She waved goodbye to the girls and headed towards the shed to get a bucket to fill from the pond. Her stomach clenched as she dialled Dan’s number. It went to voicemail. She hung up. The phone jangled in her hand as she neared the shed.
‘Annabelle Broadhurst speaking.’
‘Annabelle, it’s Gary. From Burnie Pumps.’
‘Yes, Gary. Are you nearly here?’
‘That’s the thing. I was about to come out, but we’ve had an emergency call-out to a school camp facility, so I need to give them priority. But one of us will be at your place soon. Not sure when. Could be after lunch.’
‘Oh Gary, I really need you now. If I don’t get the water on, this wedding is going to be a nightmare.’
‘Sure. Well, hopefully someone will be there by two. Three at the latest.’
Annabelle hung up and recalled the last time the pump failed. She calculated. Two o’clock arrival. Then it might take an hour or so to fix the damn thing. Then it would have to be primed, the tank refilled. Another couple of hours after that for the tank levels to rise. Then all the taps in the house would need to be run at the same time to get the air out of the system. This was officially a complete nightmare.
She dialled Dan’s number. It went to voicemail. She dialled it again and the same thing happened. Her head felt like it might explode. Why wouldn’t her husband ever answer the dratted phone when she needed him urgently? She dialled it again and after a few moments he answered, his voice humming with irritation.
‘Annabelle, I’ve had to leave a settlement conference to take this. Is it an emergency?’
‘Yes, darling! It is! The pump’s on the blink and Pete can’t fix it and the pump guys are too busy and the bride’s vomit can’t be flushed down the toilet and the silly bus has torn apart my beautiful maple at the front gates! It’s an emergency!’ She felt tears welling in her eyes. ‘You need to come home and fix the pump, Dan. You managed it last time.’
‘I can’t come now.’
‘Dan, I need you here. You’re the one who told me I needed to earn some money to keep this place going. Well, this whole venture is going to fail if I don’t get the water back on! You need to come home. Please.’
‘I can’t. There’s at least another hour till this is finished, then I’m due in court at two.’
‘Well I’m sorry, but you’ll need to miss court. Get one of the others to step into the settlement conference for you. Say you have a stomach bug. Nobody will want to be near you then. I need you here!’
There was a silence on the other end of the phone. Then Dan whispered, ‘For Christ’s sake, all right. Tell Pete to look at the second pressure gauge under the white pipe at the back. If it’s showing red, he needs to let some more air out of the lower tank. Ring me if you sort it.’
‘Okay. I’ll see you soon, though. Yes?’
‘Yes, all right, Belle.’
Annabelle listened to the silence. He’d hung up. She leaned down with the bucket and scooped some murky greenish water out of the pond. A huge, shiny orange carp opened its mouth and blew air at her, then ducked away under the surface as she pulled the bucket out. She thought enviously of all the people in the main township and down on the beachfront who had direct access to the town water supply and didn’t have to rely on pumps. The town supply stopped just before the main entrance to Merrivale. The Old Chapel was the final house in the area to have it. Maybe they could use The Old Chapel’s water if they were desperate.
She looked across the lane and wondered how tidy Lillian had left her bathroom last November, the day she’d died. Lillian had been a hoarder. It didn’t bear thinking about. Although Sylvia said she’d cleaned a lot of it up. Still, Annabelle definitely couldn’t send her guests over there. Any way she looked at it, the place was a bit of a hovel.
She picked up the bucket of water and began the slow, sloshing walk back to Bay Cottage, running through her list again. Flowers, glasses, bathrooms, finger food, chairs, water feature. Water feature. Hmm. She might need to go into Lillian’s garden and run some hoses across the laneway, over the lawn and into the catch tank below the water feature. The guests might not have flushing toilets, but the bride would have her water feature tinkling musically away as she said her vows. Sometimes emergencies just meant you needed to be creative, and Annabelle was sure that Lillian would be smiling down at her from heaven and clapping her hands at this inventive line of thought. Lillian had never been one to run away from a challenge. Lillian had never run away from anything.
Three
Sylvia
From behind her eyelids, Sylvia visualised the warmth of the room rising up and engulfing the man like a swarm of bees. She smiled inwardly.
‘I promise you, we are certified as having the highest compliance for our resorts by the International Sustainable Tourism Network.’ The man stopped and tried to catch the eyes of people in the front rows. ‘Sisters Cove’s ecosystems will be carefully considered and managed at all times. Our organisation has had years of experience in building resorts that work in synergistic harmony with pristine environments.’
Sylvia opened her eyes. The man’s suit had some sort of bright-blue plaid pattern running through the navy. The jacket looked like it had been expertly moulded and sewed over his elegantly muscled frame. Tight-fitting must be the latest thing.
‘What the hell does that mean?’ Jeremy Anderson stood up next to her, his usually ruddy face now an alarming shade of purple. Sweat was beading at his temples. ‘Don’t give us all that corporate crap. If you build a resort down the end of the cove, you’re going to disrupt the waterways!’ He was jabbing his finger angrily towards the man giving the presentation. His sleeves were rolled up and his hairy forearm was weathered and speckled with sun damage.
‘Sir, I know—’ The man tried to continue, but Jeremy’s voice boomed through the clubhouse, unperturbed by social niceties.
‘The freshwater crayfish have been dying out for the last two decades, mate. It’s one of the last areas where we see healthy activity from them. They’re not going to survive if this development goes through. That’s all there is to it.’
He sat down as the mutterings from the room full of Sisters Cove residents began to rise in a humming crescendo, some ripe with agreement, others scoffing and annoyed.
Len Pickington from the local council stood up at the front of the room and cleared his throat.
‘We’re here to listen to information from Greenways Resorts about the proposal. Why don’t we let Alistair continue so we can hear how they plan to manage these issues?’
Sylvia uncrossed her legs and wriggled her shoulders. She glanced to her left and watched the waves roll in and recede on the beach outside the wall of glass. The sun was beginning to hang low in the sky and shadows obscured the rock pools.
‘We’re going to work closely with Parks and Wildlife Tasmania to reduce human impact in the area,’ said the man from the resort group. ‘If we damage the environment, we won’t have an eco-resort worth visiting. Nature is the hero of this venture.’
‘Good to know it’s not the dollars then,’ jeered someone in front of Sylvia.
She listened to some chortling from the people around her and sighed. If this resort went ahead, the whole fabric of the community would be changed. The village of Sisters Cove was set down a narrow, winding road that came to a dead end at a pristine white sand beach of unparalleled beauty. The small habitable stretch of beachfront had long ago been filled to capacity with old fibro shacks that jostled for prime position. More recently some had been knocked down to be replaced with substantial family homes, some so box-like and ugly they were enough to make her weep. But still, the place was relatively undeveloped and she wanted it to stay that way.
Most locals had assumed they were safe from this kind of proposed development because of the geography of the area. For about a hundred metres behind the beach, narrow roads had been built to allow for another thirty or forty houses, but the nature of the bushland f
urther up the hill, and the encroaching national park, meant that beyond that, development had stopped. About ninety houses sat inside the Sisters Cove beach precinct in all, and most people had assumed it was at maximum capacity. But now there was a proposal to build into the second cove that sat behind the headland, which had previously been dismissed as inaccessible and too expensive to develop.
Roger, the owner of the Farmgate Café, which operated out of the other end of the surf lifesaving clubhouse, was standing, twitching his fingers nervously. ‘If you say this will take two years to build, that’s a major impact on the community. There is one narrow, already degraded road in and out. The tourists tell us that the views they get along the way in, from the little parking bays, are part of the charm. You’re going to be blocking that road and causing all sorts of problems. You can’t tell us this won’t impact our businesses. All the trucks, the cranes or whatever. It’ll be a nightmare.’
The resort builder nodded encouragingly. ‘That’s why we’ve been in talks with the roads department to build another road in. Coming in from Delaware, behind the headland.’
‘That’s sacrilege! It’s pristine bushland through there!’ Eleanor Belingen remained sitting, three seats down from Sylvia, her arms folded tightly across her chest. Sylvia noticed her awkward, bristling posture. Eleanor wasn’t very supple. She often had difficulty with the yoga moves that Sylvia tried to teach in their Monday classes. Downward Dog gave her a head spin. Bridge Pose made her feel weird and off balance. Eleanor seemed passionately devoted to complaining about most things, although this time Sylvia agreed with her sentiment.
‘My bees?’ Tippy Heokstrom stood up, a great shambling hulk of a man. His jeans were dirty and sagged low on his hips and his old coat was frayed at the cuffs. He stared blankly at the resort builder, his mouth hanging open.
The resort builder nodded and waited, but nothing more came. Tippy was intellectually disabled. As a child, he had spent so much time following the local builders around and asking them to make their trucks tip up and down, that he’d been given the nickname Tippy. Nobody even remembered his real name any more.
‘My bees,’ he said again. For nearly fifty years, Tippy had supplied honey to the locals. Everyone knew he kept illegal hives up in the national park behind Sisters Cove where the leatherwood trees grew.
‘Tippy’s wondering about the impact to the forest in the national park where his bees gather pollen,’ said Dan, standing up next to Tippy.
Dan had always looked out for Tippy, even when they were young.
‘Yeah,’ said Tippy.
‘We’ll manage it sustainably and any protected species will be saved,’ said the man.
‘You’ve been involved in resorts before, Dan, what do you reckon about all this generally?’ asked Roger, turning to Dan, who was still standing.
Dan motioned to Tippy to sit down.
Sylvia wondered where Annabelle was. Usually her sister loved community meetings and the chance to chat to all her many friends. It was strange that she wasn’t here, hanging off Dan’s arm, nodding at his sage words.
‘Look, I don’t know,’ said Dan, stroking his short grey beard. ‘I’m no expert but I reckon resorts are always a gamble in a place as remote as this. It’ll bring jobs and tourist dollars, but with no direct flights to most of the mainland capital cities, it’s hard to know whether it’s sustainable.’ He shrugged. ‘Plus the site’s pretty tricky and hasn’t got the best views. I’m not sure I’d put my money in it, but good luck to you if you do.’
The meeting droned on, Alistair from Greenways Resorts answering questions when he could, the local council members interjecting, residents bickering. When the meeting finally ended, Sylvia was the first to get up and leave quietly from the back.
A cool breeze was coming off the ocean, and outside the clubhouse she stopped to pull off her shoes. She felt strangely calm, and the cold sand on her feet cleared her head. The moon sat high in the sky and the sun had begun to slip away as nine o’clock approached. Summer in Tasmania meant more than enough daylight for fitting everything in.
‘Reckon I’ll have a couple of beers before I go to the next meeting. Might make it more bearable.’
Sylvia lifted her head towards the sound of Dan’s voice, but remained facing the ocean. ‘It could wreck this place if it goes ahead,’ she said.
‘I wouldn’t be so sure,’ said Dan.
Sylvia shrugged, not wanting to extend the conversation with her brother-in-law. ‘Where’s Annabelle? I thought she’d be keen to hear from the developers.’
‘She had the first wedding ceremony in the garden today. When the guests finally left to go to the reception, she fell in a heap. A pretty stressful day all round.’
‘Why?’
‘The pump broke. No water till the last minute. A bridezilla. You name it. She had a migraine coming on when I left.’
‘Oh.’ Sylvia had a sudden pang of guilt for not going up to help her sister get ready for the wedding. She’d forgotten it was Annabelle’s first big event today.
‘Have you finished sorting out The Old Chapel yet?’ Dan asked.
A group of people came out of the clubhouse, talking loudly about the proposed new road. Sylvia and Dan looked towards them and waited for the chatter to disappear into the car park.
Sylvia hesitated. She wondered whether to tell him about Indigo’s plan for The Old Chapel, but he continued before she could.
‘Ian Enderby rang me – Lillian’s solicitor. Said he couldn’t get hold of you, but he’s contacted the beneficiary. The woman in England. He’s waiting to hear whether she’s coming out to see it.’
‘I know. I rang him a couple of hours ago. I’ve cleaned out quite a lot of Lillian’s junk and delivered the stuff she’d marked to go to charity, but she left most of the artworks to stay with the house.’
‘Who do you think this beneficiary is? A distant relative?’ asked Dan.
‘Maybe. Lillian didn’t ever mention her, though.’
‘I want to buy the place,’ said Dan. ‘I’ve left an offer with Ian. Makes sense that The Old Chapel comes back into Merrivale.’ He put both hands in his pockets and looked over her shoulder into the distance. The wind had picked up and was now cold and insistent.
Sylvia shivered. ‘Really?’ She buried her toes in the sand, wondering why Annabelle hadn’t mentioned this. ‘Well, Indigo wants to buy it too.’
‘What? How can she afford it?’ asked Dan.
‘Lillian left her a few thousand in the will. And somehow Indigo’s managed to build up quite a nest egg. She’s a hard worker.’
One corner of Dan’s mouth turned up just a fraction, and Sylvia thought: why does this situation upset you so much? The tiny inflection of annoyance disguised as a smile might have fooled most people, but she had known him her whole life.
‘Indigo wants her own space. And the solitude,’ she said.
‘Her mother’s daughter, then,’ said Dan, and Sylvia wondered if there was criticism in the words, or if she’d imagined it. Perhaps she was getting thin-skinned in her old age.
‘Goodnight, Dan. If my sister has a migraine, you should probably go home and check she’s all right.’
Sylvia turned and walked up the beach in the direction of her house. She focused on the low, rumbling sounds of the waves running up onto the sand then receding; breaking and rolling, back and forward. Crash, swish, swoosh. Her feet dug into the wet sand, and as she walked closer to the ocean edge, rivulets of cold water ran across them. The sun had almost disappeared now and the beach was in dark shadow.
‘Sylvia.’
Sylvia turned. ‘What?’
‘Annabelle asked me to deliver a leftover roll of chicken wire to you. For your new coop. It’s in the ute. I’ll drop it in on the way past.’
‘I can get it tomorrow.’
‘I’ll need the ute empty for Pete in the morning. I’ll just leave it by your back door.’ He turned and walked back to the car park, and Sylvia
watched him go, resenting his help. His insistence.
As she continued walking towards the end of the beach, she noticed the outside light of her veranda flickering through the branches of the gum trees that lined the front of the hill. By car, Dan would beat her. Her house sat off the road, down a long, rutted, unsealed driveway through the bush. But on foot, there was direct beach access, although the hill path through the scrub along the ocean front was steep.
Her breathing was heavy as she climbed, and she stopped as a loud crackling sound came from the bush to her left. She flipped her head towards the shadowy treeline. A huge wombat emerged into the grass clearing, its brown fur sleek and beautiful. It stopped and looked up at her, then, without a second glance, proceeded nonchalantly across her path, straight into the bushes on the other side. She smiled to herself and continued up the hill.
She crossed her front garden and slipped down the side of the house to see if Dan had left the chicken wire. He was leaning against the door frame.
‘Thought I’d wait to check you got home okay,’ he said.
‘There was no need. I’m a big girl.’
He pushed himself off the wall and took a step towards the ute. ‘I put the chicken wire around the other side.’
‘Thanks.’
He hesitated, then turned back to look at her. ‘There were a few things that worried me in that meeting. Feel like making me a cuppa and we can chat them through?’
‘Not really.’
‘You’re a tough woman, Sylvia Glendenning.’
Sylvia raised her eyebrows and pushed open the door. Nobody locked their doors around here, so she should be grateful Dan hadn’t just let himself in. She turned and noticed that he hadn’t made any move to leave. She flicked on the lights and let out a heavy sigh, holding open the screen door for him but refusing to meet his eye. Bugger him. He was forcing her into this chat. She didn’t want a cup of tea. She wanted a gin and tonic. Preferably a double.
The Daughter's Promise (ARC) Page 3
