Waiting
The jarring chime of the old-fashioned concierge bell trilled noisily to startle the uncaged cockatoo on a wooden perch at the end of the reception desk.
‘Welcome! Bwark!’
‘Well, hello to you,’ Ava replied.
‘Hello, you! Bwark!’
A man’s head, telephone receiver attached to one ear, poked around the doorway of a back room. He smiled at Ava, cupped the mouthpiece with one hand and whispered, ‘Talk among yourselves. Won’t keep you long.’
Glad of the distraction after a disappointing first attempt with John, Ava looked at the bird and wondered what to say. With everything she’d seen and done in her life she’d never before conversed with a bird.
‘I’ve had to deal with a few birdbrains,’ she told the parrot. ‘I reckon you’re smarter.’ She eased herself onto an uncomfortable plastic seat. ‘Nice weather,’ she tried.
‘Think it’ll rain? Bwark!’
She snorted and leaned back into the chair, even more amused when the cockatoo mimicked the sound.
‘You are indeed a smart cocky.’
‘Smart cocky! Smart cocky! Bwark!’ He fluffed his feathers, the small comb on his head bristling, and when his feet danced up and down on the sturdy perch, Ava realised her own feet tapped out an impatient rhythm on a brown and white cow-skin rug.
While the small hotel with the silly name was not her usual style of accommodation, Ava was enjoying the antics of her feathered friend and happy to be there. The Candlebark Creek Hotel on the opposite corner was the last place she’d wanted to stay. Back in ’86, after being dismissed from Ivy-May, she’d been desperate for a job and a room, and Rick Kingston had offered both. For three months she’d worked for food, board and cash in hand, all the while waiting for a miracle.
As in most Australian country towns, the pub stood sentry in the main street and was the first thing visitors saw when they arrived. Once compact, the shops sparsely stocked, Candlebark Creek’s town centre was now spread out over several streets. Unlike some places Ava had passed through on her drive here, it seemed to have thrived, no doubt fed and nurtured by the same waterway that provided irrigation to Ivy-May and other properties further north. The twenty-room Moo-tel, complete with life-size cow statue, boasted a swimming pool in the forecourt, shade sail and barbecue gazebo. The complex occupied a corner block where once there had been nothing but scrub, and tall trees lining the centre of the street obscured Ava’s view of the hotel from where she sat.
‘Good,’ she muttered, while her stomach lurched at the memories she’d rather forget. If she never saw that pub again it would be too soon.
With the telephone conversation in the back room showing no sign of ending, Ava pulled a small make-up mirror from the bag on her lap and inspected her face, dabbing away the moisture between the crow’s feet at the corners of her eyes. She’d wept as she drove away from Ivy-May all those years ago, and she’d verged on it again today, especially when passing the spot where she’d crashed her car. Distraught and in such a blind rage that day, she’d been desperate and foolish. Then she’d been fragile enough to allow Rick Kingston to pull her from the precipice. He’d saved her, both literally and figuratively, or so she’d thought at the time.
Her time in Candlebark Creek had been a lesson in love, loss and survival. Mostly she’d learned once again to trust no one, not to give her heart easily, and to rely only on herself. Marco used to say, ‘Persone forti si salvano.’ Had she been stronger the day Marjorie Tate had sent her away from Ivy-May she wouldn’t have crashed, and she would never have felt beholden to Rick. She should have saved herself.
Rick could still be the pub’s licensee today, or maybe he was now the old codger at the bar, the one every country pub has, who occupies the same seat, telling the same tall stories every night to a new traveller. Rick had been one of those lovable loudmouths, the publican whose yarns entertained anyone prepared to listen, or anyone who didn’t have the sense to go home. Initially, Ava had been grateful for the chance to stay in Candlebark Creek, but as weeks turned into months and she waited for news of a miracle at Ivy-May, Rick’s advances had become harder to ignore.
After those nights when the pub had been so busy they’d had little time for a break, she and Rick would sit in the empty bar to share a bottle of wine and a snack or some peanuts, laughing about the customers and the latest town scuttlebutt. When the gossip Rick relayed turned to the goings-on at Ivy-May, Ava would fall quiet. Fighting tears she’d thank Rick for the snack and after he brushed away the crumbs that had accumulated on his burgeoning beer gut, he’d point to his cheek, tapping his finger twice, waiting for a peck. Harmless enough, Ava thought, as she scooted away to avoid the inevitable pat on her bottom. In the sleep-out with the broken lock at the end of the veranda, she would barricade the door with a chair and stare wide-eyed at the ceiling, convincing herself the wait would be over soon.
Pub scuttlebutt continued to provide news snippets about the poor fellow out Ivy-May way, the occasional titbits teasing rather than telling her about John and the condition that remained a talking point in town. It was as much of a puzzle as his prognosis. Marjorie and Colin Tate might have been managing their son’s convalescence, but they couldn’t control community chatter at the bar. So Ava had waited, praying the town gossip would eventually let her know that John Tate was on the mend, recovered enough to remember, or at least to be told the truth – and the telling would be up to Ava because there was no trusting his mother. While she couldn’t be sure how long she’d have to wait for that day, she’d tolerate Rick’s advances and stick it out at the pub.
If only the publican had remained the lovable loudmouth. Ava never knew what tipped Rick from larrikin to lech, only that he changed after the cool-room episode when Katie O’Brien had come into town.
*
That morning, Ava had been partway through her stock check in the cool room behind the pub’s kitchen when she’d heard the crunch of tyres on gravel and a car slow to a stop. Even with the door almost closed, and the low rumble of the engine, Ava heard the familiar female voice and Rick’s over-the-top welcome.
‘Well, who’s got their driver’s licence and nice new wheels! That really is a very cool car, Katie-girl.’
‘Marjorie sent me. I’m to see Alf. Is he around?’
‘Young Alf is bringing those extra booze boxes over now,’ Rick replied. ‘You want to pass me the boot key and we’ll toss ’em in the back?’
‘And here’s the money Marjorie asked me to deliver.’
‘Good on ya, love.’ Ava heard the click of the boot opening and Rick’s high-pitched whistle. ‘That’s a lot of champers. What are we celebrating out at Ivy-May this time?’
‘You know very well, Rick.’
Ava slid the cool-room door wide enough to see Rick walk back to the driver’s door with the keys. ‘My goodness, I’d say you’ve filled out almost overnight, Katie-girl. To think you were only sweet sixteen a few months back.’
‘You know that party was for my eighteenth, Rick, and it was John’s twenty-first.’
‘How time flies when you have fun, eh? You sure are looking all woman. Johnno doing okay?’
‘I’m only here to pick up the boxes because Marjorie asked me.’
‘You’re a good girl, Katie, always so eager to please. I’d like to do something nice for you and your betrothed. How about a celebratory cake? Ava went all out on that giant chocolate brownie for your birthday bash, even matching the icing with that very pretty blue dress of yours. Just because she’s no longer the cook at Ivy-May doesn’t mean she can’t bake you another.’
Ava’s ears strained to hear the conversation over the hum of an engine starting up.
‘I’ll find her and have a chat about it.’ Rick was walking towards the pub’s back door. ‘She’ll put both names on top. It’ll be like an engagement-cum-wedding gift to you and John.’
Ava drew too much cold air in too quickly, her hand going to her mouth to mute the cough that wouldn’t be contained. In the process she dropped a giant tin of pineapple rings on her foot. Her cover blown, Rick opened the door, putting a smarting Ava in full view of the girl sitting in the driver’s seat of the Holden sedan, into which Alf was loading boxes.
‘What are you doing hiding in there, love?’ Rick tugged at Ava’s apron. ‘Look who’s here.’
‘What do you think I’m doing in the cool room?’ Her snappy response sounded more abrupt than she’d intended, but Ava blamed it on the pain in her big toe and the face staring back from the car – Katie O’Brien: the girl who got to spend every day at Ivy-May with John; the girl from the property next door who’d no doubt carved hearts and initials into tree trunks and scribbled John Tate’s name on her school pencil case. ‘I’m working, of course. Hello, Katie. It’s been a while.’
All cockiness gone, Katie seemed just as dumbfounded, her gaze darting between Rick and Ava.
‘You’re good to go,’ Rick said, after Alf had slammed the boot and dusted his hands. ‘And tell Marjorie I can do her a good deal on food and drinks if she has the big event in the pub.’
‘What event, Rick?’ Katie now looked annoyed and eager to leave.
‘The wedding, love. You’ll want to get yourself a white dress. Something sweet, but a little sexy, just like you. The champagne’s loaded, off you go, and look after yourself, Katie-girl. Drive careful with that precious cargo,’ he called.
*
That night, midway through Ava’s after-service clean-down, Rick had walked into the kitchen and, without a word, smacked her across the face.
‘Don’t ever speak to me that way again in front of Alf.’
Before Ava could compute what had happened, he was grabbing her and kissing her cheek multiple times, a whispered sorry to go with each peck. Dizzy from the force behind the slap, Ava wobbled and lurched sideways. But strong arms, the same ones that had pulled her from the crashed car on that life-altering day, held tight.
‘I’m sorry, Ava, truly. I’m not sure where that came from.’
Frozen with fear, Ava silently chanted her father’s words: Persone forti si salvano. The strong save themselves.
‘Come ’ere.’ He squeezed tighter. ‘You believe me, don’t you, Ava?’ He was whispering, or was his voice muffled by the ringing in her ear? ‘I didn’t want to hurt you, but you’ve hurt me.’
‘No.’
‘Yes, Ava, you hurt me all the time. I don’t know what you expect of me. I’ve done everything for you, haven’t I?’ His hands moved over her back, rubbing up and down, up and down. Meant to soothe, the repetitiveness worked her into a frenzy. ‘For months I’ve seen the way your eyes fill at the mention of John Tate’s name. Do you have any idea how much that hurts me? I’ve wanted you ever since the day you got off that bus and came into the pub asking for directions. Remember I gave you a lift out to Ivy-May? Do you remember, Ava? Do you?’ His hands gripped her shoulders as if he could rattle a response from her. ‘Answer me.’
‘Yes, Rick.’
‘Every time you came into town to collect supplies I asked you out, but you were always too busy. And now I know what you were doing, don’t I?’
Ava wanted to stand defiant, but Rick, although no taller than her, was burly from carting kegs and rolling wine barrel tables around the beer garden. Her rapid breathing, combined with the stinging in her cheek, was muddling her.
‘I saved you, Ava, and the way you let me rescue you only made me love you more. Don’t tell me it’s not what you want, too. You let me fall for you and I’ve waited to be loved back. Say something.’ He shook her again – harder. ‘Talk to me.’
Talk? Ava had struggled to open her mouth, to take a gulp of air that wasn’t tainted with the smell of warm beer and stale tobacco. She raised a hand to her cheek.
‘Ice will help,’ Rick said, his voice soft again, concerned. ‘You finish up in here and I’ll get some. Then I’ll fix our usual nightcap and snacks. You like it when we chat about changes to the menu. Everything will be all right, Ava.’ He kissed the top of her head. ‘We’ll be fine.’
*
With her hands in dirty dishwater, she felt Rick’s body spoon hers, his hands attaching themselves to hers. ‘Feeling better?’ he asked, as if the only thing ailing Ava was a headache. Before she’d washed the last pot, he drew her hands out of the water. She stood numb before him and let him wipe them with a tea towel. ‘Come on, a make-up cheese plate awaits.’ He led her out of the kitchen by the hand. ‘Your favourite combination of Brie with fig jam.’
Ava let him guide her to the bar where he dragged up a stool behind her.
‘Sit.’
Without protesting, she rested her bottom on the edge of the seat, and heard the glug, glug, glug of red wine spilling into goblets. He picked up her hand, closed her fingers around the bulb of a wineglass and steered the rim towards her mouth.
‘Drink.’ He tilted the glass slowly until she felt wetness on her lips. ‘You’ll feel better soon. Tonight was big and a bit crazy.’
Rick chatted, cut cheese and prepared several crackers for Ava, but she left them on the side of the plate.
‘Hey, love, cheer up, where’s my favourite happy face?’ He sat on a stool, so close to Ava’s that their knees touched. He reached out his hand and his knuckles scraped down her cheek. ‘Quit with the sulking, Ava. I don’t like it and I won’t play second fiddle to no man, especially not John Tate. Not a wise move, Ava. You need to love me – only me. Reckon I’ve earned it.’
A noise, like a laugh, made Ava look up from the glass cradled on her lap. He was smiling. ‘There’s my girl,’ he said. ‘I love this time of the evening when it’s just us. See what you do to me?’ He peered down at his lap, then at her, pride in his eyes and in the smirk on his face.
‘No!’ She made to move but he grabbed her wrists, pulling one hand towards his crotch. ‘I said leave me alone, Rick. I won’t.’
‘My last wife reckoned she could tell me where and when as well,’ he said, his tone threatening. ‘So you listen to me.’
Ava flinched, her neck stiffening against his hand now clamping the base of her skull and squeezing until she felt giddy. When the comb that kept her red mane in the essential French twist fell away, the hair tumbling to her shoulders brought back memories of her mother’s abuse.
‘Not my hair, please.’ She grabbed Rick’s hand.
‘When I was told I’d be sorry for hiring you, and that I should lock up my valuables because you stole from your last employer, I chose to ignore the advice.’
‘I’ve never stolen anything.’
‘Not sure why someone with Marjorie Tate’s standing in the community would make something like that up. Unless she’s talking about you cradle-snatching her son.’
Ava ignored the barb, self-control and inner strength her only shield. ‘Marjorie wants me gone. She doesn’t want me working here at the pub or anywhere in town.’ With no income and no place to live she would be forced to leave Candlebark Creek. Not only that, she would be remembered as a thief. Did Marjorie hate her so much because she’d dared fall in love with her son?
‘I saved you that day in more ways than one,’ Rick told her, his grip around her neck loosening. ‘I patched up that car of yours, making it better than when I sold it to Marj. I gave you a place to live and a job so people in this town wouldn’t think bad things about you. I reckon a little appreciation on your part is overdue, don’t you?’
Ava couldn’t answer. She couldn’t speak at all. She’d never seen Rick like this. He’d always been a flirt, but he flirted with everyone, even Katie today. It was what he did every night in the pub when the local girls came into town. But something had tipped him over the edge tonight. Katie’s visit?
‘I’ve held off long enough, Ava. It’s been months. You’re going to have to start fitting in around here.’
‘What do you mean?’
He straightened on the bar stool until he was looking down on her. ‘For a start you can get into your thick skull that Marjorie doesn’t want you near her son. So forget about bloody John Tate, bake a cake when I tell you to bake a fucking cake, and pay more attention to my needs – starting now. I know you can cook, Ava, and it’s time to turn the heat up around here.’
By morning Rick was back behind the bar, the lovable larrikin and everyone’s favourite flirty publican.
*
A few days later, at three in the morning, Ava crept out of the pub and into her car. In the days leading up to her departure, she’d sneaked her belongings into the boot. She would leave with only the things she’d brought with her to Candlebark Creek, plus a bit of extra cash. For working overtime and tolerating Rick’s mood swings, she told herself. Getting away required money, but she wouldn’t do anything that might further sully her name. According to John’s mother, Ava was already a thief.
‘Well, lock up your valuables, Marjorie, and your son,’ she muttered, as she drove out of the pub’s car park. ‘Ava Marchette is on her way.’