society.’
‘Plenty of room for both.’ Ned beamed, even his chins stretching into a smile. ‘It’s the history that draws me in. The people. What did you want to see Sam for? Maybe I can help?’
‘No,’ said Quinn rudely. She hugged her box to her chest.
‘What my daughter means,’ I added, ‘is thank you for your offer but we’ve lined up our visit now. It’s just for a school project.’
‘Well in that case I’ll leave you to it.’ Ned jabbed at the elevator button again and this time was rewarded by the grinding sound of gears somewhere in the bowels of the building. ‘Sam’s there. Just barge right in. And say hi to Darcy next time you speak. Tell him we all miss him around here.’
Quinn nudged my foot again, this time a little harder. I took a deep breath and smiled a polite farewell at Ned. Breaking news. Twenty-stone man falls from third-floor balcony. Police suspect gravity.
The Majic Historical Society occupied one of the prized rooms towards the front of Sheridan House, with curved walls and mullioned windows. It was run entirely by volunteers, but such was their dedication that there was more likely to be somebody in residence than not. Today was a full house, with five people having what appeared to be a meeting. I recognised Sam Emerson and Willy Akermann, who was the manager of Sheridan House, along with his wife Leisl and the mayor, James Sheridan. The latter was a dapper man who reminded me of Fred Astaire, and his bountiful smile adorned so many posters that even kindergarteners knew who he was. They looked up as I came to a halt in the doorway.
‘Ah, sorry. I’ll come back later.’ I tried to reverse but unfortunately Quinn was so close that I stepped on a good part of her foot. She yelped.
‘No, no,’ said James Sheridan, his smile settling. ‘We were due for a break anyway.’
Sam rose. ‘Just doing some planning. So what brings you here, Nell?’
Quinn poked me in the back with her burden and I stepped forward, releasing her foot. ‘If you’re sure? Quinn just has a couple of questions – for a school assignment.’
‘You’re the writer,’ commented the one person I didn’t know, a middle-aged blonde whose dove-grey roots matched her suit. ‘I’m Deb Taylor.’ She smiled and then coughed, as if wanting to foreshadow her next words. ‘I think you know my sister, Tessa Sheridan?’
I stared at her, taken aback. ‘No, not really. Under the circumstances.’
There was an uncomfortable silence. Quinn squeezed past to look Deb Taylor up and down slowly, with teenage expertise, before turning away. Her victim flushed.
Leisl Akermann cleared her throat. ‘I might make a pot of coffee. At the risk of sounding sexist, Deb, want to give me a hand?’
‘Nothing sexist about it,’ replied Deb Taylor, rising. ‘I’ve tasted the coffee from both these guys. So it’s just respect for the miracle bean, and a desire for survival.’
Laughter greeted her comment, which splintered the unease. The two women left, Leisl giving me a wry smile as I moved aside.
‘Hello, Nell,’ said Will Akermann. Frilly Willy, we used to call him in school, after his mother once dressed him as Little Lord Fauntleroy for a dress-up party, complete with broderie anglaise collar. The name stuck, mostly because it seemed to suit his fussy manner – an attribute that came into its own when he took over Sheridan House about twenty years ago. It ran like clockwork.
‘Hi, Will. I bet things are a little hectic at the moment?’
‘Like you wouldn’t believe.’
‘So, young Quinn,’ said Sam Emerson, ‘what’s this project all about then?’
Quinn shuffled her feet and then took a half-step closer to me.
‘She has to find an unusual fact about Petar Majic,’ I said. ‘So we went to the cemetery yesterday to take photos and, well …’ I glanced at Quinn. She looked about five years old. I turned back. ‘The plaque was loose. You know, the one with his name and dates and all that. It fell off while we were there. Hit the ground and broke in half. Anyway, beneath was another inscription. It says Petar Majic, tragically taken 1 April 1867. Beloved.’
They stared at me. Sam Emerson opened his mouth and closed it again, frowned.
Will steepled his hands beneath his chin. ‘Um, Nell. Are you sure?’
‘Of course I’m sure,’ I snapped. I took the box from Quinn and removed the two plaque halves, laying them on the table before sliding them together. ‘We thought it best to take this with us, so that it couldn’t get damaged.’
‘Any further,’ added James Sheridan softly.
‘Correct. And Quinn has photos of the inscription. Show them, Quinn.’
Quinn stepped forward with her phone, held it up to Sam and then lowered it for the two men still seated. They leant forward.
‘Well, well, well.’ Sam took Quinn’s hand and guided it back towards him. ‘Beloved. Why would it say beloved?’
I nodded. ‘Exactly what we were wondering. Wasn’t he a bachelor? That’s what it says in Abracadabra.’ I gestured towards Quinn, who held up the book with her free hand.
Will’s fingers were still steepled. ‘More to the point, why cover the inscription up?’
‘Perhaps the beloved refers to something else,’ said James Sheridan. His smile had vanished. ‘Like general admiration from those left behind.’
‘Then why wouldn’t it say that instead?’ I watched him with some interest. It was clear that his mind was working rapidly, probably three steps ahead of the other two. ‘Like Much Admired, or Respected, or Sorely Missed. But Beloved?’
Sam finally managed to extract the phone from Quinn’s hand. ‘This is amazing! Absolutely amazing! We have so little from Petar’s life. Plenty from the Sheridan era –’ he paused to nod towards James, as if he were personally responsible for this largesse ‘– but just the bare basics from the Majic one.’
‘So you think he was married then?’ asked Quinn, speaking for the first time.
‘Oh, I don’t know about that,’ said James Sheridan quickly. ‘There’s no evidence to support it. And if so, what happened to his wife after his death?’
‘Have we actually ever done a search for a marriage certificate?’ Sam was staring at Will, who seemed to be a fellow member of the Historical Society as well as centre manager. ‘I mean it’s always been accepted he was single. But did we ever really check?’
‘I’m quite sure somebody would have.’
Sam sat down at one of the desks and began typing on the computer. ‘Give me a sec and I’ll do it now.’ He turned to face me for a moment. ‘Marriage records from 1853 onwards are all online nowadays. I can track a marriage down in five minutes.’
I nodded, suitably impressed. Will and the mayor were gazing at the photo on the mobile that Sam had left lying on the table, comparing it to the plaque. I glanced around the room. It was quite large, with desks on either side of the door and the table nestled in the curve of the window. The walls were either covered with bookshelves or with noticeboards, some glass-covered. There were also some portable display boards, huge, about six of them, arranged in a half-octagon that loomed over the table. They were covered with sepia photographs and certificates and newspaper printouts. Each board also bore a title, printed on parchment in gothic font. James Sheridan I (1835–1908); James Sheridan II (1867–1916); James Sheridan III (1898–1916) & Mary May Sheridan (1897–1990); Sheridans: post-Sheridan House.
‘It all seems rather egocentric, doesn’t it?’ asked James Sheridan, watching me.
‘They’re actually for a display about Sheridan House itself,’ said Will. ‘The rest are already downstairs. But this series is ordered around the Sheridan in residence, up until the house was gifted in 1917. That’s why our James isn’t featured –’ he nodded towards the mayor ‘– nor his father.’
‘Except in Sheridans: Post-Sheridan House,’ I commented.
‘We’re expecting people to be a little interested in the family,’ said Sam, his eyes still on the computer monitor. ‘After following their history through the other boards. It’s all a little Downton Abbey.’
James Sheridan laughed. ‘Except that we’re far more prosaic, I’m afraid.’
‘So you’re like James Sheridan the Fifth?’ asked Quinn. ‘And what’s with Mary May?’
‘Yes, to the first. And Mary May was my grandmother. Her brother, the James Sheridan of that generation, was killed in the First World War. His father died a few months later; he never recovered from the news. So Mary May inherited the lot. Fortunately she was a tough cookie; the first thing she did was make her fiancé change his surname to Sheridan. Then they named their son James to keep the tradition going.’
‘Phew,’ I said. ‘Thank god.’
He smiled, but it wasn’t quite the bountiful one of habit. ‘Yes.’
‘But what about Petar Majic?’ asked Quinn.
‘He’s downstairs,’ said Will, ‘That is, his board is downstairs. Not him.’
‘Unfortunately,’ said Sam fervently, swivelling his chair around. ‘Now, bad news I’m afraid. No marriage.’
I was surprised at how disappointed I felt. If only because I suspected a clandestine marriage would have perturbed James Sheridan the Fifth, and I had never quite taken to him. He was a little too slick, too political. It would have been amusing to watch him negotiate a question mark over the legitimacy of his inheritance. Very amusing indeed.
Quinn’s mobile began vibrating and she dived forward to reclaim it. The door opened and Edward Given came in, followed by Leisl and Deb Taylor, the former bearing a plastic tray with a coffee plunger and six mugs. Sachets of sugar were piled in the centre. Leisl looked surprised to see me, and then apologetic. ‘Oh, sorry, Nell – I didn’t realise you’d still be here. I’ll grab another mug.’
‘That’s okay, I’m just about to –’
‘Still here, Nell?’ said Ned, sliding into Sam’s vacated seat at the table and unwrapping a sandwich. Lettuce curled along the side of the bread. ‘That must be some project.’
‘It is,’ said Sam fervently. He stood up, patting his pants pockets and looking around. ‘I’m going out there. Not that I don’t believe you, Nell, just that I want to see the inscription for myself. Will?’
‘I wish I could. But I can’t. No time.’
‘I’ll come along,’ said the mayor unexpectedly. ‘I find all of this fascinating.’
‘What?’ asked Ned, his sandwich forgotten. ‘What’s fascinating?’
‘Nell has made an amazing discovery out at the cemetery.’
‘Actually, it was me,’ said Quinn modestly, glancing up from her mobile. ‘Mum was just sitting on the bench.’
‘In that case I shall ensure you get all the credit,’ replied Sam. ‘James? Ready?’
Leisl put the tray down on the table. ‘What amazing discovery? What’s going on?’
‘Vandalism?’ Deb Taylor had picked up one half of the plaque between two fingers.
‘Look, we might leave you to it.’ I took a step towards the doorway. ‘I’ll drop in tomorrow with our questions, Sam, after you’ve had a look yourself.’
‘That’s from Petar Majic’s grave,’ said Ned, pointing at the broken plaque. He rewrapped his sandwich and then pushed his chair out in order to stand. ‘I don’t know what’s going on but I’m coming too. This sounds exciting.’
‘It may well be.’ Sam patted his pockets again. ‘Where are my keys? Leisl, do you know where the camera kit is?’
Leisl folded her arms across her chest. ‘I’ll tell you if you tell me. And I know it’s not just vandalism. I haven’t seen you this excited since they found Richard the Third’s remains.’
I caught Quinn’s eye and gestured towards the door. We made our exit quietly, although any noise would have been drowned out by the conversation now taking place. Quinn continued to text as we walked, no doubt catching up on the fifteen minutes she had been incommunicado. I stopped at the bathroom, leaving Quinn outside, and then folded myself forward as I sat down, staring at the tiled floor. I wondered if Deb Taylor would mention to her sister that she had run into me today, and whether Tessa would feel even a frisson of guilt. Or perhaps she would simply take it in her stride. Oh, really, dahling? How awkward. Then she would sashay over to their designer kitchen to pour margaritas, which she would take to the balcony of the tenth-floor Gold Coast apartment. Sinking down into a chaise longue to enjoy the sun dipping into a diamond-sprinkled coastline. With my husband.