Page 14 of Wild Horses

Late on Friday afternoon Astrid led Christy down a quiet Merriang lane, bordered by overhanging coolabah trees.

The scent of their leaves hung fresh in the air after the afternoon’s light rain.

And there, hidden like a gem among encroaching blackberries and climbing roses, stood the old school hall.

The hundred-year-old edifice of red brick stood solemnly against the sunset sky, and its dusty windows peered out like wistful eyes.

Time had not been kind to the little hall.

Ivy crept over its walls and roof, looking like green fingers holding up the tumbledown chimney.

Christy’s heart quickened as Astrid pushed open the creaking gate into the yard.

One broken window was boarded up and the hall’s cobweb-strewn door looked as though it hadn’t opened in years.

Despite its rundown appearance, Christy couldn’t help but feel a surge of excitement.

She approached the building, her steps slow and deliberate as she took in every detail.

The hall had a distinct charm, a whisper of the countless stories and memories it must hold.

She could almost hear the echoes of children’s laughter and the bustling activities that once filled this now silent space.

Christy stepped onto the worn porch and approached the door.

She traced her fingers over the weathered wood, feeling the texture of years beneath her fingertips.

Astrid shoved it sharply and the door gave way, revealing an interior bathed in late sunshine that filtered through the grime on the windows.

Stepping inside, she was greeted by the sight of an expansive, two-roomed hall.

Wooden beams supported a high ceiling. Dust danced in the sunbeams, and the floorboards groaned under her weight, telling their own tales of age and neglect.

The walls were covered in graffiti, a mixture of crudities and what may have been the names of former students.

At the rear of the hall stood two paint-stained trestle tables and a stack of old chairs, some child-sized. At the other end stood a stage with an alcove to the side. Its curtains were long gone, yet it still held a dignified presence, as if waiting for performers to return.

‘Well?’ asked Astrid. ‘What do you think?’

Christy walked to the centre of the building and took a long look around.

Abandoned mud nests clung to the ceiling cornices in the small room to her left.

Swallows and swifts had taken advantage of a broken windowpane to raise their broods.

The roof looked like it leaked, and the stage floor was rotten, but her imagination was already running wild with possibilities.

The potential of the hall as a community theatre was enormous.

For a long moment Christy stood in silence, allowing the dream to take root.

Astrid sighed out loud. ‘Imagine that stage alive with stories and these old rafters ringing to the sound of applause.’

Christy pictured townsfolk filing into the restored hall, the collective breath held before the curtains parted, the shared sighs and whispers as a play unfolded, transporting people to another time and place.

She stepped onto the stage. It seemed to be yearning for the echo of footsteps and the cadence of voices.

A vision struck her. This charming little hall could be more than a community theatre space.

Perhaps her dream of teaching drama wasn’t over after all. Perhaps she could bring students here.

Astrid came to stand beside her. ‘Are you in?’

Christy picked up an old broom lying on the floor and started to sweep the dusty stage. She grinned at her companion. ‘Does this answer your question?’

Later at the pub the two of them sipped sparkling wine and planned their strategy. ‘Who owns the hall?’ asked Christy.

‘Nobody seems to know.’ Astrid adjusted the silk scarf around her neck. ‘The Western Downs Council offices are in Dalby. We could start there.’

‘These days everything’s online,’ said Christy. ‘What’s the hall’s address?’

‘Twenty-seven Lilliput Lane.’

‘Seriously? That’s adorable. We can do a title search right now.’ Christy’s fingers flew over her phone. ‘Here we are,’ she said at last with a grin. ‘The hall is currently owned by a Harold Goodbody and there’s no mortgage.’

Astrid looked mystified. ‘You found him just like that?’

‘Well, not just like that. I had to pay twenty-three dollars to the Land Titles Office first.’

Astrid clapped her hands. ‘How marvellous! Where does he live?’

Christy frowned. ‘I don’t know. Unfortunately, the title only gives his name. We’ll have to find his address some other way.’

Astrid sighed. ‘Of course, in the old days we’d just look him up in the phone book. I haven’t seen one of those for years though, have you? I wonder what happened to them all?’

Christy’s eyes widened. ‘You’re a genius!’ she exclaimed. ‘I bet that’s online too.’ She snatched up her phone. ‘What was it called?’

‘The White Pages – that was for residential numbers. But I don’t imagine many people would bother listing—’

‘Got it,’ called Christy. ‘Harold and Edith Goodbody, fifty-seven Diggers Road, Dalby. There’s even a phone number – a landline.’

‘Well, what are you waiting for?’ said Astrid, her face flushed with excitement. ‘Call them!’

An hour later they were on Harold Goodbody’s doorstep.

‘Sorry for bothering you this late,’ said Astrid, when the door opened.

The man standing there had a lined face and stooped shoulders, yet his eyes, a faded shade of blue, shone bright and clear. ‘Come on in, ladies.’

The scent of old books and pipe smoke tickled Christy’s nose as she sat beside Astrid on the chintz couch. ‘I hope we’re not keeping you up.’

He dismissed her concern with a wave of his hand. ‘To tell you the truth you’re doing me a favour. Since my Edie died, I barely sleep anyway.’

The living room was a 1970s time capsule adorned with photographs of the couple from their wedding day right up to when they both had silver hair. A gold-framed image of the school hall in its heyday caught Christy’s eye.

‘Mr Goodbody—’ she began.

‘Please, call me Harry. Now what’s all this about?’

Christy pointed to the picture. ‘We believe you own that hall.’ He nodded. ‘We’d like to lease it from you for the local drama group we’re starting in Merriang.’

‘Yes,’ said Astrid. ‘We want to restore your hall and breathe life back into it.’

‘Well, well.’ Harold’s eyes misted over.

‘Do you know that Edie and I fell in love there during a school play more than seventy years ago?’ He pushed himself out of his chair and picked up a picture from the sideboard.

It showed a dark-haired smiling girl of about fifteen.

‘I first held this beauty’s hand during the final bow. ’

Hairs prickled on the back of Christy’s neck.

‘Some years ago, there was talk of the hall being knocked down. We couldn’t let that happen, so we bought it,’ said Harold.

‘That place was once the heart of Merriang. Edie would love to know it could be part of the community again. I’m only sorry she isn’t here to see it happen.

’ He replaced the photo, sat down again and seemed deep in thought.

The ticking wall clock sounded loud in the silence.

‘Tell you what,’ he said at last. ‘I’ll lease you the hall for a peppercorn rent.

I have enough money for the simple life I live. ’

‘That’s wonderful,’ gasped Christy.

‘There are two conditions, though.’ Harold’s blue eyes twinkled. ‘Bring me to your first opening night and put up a wall plaque dedicating the hall to Edie.’

Astrid’s hand found Christy’s, squeezing tight in a silent victory cheer. Christy’s heart swelled with happiness and gratitude. They’d been offered more than a building – they’d been entrusted with a legacy.

They began work on the hall first thing the next morning.

‘Looks like we’ll need an army to tackle all these cobwebs,’ sighed Astrid, brandishing a broom like a weapon.

‘Or just two determined women with a vision,’ countered Christy, stepping forwards to join Astrid in the fray. Together they began the methodical work of reclaiming the hall from the dust and detritus of time.

As they swept and scrubbed, the space echoed with their chatter.

‘How’s Tyler settling in at your place?’ Christy wiped a bead of sweat from her brow. She paused to admire Astrid’s technique for coaxing a particularly stubborn spiderweb down from the rafters.

‘He’s the perfect tenant.’ She put down her broom.

‘Weet-Bix is my go-to breakfast, but do you know what Tyler made me this morning? French toast with caramelised pears and ricotta cheese. It was so scrumptious. I’ll admit I’m no cook and my kitchen is usually pretty bare.

But to celebrate getting his car back he went grocery shopping, and for once my fridge is full of fresh food.

’ Astrid frowned. ‘He’s a quiet one though. Keeps himself to himself.’

‘I’ve noticed that too,’ said Christy. ‘Tyler’s friendly enough, but it’s all small talk. Try to draw him into anything deeper and he shuts down.’

The pair of them made good progress. Even the air seemed to grow cleaner as they worked – mustiness replaced with the scent of pine cleaner and the promise of new beginnings.

They were about to stop for lunch when Tyler stepped into the hall carrying a big picnic basket. ‘I hope you don’t mind that I borrowed some things from your kitchen, Astrid.’

Astrid beamed at him. ‘Help yourself any time. It’s too dusty to eat in here. Let’s sit out on the porch.’

‘You’re a lifesaver,’ said Christy. ‘I’m starving.’

She watched Tyler lay out lunch on an old trestle table.

He moved with the grace of someone accustomed to the dance of the kitchen, where every step was measured, every action precise.

And this was no ordinary picnic. His basket was like the Tardis: crockery, cutlery, cups and glasses emerged from its cramped interior.

He took out two chill packs, followed by Tupperware containers, a bottle of apple cider and a thermos.

He plated the food with a flourish, announcing each dish as he did.

Zucchini and cheddar pie with sage-leaf pastry.

Baby potato and green bean salad. Olive, onion and tomato tartlets.

Pumpkin and parmesan arancini with salsa verde.

And for a sweet finish, almond jam drops and lemon coconut cheesecake.

Christy couldn’t believe it. ‘Cooking this lot must have taken you days.’

Tyler looked mildly puzzled. ‘No, all freshly prepared this morning. It’s simple picnic food – nothing complicated.’

Christy looked disbelievingly at the cheesecake topped with meringue kisses. ‘Simple picnic food is sandwiches and bananas. Maybe a packet of Tim Tams thrown in.’

‘Ugh!’ Tyler looked disgusted and produced a polished silver drinks tray from somewhere.

Christy laughed. ‘So you’re a magician as well as a chef.’

Tyler moved Astrid’s bag aside. It tipped over, spilling a deck of colourful tarot cards onto the table.

‘I should have guessed,’ said Christy.

‘Yes, my girl, you should have. I read palms too.’ She picked up the deck. ‘Who wants a reading over lunch?’

Christy shook her head. ‘No way. I’ll not go tempting fate.’

‘Spoilsport,’ said Tyler as he passed around the pie. ‘It’s just a bit of fun.’ He smiled at Astrid. ‘I’ll be in it. What do I do?’

Astrid grew suddenly serious. She shuffled the pack carefully and then asked Tyler to cut the deck. Then she fanned the cards face down on the table. ‘Concentrate on the question you want to ask the cards and then pick three.’

Tyler bit his lip, made his selection and handed them to Astrid.

She studied them for a moment before laying them out.

‘Ah ...’ Astrid pointed to the first card. It showed a tall burning spire split by a thunderbolt. ‘This is the Tower – a symbol of upheaval and transformation. You’ve experienced a great change in your life, possibly a traumatic loss that has shaped who you are today.’

The air grew heavy as Tyler’s easy smile fled and he leaned in closer.

Astrid’s gaze remained locked on the cards, her fingers tracing the intricate patterns as she continued the reading.

‘Next, we have the Ten of Swords.’ She tapped the second card. ‘This represents betrayal and loss. It seems you’ve been hurt deeply by someone you should have been able to trust, leaving a lasting impact on your ability to form connections.’

Christy’s chest tightened. She looked to the third and final card, her breath catching in her throat.

Even she could tell it meant something sinister.

It showed a monster with harpy feet, ram horns, bat wings, and a pentagram on its forehead.

The figure squatted on a square pedestal between two naked, chained demons.

‘The Devil card.’ Astrid’s eyes bored into Tyler’s. ‘It tells me that you carry a dark secret from your past, one that still haunts and influences your present.’

Tyler shoved back his chair, stood up and stalked off without a word.