Home to Turtle Bay Page 3

  ‘Nearly home,’ I told her. I knelt down and gave her a hug. The hug comforted me, even if she didn’t seem to notice.

  The pilot of the seaplane had radioed ahead for a hire car to meet us. Here was our second glitch. The guy on the wharf ran the hire-car business, he told me. Or … not so much a business as an occasional hobby. Very occasional.

  ‘Well, you see, there’s one hire car on the entire island. And it’s not so much a car as a beach buggy.’

  No roof.

  ‘But it’s not raining.’ The guy looked old enough to have retired twenty years ago. His eyes were firmly facing away from storm clouds gathering ominously in the distance.

  ‘Where do you folks say you’re from?’ asked his smiley, white-haired wife.

  ‘Manhattan.’ I wasn’t concentrating on niceties. Our beach buggy looked tied up with string.

  ‘Well. That’s some journey. And with a dog? Most visitors don’t bring dogs.’ And then she paused. ‘Hey, that’s not Henry’s dog, is it?’

  ‘Mind your own business,’ Muriel snapped. ‘Let’s go.’

  But she wasn’t suggesting we reboard the plane. Her face was set for the distant hills. For a farm she’d once known?

  My cell phone pinged as reception returned and I turned away for a moment to read. I had two messages. One was from Richard.

  Hope flight safe. Advise you’ve arrived. Check every property sold for last twelve months with price per acre. List all advantages of yours over theirs/vice versa. Send info here and I’ll have it checked. Don’t sell without checking in.

  I hadn’t even seen the place. No, I wouldn’t sell yet, with or without his say-so.

  The second was from Isabella.

  Have you seen it? Are instructors cute? I so want to come see. Pregnancy’s the pits. Send pics.

  No pictures yet, and I hadn’t thought of instructors. Does a surfing school come with instructors?

  But Muriel was sighing with true drama queen impatience so I tossed the phone into the console and got on with the last part of the journey.

  ‘Sorry.’ I gave the hire-car couple my best apologetic smile as they helped me load the buggy, setting Drifter in the back and the glowering Muriel in the passenger seat. She grumped and refused to say thank you. ‘My grandmother has jet lag.’

  Which was partly true. Jet lag and a strong inclination to be unpleasant.

  But I had to ask directions.

  ‘I know how to get there,’ Muriel told me, as if I was an idiot for not knowing. ‘Drive now, Jennifer.’

  We made a fast stop at the general store, which looked like something out of a retro movie. The lady in there was full of questions but Muriel sat in the buggy and hissed impatience. I bought essentials: milk, bread, eggs, tea. I also bought coffee, though I was deeply dubious when I saw the No Name packaging. Then I drove for twenty minutes on the wrong side of windy, unmade roads. Thinking about surfing instructors. And beach. And that this island really was spectacular. And also that, struggling with jet lag and a surfeit of Muriel, I could use a very long sleep.

  Finally we turned onto a rough farm track on the east coast. By now the clouds had blocked the sun, and they were getting blacker. I was praying we beat the rain, but despite Muriel’s grumpiness, even despite the prospect of the coffee I’d just bought, I was still feeling in control. My tan was still fantastic. I was about to take ownership of my domain.

  But when our jolty little beach buggy made the last coastal curve before the farm, the illusion of control shattered.

  What I saw was an ancient, weathered cottage, an aged brick building to the side—a dairy?—a weird array of surfboards propped up against a ramshackle shed and a motley collection of other, smaller sheds. An overgrown jungle of a garden surrounded the house, and a few lanky cows lined up at the fence. The only thing even vaguely like what I’d imagined was the surf in the distance.

  This was not a surf school. This was a maritime artefact—with cows.

  ‘Is this it?’ I asked Muriel. I pulled up by the surfboard shed and stared out in dismay.

  ‘Do you mind? If I’d known you planned to drive like a lunatic, I’d never have come.’

  ‘You know neither of us had a choice. Muriel, what is this place?’

  ‘What does it look like? House, barn, cows. Farm. I told you.’

  ‘These sheds aren’t barns.’

  ‘Then they’re haysheds. Or dairies. I forget.’

  ‘So what’s with the surfboards? They look ancient. This doesn’t look like a surf school.’

  ‘It was a farm when I was here. And a surf school? I knew that was nonsense.’

  ‘Then what’s with the sign?’

  The shed, supported by the mismatched family of surfboards, was decorated with a sign that covered most of the rusty iron roof. The sign was astonishing, but Muriel’s glance was disdainful. This farm must have been part of her life fifty years ago, but she’d moved on.

  At least now I could understand why Muriel’s secret marriage had been so brief. The only thing I didn’t understand was how a perfect, airbrushed Manhattan doll like Muriel had ever been persuaded to come here in the first place.

  Despite the neglect, it seemed like this farm might once have been idyllic, but right now I was concentrating on the derelict buildings. And the sign. Red paint on rusted iron.

  DR J.R. KELLY’S SURFING SCHOOL.

  ‘Grandpa was called Henry, right?’ I said slowly, feeling stunned.

  ‘Yes.’ A terse snap.

  ‘So Dr J.R. Kelly … That would stand for Dr Jennifer Rainbow Kelly?’ The Rainbow’s from my mother. It was once my only name but my grandmother added Jennifer when I was seven and I’ve been known by nothing else since. ‘How did Grandpa know my name?’

  Silence.

  ‘Grandma …’

  ‘Don’t call me that. How would I know anything about your grandfather?’

  ‘You were married to him.’

  ‘Momentarily. Fifty years ago.’

  ‘Did he know he had a granddaughter?’

  ‘I didn’t tell him anything. I haven’t been in contact with him since your mother …’ She caught herself, shaking her head as if ridding herself of bad memories. ‘No. Your existence was none of his business.’

  ‘Since my mother what?’ I was still clutching the steering wheel as if it gave me some measure of control. It clearly didn’t.

  ‘You don’t need to know.’

  ‘Are you intending to tell me anything?’

  ‘I came with you, didn’t I? I gave you directions. It’s enough. Leave me alone.’ Muriel’s face had the determined look of a bulldog with a secret bone.

  ‘Fine.’ I believe I was snarling. ‘If you want to be mean about it, good. We’ll stay here then, shall we? We’ll make ourselves comfortable in a rundown farm owned by my dead grandfather. A farm that’s been left to me by a man I didn’t know existed, but who knew enough about me to be painting my name on signs. A man I can’t know about, because you say so.’

  ‘It’s nothing to do with you.’

  ‘It is. Which is why we’re here. If you’re not going to be helpful then go home.’

  But Muriel’s face was set. ‘I’m staying. Just leave me alone. Do what you like. Learn to surf. Teach yourself to milk cows.’

  ‘Oh, right. As if that’s going to happen.’

  ‘If I can, anyone can.’

  I think my jaw must have dropped around my ankles. My grandmother was a delicate, fragile society dame. ‘You can surf? You can milk a cow?’

  ‘What else do you think I’d milk? Pigs? I’d imagine my surfboard’s still over there. A Malibu.’

  ‘A Malibu … surfboard?’

  ‘Of course a Malibu surfboard. See? You know nothing. Mine’s one of the first smaller boards—the ones that really sliced. One of the originals.’ Unbelievably, there was a note of pride in her voice.

  ‘The ones that really sliced,’ I repeated dumbly. ‘One of the original … what?’

/>   ‘Cutback Malibus,’ Muriel said, as if I was stupid. Which was how I was feeling.

  ‘Darrylin Zanuck had the first of the quick boards,’ she added, and she no longer seemed to be talking to me. She was staring at the line of propped-up boards. ‘Darrylin was Tommy Zahn’s girlfriend, and Joe Quigg designed the board just for her. It was such a breakthrough. Light and easy and short enough to fit in the back of her convertible, it was just right for a girl. Before she knew it, the guys all wanted the same. Darrylin had a fight on her hands to keep it. You can turn four times faster than on the older boards, banking and turning on a dime. My board’s just like hers—a varnished, redwood and balsa ten-footer, sealed with fibreglass and resin. It has fifty-fifty rails, a curved rail rocker, a flat, planning bottom and a fin. Darrylin’s board was the loosest board on the surf scene and mine was as good or better.’

  She may just as well have suddenly started talking Swahili. ‘Who’s Tommy Zahn?’ I asked weakly.

  But Muriel had withdrawn again into the distant place she’d been all her life. Still huddled in the passenger seat she motioned towards the house. ‘Drive.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Jennifer! Drive. It’s starting to rain.’ She sat there, passive in her designer frock, with her Manolo Blahnik shoes and her pearls that were worth a king’s ransom, silent once more.

  Muriel had surfed? Muriel had milked cows?

  But she was right. It was starting to rain, and I had a surfing school to discover. The dog was quivering in the back seat. The surfboard shed looked big enough to take the buggy so I drove in there.

  It seemed we were home—sort of.

  Five hours later, mid-storm, I was staring out into the night and accepting that coming here was a really big mistake.

  There hadn’t seemed much choice, though. There was nowhere to stay in town but one boarded-up hostel, and even if it was habitable Muriel had no intention of staying there. It was Henry’s house or nothing.

  Once we’d figured out which of the rusty keys under the doormat opened the house, it had taken ages to get the main bedroom to a standard she found acceptable. It had obviously been Henry’s room, gorgeous, with fantastic sea views, but it looked as if it’d been empty since Henry’s death. Muriel seemed to be using irritation to disguise emotion. She’d stood back and thrown directions while I worked. While lightning played outside, while the rain pelted down, filling the house with the smell of salt, sea and heavy rain, I’d dusted and swept and shaken out bedding. Then I’d made up Muriel’s bed with her personal linen until finally Her Ladyship was satisfied.

  I’d made up a scratch meal—eggs and toast—but she’d eaten nothing. She’d retired to bed, closing the door behind her.

  I couldn’t let it bother me. There was more work to do if I wanted to sleep tonight.

  The only other bedroom seemed to be furnished for a young girl, with faded pink curtains, a narrow bed with a pink eiderdown, a pink bureau and a couple of pink stuffed toys on the dresser. Eerily, though, none of the faded pink collection looked in the slightest bit used.

  I don’t think anyone had been in this room for decades. The windows were loose in their frames and sand had oozed in, filling every available niche. I had to shovel the sand out the window— thankfully it was in the lee of the storm. Even if my luggage had arrived, I hadn’t packed personal sheets and the bed was made up with linen that almost crackled with age. It smelled and felt like something out of Dickens, only instead of the bridal splendour of Miss Havisham’s sitting room, this was a little girl’s room.

  And all the time the dog watched me. She’d jumped out of the buggy when we’d arrived and nosed her way into the house in a way that suggested she knew it well, but there was no joy about her. She’d eaten an egg as if she was doing me a favour. She still carried that air of desolate resignation.

  It was starting to get to me. The whole situation was getting to me.

  What had I expected? That Muriel would respond with joy? That kindly neighbours would be ready and waiting to take her under their wing? That bronzed surf instructors would be racing up the beach whooping a welcome?

  There were none of the above, and the dog and I were feeling its lack.

  Then, adding to my growing sense of disquiet in this creaky, windy house, I tugged open the first drawer of the pink painted bureau and found letters. Lots of letters. The paper was flaking with age. The envelopes were filed in what seemed to be date order, all addressed but seemingly never closed, stamped or sent. It was as if they were waiting to have something added to them before sending.

  And they were addressed to me. All of them. Jennifer Rainbow Kelly. Once more, the use of a name that was almost forgotten.

  I lifted the first one—dated when I was seven—and started reading.

  Jennifer,

  I understand you’ve reached your grandmother’s, and that you’re now Jennifer. Rainbow was always a fanciful name anyway—you can’t build a sensible life called Rainbow and I believe you need to be sensible. Meanwhile, I hope you’ve forgotten our fleeting meeting. If you haven’t, then do it now. I didn’t want to force my existence on you, just as I shouldn’t be writing.

  You needed me, but I hope you don’t need me again.

  It’s probably for the best if I don’t post this. Just forget, as your grandmother has. But I trust you’re safe and well.

  Your grandfather, Henry.

  I stared at the stacks and stacks of letters and felt prickles down my spine. Ghosts? I read a couple more.

  After the first they became the sort of formal letters any grandpa might send to his grandkid. Normal stuff. I hope you’re liking school. Happy birthday. Here’s ten dollars to buy yourself a Christmas gift.

  There was actual money enclosed.

  Feeling more and more spooked, I replaced the ones I’d read and crossed the room to draw doodlebugs on the sand-coated window.

  I needed to let Richard know I’d arrived safely. I needed to respond—professionally—to Isabella.

  But I had a problem. I’d left my phone in the buggy. It was parked in one of the outside shacks and retrieving it now seemed just plain scary.

  I stared out the window through the tangle of tropical undergrowth. The storm had passed while I read the letters. The moon had emerged to cast a glimmer of light on the garden. The surfboards loomed in the background like tall, threatening ghosts.

  Ghosts?

  Get a grip.

  ‘You want to come outside with me?’ I asked Drifter, but she heaved a great sigh, dropped her head between her front paws and did a floor rug imitation. She was going nowhere.

  If Richard was in my place he’d have called me by now, I told myself. But then, Richard’s planes were never delayed. Richard’s baggage was never lost. What’s more, Richard would never have left his phone in the stupid beach buggy, forcing him outside in the dark in this weird place, risking death by vipers, strangler vines, falling surfboards, killer whatever-animals-hunted-in-this-place …

  Sheesh, Jennifer.

  ‘I should wake Muriel and make her come with me,’ I said out loud. Oh, great. Wasn’t talking to yourself the first sign of madness? Stranded and loopy. Terrific.

  But I couldn’t wake Muriel. In truth, she had me worried. Once we’d parked the buggy, despite the rain, she’d walked over to the row of surfboards and fingered one of the smaller ones. She hadn’t said a word. Her face, though, had sort of shrivelled, and when she’d walked inside it had grown worse.

  ‘It’s exactly as I left it,’ she’d said, but she was speaking to herself. Crossing to the mantel, she’d lifted a dusty framed photograph of a handsome young air force officer and his bride. It was Muriel’s wedding, all those years ago.

  Was the uniform from the Vietnam War? Nothing else fit. Had Henry been in the US all those years ago? At least that would explain how he and Muriel had met.

  I’d watched in silence as Muriel stared at the faded picture. Finally her eyes had filled with tears.

/>   ‘He hasn’t changed a thing,’ she’d said but she was speaking to herself. ‘He’s even polished my board. For all these years …’

  The knowledge seemed to have knocked the stuffing out of her.

  She’d roused to order the cleaning but then she’d shrunk into the too-big bed with the faded furnishings that must once have been luxurious. She’d lain against the pillows in her exquisitely embroidered silk negligee, and she’d looked … pathetic.

  ‘Not for me. Not for me, Henry,’ she’d said and it was as if she was talking to a ghost.

  I thought about the photo, the waxed, ancient surfboard and the letters. If it was getting to me, how much worse was it for Muriel?

  So Muriel was in no state to be woken, and right now I needed to focus on Richard. He’d be expecting me to call. I needed to do it. Care and Maintenance of Fiancés 101.

  But it’s dark outside, the jelly side of me quavered.

  Just do it. What could be out there? And who could possibly see you?

  That was another reason why I was reluctant to go outside. Muriel’s gear—all of it—had arrived along with us, but I had nothing. My initial idea of borrowing something had been treated with the contempt it clearly deserved. I’m not much taller than Grandma but I’m a size ten compared to her size six. Cuddly. Which Grandma has never, ever been. Nothing of hers could fit me.

  I couldn’t stay in my travelling clothes forever, but in the bottom of the bedroom dresser, I’d found six pairs of men’s pyjamas, still in their plastic wrapping. I also found twenty pairs of socks and a bundle of jocks, all unopened. Come the revolution, Grandpa had obviously intended to remain sartorially splendid. So now I was wearing red pyjamas with purple stripes, four or five sizes too big, plus a pair of ancient flip-flops I’d found in a box at the back door. Large flip-flops.

  I tried to reassure myself that my appearance didn’t matter. There was no one for miles except Grandma, one depressed dog and some cows.