Goodwood (13 page)

Then Kevin said he was feeling much better in general after some exercise—the best he'd felt since Susan passed—and that the lovegrass in his south paddock was flowering very early this year. Mack put his notebook in his pocket and had complicated thoughts.

‘What do you make of it?' asked Kevin.

‘At this point,' Mack said, ‘I couldn't tell you.'

He walked back to his car and Kevin escorted him along by the big milking sheds. Remington stood sentry in the doorframe. The moo of a cow punctured the air.

Kevin smiled. ‘It's hard not to moo back, isn't it?'

Mack felt bad for Kevin. A man in his sixties doing it all by himself. It was a chancy business, too, farming. Nan had
always said that. Drought, disease, the lack of rain, the price of milk. And every day without Susan.

‘Sure is,' said Mack. ‘Really had to stop myself there.'

Kevin nodded and silently studied his paddocks.

On his way home Mack drove back past the clearing, easing off down the road that ends in the cul-de-sac of trees. It had rained on Goodwood since the Corolla had been parked there. It had poured down—on the day that Roy and Derek Murray had their fight at Woody's—and the ground offered no indication of tyre tracks or any other clues. Mack stood, as the trees sang with birds, and felt as small as a wing among the ancient trunks and branches.

18

Big Jim and Fitzy mounted their rain gauge on a wooden post in their garden on a fine day in early spring, as jasmine flowers scented our yards and Backflip ate dirt under the eucalypt. Big Jim was in a terrific mood, after spotting a pied oystercatcher on Grants Lake that morning—so far inland!—and bored us to tears with descriptions of its handsome plumage. I had to remind myself, in a moment of great intolerance as Big Jim hung over our fence with his newly updated second edition of
A Field Guide to the Birds of Australia
, that at least Big Jim was in some ways preferable to our neighbours on the other side. At least Big Jim mowed our lawn and brought us herbs and vegetables. And at least Fitzy, when she wasn't crashing into something, was nice.

Our next-door neighbours on the other side, Con and Althea, were ancient and peculiar. They hung plastic bags to dry on their clothesline, used their hose as a broom, and were
far too old to talk to. Like most women in her family, Althea was known for her uncanny ability to determine the sex of unborn children. It was something about the way a woman carried, and she'd examine from the front, the side and the rear before making her forecast. With an unchallenged success rate, she was like the Nostradamus of Goodwood, and often wore too-tight skirts with the slip showing. Mum and I, having not had a pregnancy for Althea to witness, had not spoken to her much. We were, however, intimately accustomed to the sound of Con and Althea's automatic roller shutters, which went down, noisily, around seven every night, and rolled up again every morning at six. What they did in their house-cave of an evening, with no shred of external light—from sun, moon, streetlight or stars—we had no idea.

Coral, on the other side of Big Jim and Fitzy, was also ancient, and breathed the air of other people's business. On most days, Mum couldn't stand to look at her, but on some days Coral had some pretty great information, and we lowered ourselves to listening to it on the footpath, where a little circle of neighbours would gather as Coral held court. She wore noticeable hearing aids—brown shells that gripped her hairline and fed little tubes into plastic cocoons in her ears—and yet she seemed to hear everything, and more immediately than anyone else. She heard first when Bart had the heart attack on the horse trail and was sped to Clarke Base Hospital by Mrs Bart's sister Jan, who ‘never married'.
She heard first when Nance found a lump in her breast, which thankfully turned out to be a fibro-adenoma. She heard first when Fitzy flattened the railing and almost ended up in the lake, only to be returned safely by Kevin Fairley, who smelt like pie. And she heard first that Mike, the kindly man who cleaned the storefront windows on Cedar Street every second Monday, had actually spent four years in a maximum-security prison. In her retellings of these particular events, Coral also seemed to imply that there was something untoward about Jan and Kevin, whose chauffeuring of people in need took on the scarlet hue of extramarital scandal.

Not only did Coral hear things first, she was also the first person to tell everyone else about it. She didn't really stand next to people when she did either, but rather huddled with them, even when her information wasn't that exciting. I think the huddling had become a habit. After spreading salacious gossip for so many years, she had to look around three times and lean in to tell you it was Tuesday.

But while all the very exciting things that had gone on in Goodwood up until then had buoyed her on each trip to Cedar Street and back, the events of 1992 changed Coral.

Rosie's disappearance was one thing. Coral didn't think much of Carl White, because he was always playing the pokies at the Bowlo when she went in for a shandy and she didn't trust a man who was so loose with his pennies. She felt sorry for Judy White, because she put up with Carl, and didn't
even get to put up with him over a nice steak dinner. Not once had Coral seen Carl and Judy having dinner together, at either the Bowlo or the Wicko, and every man should take his wife out for a nice steak dinner every now and again. The Wicko even did a Sunday roast from June till August. Besides, Rosie had probably run off with a boy. That Rosie, she had an unfamiliar attitude, and Coral didn't understand her dark sense of fashion any more than she understood Davo Carlstrom and his outspoken poverty.

But Bart. Goodwood's own Bart McDonald. Bart was seldom out of Coral's thoughts.

When the McDonalds had moved to Goodwood, Bart was undoubtedly ‘the most handsome man we've had', as Coral declared to Nan at the CWA craft circle. ‘
Coral
,' said Nan, amused, ‘I'm clutching my pearls.'

Coral thought Mrs Bart was nice enough. Maybe not nice enough to have been elected Secretary quite so soon, and perhaps Coral had in fact voted for Mary Bell, whose unfortunate face had held the position for almost two decades prior. Coral was one of the only people in Goodwood who referred to Mrs Bart by her given name of Flora. According to Coral, Flora was just Flora. But Bart was an absolute gift of a man.
So
terrific,
so
kind,
so
interested in Coral's myriad opinions. Before Bart opened up shop, Coral ate red meat twice a week, on Thursdays and Sundays. Having lived through both world wars, she was thrifty and had a tendency to ration. But when
the fluorescent lights of Bart's Meats flickered alive on Cedar Street like the heady glow of a fresh carcass, Coral became ravenously carnivorous. Every day, from Monday to Saturday, she rolled her tartan shopping trolley past our house, past the seven bottlebrushes that lined our street on the way to town, around the corner by the Wicko, and up to the main shops with the sole purpose of seeing Bart, having her wonderful daily chat with Bart, and buying a tiny portion of lamb.

‘Coral, you look absolutely delightful,' Bart would say in good humour. Or, ‘Looking younger every year, Mrs McLeod.'

Poor Coral. Mr McLeod had been dead so long that Mum couldn't find the memory of his first name, even though she'd heard it spoken numerous times, and had to ask Nan. Nan said it was Charles. He was a fighter pilot for the RAF Bomber Command until he fell out of the sky in 1944, leaving Coral both husbandless and childless (since they hadn't got around to having any yet).

After Big Jim mounted the rain gauge, and he and Fitzy scanned the sky in the hope of a dark cloud, the sound of Coral's trolley rolled past on the pavement. I was sitting in the living room as Backflip twitched in her sleep on the rug. Coral was off to look in on Joe, who was really such a poor consolation for Bart. Since Bart had vanished, her trolley went slower than usual, as if her whole life's purpose was diminished, and time was no longer of any essence.

•

Mum had organised her secondary books into three piles: a pile to keep; a pile to donate to Bookworm; and a small box of crime novels for Mack, who was making a concerted effort to read.

At five-thirty, he arrived to pick up his selection, and then drive us up to the Bowlo. He carried them out and put them in the back of his police car while Mum gave Backflip a bowl of biscuits on the back pavers. Then we got to ride in the police car, siren off, towards a nice steak dinner. Tracy and Jasper met us there, as well as Denise and Brian, and Opal and Ken Jones, who were having a rare night out. Opal Jones wrote for the
Gather Region Advocate
, so Mum knew her professionally, as well as from around town. But the reason they were there was Ken Jones, on Mack's invitation.

Ken and Mack had gone to Goodwood High together and still knocked around as friends, as one of a smallish group from the class of 1978 that had never moved away. Mack felt sorry for Ken because Opal wore the pants in the Jones house and rendered Ken emasculated at every given opportunity. Mack, an empathic man, told Mum he was going to get that poor guy out from under Opal's thumb, one fishing trip at a time.

I didn't care much about the predicament of Ken Jones. Most interesting to me was the fact that the Joneses lived right next door to Carl and Judy White. And judging by the look on Denise's face—which was wide-eyed and conspiratorial
whenever Opal said pretty much anything—I figured that fact was quite interesting to her, too.

Everyone except me ordered steak with chips, vegetables and their choice of sauce, and I ordered the vegetarian cannelloni. Mum proceeded to get a bit tipsy since she wasn't driving. The Bowlo was brightly lit and brought out everyone's pocks and creases. It was a funny place of an evening, since its main activity happened in the daytime, when old people in white trousers and pale yellow shirts ran heavy balls along the green, as slow as snails, and drank from jugs of shandy. On Wednesday nights, Carmel Carmichael poured beers and made small talk with the regulars at the bar, old Mal West included, his cane resting against the adjacent stool. The bistro was carpeted, large and underpopulated, and had the feel of a wedding reception centre for a couple with no imagination.

When our dinner arrived, everything smelt like meat and sauce, even the cannelloni. Mack did a good job of fielding questions from Opal Jones, who acted like a hard-hitting journalist, even though she only wrote articles about sad things, like lost cats, or happy things, like people being reunited with lost cats. Mack said, under questioning, that no, he had not become aware of anything untoward about Davo Carlstrom. Davo's as upset as everyone. More so, in fact, since he and Rosie were, you know, close.

‘Close as in her boyfriend?' asked Opal, like we should all know what
that
meant.

‘Yeah, they were going out,' said Mack.

‘You know it's always the boyfriend,' said Opal, raising a glass of chardonnay to her lips and winking as Ken Jones hushed her meekly.

‘Ah, Christ, Opal,' said Mack, irritated.

‘So nothing new at all? There's just nothing?' demanded Opal Jones.

‘Not nothing,' said Mack defensively, ‘just nothing right now. And we're having a nice steak dinner, so come on.'

Denise, who had been quietly eating her steamed vegetables, made her move. ‘But, Opal,' she said, ‘
you
must've heard something? Living right next door?'

Brian and Mack and Ken Jones stared at their plates in a stoic, detached fashion. They pushed their steak knives through their scotch fillets. Jasper smeared tomato sauce all over his plate with his fingers. All other eyes turned to the fountain of information that was Opal Jones. She breathed in and nodded at each of us, cherishing her moment as keynote speaker. Then she launched, like a ship into the ocean. Spray and waves rolled off in her wake. No one knew an intimate detail like Opal Jones.

Rosie had, after all, vanished just after having lunch at their house—and Opal was very insistent that we all knew that they were some of the last people in Goodwood to have seen Rosie; and the second-last people in Goodwood to have served her a meal, which was a barbeque lunch of sausages and bread and two very interesting salads that Opal
had found in the
Women's Weekly Dinner Party Cookbook
at the library. That was nice because Denise had recommended the book, she'd just updated the cooking section, and the two women clasped hands for a moment over the salads—they were a triumph!—and then Opal went on.

Poor Terry was very depressed. That much was obvious with just the way he walked now. He didn't even walk, he slumped. He just slumped and shuffled around town, putting up his signs and whatnot. It's just not right; he's so young. What a thing to happen. And with no warning whatsoever, just poof! Honestly, there was no hint of what was to come at the barbeque lunch that they'd had with the triumphant interesting salads, even though Rosie didn't stay very long. But you know how teenagers are. And who makes Terry's lunches now? Opal was quite worried that Judy didn't.

And as for Jude, well you never see her. She hovers sometimes in the window, or behind the screen door. It looks like she hasn't gotten out of that dressing gown for weeks. Opal knocks and she knocks, and she knows Jude's in there but Jude doesn't answer. Then later, when Jude hovers, she won't return a wave. It's just so sad.

‘Isn't it nice that so many people sent flowers?' said Denise, as a kind of question-statement.

It
was
nice. But so many flowers that they ran out of vases pretty much straight away! I mean, of course they did. Who has that many vases, just waiting for a tragedy? And, actually,
that was the last time Opal had spoken to Jude properly, when she dropped over some empty vases at Terry's request. He's such a nice young poor boy.

Sympathetic nods came from Denise.