The Crushing Season

By Peta Jo

IN the smoky haze of a small town’s cane harvesting season, May grew up as the silent bearer of her father’s vicious beatings. But four schoolmates save her with the simple act of their friendship.
Now in their thirties and busy with their own lives, the four friends are unaware how important they still are to May: Tate, a ballsy newspaper subeditor is struggling with her new role as mother; Alex, a bohemian soul has let his anxiety get in the way of his future happiness; Leah, the “boy mad” gal is one French backpacker away from her next heartbreak; and Benny, a die-hard romantic is about to give up his dreams and surrender the fantasy of being with the one girl he’s ever loved... Leah.
But it’s May with her unending compassion and loyalty that keeps them all together.
And she’s about to do something that will change their lives forever.

The Crushing Season is Peta Jo's second novel. Described as "achingly poignant and truly heart-warming" by Book'd Out, readers are sure to find five new best friends in its pages.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Peta Jo
• Release date: Aug 26, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310489426

Peta Jo

“...terrified at what I was doing but unable to stop myself...” - Jeffrey EugenidesPETA JO has been writing since she was little, plagiarising RL Stine novels in her maths pad and eventually writing her own YA thriller about orphan children being sold on the black market.But rather than send it to a publisher, she decided to embark on a much-less intimidating career in journalism instead.She graduated from University of Southern Queensland majoring in journalism and mass communications and was a newspaper editor by the age of 25.One slow news day, she decided to pen a short story based on all the weddings she had been in. After a creative writing course through University of Queensland, the short story became the start of a full-length novel which won the Queensland Arts Council’s New Regional Writer Scholarship.She finished her debut novel during a stay at Varuna Writers House and began work on a second.In between rejection letters, Peta had a couple of children and began writing a blog on her parenting misadventures. One such blog post won her the Kleenex Mums’ inaugural So You Think You Can Blog competition.At this time, she decided to self-publish her first novel. She launched it on stage before hundreds at Queensland’s largest bridal expo and toured Queensland, New South Wales and Victoria talking at libraries and book stores, blogging all the way.Now a mother of three, she continues to work on her third book, write a monthly parenting column, review books by other Australian writers and work from home for various newspapers around Queensland and New South Wales.She still gets sweaty palms sending emails to publishers.

Book preview

Peta Jo

The Crushing Season

First published 2015

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons and events is coincidental and not intended by the author.

Copyright 2015 in text: Peta Jo

Peta Jo asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

All rights reserved. Except for short extracts (no more than 200 words) for the purpose of review, no part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, whether electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior permission from the author.

ISBN: 978-0-9872799-2-7

Published by PWPS through Smashwords

Paperback copy printed by Lightning Source Ingram. Available through most online retailers.

Table of Contents

Cover

Title page

Copyright

Contents

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-two

Chapter Twenty-three

Chapter Twenty-four

Chapter Twenty-five

Chapter Twenty-six

Chapter Twenty-seven

Chapter Twenty-eight

Chapter Twenty-nine

Chapter Thirty

Epilogue

Author’s note

Acknowledgements

About the author

Dedication

For the people who helped me get through the rigours of high school with pen on my arms plus a diet of fresh sandwiches and Brad Pitt movies. In the words of someone or other, you’re like my sister (or brother)... one I like to keep under the stairs.

I dedicate this book to my mum. Long may her laughter echo in our memories.

PROLOGUE

THE red dirt tasted metallic. May sobbed as the tall girl pushed her face into the thick, clay earth.

Eat it, bitch.

From the ground, May could see Winnie’s black vollies underneath a tight school skirt, framed by stalks of sugar cane. May gagged on the dirt, thick with fertiliser not meant for eating.

Sorry Winnie, she coughed.

HEY! A girl’s voice echoed down the narrow row in the cane field. Hey! What are you doing? Let her go!

Winnie spun, her stiff blonde hair fanning out, and saw another student running toward them. May glimpsed the hesitation – could it actually be fear? – in Winnie’s eyes before she charged into the next row of cane and vanished into the green leaves.

Are you okay? The girl, shorter up close, hauled May to her feet.

May nodded, wiping away tears on her sleeve.

Thank you, she whispered.

Oh, it’s you. The girl’s green eyes twinkled. I’ve just moved in near you. I see you walk past every morning.

May collected her things, stained red with dirt, and they made their way out of the cane, back into the dazzling white of the morning sunshine.

I’m Leah. Oh, um, you’re bleeding. Here.

Leah pulled out a handkerchief.

Mum always makes me carry one, she explained. The girls cleared a gully and headed back onto the road leading to school.

You’re in my maths class, May finally managed.

Yeah. We’ve got that first but you’re really bleeding. Did you want me to walk you home instead?

No! I mean, nah, it’s cool. Don’t want to miss algebra. May forced a smile. Going upstairs to the classroom, they could hear students groaning inside. May knew Winnie would be in there already. She dragged her feet.

Inside, a female student moaned. Do we have to try and learn this, sir? I mean, why can’t maths and English remain two separate classes?

Tate, you’re not the first student to think up that witticism. Now open your textbook to chapter five. We’ve got a lot to get through. Nice to see you May and Leah, perhaps you could be on time in future? There are some spare seats at the back.

May wiped her nose once more as the new girl, Leah, grabbed her sleeve and dragged her towards the back. The only seats left were behind Winnie, who sat drawing on her hand, staring daggers through circles of heavy eyeliner at them both.

Ignoring her, Leah led the way. May followed on shaky legs. A lanky boy squinted at her nose despite the fact that in almost three years, they’d not exchanged more than two words. Then she realised he was inspecting the new girl. Of course he was. Never mind he was already sitting with one of the prettiest girls there, albeit the whinging one.

Leah rocked back on her chair, throwing off Winnie’s death stare with a cavalier pose. The lanky guy, Benny, continued to stare at Leah and she gave him a cheery grin, leaving May to squirm under Winnie’s intense glare.

Another new kid swaggered in, tossing hair out of his eyes. The teacher slammed some books onto the table in frustration. Everyone jumped.

Thank you for joining us everyone! He bellowed. And only fifteen minutes after the bell. Since we’ve mastered how to tell the time perhaps we can move on to algebra now? There is a seat left at the back, Alex, near Tate there. Tate, since you have no interest in this, perhaps you could let Alex use your textbook?

Tate feigned disinterest but May noticed her fiddling with a loose strand of hair. Alex glanced over for Benny’s approval only to find him and Leah grinning stupidly at each other.

Winnie stared, hard and cold, at May. May sighed.

Everyone seemed to be hooking up and she was going to get her head kicked in by Winnie’s size eight Doc Martens.

CHAPTER ONE

BENNY scratched his mop of hair and eased himself down onto the step to survey the narrow lane in front of his house.

An elderly couple walked hand-in-hand down the street. The houses left no room for footpaths here and so people here literally walked the streets. Benny worried for their safety. Sandgate had fresh air but a bad vibe. It was the north Brisbane suburb that many misfits wound up in, thanks to cheap housing and a shitty beach that richer folk wanted no claim to.

He sighed and ran a hand through his coarse hair. He had to respond to May’s invitation. Did he really want to go home for the weekend?

No.

But he did want to see May and the rest of his friends from the fireside of his youth. A trash fiasco they used to call it, when they’d get drunk, safe from the advances of strangers, tell stupid stories and laugh till their sides ached in the light of the cane fires.

The green horizon would glow orange from giant flames and thick smoke would smother the sky in black velvet. Feathery, black cane trash would cover everything, burning bits of leaves floated on hot drafts of air and charred stalks of sweet cane were left behind to be harvested and crushed into sugar.

To most young people in Bundaberg, time was measured in those warm, night-time gusts. Even now, after living in the capital for years, Benny’s rhythm was still geared around the crushing season. It was hard to shake.

The fires were not particularly eco-friendly, so they were inevitably phased out. Everyone said things between them would change too, when they left school, but Benny never really believed it. They were all so close. They still were, but the gaps between visits had certainly grown longer and longer.

Benny had been trying to recapture that night so long ago, the light, black cane trash brushing his face, Leah smudging it into his skin with her thumb.

But his reminiscing wasn’t turning into any respectable word count and he’d been here for hours. He was seizing up. He wasn’t sixteen after all. He was on the wrong side of thirty.

These days, time weighed on him. He was meant to be Australia’s newest contemporary voice by now and his novel should be in negotiations for a film option. He snorted.

Wanker, he mumbled.

Instead, he was share-housing in a narrow street of Sandgate, an insignificant speck if ever there was one. He suspected Mike, only in his twenties but enormously ambitious, was wondering exactly when his flatmate would move on to the next phase of his life. Benny wondered that himself.

It could be good to see everyone again, he admitted. All of them in the one place. It would be good, he reassured himself. And just maybe it would cure his writer’s block.

TATE ground her teeth together. Listening to a cadet snigger obligingly at Ed’s sexist jokes pissed Tate no end. Despite having no writing finesse, few interviewing skills and a complete lack of contacts, Tate knew that Ed – her boss – was promoting the insipid little upstart.

She’d get an inflated ego, buy herself a zippy new hatchback and Tate would get to fix all her mistakes.

Tate would be the one to put in the hard yards and she was in no mood for this shit. She was being particularly ruthless with all the journos. It was edging towards six o’clock and she hadn’t let a single one of them leave the floor. She had sent stories back for all sorts of reasons. The intro is sloppy, it’s missing a caption, half of this is written in the wrong tense. Go and figure out which half.

Normally she’d fix these mistakes and bark out terse reminders from the lofty height of the subeditors’ office hub – two steps up – on the fundamentals of grammar.

Tonight, they can do it their bloody selves. She never got the credit – or the pay, it would seem from today’s performance assessment – for the effort she put into stories that had other people’s bylines. Why should she bother?

Ed and the cadet came out of the office.

Bronwyn, Tate yelled and enjoyed seeing her flinch. I’m still waiting for the wedding anniversary article.

Bronwyn bleated out it would be ready soon and skittered away.

Better hurry before Walkley’s close, Tate growled at her keyboard. Definitely an award contender, that one.

Ed sauntered out of his office and knelt beside Tate. He lowered his voice. Why aren’t any pages sent yet? They can’t all still be writing?

Tate tilted her head and gave him a blank stare.

Ah yes, they are still writing. Adam’s still working on the horse-whisperer feature because he, you know, needs to write almost three hundred whole words, Gwen hadn’t actually called the developers for the page three lead and Bronwyn is trying to grasp the balls of news-writing.

She’s not that bad. Ed scoffed.

Tate cleared her throat and read Bronwyn’s copy. He said Movember would help raise funds to research prostates. Tate paused and looked pointedly at Ed.

He looked back.

Prostate cancer, Ed. Research into prostate cancer! Jesus.

Ed snorted and shook his head. That’s a good one. Pity we don’t have a blooper reel.

I keep a record, Tate said icily.

Ed sighed. Tate could be a cruel taskmaster at times but he knew it meant an error-free product. He’d been quite nervous, as she took her maternity leave, that she mightn’t come back, yet here she was, back in the chief subeditor’s chair, racking up the overtime and bitchy as all hell.

Well. He stood up to leave. I’ll see you tomorrow.

Ed. Tate grabbed his arm. "Talk about this in the news conference tomorrow. They are putting out some sloppy work. I’m getting half-finished stories. I’m serious. Bill’s story stopped mid-sentence. Mid-sentence, Ed! It was barely more than a brief to start with.

Can you just rein them in? She paused for dramatic effect. Please?

Tate hated pleading but knew it would fire Ed into action. He liked nothing better than playing her hero and he could execute surprising wrath when he wanted. Perhaps then the journos would start taking their craft more seriously and Tate would feel back in control.

It was after nine when Tate finally got home and met her tired husband in the driveway. Nelson was wrestling with their screaming mess of a daughter, Gemima. Both were red.

Nelson offered a sweaty handshake from under Gemima’s bum. Ah, if memory serves correctly you must be my wife.

Mr Kirkwood. She curtsied and kissed his cheek. She gave Gem a perfunctory stroke and kissed her wispy-haired head. Sorry I’m late.

He batted off her apology. Don’t bother, it’s not like she’s been like this since six. I was just about to drive round the block. Want to come?

She shook her head and ignored the flicker of dissent from her loving husband.

Tate knew his mood didn’t auger well for the rest of her evening, but she didn’t let it ruin the next fifteen minutes of peace and quiet.

She let herself inside and went through the usual motions: hanging up her bag, pouring a glass of white wine, tip-toeing upstairs and kicking her heels off, smacking them into a corner where a pile of boots, mules and heels slumped against one another. She plucked out the biro that held her messy curls in a loose bun and stripped down to her underwear. Wearily surveying her body, she grabbed out a t-shirt and a pair of Capri’s. Though her weight was spread evenly over long, slender bones, her stomach had been jelly since Gemima’s birth. Her once-taut tummy hid beneath soft, wrinkled skin not unlike a Sharpei puppy’s flesh. Her only consolation was that Nelson adored it.

Tate took a sip of wine and suddenly remembered May’s email. Shit, she had sent back an enthusiastic RSVP without running it by Nelson.

She had to go. She needed to go. Get away from work, from the baby... Nelson would understand. It was pretty clear motherhood still made her insides itch, even though she’d returned to work almost full-time. He’d want her to get away from it all. She’d come back refreshed and happy. What husband wouldn’t want that for his wife?

Still... She put down her wine, and rifled through her drawers for that black negligee he’d bought her. If she wanted to go, (and she did want to go) she should work for it. She struggled into it and stifled a yawn. A woman’s work...

ALEX drew a breath through his nose and kept blowing. The market crowd grew each week but this morning had turned out a bubbly crowd of young families.

Of course, the usual trouble-makers were there. Teenagers in their shiny Nike pants that would vip-vip between their thighs as they walked past, still shot him malicious glances and occasionally called out something unintelligible.

Alex played on, breaking up the ghostly drone of the didgeridoo with high-pitched pops that almost resembled ‘Land Down Under’. Between him and his girlfriend, they had pottery, crystals, music and face painting. They never sold much but it served its purpose – to drum up business for Elsie’s fairy shop.

Alex finished his performance, wiped curls off his sweaty brow and thanked the nearby customers for their scattered applause. The last couple of days spent moving house and opening the shop had really taken it out of him.

Though they’d been dating for years, Elsie wanted to take things slow. Glacial pace, to be precise. It suited Alex– he usually gorged on new relationships, spending every waking minute with his latest chick, until he grew sick of their company. Taking it slow with Elsie was new and Alex was surprised to find he quite liked it.

In fact, a part of him hadn’t wanted that traditional courtship to end. But his lease was up and Elsie had also tired of the commute to Ipswich. So he signed away a life of separate houses and my place or yours conundrums on his condition they only take a six-month lease. Moving in together sounded like a death knell. Alex wanted an escape hatch nearby.

He considered the new level of commitment as a precursor to a downfall. They got along so well, why jeopardise it with shit like whose turn it was to make dinner and who hadn’t paid the phone bill? There was no magic in the domestic. Only idle routine and he couldn’t understand why Elsie was excited by that. Alex simply concluded that she hadn’t actually considered the logistics.

And Ipswich? Of all places? He used to tease Benny about living in Sandgate and now he had nothing. Every time Alex told someone he was moving to Ipswich, he was met with incredulous looks, fabricated crime statistics and fables of misfortune. Even though it turned out to be a fairly unfortunate myth, it was still some distance from his son, Joseph.

Joseph was five now – starting school next year – and Alex was afraid of losing the bond they had. He needn’t have worried. If the promise of free weekends remained, Alex’s ex was more than happy to drive to Ipswich.

Vivian would have offered lifts to Texas if it meant she could have a weekend of drinking and clubbing. She clawed back her me time every weekend, drinking too much and then spending Sunday nursing her overwhelming remorse. She may as well have stayed in Bundaberg, Alex thought ungraciously.

He knew it wasn’t a fair appraisal, particularly since he’d helped put her in this predicament, but motherhood had soured his ex. She was perpetually strung-out, wracked with guilt and painful to be around. She exhausted him.

Back in school she was friends with everyone but when they hooked up at their ten-year reunion, she only had eyes for Alex. He thought he’d finally met his match until a few months of dating and sporadic arguing undid things... but by then the thin pink line had been crossed.

You look stuffed. Elsie glanced at Alex from underneath a ringlet that had sprung loose from her ponytail. If you want, catch the bus home and get some rest. I can pack up.

Alex frowned – a single perfect crease in his even brow.

Are you sure you’ll be okay?

Absolutely. Go. Get some rest.

Alex was annoyed but hid it from Elsie’s keen observation. She had an annoying martyrdom complex about her. Alex knew she worked harder than him, yet she was always offering him an out. Sometimes he wondered if it was genuine or if these gestures were building up to an insurmountable debt he’d one day have to repay.

Still. It didn’t stop him getting on the bus.

LEAH opened her eyes slowly to watch the man asleep beside her. What she would give to see inside his thoughts. She wondered what fantasy filled his head right now. Was it her? Was it someone else? Her and someone else? She shivered and Jervase stirred beside her. His lean, tanned torso stretching lazily underneath stale sheets.

They’d been together almost 12 months after the French backpacker breezed into the restaurant looking for work. Now he was the head chef at Volcanic Grove. At first Leah enjoyed him as a sexual lothario and little more. He was certainly not marriage material and hardly even a close friend.

But over time it had changed. Piece by ragged piece of denim clothing, Jervase moved into Leah’s home on the Hummock and now they shared a comfortable life.

Almost.

Leah had begun to feel herself slip into a dangerous place of caring for someone she could, at best, describe as haphazard with her feelings. At worst, she’d say he was a total misogynist. As the sex, the living arrangements, the work and the emotions blurred together, Leah worried more and more that she had, once again, embarked on a compromising path towards heartache.

She slipped out of the bed and over to the window. From her home mid-way up one of Bundaberg’s rare hills, she had a distant view of the Pacific Ocean. It was the sole reason she’d moved into this place. Who actually wanted a house that smelled like the closet for a hot water system, and was about as spacious?

Her retreat from the bed roused Jervase and he admired Leah’s nakedness as she crept to the window. He loved her compact size and the fact her thighs still didn’t meet in the middle. He loved Aussie women. He loved that Leah, more desperate in her thirties to keep her man, still possessed the body of a twenty-year old.

What are you doing? He asked in a guttural voice.

Nothing.

She returned to the bed and laid across his chest, letting him play with her hair – thick swathes of brown and auburn.

You want to know what I’m thinking? He pulled Leah hard against him.

She weighed up the suggestion and decided that sex wouldn’t a) resolve her own insecurities and b) it wouldn’t get the restaurant open.

Gotta go to work, babe. Sorry.

Jervase flung himself back on the bed and grunted.

Always work. Why don’t you stay? You’re the boss.

Leah flicked his big toe and grabbed a bra off the floor. Don’t sook. She fumbled through her cupboard for a clean shirt and checked the laundry basket.

It is on the line, Jervase mumbled.

Tah.

Leah got to work late, trapped behind a haul-out taking cane to the nearest train-line, she surreptitiously checked her messages and found May’s invitation. She smiled.

Shit! She’d looked up in time to see the tractor had braked to turn onto the headland and she was inches from his full cane bin. Still, she hurriedly typed in ‘yes!’ as the tractor lumbered out of the way.

At the restaurant, her seventeen-year-old kitchen-hand sat outside, glaring at Leah’s car and puffing angrily on a smoke. Leah spent most of the day playing catch-up and, since lunch was busy for a weekday, she was glad

Reviews for The Crushing Season

[shelleyraec · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Peta Jo's second novel, The Crushing Season, is an engaging story about friendship, family, love and loss.Leah, May, Tate, Alex and Benny are the best of friends. They met in high school and more than fifteen years later, despite the separation wrought by their busy lives, remain close. When May is hit by a double crisis, her friends rally to support her, but none of them realise how badly she has been affected, until she does the unthinkable.I became quite attached to all of the Crushing Season's protagonists, who are wonderfully developed characters. Tate is a feisty news editor, struggling to balance her commitment to her work and new motherhood. Leah runs her own successful restaurant, but is plagued with a history of bad relationships. Benny is a frustrated writer on the verge of giving up on his dreams. Laid back Alex is suddenly anxious about his future. May is the linchpin of the group, whose gentle and caring nature never hints at the dark secrets she holds close.The dynamic between the friends is skilfully rendered. I enjoyed their rowdy reunion, their affectionate ribbing and bickering, and of course the way they supported each other in times of crisis. Even when their bond is complicated and strained, the connection is clear. In many ways, they remind me of my own close circle of friends whom I don't see as often as I would like.Peta Jo's exploration of the books somber issues such as abuse, depression, suicide and guilt, are thoughtful and compassionate. Most importantly, the characters emotions are sincere, and their behaviour genuine. Though there is real sadness in The Crushing Season, there is also plenty of heart and humour, which often made me smile.Well paced, with excellent characterisation and a strong plot, The Crushing Season is an affecting tale, both achingly poignant and truly heartwarming.