The Bay (7 page)

‘Doesn't he get in touch with Matty? Teenage girls need their dads.'

‘Hell, Billy, don't make me feel bad. It's hard enough coping on my own. There's that underlying accusing look in her eyes when I say, no, she can't have a two hundred dollar bikini like . . . well, Dad would say yes.'

‘Would he?'

‘If he had the money, probably yes. Too easygoing, that's his trouble. A gentle soul. Not the ideal partner to forge ahead with in the real world.'

Kimberley looked into the foamy dregs in her cup. Matty so adored her absent father, that was the trouble. If he was around more than once a year she might see him for the waste of space he was. Mac referred to him as ‘the guru' and kept advising Kim to ‘move on'.

‘We were really happy with our little daughter in those early years,' she said, almost to herself. ‘I had to make him see you can't raise a child on lentils and dreams. So off he went to India on his own. He comes and goes, says he's researching some sort of book. He lives on the smell of an oily rag over there and I'm on a deserted wife's pension here in bloody paradise.'

‘If he comes and goes you're not deserted, are you?'

‘I am as far as the government is concerned, thank you very much.'

‘What happens when he comes back?'

Kimberley pushed her cup away. ‘Ah, we play happy families for a couple of weeks and then he's off.' She stood up. ‘Let's do my hair, Matty will be back soon. She doesn't like to be kept waiting, you know.'

‘I'll keep my eyes open for a real bloke for you,' said Billy, dropping a ten-dollar note onto the table.

‘You do that,' said Kimberley, smiling.

Holly had no idea what time it was. There was no comforting green glow from a bedside clock. She was sleeping in the annexe attached to the main house while it was being renovated. It still felt strange – being in a narrow bed, alone, with different smells and sounds. The first few nights she'd been nervous, knowing she was in a big empty house on an isolated headland. Curly slept in her basket by the door but the old dog's deep snuffling snore didn't give Holly a huge sense of security. Andrew had told her to book into a motel, he couldn't believe she'd stayed alone in the old house. But Holly wanted to bond with this place that had so much history, that was now such a big chunk of her life.

She was glad she was alone. If her family was there they might think she was slightly mad because of the way she walked through the near empty rooms, running her hands over the old ledges, windowpanes and balustrades. She'd even sat on the floor rubbing her hands over the worn floorboards, exposed beneath frayed modern carpet. They would come up beautifully with a little sanding and polishing. Everywhere she went in the house she wondered about the family that had lived there. She was beginning to feel a responsibility for Richmond House – to restore it, to maintain it, to stay faithful to those who had built it, lived, loved, cried and laughed within it. This place was a tangible link with the history of The Bay. Gradually her fears had subsided and she imagined the house wrapping itself around her, protecting her. She felt she was one of the family who'd always be a part of this home.

Holly pulled the cotton duvet up to her chin. The wind must have woken her; it was howling and thrashing at the windows and in the garden. She saw, as they were lit by a flash of the beam from the lighthouse, the tops of the palm trees whipping and bending. Then came the rain, a solid downpour of wind-driven water. She decided to get up and check that no rain was coming in – a chance to look for leaks. The electric lights were few, high and dim, little changed since the 1950s. The last people here had favoured lamps. Holly made a mental note to talk to an electrician about recessed spot lighting.

One part of the wall of the sitting room in the annexe was trickling water. She turned on the torch, deciding to run along the covered walkway to the main house and inspect it. Curly caught up with her and reluctantly padded behind. But as she rattled the side door of the kitchen, the dog began barking.

Holly looked back, swinging the torch around in the wet blackness. Curly was standing out in the garden, barking wildly into the storm, looking up towards the roof.

She called the old dog, who hated storms, but Curly took no notice. There was a warning sound to her bark that alerted Holly. She ran out onto the lawn, her nightdress soaked through in seconds.

‘What is it, old girl? What are you barking at, Curly?'

The dog continued to bark at the upper level. It was in darkness, the outline of the roof barely visible in the storm-blacked sky. But as Holly was about to turn away, the beam from the lighthouse swung again over the trees, showing in dim relief the top of the house. Holly was looking straight at the widow's walk. In the seconds of light she clearly saw a dark figure silhouetted – a figure leaning out scanning the sea. Her instant impression was of a woman, dressed in black, her hair streaming behind her.

Holly grabbed Curly's collar and began stumbling backwards in shock, oblivious to the water plastering her hair, pouring down her neck, her eyes riveted to the top of the house somewhere in the blackness.

By the time the beam swung around again the dark shape had gone. Was it ever there? Had she imagined it through the rain?

She hurried back to the annexe with Curly trotting to keep up with her, slammed the door and went through the rooms, throwing on the lights. She turned on the radio and went into the shower, dropping her soaking nightgown in a corner.

Later, wrapped in her bathrobe, a towel around her head, she put the kettle on in the small sitting room and began to dry Curly's thick wet fur.

‘You saw her too, didn't you, Curly? Looking out to sea in the storm. Who is she, Curly, who could she be?'

Holly was not afraid. The shower had helped calm her nerves, and she knew there was no strange woman in the attic. She knew what they'd seen. ‘We've seen a ghost,' she said softly to the dog. ‘I wonder if she'll come back, Curly. What do you think?'

Holly lifted her head, suddenly aware that the wind and rain had eased, almost stopped. The kettle whistled. The announcer on the local FM station spoke cheerfully. It was 3.15 am.

Holly settled Curly in her basket then went back to bed with a mug of tea. She locked the door, left the light on and, propped up against the pillows, she tried to imagine being a wife watching the storm, waiting for her loved one to return from the sea in those pioneering days. She tried to imagine the deep worry that must always be at the back of the woman's mind, while still having to cope with everyday family life until the wait was over. And how were things then? If it hadn't been a successful voyage there'd be financial worries. Were they thrilled to be together, or had this woman overly romanticised her seafaring husband? Holly thought of all the times Andrew had been away on business trips, how she'd looked forward to his return, planned a romantic evening, only to have him disappear into his office to finish some drawings or plans. Or else he'd complained he was exhausted, he'd eaten on the plane, and gone straight to sleep. How foolish she'd felt at the untouched candlelit dinner, at wearing sexy perfume and nightwear. Maybe Andrew and the children had been right when they told her to find an interest, get involved in something – women's clubs, charities. Well, she'd certainly taken on something with Richmond House. And she knew they thought it was all too much for her. Not physically, for Holly was trim and energetic, but perhaps because she'd never had to deal with a whole range of problems like those that now loomed outside the home, outside the family.

Holly instinctively felt it hadn't been easy for the woman who had lived in this house. That made her determined she wasn't going to let the woman down and see her home become dilapidated or unloved. It was a place to be enjoyed, a place to be at peace, a place linked to the sea.

She finished her tea and lay back on the pillows and fell into a deep sleep. She dreamed of being on a boat, huddled below deck as the wind whipped at straining sails; the low mournful sound from the rigging was like the shriek of a creature in distress.

When she woke the morning was still, sunny and clear. Holly felt refreshed and headed to the beach with Curly for an early swim, which was becoming part of her new routine. She'd never been a morning person, loathed getting out of bed to see the children off to school, and Andrew always joked that he hid behind his newspaper until Holly had drunk her second cup of coffee. Yet here her eyes snapped open, she was alert and ready for the day. Maybe it was sleeping alone, maybe it was not having curtains so the sunrise wakened her early and gently.

After her swim Holly pushed the pace of her climb up from the beach to give herself a workout. Her heart rate was well up and her breath a little strained when she reached the top and eased down, but self-congratulation was spoiled by the sound of the builder's truck arriving . . . late again. This was the second week of renovation work, and they were taking advantage of sunny dry days to restore the stone walls and tiled pathways in the garden. Andrew had hired the builder soon after he and Holly had made a list of all the obvious things that needed to be done in the first stage of bringing new life back to the old house.

‘Mick, just call me Mick, missus,' the burly builder with an impressive beer gut had said when Andrew introduced him.

Her attempt to establish some personal involvement in the work was dismissed with as much subtlety as he could muster. ‘No sweat, missus. Have a chat any time you like, but there's no need to hang about every day. The blokes get a bit put off by that sort of thing, ya know. We got Andrew's mobile. Can always give 'im a bell if there's a problem.'

‘But I want to be here, and involved,' Holly repeated as firmly as she dared. She didn't like the secret men's business smile that swiftly passed between her husband and this builder from Central Casting – navy singlet, stubby shorts, work boots and football socks.

And how right her instincts had been. Mick had left his two offsiders, Kirk the Scot and Dick the dill, as she privately called the rather slow-moving, silent Queensland boy, to get on with the ‘rough stuff'. Straight away Holly disagreed with what they were doing, but she might as well have spoken to a brick wall. They paused, they listened with exaggerated patience, they shrugged, and then continued what they were doing. Now as Holly entered the courtyard she noticed that many of the old Italian ceramic paving tiles had been smashed. Politely she asked Kirk what had happened.

‘Mick told us to clear the area.' Kirk's accent was thick and stubborn.

‘Maybe, but that doesn't mean cutting down that beautiful frangipani tree, or breaking the tiles.'

‘Tree's dead. Tiles are old and lots missing.' He looked at her as if she was the village idiot.

‘That tree is not dead, they look like that until they bloom, and those are expensive tiles. I intend to re-use what I can. Please remove them without breaking them.'

‘We take our orders from Mick.'

‘And I'm telling you, and Mick, I want to keep as much of the old stuff as possible.' Holly suddenly caught sight of a smashed stone figure of a lichen-covered cherub. ‘What the hell! How did that happen?' She rushed to the broken statue.

‘That's what happens when a hammer hits stone. It was cemented there, had to go,' said Dick.

Holly was furious – not just at the senseless destruction but at their almost mocking attitude towards her. ‘Don't you touch another thing until I speak to Mick.'

‘Suits us.' Kirk began rolling a cigarette, Dick opened his lunchbox and Thermos flask.

Holly was unable to reach Mick on his mobile for fifteen minutes. She watched the two men stretch out, take off their hats and bask in the sun. When she eventually got hold of him at another building site, Mick was irritated at the interruption. ‘Those blokes know what they're doing. It's not up to you to tell them what to do, missus. Your husband gave me very detailed plans.'

‘Those plans did not include smashing everything in sight. I'm renovating, not knocking it all down to start again. I want you to come over here, your workmen won't listen to me.' She hoped her voice didn't wobble. While she was angry, she was also feeling intimidated by these oafish men.

‘That's because they're under orders from me, and I take orders from Andrew. Sorry, missus, but that's how it is.'

If Andrew had been on hand she would have let him deal with the crisis, but he was in Sydney. She recalled how he had expressed concern at the idea of her getting involved with ‘the complicated heavy building stuff' and that made her angrier. ‘Leave it all to Mick and his team, darling. Amuse yourself with planning the interior detail that will pretty things up,' was how he'd put it. At the time she had let the arrangement with Mick pass without challenge because the excitement of the occasion was intoxicating. Now in a more emotionally sober situation, his ambivalence about her role in the project – which had been her idea – seemed monstrous, and the attitude of the workers preposterous. She took a deep breath, turned her back on the men, who immediately exchanged knowing grins, and walked to the verandah and looked out to sea, struggling to calm her rising temper and organise her thoughts.

In the distance she saw a large freighter and suddenly thought again of the woman who'd lived in this house, a woman who must have been on her own for many months while her menfolk were away at sea. She probably had to deal with all manner of problems. No phones, no one close by and no one to make decisions for her.

All the time Mick had been prattling on in reassuring, almost condescending tones on the phone about trusting him to do the right thing, that he would give Andrew a call, and yes he would tell the workmen to be more sensitive about the ‘bits and pieces' in the garden. He even suggested that she take a drive into the country since it was ‘such a beaut day for getting to know more about the district'.