Imagine what her yoga students would say if they knew that their lentil-eating, herbal-tea-drinking, meditating yoga teacher was craving a very large gin. Actually, they’d probably just give a knowing chuckle. She was a local girl after all. Forty years away from the place didn’t change you. Not really. She’d been to the Wynpark primary school with them, smoked cigarettes behind Jim’s market on Saturdays while their parents drank in the pub, had her first kiss with the pot-smoking Bogie Thomas – although she’d heard that Bogie, aka Aiden, was now a leading Melbourne QC who did pro bono work for Amnesty International. His success probably meant that her brief fling with him didn’t count any more if they were tallying up all the ways she was just an ordinary local girl.
Dan walked past her and stood next to the fridge. ‘On second thoughts, got any beer?’
‘No. I have about thirty types of Pukka tea, though. I’m having the turmeric. But the spearmint is nice.’
‘Right,’ said Dan, ‘excellent.’ He gave Sylvia a sarcastic half-smile that made her itch with irritation.
She opened the cupboard and looked longingly at the gin on the top shelf. She took out two mugs and closed the door with a firm click.
‘So the wedding was hard work then, was it?’ she asked as she flicked on the kettle.
‘Let’s not talk about it.’
‘Why not?’
Dan cocked his head and widened his eyes. ‘Because I don’t want to.’
‘What would you like to talk about then?’ Sylvia poured the hot water into the cups and opened the brightly coloured tea bags.
‘What about why you barely give me the time of day? Why every time I come home to find you visiting Annabelle, you practically run away the minute you see me?’
‘That sounds like a stupid topic of conversation.’
‘It’s not. It pisses me off. Why won’t you answer my calls? It’s not right, Syl.’
Sylvia felt the anger like an electric shock. Like a blowtorch through her chest. ‘Fuck you, Dan.’
‘What?’
‘Not right? Are you insane? What we were doing was not right. Coming into my house at night, asking me for a drink and for God knows what else, when Annabelle’s at home in bed, sick – that’s not right!’
‘Syl, don’t.’
‘I know you think there’s still something between us, Dan, but there can’t be. There just can’t be. I told you it was over and I meant it.’ For a moment Sylvia forgot to breathe. She dropped her eyes to the floor and forced her breath to come out evenly, but she felt herself crumbling inside.
‘I didn’t mean to upset you.’
‘Just go.’ Sylvia walked to the door and opened it. She looked out into the darkness, holding herself rigid, forcing back the tumble of emotions. The last thing she wanted to do was cry in front of him.
She felt him stop just behind her, then registered the warm, strong weight of his hand on her shoulder.
‘I’m sorry, Syl. I know it’s wrong, but every time I see you, I want to put my arms around you, kiss you. It makes me sick that I feel like this. But I can’t be sorry for it. The last few months have been hell without you.’
Sylvia felt every muscle in her body tensing. She’d been through this torture twice since she’d returned to Sisters Cove – falling back into his arms for a few weeks, dragging herself back out – wanting to peel off her skin as she boiled in her guilt each time. She couldn’t do it to herself again. But more than that, she couldn’t do it to her sister. ‘Dan, I just can’t.’
She felt him move closer behind her, both hands now on her upper arms. He pulled her against him and she wanted to turn and slap him. But instead she let herself lean back. Tears began running down her face, and a sudden, unexpected sob echoed through the silence. She turned around and buried her face in his chest, letting the tears fall with great heaving gasps into his T-shirt.
‘I hate you, Dan.’
‘I love you, Syl. Always have. Always will.’ He put his finger under her chin, tilted her face upwards and looked into her eyes. She knew he wasn’t really seeing her lined and tear-streaked sixty-two-year-old face. He was seeing her as she used to be. The person he’d first loved when he was twenty-one and she was seventeen, before she’d abandoned her life here. He was seeing the person she was under all the hard layers of life.
‘Can I close the door?’ he asked.
She reached out and pushed it shut and then reached across and turned out the light. She let her face rest against the warmth of his chest and listened as his heart beat a firm, fast rhythm in the darkness. It was so comforting. The smell of his aftershave, the heat of his body. From the day she’d come back to Sisters Cove, she’d been fighting the torrent of teenage memories unleashed by his familiar scent, the force of his personality, the tiny, appreciative movements of his eyes as they rested on her, always for a moment too long.
She looked out of the kitchen window. Darkness had fallen now and the moon was throwing a warm, silvery splash across the ocean. She wondered what the universe had meant by sending her back to Sisters Cove to care for Lillian when she was dying. Sending her back to the only man she’d ever loved properly; the only man she could never have. Perhaps it was playing a cruel joke.
‘Can you stay for an hour?’ she asked.
‘Yes.’
She took his hand, and in the dim light she pulled him towards the bedroom. They lay down on the bed, fully clothed, and she put her head on his chest and let the scent of him close down her thoughts.
‘I love you too, Dan. But I’m just so sorry I ever came back.’
Four
Willa
‘I’ve been researching Tasmania, Mum,’ said Hamish. He had wandered into the kitchen in his tracksuit pants and a crumpled pullover, holding his laptop. His hair stood up in a thick wedge where he’d slept on it, and a crease ran down one side of his face. ‘Apparently Sisters Cove was voted one of the top ten beaches in Australia.’ He plonked himself at the table and grinned.
Willa scraped marmalade onto her toast. ‘Was it?’
‘Yeah. Nearly as good as Whitehaven. We should go visit.’
‘You’ve got exams coming up. We can’t.’
‘In the Easter holidays, then?’
‘Dad’s busy. He’s got projects going on for the next few months.’
‘Don’t you want to go and see your new house, Mum?’
‘It’s not that simple, Hame. Eat your breakfast or you’ll be late for school.’
Willa pulled the Weetabix box from the shelf and milk and yoghurt from the fridge. She handed him a bowl and spoon. She knew she shouldn’t mother him so much, but she couldn’t help it.
‘Why was the regatta cancelled?’ she asked.
‘Weather. Anyway, Louis did something to his shoulder. He reckons he’ll be right by next Friday, though.’ Hamish poured milk onto the six Weetabix he’d piled into the bowl. He picked up the family-size tub of yoghurt and tipped it up. Willa held her breath as half the tub landed on top of the mountain of cereal in a huge dollop.
‘Use a spoon with that,’ snapped Willa. She hadn’t slept well. She felt shivery; as if she was coming down with a strange virus. She’d stared at the ceiling for half the night, wondering about the little house in Tasmania, tossing and turning, thrumming with anxiety. It must have done something to her immune system.
‘Good morning.’ Hugo kissed the top of her head on his way to put the kettle on the hob. He was wearing jeans and a button-up shirt and the beautiful brown loafers she’d bought him for Christmas. Casual Friday.
‘What do you have on today?’ asked Willa, admiring his bottom. Hugo had a very nice body for a man in his mid forties. He often went jogging, and if the weather prevented it, he lifted weights in the spare room.
‘Not much. I thought we could meet for lunch. Maybe try out that new café, the Rectory, I think it’s called. Near Christ Church. Amy told me it was very good.’
‘I’m not sure. I’ll see. I didn’t sleep well
,’ said Willa, ignoring Hugo’s worried look and gazing out of the window at the dreary sky, the bare trees, the hard, icy ground.
She used to think January was the worst part of winter. Nothing to look forward to except weeks more cold and ice. December, with Christmas and the markets and the lights and carollers, had been her favourite winter month, and February had been tolerable, with its cool promise of spring in the air. Now, though, the entire winter was unbearable, but February was the worst. Willa could feel February coming, feel it spreading into her bones like cancer in concrete, something insidious creeping through the part of her that should be unshakeably solid. But in the last two years, she had come to realise that a person’s foundations could be precariously balanced. Bones, muscles, emotions. With the approach of February, she felt as if she might collapse and shatter with the slightest touch.
She focused her eyes on the screen saver of Hamish’s laptop. A photo taken in Ireland, three summers ago. The four of them looking so together. So ordinary. Hugo leaning against her, laughing. Hamish, not so tall then, his arm slung around Esme, an expression of comical, exaggerated impatience on his face – penance for making him pose for the photograph. Esme smiling radiantly, putting up with Hamish’s constant tomfoolery. Esme. Willa felt the breath halve inside her chest. As if the bottom part of a lung had collapsed and there was only a little bit of capacity left to take in air. She clutched at the worktop, making her breath become slow and full.
‘… at home, then?’
Hugo was saying something. She hadn’t heard. She was thinking about her session with Dr Lee yesterday morning. What if you could find happiness in just a few everyday interactions this week? If it’s a thing you decide to be, just for that moment? Choose to acknowledge a spark of happiness, just as you acknowledge the other emotions that may also be present.
‘Sorry?’ Willa picked up the kettle. She steadied her hand and poured water into cups that Hugo had readied with tea bags.
‘I said I could come home instead, and we could go for a walk, see where we end up. A little adventure for our lunch.’
‘Mmm,’ said Willa. She jiggled the tea bags.
Hamish was scooping mushy, yoghurt-covered slop into his already full mouth, without pausing between spoonfuls. She was transfixed. It was repulsive, but also comforting. The nourishment, the energy needed to keep him growing. He was becoming a man, and she would have to watch carefully in case something went wrong and he needed her there to fix it.
‘Darling?’ said Hugo.
‘Yes, okay. Sure.’ She needed to focus. Concentrate.
‘What time is it in Australia, Mum?’ mumbled Hamish through his mouthful.
‘I guess about six p.m. on their Friday night.’
‘You should have called them last night then. To find out about the house. Now they won’t be in the office.’
Willa was counting on it.
‘She can email them any questions,’ said Hugo, picking up his tea.
‘Will you, Mum?’
‘I don’t know, Hamish. I can’t leave here at the moment and the letter says I need to go and see the house in person. You and Dad have commitments.’
‘Go on your own then,’ said Hamish, as if the answer was obvious. As if it was well within her power to catch a train to Heathrow, board a plane to the Australian mainland, then another to the island of Tasmania, then after thirty hours in transit, hire a car and drive a couple more hours to an unknown place called Sisters Cove and turn up to a seaside cottage to… to do what? Take ownership from a mysterious dead woman? The idea was ludicrous. She wasn’t capable of that sort of momentum.
Once it would have been easy, but now, well, she felt panicky at the idea of being away from Hamish. What if he contracted some sort of random illness that meant he had to be put on life support? Or if he needed to be picked up from a party in the middle of the night? Although he didn’t really go to parties – he was too dedicated to his sport and also a bit of an introvert. But still, that might change at any moment. Hugo had the same sort of personality, yet he’d liked parties at seventeen, so you could never be sure. A hot flush of worry swept through Willa again, and she wondered if perhaps this was just a symptom of perimenopause. That would make her normal. Hot, normal sort of flushes. Not crazy panic-woman flushes. The thought comforted her.
‘You could, you know, darling,’ said Hugo. ‘It might be fun.’
Willa narrowed her eyes at him. ‘I don’t think so.’
She could sense his disappointment. Almost see the cogs of his mind turning over. When will it end? This isn’t the woman I married. But the fear that he might give up on her didn’t feel quite as real as the terror of setting out on such a huge journey all by herself.
Hamish looked from his father to Willa, then gave a shake of his head. ‘I’ll have that house if you don’t want it, Mum. I could learn to surf if I lived in Australia for a while.’
‘The water would be freezing,’ said Willa. But despite the sick feeling in her stomach, she smiled at the thought of her lily-white English son next to the bronzed Aussie surfer boys with their overgrown, sun-bleached hair.
‘Not for me,’ said Hamish.
He was right. Here, the water was always cold. And the idea of her boy surfing in the freezing waters of Bass Strait made her feel strangely warm. As Hamish dumped his plate in the dishwasher and grinned, she thought: this is happiness. This moment is happiness.
She tidied up the kitchen and then sat and drank her tea, as her husband and son hurried themselves to get out the door.
‘I’ll see you around one, then?’ asked Hugo as he kissed her goodbye.
‘All right. Bye.’ She smiled, then looked down, pretending to be engrossed in the newspaper. The moment of happiness had made her feel untethered, as if she might blow away at any second, as if she might not always feel so weighed down. It frightened her that she might feel happy again one day.
As soon as they were both gone, Willa walked into the laundry and began to fold, wash, iron, clean out the cupboards. Dr Lee said she needed to keep busy. Needed to give herself other things to think about. After she’d finished ironing, she went into the bedroom and pulled out the drawer full of summer clothes. She tossed them onto the bed. Time for giving to charity. She held up each item, assessed whether she could ever imagine wearing it again, whether it gave her joy. Wasn’t that the latest trend in decluttering from that Japanese woman? ‘Joy’ as a measurement of working out her summer wardrobe was a little bit over-the-top, in Willa’s opinion. She held up a beige pair of chinos. She quite liked them. They were very functional and fitted her perfectly. A feeling of joyousness at the sight of them eluded her though. She put them in the ‘to keep’ pile and decided she couldn’t possibly be influenced by a woman who got her joy from her choice of trousers. It was a highly suspicious sort of personality trait.
She stopped as she came to a pale-green sundress with silver embroidery down the front. She held it up to her face and smelled it. A gift from Esme, years ago. The splash of a tear made a dark green spot on the material.
‘Baby girl, I miss you so much,’ she whispered. She felt the tide of grief begin to overtake her. Sometimes it happened without warning. Less these days, though. She let herself collapse backwards onto the bed and curl up in a ball, clutching the dress. She shook with tears. After they stopped, she lay there wondering how long it would go on; if it would ever be easier; if the tiny moment of happiness this morning had really happened.
An hour must have passed and Willa eventually got up, went back into the kitchen, and made herself another cup of tea. She sat at the desktop computer. The letter from the solicitor taunted her from the desk. She lifted her hands and typed in Lillian Brooks Sisters Cove Tasmania.
Several articles popped up, and she clicked on the first one. It was from a newspaper called The Coastal Herald. From the look of the article, it was a local paper. A woman of perhaps sixty was pictured in a bright-yellow long-sleeved shirt, red shorts and a
red sun hat, leaning on a yellow lifesaving board outside a building at the beach. She was short, with hunched shoulders and a leathery, lined face. Her eyes twinkled straight into the camera. The caption read: Sisters Cove’s second-longest-serving lifesaver, Lillian Brooks, gets ready for the Tulip Time Ocean Race.
Willa began to read the article, but she could feel Lillian’s eyes staring out from the screen at her. She looked back up at the photograph and was suddenly overcome with a cold sense of dread. This funny little woman knew her. She had singled Willa out for her final act of giving.
She pressed the back arrow on the screen and flicked down the menu of articles about Lillian. The next one showed her with a group of women inside the surf club. Some sort of craft group fund-raiser for charity. Lillian was holding up a painting. The woman next to her was holding a knitted jumper. They had raised more than six thousand dollars for a children’s charity. Willa scanned the text, which mentioned details of each woman’s particular talent and how they had gone about raising the funds over twelve months.
The next article showed Lillian sitting in a chair next to another woman, who was standing. The other woman was tall, slim and fit-looking. She might have been fifty or so, and was quite beautiful, with long grey-blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail. She was wearing yoga pants and a fitted tank top. The article talked about yoga during illness and about the women’s long-standing friendship and how yoga and meditation were helping Lillian through her battle with breast cancer.
Lillian must have lost her battle, thought Willa. She looked at the date of the article: 28 February 2018. A cold, churning nausea flooded her gut. She pushed back the chair, walked into the mud-room, and grabbed her coat.
‘Kettles!’ The dog looked up from his mat. ‘Here, boy. Walk.’
She attached his lead and pulled him outside to the gate. She tried to force herself to step into the lane. But she was trapped. She was stuck on the date of the article: 28 February. She couldn’t think what to do next. She was still standing there a few minutes later, Kettles waiting patiently on his lead, when Hugo arrived back for lunch.
The Daughter's Promise (ARC) Page 4
