Short and Sweet (24 page)

It’s what happened to me. I got published as my second career, when the children were teenagers. And my goodness, I’ve enjoyed it so much more than my first career. I’m now utterly addicted to storytelling.

‘
B
ut Mum, I was counting on you to babysit Ben!’

Jenny steeled herself. ‘You didn’t ask me early enough. Sorry, but I’m going out tonight.’

‘But you never go out at night since Dad died!’

She moved to hold the door open before Helen could ask any more awkward questions. ‘See you soon.’

Once her daughter’s car had pulled away, she sagged against the wall. She’d done it. Stood her ground. Just.

It wasn’t that she objected to looking after her grandchildren occasionally, but her daughters had been taking her babysitting services for granted since her husband died. Especially Helen, who had recently got divorced.

At eight o’clock that evening the phone rang.

‘I thought you were going out, Mum.’

‘Oh. Well – um, yes I was. But my friend had to cancel at the last minute.’

‘Oh, good. I mean, I’m sorry about your night out, but I still haven’t found a babysitter, so I’ll just bring Ben round.’

Before Jenny could say a word, her daughter had put the phone down.

The doorbell rang a few minutes later and Helen dumped four-year-old Ben then rushed off. ‘See you in the morning, Mum!’

As soon as his mother left, Ben started to cry and wanted to be cuddled. It was one o’clock before Jenny got to bed and even then she lay awake for ages, annoyed at herself.

She’d worked out a campaign to gain more independence from her family – and what had happened? She’d failed to carry it through, that’s what. Why, oh why had she picked up that phone?

Helen phoned first thing, waking Jenny after only three hours’ sleep. ‘Look, Mum, I’m running late. Will you please keep Ben till I get home from work? Sorry to dump on you, but it’s the first good night out I’ve had since the Rat left me.’

‘But I—’

The phone clicked down. Jenny looked at herself in the mirror opposite. ‘If you don’t do something drastic, my girl, you’ll turn into the family drudge.’

By mid-morning she was so tired of being shut up with a fretful toddler she took him out for a walk. When it began to rain, they took shelter in the nearby shopping centre. She bought Ben a comic and herself a magazine.

It wasn’t till she sat down with a cup of coffee at home that she realized she’d picked up the wrong magazine. Ben sat happily turning the pages of his comic. Maybe he would be a reader like his grandmother one day. The rest of her family weren’t interested in books.

‘“
Writing Australia
”,’ she read the title of her magazine aloud. ‘Well, that’ll make a change.’

It was more than a change. It was fascinating. She’d never realized how much went into writing a book, though she’d dabbled with writing short stories a few years ago – had even had a couple published – but in those days there had always been someone calling, ‘Mum, can you just . . .’ and she’d given up.

She was about to close the magazine when she noticed the advertisement.

SUMMER SCHOOL. Learn to write in peace
and privacy. Beginners welcome.

‘Ah,’ she sighed. ‘It must be wonderful to—’ She stopped and read the advertisement again: ‘
Beginners welcome.
’

After Helen had collected Ben, Jenny went on line and found out more about the Summer School. Did she dare? Would the other people all be younger than her? Was she making a fool of herself?

First thing in the morning she went on line again to apply, then went out to buy a new computer. She’d hardly touched their old one since John died and it was a bit elderly; took ages to download anything.

She went up to a woman her own age who was straightening a display. ‘I need a new computer, a good one.’ The company’s insurance policy on John’s life had been so huge that Jenny would never want again. It was no compensation for losing him with shocking abruptness in an accident, but there was no denying it helped you to get on with life if you had money.

By the time the two women had spent an hour together deciding what was needed, they’d also discovered they were both widows and had exchanged phone numbers. As an afterthought, Jenny bought a fancy new telephone that told you the callers’ numbers.

That evening she heard the phone, tiptoed up to the new machine and forced herself to let it ring.

When she picked up the message from the answering service she heard it was Liz. ‘Tom and I are going out on Saturday night and wondered if you’d have the twins for us.’

Jenny immediately rang up her new friend and invited Rose to go out for a meal on Saturday evening.

Then she rang her daughter and said she was going out, so couldn’t help them.

She set up the new computer in John’s old office and kept the door locked when her family visited.

They made encouraging noises about how nice it was that she was developing new interests, but they didn’t like it when she wasn’t always available for babysitting.

She did it sometimes, of course she did. She loved her grandchildren. But she did want a life of her own – and that included weekends.

She still hadn’t worked out what to do about Christmas. Liz and Helen were hinting about spending it here in the house where they’d grown up. They assured her they’d help with the catering, but she’d been taken in by that last year and had run herself ragged trying to make it just like their old family Christmases without John’s help.

It was Rose who found the solution: a Christmas holiday on the other side of the country in Western Australia. It was for over-55s and included all sorts of group activities. Jenny was only fifty-two but Rose said no one would notice or ask.

Jenny invited the whole family round for a drink the following Sunday afternoon and announced her plans then. There was instant uproar.

‘But Mum, it won’t be Christmas if we don’t come here.’

‘No one else has a big enough table, or the time to do things
properly
.’

She took a deep breath. ‘Well, if you want to come round here and use my table, that’s fine by me – as long as you clear up after yourselves.’

Dead silence.

It was broken by the arrival of young Matt, who was eight and precocious with it. ‘You didn’t tell me you’d got a new computer, Gran! I can’t get into it. What’s the password?’

Jenny frowned at him. ‘How did you get into my study, Matt? I locked that door.’

‘I knew where the key was. I wanted to play on Grandpop’s computer.’

Tom swooped on his son. ‘Well, you can just tell your grandmother you’re sorry then we’ll lock up Grandpop’s office again.’

‘Sorry, Gran.’

Jenny nodded, took a deep breath and said firmly, ‘And it isn’t Grandpop’s office any more. It’s
my
office.’

Another dead silence.

When Tom came back he said, ‘I didn’t know you were into computers, Ma. That’s a good one.’

‘Oh, they’re part of modern life, aren’t they?’ Did he think she was still living in the dark ages?

Helen smiled at her. ‘No need to be ashamed, Mum. It’s the age of adult toys. Everyone plays computer games and goes surfing the Net nowadays.’

Jenny didn’t contradict her. Writing was too new a dream to share with others.

She came home from Summer School so enthused she signed up for a correspondence course on romance writing and spent a lot of time during the next few months learning how to write. On her tutor’s advice she became a member of the Romance Writers of Australia, joined their on-line chat list and started entering their competitions.

Her family assumed she was going out with Rose and the ‘oldies’, as they called the new friends she’d made. How patronizingly they said it – ‘oldies’. Well, she’d show them!

Eighteen months later she sat back and stared in wonderment at the pile of paper she’d just printed out. Her second novel. The first one had taught her a lot but it hadn’t been good enough. This one had gone well from the start, however, and now – well, it was ready. She hoped.

Only Rose knew what she’d been doing. She was going to read the novel for Jenny and had promised to be totally honest about her reactions. Which led to a few days of nail biting.

‘I love it,’ Rose said when she brought the manuscript back.

‘Do you really? You’re not just saying that?’

‘Didn’t I promise to be honest? I can see your heroine as clearly as I see you. And I was half in love with the hero.’ She patted Jenny’s arm. ‘You’re better at writing than I thought you’d be.’

‘But what do I do with it now?’ Jenny wondered aloud as she stared at the final draft. She was terrified of submitting it to a publisher. It was one thing to be rejected. Most novelists got rejected at first. But what if they said she couldn’t write for toffee? That’d ruin her bright new life.

The next day she saw an advert for a competition run by a popular women’s magazine and in a fit of what-the-hells, she sent off her story.

Then she started writing another. She was utterly determined to get published, however long it took.

Ten weeks later the phone rang and a man’s voice said, ‘Jenny Foster?’

‘I don’t want to buy anything.’ she began automatically.

He chuckled. ‘I’m from Janson Grey publishers. I’m Matt Perney, calling to say you’ve won our “Write a Bestseller” competition.’

Jenny gasped and clutched at the desk. ‘I don’t believe it.’

Another chuckle. ‘It was a great story. Look, we want you to come to the presentation night next month. It’ll be a big occasion, with a very elegant dinner. What about your family? Do you want to invite them?’

‘I’ll . . . let you know.’

Jenny picked up the phone to ring her family, then put it down again, smiling as a much better idea occurred to her.

She made all the arrangements then rang them next evening. ‘I’ve got a surprise for you. I’m taking you all out for a very special dinner, yes, your new guy as well, Helen. Oh, and my friend Rose is coming too. I’ve booked the babysitters, it’s all arranged. You just have to be ready when the limo arrives to pick you up.’

‘When are you going to tell them?’ Rose whispered as they sat in the limo.

‘I’m not. When you’re writing, you’re taught “Show, don’t tell” and that’s what I’m doing tonight.
Showing
them I’m a success.’

The evening was dazzling. Matt, who was in on the secret, winked at her as she led her family into the spacious function room. She was relieved that the presentations were before the meal, because it would have been hard to keep the secret otherwise.

When the speeches began, Jenny exchanged glances with Rose and tried to calm her pounding pulse.

‘. . . and now, I’ll stop talking and announce the winner of the competition, who is . . . Jenny Foster.’

There was dead silence at the table as Jenny stood up and walked to the dais. She accepted the congratulations of the speaker, a novelist whose books she read avidly, then delivered the short speech she’d prepared.

When she got back to the table, her daughters were still looking stunned. Liz said, ‘Why didn’t you tell us you were into writing, Mum?’

‘You never asked what I was doing with my computer, just expected it to be a plaything.’

Silence. Then Liz said slowly, ‘No, we didn’t ask, did we?’ Her voice sounded awed. ‘I can’t believe it. My mother’s a novelist!’ She got up to hug her mother and Helen hugged her from the other side.

‘We let you down, didn’t we?’ Helen said.

‘No, you spurred me on. If things had gone smoothly between us, I might never have given writing the effort it needed.’

Helen picked up her glass. ‘To Mum.’ Then she let out a blood-curdling yell and danced her mother round the table.

The Group Settler’s Wife

Anna’s Notes

The first version of this novella was commissioned by the tiny town of Northcliffe, Western Australia, as part of its collection for a Forest Arts Walk. This was a project to draw tourists to the area, where the timber industry was in decline, with sculptures and paintings and stories.

I loved learning about the history of Northcliffe and working with the various other artists.

After this story was finished, I just had to write a longer novel for my UK publisher, with the same background.
Freedom’s Land
was born, which my old agent considered one of my best novels. Group Settlement is an iconic part of Australia’s history and the people who settled the land in groups were for the most part brave and hard-working. I admire them very much. I couldn’t have done what they did.

The following story has been published in several formats, including as a serial for an English women’s magazine. There are slight variations to each version, but the story is basically the same, and is as true to the early settlers’ lives as I could make it.

Part One

Australia, January 1924

T
he ship bringing the migrants to Australia docked in Fremantle on a hot summer’s day in January, seven weeks after leaving England. The settlers crowded by the rails to see their new country and Bill gave Maggie a quick hug, then hugged eight-year-old Jenny too. Peter stepped back hastily. At ten he considered himself too old to cuddle.

‘I’m glad that’s over,’ Bill said. ‘I’m never making such a long journey again.’

‘I enjoyed it.’ She’d made friends, played deck games and benefited from a good long rest. She would definitely be travelling on a ship again one day to go back and see her family, she was determined about that.

It was hours before they were allowed to disembark because they had to undergo medical and customs checks.

Bill muttered about being treated like a flock of sheep as they were herded into a battered old charabanc and driven to the Immigrants’ Home in South Fremantle, but cheered up as they saw parrots flying about freely.

As on the ship, they had to sleep separately, with women and girls in dormitories, and men and boys outside on the enclosed veranda. Food was plain but plentiful, and the women were expected to help with chores like washing up.