Home to Turtle Bay Page 18

  Or …

  ‘Ewan McAlister’s next. Ex-army, served in Afghanistan, post-traumatic stuff. He got himself a vet qualification before he came home, but keeps to himself. Now he says he’s been running a temp for days. You want to know what I think? Someone’s been poisoning cockatoos—rumour is they’ve been making a mess in the dairy next door to his place. The local cop’s onto it now but Ewan’s been dealing with dying birds for weeks. It’s not my call but I’d imagine Jack’d order tests for those funny wild bird diseases.’

  With that sort of information at my disposal, my job was easy. Even treating the taciturn Ewan seemed straightforward—though he was the only one who didn’t grill me about Muriel.

  ‘That’s better than Jack does most mornings,’ Sally said as we showed the last patient out. ‘Well done.’

  In truth the time had flown. I’d enjoyed myself.

  ‘Maybe Jack talks more than I do,’ I said, and Sally eyed me speculatively.

  ‘You didn’t give the patients a chance to discuss your private life, then?’

  ‘I wasn’t rude,’ I told her. ‘But I wasn’t into confidentialities.’ If I had been, I’d still be gossiping with the first patient.

  Though I had found myself worrying about the brittle, snappy Ellie and the background of the surly, silent Ewan. The desire to know hadn’t been all one way.

  ‘You can’t blame the locals for being curious.’ Sally was watching with an inquisitive gaze that said she saw far more than I told her. ‘The islanders have been gossiping about your grandma for years.’

  Right. Muriel. The reason I was stuck here.

  ‘I’m figuring the locals don’t like my grandmother.’

  Sally nodded. ‘I’m not old enough to remember her, but I know my mother was venomous.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I only know what my mum told me.’

  ‘Which is?’

  Sally sighed. ‘Well, apparently Henry arrived here as a young man to inspect the property and the local girls thought he was God’s personal gift to them, all wrapped up in a six-pack. He flew here in his own plane, landed on the beach and mesmerised the islanders. He seemed unbelievably exotic and gorgeous. To the local girls, the only question was which of them he’d marry. But then he left to fly planes in that awful war and the next they heard was that he’d married an American. You can imagine how that went down. Then he was injured and Muriel brought him back, but he was desperately scarred and she couldn’t stick it. She abandoned him. Henry withdrew completely, a hermit for the rest of his life, and there’s islanders here who still hold it against her.’

  ‘And Jack holds it against her?’

  ‘As a kid Jack was Henry’s friend,’ Sally said. ‘He was one of the few people Henry didn’t tell to clear off.’

  ‘Henry needed him.’

  ‘As a doctor? Jack wasn’t here as a doctor until six months ago. This was earlier, before Jack left for university.’

  ‘I read a couple of Henry’s letters. They’ve told me that,’ I said diffidently. ‘But there’s so much I don’t understand.’

  That speculative look was back. ‘Have you asked Jack?’

  ‘No.’ I bit my lip and dug my hands deep into the pockets of my white coat. ‘No, I haven’t. It’s like I should somehow know. I should be a local.’

  ‘There’s not many here who aren’t locals. Or married to locals. The land’s tightly held.’

  ‘But I’m not a local,’ I said, exasperated. ‘So what Jack is … his background … it’s none of my business.’

  ‘But you still want to know?’

  There was only one answer to that. ‘Yes.’

  There was a long silence—two women sizing each other up. Sally was holding Muriel’s behaviour against me, I thought. The sins of the father …

  But finally she came to a decision.

  ‘Jack’s not due back for half an hour,’ she said. ‘Did you bring lunch?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘It doesn’t matter. Jack never brings any either, so I always make enough for two. Pull up a chair, pour yourself a coffee and put your feet up. We can get through a fair amount of gossip in half an hour.’

  ‘I don’t want—’

  ‘You don’t want to gossip?’ Sally’s eyes creased into laughter. ‘Don’t tell whoppers, Dr Kelly. I’m very sure you do.’

  11

  grommet n. a learner surfer; a term usually used with tolerance and affection, as long as they know the rules.

  ‘Jack’s lived here since he was five.’ Sally was on her third sandwich and her second cup of coffee. ‘His mum and dad split up soon after he was born. Jack’s mum is a high-flying professor of medicine in Sydney and his father is some sort of international lawyer. They’re both from the island, childhood sweethearts, but neither of them could wait to leave. Ambition was their middle name. Anyway, as their careers took off, the marriage split and the boys were sent back here.’

  ‘The boys?’

  ‘Jack and his older brother, David. Jack was five, David was nine.’

  ‘They were sent back to their grandparents?’

  ‘Yeah, and they were great.’ She hesitated. ‘Okay, a bit of backstory. Jack’s paternal grandpa was clever and the island needed a doctor. So the islanders banded together and sent him to med. school in Sydney on the condition he come back here to practise. He met his wife there, and brought her home. She loved the island and the islanders loved her. Louise and William cared for the locals in a way most doctors can only imagine. They practised medicine and ran their little farm. It broke their hearts when their only son refused to come back here after university, but when their grandsons were dumped back here they raised them without a murmur. They were great people.’

  ‘So Jack was taught to love this place?’

  ‘I wouldn’t say that,’ Sally said dryly. ‘Or if he was, he soon forgot. From what I hear he was as desperate to get away as his parents were before him.’

  ‘But he wanted to be a doctor?’

  ‘He wanted to see the world. His parents’ world. Once he was accepted into medical school we hardly saw him. It was David— Jack’s brother—who stayed home. Dave was content with the island. He expanded the farm, he married a local girl and Bridget was born. He looked set for happy ever after.’

  ‘And then?’ There had to be an ‘and then’, I thought miserably, not wanting to hear but having to ask.

  ‘They went to Sydney for some sort of family celebration about twelve months ago,’ Sally said, her face reflecting my dismay. ‘And there was a car crash. Horrific. Everyone involved was killed except Bridget, and she was so damaged that they thought they’d lose her as well.’

  ‘And Jack’s grandparents?’ I was travelling down a road I had no wish to follow, but there was no choice.

  ‘William died a couple of years before the accident, but twelve months ago Louise was still working. Not very well, of course— she was alone and the work was far too much for one elderly doctor. But Jack wouldn’t come home. Well, why would he?’ Sally gave a humourless laugh. ‘He had everything where he was. But suddenly, nothing. The shock of the accident caused his grandmother to have a stroke and she died six weeks later. So Jack was all Bridget had. He was all we had. Bridget’s home was on the island and she was desperate to get back here. He had to come with her.’

  ‘So he wants to be here as much as I do?’ I said, and Sally stared into the dregs of her coffee and thought about it.

  ‘Less, I’m thinking,’ she said at last. ‘You’ve come for six weeks. As far as I can see, Jack’s here for life.’

  ‘What was he doing in Australia?’

  ‘He was a vascular surgeon. Apparently a good one.’

  Which explains why he’d coped with Muriel’s leg with such skill. I sat with my sandwich half eaten and stared at Sally.

  ‘I never would have guessed any of this. He’s so … cheerful.’

  ‘He is, isn’t he?’ Sally set down her mug and rose with the
air of a woman coming to the end of her confidences. ‘But the man doesn’t sleep. He walks the beach and surfs, he plays with Bridget and he works. He’s working himself into the ground.’

  Oh, wow.

  I felt like a king-sized rat.

  Jack had demanded I stay here for six weeks. Yes, it had consequences, but it was six weeks out of my life compared to Jack’s … forever?

  ‘Thank you for telling me,’ I said at last, and Sally gave a decisive nod.

  ‘You needed to know. You have decisions of your own to make.’

  ‘I’m only here for six weeks.’

  ‘This place has a trick of drawing you in,’ Sally said. ‘Not usually in quite such a dramatic fashion as for Jack, but it seems to happen all the same. Look at your grandma. She visited fifty years ago and back she comes after all this time. She didn’t have to, did she?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘There you go then.’ Sally gathered the sandwich wrappers, and I had the sensation that there was more to tell—more she wanted to say—but she wasn’t sure I wanted to hear it.

  I wasn’t sure, either. This place has a trick of drawing you in …

  It already had.

  And Jack?

  I felt about three inches tall.

  Jack would be here soon. He’d walk in the door and want to know how I’d coped with the morning. He’d thank me.

  He’d smile at me.

  Damn. I couldn’t bear it.

  With the clinic closed, I headed home. No, not home, I told myself. Turtle Bay was not home. My real home was in Manhattan. With Richard.

  I was feeling totally emotionally exposed. I’d spent my life learning rules to protect myself, and here, in this weird, isolated community, I was fronting more emotion than I’d faced since my mother’s death.

  I didn’t like it. I didn’t like the way it made me feel—like there was a chasm, just out of sight but getting closer. I didn’t like the gut-wrenching way I’d reacted to Jack’s story. I didn’t like the way this morning’s patients had looked at me as if they knew me personally. Even sharing a sandwich with Sally had felt risky.

  I wanted to go home so much it was a physical ache.

  Instead I drove back to the farm and tried to think what to do next.

  I needed to be busy. I needed the buzzing in my brain to stop.

  I could clean but what was the point? I’d found the only way to cope with the heat of the day was by opening the house up. The sea breeze was great, but its downside was sand. For the first couple of days I’d swept obsessively, but by now my fastidious, apartment-life cleanliness was fading. What was wrong with a bit of sand?

  Muriel wouldn’t want me visiting again until this evening. Probably not even then. Any day now Jack would let her come home, and that gave me more food for scary thought. How would I cope with an invalid who objected to being in the same room as me?

  I couldn’t even think that far ahead.

  I could phone Richard again but his anger was getting tiring. He was fretting about Lionel’s lawsuit. Isabella seemed to have agreed to see Lizzy, and I’d phoned my medical defence lawyer. She’d said any legal action would be minor. With a confirmed, unexpectedly ill grandmother and a careful, professional handover with plenty of warning, even Lionel would have trouble getting a major payout, but I knew Richard would be worrying about more than money. He was worrying that I was losing my reputation. Our future.

  Was I?

  I lay on my little bed and tried to read. It wasn’t a success. I’d lied when I’d told Jack my only reading material was Henry’s Agricultural Digests. Richard had given me a tome before I left and he’d be wanting to talk about it. It was stultifyingly dull. I’d find a review online when I got home so I could sound vaguely intelligent about it.

  ‘What would you have me do, Grandpa?’ I demanded of the silence. ‘You, who made such a success of your life?’

  Nothing. Of course nothing. I was being ridiculous. And, if his ghost could really hear me, cruel.

  I didn’t care. ‘Well, you got me into this mess.’ I was gazing through the doorway at the married couple in the photograph in the living room. ‘I don’t want to be here,’ I told Henry. ‘So why should I worry about your feelings? I don’t want to worry about any feelings.’

  Bored and unsettled I leafed through more of Henry’s letters. So many had the same theme …

  Dear Jenny,

  The surf today was mind-blowing.There’s nothing like it.To paddle fast, faster, trying to reach the sweet spot where the wave catches and the power no longer comes from you.To feel the wave lift and sweep you forward.To feel the water all around you, to feel a part of the great white breaker, to turn and twist in the foam, to be in control and yet not … And then to fall to the board as the wave turns to the shallows, to feel the sun on your back, to know there are more waves to come …

  Jennifer, you need to come. You need to try.

  I stared disconsolately out the window. From here I could just see the side of the woodshed, with its row of surfboards and ridiculous sign.

  Dr J.R. Kelly’s Surfing School.

  Why had Henry painted it?

  ‘What do I know about surfing?’ I asked, but no one answered. ‘How could I possibly run a surfing school when I don’t know how to surf?’

  I went through to the living room and stared into the mirror behind my grandparents’ photo.

  Would Richard like me as a surfer chick?

  And then I stuck out my tongue at my reflection. At all the shadows in my past.

  ‘Okay, Grandpa, you win. I’m taking this seriously. I will learn to surf.’

  Nothing had changed. What was the surfing terminology? Hang ten? It meant hanging all ten toes over the nose of the surfboard.

  I couldn’t even persuade one toe to stay on the surfboard.

  I hauled my board out through the shallows, lay on it and paddled like crazy, trying to avoid the tipping I always experienced.

  Problem one. The board wanted to sink.

  What was the problem? Did old surfboards sink?

  I hauled another board down to the beach and tried again. Same problem.

  I tried to think laterally. Maybe I should try a bigger board. Would they be more stable?

  The bigger ones were bigger than me by about three feet or so, but when I heaved one away from the shed wall I found it wasn’t much heavier.

  Okay. Try again.

  The long board was different.

  For a start I could float without tipping. This could be as far as I’d get but it wasn’t bad. I paddled for a bit, then lay on the board. I let my arms drift in the water, letting the gentle swell ease the frustration of the last hour. This board was stable enough so that I could stay on board while little waves broke over me. It was better than nothing.

  But the vision of surfing was still there. I’d had such visions. Me, sweeping down the crest of a breaking wave. Me, crouching as the wave broke over me, rushing through a glistening tunnel of foam. Me, nimbly running up and down the length of my board, balancing, making carvy sorts of turns and then easing off with nonchalance as the wave lost its power.

  I’d seen the movies and I’d seen Jack. I knew what was meant to happen.

  A major stumbling block was that I still couldn’t get out through the bigger waves. As soon as I went deeper they crashed into me, shoving the nose of the board into the depths, or rolling me and dumping me so I ended up flat on my back with the board somewhere on top.

  I might be doomed to ride little waves in the shallows. Actually riding any wave sounded okay to me, and it’d be a good beginning.

  Try again. I stood waist deep. As a wave approached I pulled myself up on the board, facing the shore. The wave came in behind and I paddled like crazy. I was getting better at staying on the board, but the wave swept me up and down and left me floating right where I’d been when it arrived. I was going nowhere.

  It’s a raft, I decided. It’s not a surfboard. The whole concept was r
idiculous.

  I drifted back into shallow water and rolled over. I lay on my back on the wet sand with my board on top of me. The tiny waves were washing around me, in and out. I was using my board like a beach umbrella, letting it protect me from the sun while I enjoyed the water rushing underneath.

  As a surfing pose it lacked a certain style, but there was no one to see.

  Then, suddenly, there was.

  I felt rather than saw that I had company. I rolled sideways and Bridget was in her wheelchair at the point where the track met the beach. She was wearing her bathing suit with a fleecy jacket on top.

  Pushing her chair was a small woman, sixtyish, flamboyantly dressed in a long skirt and floaty shawl, her wispy white curls escaping from a top knot. This was hippy style combined with casual elegance.

  The two of them were watching me.

  I rose and smiled, trying to look like I’d chosen to lie on my back in the shallows with my board on top. Well, I sort of had.

  ‘Hi.’

  ‘Hi,’ Bridget said, and the woman smiled.

  ‘Hi, too. I’m Carrie. Bridget’s been watching you from the house. That’s us, the house up on the headland. We can see into the cove from our living room.’

  ‘Oh … I hadn’t thought anyone could see …’

  ‘Not very well, and only when I use binoculars,’ Bridget said. That made me feel a whole lot better, I don’t think.

  ‘You’re not very good,’ she added, and I felt worse. ‘But don’t worry, Carrie and I talked about it and we decided you needed help.’ Amazingly Bridget sounded bossy. ‘It’s good you got the big board. We saw you on the small board but they’re the hardest.’

  ‘I’ve found that out,’ I admitted.

  ‘My dad was teaching me to surf,’ Bridget volunteered. That brought a sharp intake of breath from Carrie, but she didn’t interrupt. ‘You start by lying on the board on the sand. Not in the water. You lie still, holding both sides, then push yourself to your feet, really fast. But you have to stay low, holding on, with your feet between your hands. That means when you stand up, everything’s in the right spot. Try it,’ she ordered, and she wasn’t taking no for an answer.