Page 33 of Wild Horses

The evening was settling softly as Christy arrived at Astrid’s place, the sky painted in strokes of indigo and fading orange.

She walked through the spring garden: a wild tangle of flowers and herbs, with wind chimes gently tinkling in the breeze and fairy lights strung between trees.

The cottage itself, nestled on the outskirts of town, had a quirky, bohemian charm that felt instantly welcoming.

Inside, colourful patchwork throws adorned comfortable chairs.

Shelves overflowed with an array of books, from classic literature to astrological tomes, interspersed with small, mystical figurines and potted plants that seemed to grow in every conceivable nook.

The walls were hung with vibrant tapestries and the occasional macramé piece, each adding to the overall artsy, hippy vibe.

Astrid had opened a bottle of wine. Christy sat down at the kitchen table and set up her laptop. ‘I hope you ate before you came,’ said her host, plonking a glass of shiraz in front of her and opening a bag of chips.

‘What – no stuffed mushrooms? Or homemade cheese straws with a Caprese salad?’ joked Christy.

Astrid made a face and tipped the chips into a bowl. ‘So, any ideas on how we can buy the hall?’

Christy sipped her wine. ‘What about some community events – maybe a mix of bake sales and local artist exhibitions?’ she said, her mind ticking through possibilities. ‘You could read fortunes.’

Astrid snorted, making her earrings sway. ‘It’ll take more than gold coin donations. We need tens of thousands of dollars. Although I suppose we could use those gold coins to buy lottery tickets.’

The conversation flowed as easily as the wine, with each idea sparking another.

As the evening wore on, Astrid lit candles that flickered softly, casting dancing shadows on the walls.

Christy’s gaze drifted occasionally to the hallway that led to the spare room where she would sleep tonight – the same room Tyler had recently occupied.

Thoughts of him filled her with bittersweet memories.

She wondered where he was at that moment and if he ever thought of her.

‘We could host a gala performance,’ suggested Christy. ‘Invite the whole town, charge a ticket fee and promote it on socials and in the Dalby Chronicle . Maybe get some of the local businesses to sponsor us.’

‘I could invite along some of my old thespian mates.’

‘What about crowdfunding?’ Christy tapped at her keyboard. ‘We could reach a wider audience that way.’

Astrid nodded. ‘It’s not just Merriang that will benefit from our project, but anyone who values history and the arts.’

Christy’s keen eyes scanned the crowdfunding platforms. Together they drafted a press release and crafted a narrative for the campaign page, highlighting the building’s historical significance and its potential as a community theatre.

They uploaded images of the hall in its heyday, told the Goodbodys’ tender love story and included draft plans for the hall’s restoration and revival.

The night wore on and Christy yawned. Astrid glanced at the colourful mandala wall clock. ‘Time to chuck it in for the night,’ she said, blowing out the candles. ‘See you in the morning.’

As Christy prepared for bed in the spare room, she couldn’t help feeling Tyler’s presence.

The room was simple, with a comfortable bed and a small desk.

A few remnants of his temporary life there remained.

Some scattered books. An odd sock on the floor.

A pen on the bedside table. Astrid was no housekeeper.

It looked like she’d barely entered the room since he left.

Christy imagined Tyler looking out to the garden twinkling with fairy lights. Lying in bed, she found herself tracing the patterns of the quilt with her fingers, wondering if his fingers had done the same thing. She drifted off to sleep remembering their kiss.

Christy launched the campaign the next day and notifications immediately began to ping her phone – donations were coming in.

Each chime was a pulse of hope, and she watched as the numbers climbed.

Supporters from far beyond Merriang were contributing, some drawn by the cause of regional community theatre, and many more by the Goodbodys’ poignant romantic connection to the hall.

Local newspapers picked up the story and soon Christy was receiving messages of encouragement, often accompanied by donations, large and small.

The excitement was tangible. She felt it every time she walked down the main street and was greeted by people who mentioned the campaign, their faces alight with enthusiasm.

‘Tom and I will contribute to your hall fund,’ Clare told her after classes had finished the next day. ‘When I think of the confidence boost that cabaret show was for the kids – for Leo especially.’

‘He’s never looked back,’ agreed Christy.

‘Except for that weird time when he ran away. I don’t suppose we’ll ever know what that was about.’

‘No,’ said Christy, trying not to let the guilt sound in her voice. ‘I guess not.’

‘Leo will be leaving us at the end of next term,’ said Clare. ‘I’ll give him a glowing report that should end his probation, although I wish he could stay on for his final year.’

The news came as a jolt. Leo seemed like such a fixture at Currawong Creek. Christy had almost forgotten the terms of his enrolment. ‘I’ll miss him.’

‘Not as much as Tiffany will.’ Clare laughed. ‘Those two are thick as thieves. They’ve already made plans to meet up in the holidays.’

‘What about Lofty? How will he cope?’

Clare grew serious. ‘I’m not sure. Leo’s the only one who can connect with that maverick. Even Maggie can’t gentle him, and she’s normally so gifted in getting through to the wild ones. But Lofty seems to have taken a dislike to her.’

Join the club , thought Christy, as her phone rang. ‘The estate agent,’ she whispered. ‘It might be good news.’

Clare waited expectantly. But when Christy ended the call, she wasn’t smiling.

‘The hall’s being put up for auction.’

‘That could work in your favour,’ said Clare, brightly. ‘If there’s not much interest it could sell well below value.’

‘It could, and probably will.’ Christy felt sick. ‘But the auction is in a month’s time. There’s no way we can raise enough money to bid on it by then. It may well sell for a song, but it will sell to somebody else.’

As the auction date loomed closer, despair set in.

Despite the outpouring of support, the gap between the funds they had and the funds they needed still yawned wide.

Christy spent every spare minute on the phone, soliciting donations.

She couldn’t let the campaign’s momentum lag.

Tomorrow she’d take the day off and visit businesses in surrounding towns.

Donors might respond better in person. In the meantime, she’d write a letter.

Christy sat at the little table in her room, staring into the darkness, weary after her day’s work and trying to summon the required emotion for the task ahead.

She studied the framed photograph of Harold Goodbody and his wife which hung on her wall.

The couple stood in front of the old hall, all smiles.

Christy opened her laptop, then thought better of it and picked up a pen and paper instead.

Dear Mr Goodbody,

I hope this letter finds you well. My name is Christy Peacock, and I had the great privilege of knowing your father, Harry. The reason I’m writing to you today is of great importance – not just to me, but to our entire community.

Her hand moved across the page, pouring out her heart in every word, explaining how important the old school hall had become to the people of Merriang. She retold the story of how she’d met Harold, and how supportive he’d been of her project – how his spirit seemed embedded in the very woodwork.

Your father told me he fell for Edith in this hall and how they shared a lifetime of love.

I truly believe that preserving it as a community theatre would honour his memory and that of your mother.

It’s what he wanted. Please consider cancelling the auction and allowing us to continue leasing the hall.

Alternatively, you could consider a private offer.

Not that she was in a position to make an offer yet, but saying so might buy her more time. Now to get this to the real estate agent and hope it reached Harold’s sons in time.

Days passed, then a week. Time lengthened into a quiet agony of waiting.

‘Still nothing?’ Astrid asked one evening as they sat on the cottage porch, sipping tea and watching the sun set over the Bunyas.

Christy shook her head, trying to hide her disappointment, and her hope began to wane. It was time to be more proactive.

Next morning Christy took some time off and drove to the Commonwealth Bank branch in Dalby. She walked in with rehearsed confidence, a manila folder clutched in her hands as she met with the bank manager.

‘I want to apply for a mortgage to purchase the old school hall in Merriang,’ she explained. ‘It’s going up for auction soon and I’m keen to make a prior offer. Or failing that, I’d like to have finance in place so that I can bid on it.’

The manager’s face was a mask of professional neutrality as he listened to her pitch.

He leafed through the few papers she’d brought along – bank statements, tax returns, proof of employment and identity documents – then looked at her over his spectacles.

‘Not a particularly stable employment history. You don’t currently own any property? ’

Christy shook her head. ‘But as you can see I have some savings, and the community has donated almost twenty thousand dollars to the hall fund.’ Christy handed him another document.

The manager gave it a cursory glance. ‘That’s all very well, but mortgages are secured loans. Perhaps you could use the hall itself as collateral,’ he mused. ‘We’d need to assess the building first.’