She waited to cross the road as an old ute rumbled its way past, giving a smile and nod as she recognised Bill Matheson. She was glad he was still around.
The bell above the cafe door jingled when she walked in and Larrisa glanced up and beamed. ‘Bel! I heard you were back in town. How are you?’
‘Hi, Larrisa. I’m great. The cafe looks fantastic,’ she said, taking in the new furniture and décor.
‘Yeah,’ Larrisa agreed, but her voice had lost its enthusiasm.
‘You don’t like it?’ Bel asked, confused.
‘Oh, no, I love it. Once the committee started work on Elvis, the whole place got caught up in our big town makeover,’ Larrisa said. ‘Lots of businesses invested in shopfront renovations and sprucing everything up for the big invasion of tourists, only that never really eventuated. Now, most of us are left paying out of pocket, spending money we’re hard pressed to earn back with no tourist trade coming in.’
‘Oh Larrisa, that’s such a shame. But I don’t understand,’ she said. ‘What happened? I mean, last time I heard, the committee had plans to advertise and get things happening.’
‘After the Bob Baxter thing at the market night, the committee went off track. It became a personal war between Betty and Bob. Once he took his support and money away, we lost a big part of our tourism campaign, and I think the committee was tired.’
It was hard to believe such passion and drive had simply fizzled. Bel knew Emma had stepped down as secretary, but she had been so wrapped up in her own problems at the time, she hadn’t really asked what was going on. Now she wished she’d been paying better attention. Not that she would have been able to do anything, but still …
Bel chatted to Larrisa for a little while longer and ordered a coffee. She caught up with a few more familiar faces, all seemingly happy to see her. No one mentioned Tate or the fact she’d run away with a stranger and left her life behind. She gave a small, dry chuckle at how worried she’d been that everyone would be talking about it. Em had been right; people had more important things to think about than Bel’s moment of madness over twelve months ago.
She sat in the car and pulled out her phone, going through the images she’d taken earlier and posting a few on her Instagram with the caption, ‘I found Elvis! #Elvislives #Wessex #localtourism #smalltownfeels #cocksofinstagram’.Dropping her phone into her bag, she started the car and headed back to Fernvale.
The next day, Bel was feeling a little chuffed. The time from getting up to getting out the front door was improving, and she was even making some new drop-off and pick-upmumfriends. Well, people that she knew enough to smile hello and goodbye to, at least. Sparked by the positive response to her Elvis post, Bel decided to do a follow-up post and record a video at the museum to explain the origin of the Big Rooster, which a few of her followers had asked about. To be honest, it was nice to have an activity to take her mind off things at Fernvale. Distracting the kids from worrying about their dad and missing their mum was a full-time job, so anything to break the strain was welcome.
She hadn’t been inside the Wessex Museum since … she had to stop and think about it. Probably since primary school? It was inside an old church that had been closed for years, on a block of land sitting back from the main street. The large weeping willow that had been there forever brought back fond memories, and well-tended flower gardens had been planted along the gravel path leading to the two large arched doors at the entrance. As she walked inside, a familiar smell of musty old books and timber polish hit her in the face, instantly taking her back in time.
‘Mabel Buckley, is that you?’ a gentle, almost whispery voice asked from nearby, making Bel jump slightly as she waited for her eyes to adjust from the bright sunshine to the dimly lit museum. ‘I thought it was. I heard you were back home.’
‘Oh, Mrs Simpson. How nice to see you.’ The woman was a local legend, involved in every committee and worthwhile cause in town. She’d been working in the museum even back when Bel was a kid.
‘You too, dear. Are you back for good?’
‘Oh, no. I mean, I don’t think so. I came back to help Emma for a while.’
‘How is she? How’s Craig?’ Mrs Simpson asked, frowning and shaking her head in concern.
‘Still a long way to go before they’ll know what’s happening. But Emma’s her usual optimistic self.’
‘She’s a good girl,’ the older woman nodded sagely. ‘Give them my love when you speak with them, won’t you?’
‘I sure will.’
‘What brings you in here then? Doing a bit of family history research?’
‘No, I was just posting about the Elvis statue, and it seems to have gathered a bit of interest. So I thought I might do a post about the origins of it and give my followers some background on the story. You know, for a bit of fun.’
‘Your followers?’ Mrs Simpson asked, eyeing her oddly. ‘Have you started a cult, dear?’
‘No, social media followers. You know, like Instagram and Facebook? TikTok,’ she added, fading off as the woman continued to stare at her doubtfully.
‘Oh, I see. Well, unfortunately, that may prove somewhat difficult.’
‘What do you mean?’ Bel asked. The old woman turned away, beckoning her to follow. They wound their way through a maze of old machinery until they came to a stop in front of a glass display case with a golden nameplate that was engraved: ‘Elvis Peckley.Guinness Book of World Records, largest rooster. May 1952.’
Bel frowned as she looked from Mrs Simpson to the empty display case.
‘Elvis is missing.’
