Audrey Liza – Chapter 14
Merry Christmas
‘How’re the chooks doing?’
‘Coming along nicely. Starting to brown up now.’ He opened the lid of the barbie quickly, showed her. The aroma of roasting chicken wafted in their faces. ‘What time do you want to dish up?’
He watched Laura’s expressive, mobile face as she calculated. His daughter-in-law to be, mother of his unborn grandchild, was a petite, dark-eyed woman whose olive skin and straight black hair showed her mixed Argentinian-Swiss heritage, though her voice was pure Aussie.
‘Mags and Ian should be here any time now. Time for drinks and nibbles, then we’ll set the table. So three?’
‘Right-o. Well, I reckon these’ve only got half an hour to go. Better to let ’em sit before carving, anyway.’
‘Okay, you’re the boss. Oh, and can you carve the ham, too? If I get to Stevie do it, it’ll be good for dog food and not much else.’
‘Sure thing. And sorry. I wonder what we taught that boy, sometimes.’
‘Oh, he turned out alright,’ she grinned. ‘Mostly.’
It was a mild day for a Melbourne summer: low-twenties with a veil of high cloud taking the sting out of the sun. Not one of those stinking hot Christmases, thank God.
He’d known it was going to be difficult.
At least Laura had had the kindness to press the cook’s apron and barbecue tongs on him. Given him a mission, made sure he felt part of things.
But Christmas, jeez. Didn’t it send your mind back? To all those years when you were at the centre of your own little family. Wrapping the last presents with your sleepy, tipsy wife on Christmas Eve, after the kids had reluctantly gone to bed. ‘Otherwise Father Christmas won’t come.’ Umpiring cricket on Christmas morning in the backyard for Stevie and the neighbours’ kids, while little Ella toddled through and knocked over the wicket, and Doug the collie ran off with the ball. Tending the barbie on the deck in the blazing sun, cooking up a storm and sucking on a cold beer …
It had been a life of certainty and quiet pride. It wasn’t perfect, of course: you had your money worries, the little niggles with each other and the world in general. But it was pretty damned close. You knew your place in the scheme of things – and it was a good place. A life as warm and snug and safe as a favourite blanket.
Fast forward a quarter century, and here you were. On the periphery of your own adult son’s Christmas lunch. Surrounded by people you barely knew. Divorced and technically speaking, homeless. Sleeping in a cramped campervan in the driveway.
Get a grip, mate.
‘Hey, Dad. Thought you could use a cold ’un.’
‘You know the way to your old man’s heart, son.’
Stevie swigged at his own beer, gazed at the party spread across the lawn and deck. They’d be eleven for lunch, with Laura’s parents, her brother and his partner, their two little boys.
‘So we’re going to meet the new love of your life, then?’
‘Huh. Leigh’s hardly that. Just a friend. But she’ll swing by this evening for a drink, yeah.’
‘Shame she couldn’t make it for lunch.’
‘Visiting her dad, in the nursing home. Old bloke’s in his nineties.’
‘Ah.’
He knew exactly what was coming next.
‘Don’t even think about going there, you little brat.’
‘Easy now, gramps.’
‘Ha. Just you wait until you’re elbow deep in shit and baby-sick. Then you’ll know what your old man went through and learn a bit of respect.’
‘Sure, old-timer.’
Daisy the black lab stirred from her station, where she’d been supervising the barbie for the past hour, more in hope than expectation. She gave a faint woof and ambled towards the front of the house, tail and her whole back end wagging lazily. The thump of a vehicle door, then another.
‘Ah. Sounds like your mother and her current bit of fluff.’
‘Dad.’
‘Just kidding.’
Then there she was. He realised he’d been dreading the moment. That smile still tore at him. He received a chaste peck on the cheek as he enfolded her in his arms.
He winked at Ian: ‘Merry Christmas, mate.’ Offered a carefully calibrated handshake.
‘Merry Christmas, Jamie. Love the outfit. Matches your eyes.’
Jamie glanced down at the bright red Sexy Santa apron, several sizes too small for his frame.
‘Aww, thanks, mate.’
Ian went off to attend to the bags.
‘You’re looking well, Jamie.’ Her look showed that she meant it.
‘Thanks, darl. So are you.’ And so she was. She’d put on a little weight, wore her chestnut hair a little shorter. Both suited her.
‘Finally got rid of the tash. What brought that on?’
‘Oh, dunno. Time for a change, I guess.’
‘It makes you look younger. And you’ve lost a few kilos, too.’ She patted his tummy.
‘Aww, yeah, probably. Been keeping busy.’
‘So I hear. You’ll tell me about it, later? The boat and everything?’
‘Course. So what’s our girl up to this Christmas? Not heard from her for a week or two, since she went down for the holidays. Or up, or wherever it is they go.’ Ella was in the UK, doing an LLM in International Environment Law at Durham.
‘Partying at a castle in the Scottish Highlands, apparently. Pals with the laird’s daughter. She says she’ll call you this evening.’
Mags would have reminded her.
‘Ah, yeah. Must be the middle of the night there right now?’
‘Four in the morning. Look, I’d better finish doing the rounds.’ She hesitated, her expression serious. ‘Ian and I have something we need to discuss with you. Later, after lunch, maybe?’
‘Sure.’ He had an inkling what it would be.
There was the pop of a champagne cork, then another. Cheers and whoops. He turned back to his chooks.
He’d been clear in his mind about one thing, amidst the surreal process of their separation and divorce, the dislocation and loss and grief.
He wasn’t going to let Mags lose her farm. He couldn’t have that on his conscience.
She adored those rolling hectares in the hills above Kiama – thankless money pit that they’d proven to be. The little farm was the fulfilment of a life’s dream, a purchase enabled in large part by her inheritance after the untimely and traumatic loss of her parents in a car crash.
They’d agreed that they’d leave the farm trust in place, with the four of them as the notional beneficiaries: Mags and the children and him.
‘But when the time comes, if the time comes, and you’re ready to marry again, your new partner will buy me out.’
It wasn’t ideal for either of them. It had left Mags asset rich, but cash poor. He’d kept his half million in super, but was homeless and only intermittently employed, at a time in life when he’d struggle to get a mortgage.
But she was in her early fifties, a nice-looking woman with a good mind and no fear of hard work. She would manage.
Him? Not so sure.
In the event, Ian had come along quite soon after the divorce order.
Had the stocky little concreting contractor already been waiting in the wings, maybe even before their final separation? Jamie didn’t know, and had decided he didn’t need to. Ian seemed to make Mags happy. He was a handy, practical-minded bloke. Exactly what the farm needed.
He turned the envelope in his fingers.
‘We aren’t expecting a decision now, of course,’ said Ian. ‘Have a think about it, let us know.’
‘Sure. I’ll have to have a word with my accountant and my solicitor.’
‘Of course,’ nodded Mags.
A family Christmas wasn’t the time or the place, of course. Replete with a big meal and several drinks. Still, he appreciated the intent to tackle this awkward business face to face.
Later, when he took a quiet moment alone and opened the envelope, he couldn’t help feeling they were taking the piss.
He hadn’t been expecting half the market value, of course. That was a theoretical sum, compared to what the farm produced, the capital that would have to be invested to make it produce more.
This, though. It was barely one tenth. Ian was good for more than this, surely?
Should have waited until they’d gone.
His phone dinged and he stuffed the envelope in his jeans pocket. Ella on FaceTime.
‘Happy Christmas, Dad!’
Her voice was throaty and her face pallid, her hair a shaggy blonde mane. Clearly she’d had a heavy night. Drinking malt Scotch and roasting poachers over a roaring peat fire, no doubt?
‘Always the joker,’ she groaned, rolling her eyes.
Rejoining the party, he forced a grin, a wink at Mags’ anxious face, and did the rounds with the plate of mince pies.
‘Someone for you, Dad.’
Suddenly Leigh was here. No old bluey jacket, grimy dungarees or slouch beanie today. She wore a bright floral dress that set off her tan. Black strappy sandals with a moderate heel. Her hair was tamed into a bushy ponytail; teardrop pearl earrings accentuated her slender brown neck. The nails of the hands she reached out to hold his face while planting a kiss on his lips had been meticulously painted, though the fingers were still rough and calloused from hard work. She wore crimson lipstick and smelled of something expensive.
She was radiant, and nothing else mattered.
‘Bloody hell, Dad,’ murmured Stevie, as they went to fetch another tray of pies from the oven.
Coming up:
This Friday in The Last Orchard: Leigh visits her father in his nursing home, and learns a thing or two. (Paid subscription.)
Next Tuesday in Audrey Liza: February comes, and Jamie is relieved to be back on the Huon. But all is not well at E.W. Doherty Traditional Shipwrights.