Talk of the Town Read online

  Ironically, much of what Leah had taught Lawson about grief and how to handle tragic loss had also helped him carry on when she was killed and the pain of losing her seemed insurmountable. It was true—the good died young.

  ‘Dad?’

  Ned’s high-pitched voice broke his thoughts.

  ‘Yep. What is it?’

  ‘Do you think Meg might get scared out there all alone tonight?’

  Lawson swallowed at the way his son talked about the stranger as if she were an old friend. ‘I dunno, mate, I dunno.’

  But, like Ned, he couldn’t get her out of his head.

  Chapter Three

  Megan woke with a jerk at the sound of movement outside her bedroom door. Her heart stilling, she listened carefully for anything more as she read the time on her alarm clock. Six-thirty. Way too early. Without the enforced routines of the past four and a half years, the days stretched ahead; she’d been enjoying the luxury of sleeping in because it meant fewer hours to fill, less time to pass, before she could climb back into bed and put another day to rest. If there were an intruder, they’d have to deal with her wrath.

  After a few seconds, she heard a slight creaking noise and her heart started up again like some heavy metal rock band inside of her. She glanced around frantically for something to use as a weapon and her eyes landed on a can of spray deodorant on her dresser. A golf club or cricket bat would have been preferable but, in the absence of either, the deodorant would have to do.

  Careful not to make a sound, she crept out of bed and across the room to retrieve the can and then stilled again, listening. After a few minutes of silence, she let out a long huff of breath but kept a firm grip on the ‘weapon’ as she walked over to the door and carefully peeled it open.

  Hesitating in the open doorway, she peered out onto the landing and down the stairs. Everything was still and as she’d left it when she went to bed. Finally she allowed herself a small chuckle that the day after Ned Cooper-Jones had said her house was haunted, she started hearing noises, which must have been the sounds of an old house shifting. Either that or her imagination playing tricks with her.

  Whatever the reason, she was awake now and it would be good to get out for her daily run before it got too hot. With that thought, she went back into her bedroom, dressed in her running gear and then hurried down stairs. She grabbed a banana from the kitchen and wolfed it down, before heading outside, locking the front door and tucking the key inside her sports bra.

  It was a beautiful morning—the sun was shining brightly across the deserted town, glinting off the rusty tin roofs of the decrepit buildings. She glanced left and right and sighed with relief when there was not a soul in sight. As she started running down the road in the opposite direction of the service station, the only sound for miles was the chatter of pink-and-grey galahs flying overhead.

  Farmland and forest surrounded the little town, but Megan stuck to the main road as she didn’t want to trespass and risk running into anyone; nor did she want to risk meeting a snake. Eek—just the thought gave her the heebie jeebies. She ran and ran—the road undulating with the landscape of gentle hills—until she guessed she’d gone about four kilometres, and then she turned around and headed back. Her calves burned a little and she was in dire need of a drink but she pushed herself a little further every day. Keeping her body in shape was more to do with her mental health than anything else but as the other thing that helped with this was baking, it was lucky she enjoyed exercising.

  Once back inside, she filled the kettle, flicked it on and then immediately switched on the radio that sat on the windowsill. Never much of a radio listener in the past, she now found the endless music and the chatter between the hosts comforting. Over the last few days, occasionally she felt like she was the only survivor of the apocalypse; mostly she didn’t mind the feeling but the voices on the radio would hopefully stop her going insane from too much quiet.

  While she waited for the water to boil, Megan popped two slices of bread in the toaster and grabbed a jar of her homemade marmalade out of the fridge. As she unscrewed the lid and lifted the jar to inhale the familiar aroma, she thought about Granny Rose. Her beloved gran was the only reason she had any idea how to make marmalade. Her heart ached thinking about Gran and all the pain she’d put her through. Megan wished she were still alive and she had the chance to make it up to her, but if such enormous wishes could come true, then wouldn’t she just rewrite the past altogether?

  She took the coffee and toast out onto the front verandah to eat. A rooster crowed from the direction of the old service station and wind gently moved the leaves of the jacaranda trees that lined the wide street. She sipped her coffee, munched her toast and enjoyed the peace as she wrote her to-do list for the day.

  More cleaning—when she’d arrived her place had been caked in dust, not to mention such a number of eight-legged beasts she’d had to make a trip to Bunbury to stock up on insect killer. Although originally the general store, the building hadn’t operated as a shop in over thirty years. The last owners had continued to live on in it for fifteen years after it closed—until they’d died of old age within two months of each other. Megan had bought the place from their daughter, who now lived in Sydney, so all interactions were through the real estate agent. The daughter had offered to have the building cleared and fumigated, but Megan had been happy to take the furniture and contents and slowly clean the joint herself, reasoning it would give her something to do besides sitting around and contemplating her navel. She’d promised to box up any personal, family-type items and send them on to Sydney, but the daughter had told her not to bother. Megan got the feeling she hadn’t been close to her parents.

  This was something she couldn’t understand—she’d give anything, do anything, to see her folks again.

  She swallowed the lump in her throat that arrived with that thought and turned her attentions back to the list. Perhaps she’d do a little gardening before it got too hot. So far she’d harvested two of the fruit trees out the back but there were others that needed the same treatment. All this physical work supplemented her running; a bonus considering there wasn’t anything like a gym in Rose Hill for her to join. She chuckled at the thought and the sound felt alien to her.

  When was the last time she’d laughed? Truly laughed?

  Yesterday, when she’d found herself entertaining unexpected guests, she’d smiled again, and the buzz that came with that felt better than she could have imagined. Who would ever have thought that a smile and laughter would be something to celebrate?

  Grinning from ear to ear, she inhaled the fresh country air and then picked up her mug and took another sip. As the caffeine took affect she started to feel halfway normal again. Sorting, cleaning, gardening, continuing with her list of what parts of the building needed more urgent repairs … If she worked hard at this stuff until lunchtime, she would reward herself with a little baking, crocheting or maybe even some reading.

  This had become a bit of a routine over the last few days—but it was her routine, so she told herself that this was okay.

  The day planned, Megan stood, took her empty plate and mug inside and dumped them in the sink for later. Then, she went upstairs and got dressed in suitable gardening attire of light cargo pants, an old singlet and boots. This time of year she wanted her feet and legs covered in case she stumbled on a snake. Before going outside, she brushed her teeth, washed her face and pulled her hair back into a ponytail. The truth was she’d been a little lax about such things the last few days, but the previous day’s unexpected visitors had reminded her of one of Granny Rose’s nuggets of wisdom: ‘Always wear good underwear in case you get in a car accident!’ Or have an unexpected visitor, Megan thought.

  She spent three hours in the garden, weeding the flower beds, picking more fruit from the trees and piling all the discarded foliage in a corner at the back of the big yard—something else to deal with later. Her arm and leg muscles ached by the time the sun grew too hot and she he
aded back inside for lunch. After food and another few hours sorting and carrying clutter from one of the bedrooms out into another pile at one end of the verandah, she finally decided it was time for a break.

  She took her crocheting, a copy of Harp in the South and a plate of cookies she’d made yesterday out onto the back verandah and all but collapsed into the old rocking chair she’d put there. The temperature in the sun had to be mid-to-high thirties, but under the verandah it was just about bearable, and she wanted to sit in the fresh air. With the best intentions to read a few more chapters of her book, she dozed off within a matter of minutes, only to be woken who knew how long later by the clucking of a chicken.

  Her eyes boggled at the sight of a plump, red hen only a few feet away from her. She sat up straighter, picked her crochet off her lap and put it on the milk crate beside her.

  ‘Well, hello there,’ she said to the animal. ‘Where did you come from?’

  In reply it clucked again and she smiled—it was as if the chicken understood her question. Pity she had no idea how to decipher bok-bok-bok. She glanced left to right and out over the backyard as if she might find a clue to the mystery, but to no avail.

  ‘What am I going to do with you?’

  While she kinda liked the idea of getting a few chickens and having fresh eggs daily, her yard didn’t have an enclosure. And besides, she wasn’t about to steal someone else’s. Unless someone had driven through Rose Hill and dumped the bird, it had to belong to the only other resident of the town—Crazy Archie. Telling Lawson she’d go over and introduce herself had been a little white lie. But she couldn’t just ignore the chicken. If it didn’t get home safely by nightfall, it would be in danger of being eaten by the local foxes.

  She felt a prickling sensation at the back of her neck as she realised what she needed to do. Whether she wanted to or not, it was time to meet her lone neighbour. Megan heaved herself out of the rocking chair, muscles screaming from the morning’s exertion and her vertical nap. Then she stared down at the chicken as she tried to work out the logistics. If she got some grain or something from inside, could she lure it to follow her to the roadhouse Hansel and Gretel style?

  Short of another plan, she barked ‘Stay there’ to the hen, then went inside and grabbed some sunflower seeds from her pantry. Whether chickens ate sunflower seeds or not, she had no clue, but it was the best she had until she got back to Bunbury for more groceries. Walsh was closer, of course, but no way was she shopping in such a small town, where the locals would know she was a newcomer.

  ‘All right, chicken-licken,’ she said as she dropped a sunflower down in front of the bird. ‘Time for walkies.’

  The chicken glanced down at the seed and then back up at her as if she were cray-cray. Undeterred, Megan took a step back and dropped another seed on the ground. She repeated this two more times, hoping the bird would get the idea, but it didn’t.

  Dammit. She shoved the sunflower seeds in her pocket and frowned. ‘Are you friendly?’ she asked, and received another bok-bok-bok in reply.

  Perhaps she could leave it there and go over to find Archie, then tell him to come and get it. What if it wandered off and got lost while she was gone? Nope, that would not do.

  Holding her breath, she took a slow step towards the chicken, stooped slightly and held out her hand as if it were a dog or cat she was trying to make friends with. When it didn’t retreat or attack, she swallowed, put her hands out and tried to pick it up the way her granddad had shown her years earlier.

  Success. It turned out chicken-licken was tame and quite happy to be held. Talking soothingly to the bird, she slowly stepped off the verandah and walked around the side of her building to the front. From there she turned left and headed along the cracked, weed-ridden footpath in the direction of the service station, which was a few hundred metres up the road on the way out of town towards Walsh.

  Walking slowly Megan admired the abandoned redbrick post office and the double-storey pub with its gabled verandahs and faded red-tin roof. Across the other side of the wide street was a brown, wooden building, sign-posted as the town hall, and next door a gold plaque on a big rock indicated that long, long ago a school had resided in that spot. The historical buildings were far more beautiful than some of the modern monstrosities built in cities today, but, like the general store, they were all in dire need of a new lick of paint and a fair bit of handyman TLC.

  It made her heart sick to think that once upon a time this little town would have been a vibrant hub, but at the same time she was glad she’d found a place of solitude at such a reasonable price.

  A little further along the road she came to the petrol station, which was all boarded up. A big golden ram was perched on the end of a tall post out the front. In years gone by it would obviously have been lit up at night, but these days it was all faded and chipped. There were two bowsers still in use and a self-serve prepay machine in front of the main entrance, making it clear there was nothing to purchase but petrol there.

  She heard the sounds of more chickens out the back and the bark of a dog, alerting its owner to her presence. For the first time since they’d started out chicken-licken began squirming in her arms, so she didn’t have time to dither or deliberate about whether or not to dump her and run. As the side gate, she peered through the tiny square hole where the latch was.

  ‘Hello, anybody home? I think I’ve found your chicken.’ She held her breath as she waited for a reply.

  ‘Hello?’ came a gravelly voice a few moments later. Footsteps followed and then a grey-haired head appeared. The lips attached to the head cracked into a smile as their eyes met. ‘I thought I must be hearing things,’ he said.

  There was warmth and friendliness in his voice and in the lines etched into his face that she hadn’t been expecting.

  ‘Did you say you’ve found my chicken?’

  She nodded as he unlatched and opened the gate. A scruffy black and white dog stood at his feet. The chicken took one look at the canine and sprang from her arms, although, as it hurried into the yard, the dog didn’t look the slightest bit interested in chasing it.

  ‘He’s not the best guard dog.’ The man chuckled and Megan realised she hadn’t said anything since he’d appeared.

  ‘But he’s adorable,’ she said with a smile as she ruffled the dog’s soft fur. ‘I’m sorry to bother you, but your chicken appeared on my back verandah and I wanted to bring it back so it didn’t get lost or hurt.’

  ‘Thanks. That little witch is always making a run for it.’ His grin grew wider and she noticed he was missing a fair few teeth, but aside from that and the fact he didn’t look like he’d had a good meal in decades, he wasn’t scary in the slightest. He didn’t seem crazy as his nickname suggested either. At a guess she’d put him in his late sixties or early seventies.

  ‘Well, I’m glad she’s safe again,’ she said. ‘I’m … Meg by the way. I’ve just moved into the old general store.’

  ‘I’m Archibald, but if you call me that I’ll have to kill ya. Archie will be fine.’ The man’s bushy white eyebrows lifted as he offered her his rough-skinned hand. She forced herself to put hers in it and shake, trying not to flinch at the direct contact with another human.

  ‘Anyway, what’s a nice girl like you doing in a shit hole like this all on your own? I assume you are on your own?’ he asked.

  She actually laughed, not feeling at all threatened. ‘You assume correctly, and I could ask a similar question. What’s a lovely gentleman like yourself living here in a place like this?’ Although she disagreed that it was a shit hole.

  ‘Touché.’ He dipped his head, his grey eyes sparkling. ‘Can I offer you a cool drink as thanks for bringing back my runaway?’

  While Megan’s throat felt parched, she didn’t want Archie to get the impression she wanted to become too neighbourly. Bringing back the chicken was her good deed for the day, but if she hung around any longer he might start asking her questions.

  ‘Thanks,’ she
said, ‘but I forgot to lock my house so I’d best be getting back.’

  Archie snorted. ‘Haven’t locked my place ever, but maybe you’ve got more to steal than I do.’

  He couldn’t be more wrong. The only things she really cared about in her house were the photo albums and the crochet stuff she’d got from Granny Rose’s estate, but she couldn’t imagine going out without locking up. ‘Maybe another time.’

  ‘Maybe.’ Archie nodded and she was glad he didn’t make an issue of it. He seemed harmless enough but she’d chosen Rose Hill so she could lie low, so it wouldn’t pay to start making friends with the neighbours. ‘You know where to find me if you ever need anything, and thanks again.’

  ‘You’re welcome.’ Megan smiled warmly, ruffled the dog’s furry head one more time and then started home.

  Once there, she went round the back, retrieved her crocheting and her book and took them inside, where the radio still twittered away. Despite the upbeat music, the stillness and emptiness of the house struck her. This was what she’d needed, what she’d wanted in order to heal and to start afresh. Still, she had to admit, talking to Lawson and Ned, and then Archie today, had been rather nice.

  But they didn’t know about her past and if they did, they wouldn’t want anything to do with her.

  Chapter Four

  ‘Smile for Aunty Tab!’

  As Tabitha snapped away on her iPhone, Ned looked to Lawson and rolled his eyes, but he smiled nonetheless as he stood there in the hallway, proud as punch, dressed in his school uniform ready to face the new school year.

  ‘And now the two of you,’ Tab instructed. ‘Outside on the verandah.’

  ‘That’s my boy.’ Lawson ruffled Ned’s hair and grabbed his hand as they followed his sister outside. Although he didn’t love being photographed any more than his son did, he was grateful that she insisted on keeping a record of these special moments. Leah would have been doing exactly the same. She’d recorded Ned’s first three years in beautiful handcrafted scrapbooks and had been halfway through the fourth when she died. Lawson kept them under his bed and got them out to look at more than he would ever admit to anyone, even Tab. Sure, he loved looking back on photos of Ned as a baby, but even more than that, he liked reading Leah’s comments and running his fingers over her handwriting.