White Sands of Summer

by J. H. Fletcher

  She assumed he would probably kiss her but to begin with he didn’t do that. Instead he ran his fingers lightly down her arm, making the little hairs stand up, and she felt a shiver eel through her. He touched the side of her neck with delicate fingers, then his lips. Still he had not kissed her and her body stirred uneasily. For the first time she understood how easy it would be for her to lose control. One part of her wanted that but her mind warned against it and when he caressed the delicate skin on the inside of her knee she straightened in her seat.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘Stop it.’

  His hand paused but he did not remove it.

  ‘I said stop it!’

  For a moment it seemed he might take no notice. They were both breathing unsteadily but finally he took the hand away. She straightened the hem of her dress, thinking how much trouble she might have been in had he ignored her.

  It was an experience not to be forgotten, a lesson learnt. She resolved never to let herself get into such a situation again.

  ‘I’d like you to take me home now,’ she said.

  He did so but was a bit sullen about it. ‘What’s your problem?’

  ‘I’m fifteen,’ Lydia said. ‘If anything had happened my grandfather would have had you killed.’

  Sir Stoddart Maitland was a name to conjure with in the sugar country. Everyone knew he had power. Whether he would really have used it to have Mark Hobbs killed Lydia didn’t know but it made no odds, because very soon she’d moved on.

  Mark had made her aware that she enjoyed the company, and the attentions, of boys her own age, or older. In one case a good deal older; she discovered she had the power to attract men, which was an exciting thing to know, but in that case the man’s experience might have been a problem, because she let things go further than she’d originally intended. A lot further.

  Another lesson learnt, luckily without consequences. Once again Lydia moved on.

  1964–67

  Jess

  There were times when Jess thought she would never have survived had it not been for her son. Her son and her work.

  Both were a challenge.

  Andrew was eleven now and looked likely – fingers crossed! – to fulfil all the hopes she’d had for him. She loved him with all her heart, was proud of him, too, but there was no doubt he was a puzzle. It did not affect her love but made it more complicated, because it sometimes seemed to her that she’d given birth to a tribe of Andrews.

  The Andrew who was good at sport and played it purposefully but with none of Lydia’s frenzied need to win at all costs. Who was grave and studious, or at times uproarious, who was wise but could be foolish, too, a practical joker with a perception older than his years. He was a shadow: not in the childish flesh, but in the spirit that lay hidden inside the flesh.

  He was bright: that was one thing that was indisputable in the kaleidoscope masquerading as this man-in-the-making.

  ‘Bright as buttons,’ Mr Sillitoe said.

  Mr Sillitoe was Andrew’s form master at the Abbotsford private school where Jess had enrolled him when he was ten. Shannon had turned up her nose at the idea of her nephew going to a private school.

  ‘Planning on turning him into a snob, are we? I seem to remember the state system was good enough for us. What are they going to teach him there? Latin and Greek? The history of the British Empire? That’ll be a real help when he has to earn his living.’

  Jess had taken no notice. She had no intention of turning Andrew into a snob but knew that Abbotsford would be attended by the sons of wealthy men, influential in both the district and the state, and that friendships and contacts made in his teens would stand him in good stead later in life. If Shannon didn’t like it, tough.

  ‘Brightest child I ever taught,’ Mr Sillitoe said with what might have been qualified approval, because, bright or not, there was no denying Andrew was a challenge. ‘He’s a very private child,’ the teacher said. ‘I find it hard to get close to him.’

  ‘You think he’s unhappy?’

  ‘Not at all. It’s just the way he is.’

  Jess often felt the same. Even as a little boy he had disliked the physical contact Jess sought to make, snared by the obscure notion that if she touched him more she might understand him better. Andrew was a boy’s boy and wanted no part of it. So, as he grew, his mother learnt to restrain herself, although the longing to touch his skin remained.

  Children, Jess thought. Our treasure and our bane. One wanted to do so much for them, to do everything, and that was impossible.

  He must find his own way, she thought. As must we all.

  JUNE 1968

  Lydia

  For her twenty-first birthday, Grandpa Maitland gave Lydia a trip to England.

  She stayed with Sir Stoddart’s sister Persephone in her beautiful house in Bathgate Road, within walking distance of both Wimbledon Common, with its quaint windmill and many rustic walks, and the All-England Lawn Tennis Club.

  Snobbish Persephone, who prided herself on knowing everyone who was anyone, had tickets for the tennis. It was after watching Australia’s Rod Laver win the men’s single final that she introduced Lydia to Lyle Curtis.

  Lyle was in his mid-thirties, an English diplomat, handsome and mature, who Persephone said was heading for an ambassador’s post, one of these days.

  ‘There’s money, too,’ Persephone said.

  Which didn’t hurt.

  Lydia and Lyle – how delightful to have such similar names, Persephone said – hit it off from the first. Lydia had intended to travel around Europe while she was there; now she changed her plans.

  Lyle, the perfect gentleman, invited her out to dinner. The Ritz, no less.

  He was still the perfect gentleman when he took her to the Covent Garden opera, where Solti was conducting Götterdämmerung. Lydia, bored witless and half-deafened by Wagner’s music, hated it but smiled and smiled and agreed with Lyle that it had been a truly wonderful experience.

  Again he bought her dinner, this time at the Ivy, and drove her home, parking in a secluded spot on the edge of Wimbledon Common where he, now somewhat less than the perfect gentleman and despite the cool late-September air, made love to her in a manner that left her breathless. But not at all unwilling.

  The next day Lyle Curtis proposed to Miss Lydia Maitland and she accepted at a speed that might have won her a sprint gold in the Olympics, had the Olympics been held that year.

  The wedding was worthy of the wonderful life Lydia had planned for herself. Lyle’s father George – a widower but such a darling man! – was an MP and arranged for the ceremony to be held in the crypt of the House of Commons, courtesy of a special licence obtained from the Archbishop of Canterbury.

  Her mother, father and grandfather all flew over to attend the wedding. Neither her aunt Jess nor her fifteen-year-old cousin bothered, which came as no surprise.

  What was far more important, the congregation was packed with notables from the Foreign Office. The Foreign Secretary sent his apologies, which was a disappointment, but two other MPs and their mink-and-diamond wives graced the occasion.

  Father, who’d told her in the car that he was thinking of going into Queensland politics, walked her to the altar where a morning-suited Lyle awaited her. The cost of Lydia’s dress alone could have fed several hundred of the starving people of the earth, but since Grandfather had agreed to pick up the bills after her parents – her own parents – had refused to do so, it didn’t matter.

  Lydia, who with her new status wanted nothing to do with vulgar Mums and Dads, blamed Mother for it. She was convinced she could have talked Father around in time. Making a show was so important but Shannon had said no, and that had been the end of it. Her only child, but Shannon said no, it was a complete waste of money. They were Australians, they’d come from nothing, Grandpa Harcourt had been a labourer in a sugar mill, there was no need for all the nonsense.

  As far as Lydia was concerned, her mother’s attitude was disgusting, humiliating.
Thank God for Sir Stoddart Maitland: that was what Lydia felt. Said it, too, throwing her resentment in her mother’s face at the reception at the Dorchester.

  ‘Grandfather cares for me even if you don’t,’ she said.

  He had not approved of her choice of husband, telling her point-blank that Lyle was a lightweight who would never amount to anything, but had still paid for the reception, which was what mattered.

  No matter; she would show them. There were rumours of an important posting in the wind; Madrid, perhaps, or even Paris, because Lyle was fluent in both Spanish and French. Her parents would come around soon enough when Lyle’s career took off.

  Whether she would be willing to accept them after the shameful way they’d treated her was another matter.

  In the meantime they were off on honeymoon to the Greek islands, the future shining like Homer’s wine-dark sea between the marble ruins.

  Sir Lyle and Lady Curtis… she couldn’t wait.

  MAY 1969

  Shannon

  One autumn day Shannon came home to see a car containing three men turning out of their drive.

  When she went indoors Hal was sitting in his easy chair in the sitting room, his face turned to the ceiling. His eyes were closed but he opened them as she came into the room.

  ‘What did those blokes want?’

  He sighed and gave her a wry smile, but she could see that underneath he was as pleased as punch.

  ‘They were sounding me out. McKillop is retiring and they wanted to know if I’d be interested in taking his place.’

  Gordon McKillop was the local state MP and had been around since Vince Gair was a pup.

  ‘And are you?’

  A silly question, but it gave her time to think.

  ‘You know what I’m like,’ Hal said. ‘I’m OK at planning new things, but the hard slog of management isn’t for me.’

  He was right; he hadn’t the patience for day-to-day administration. Whether that meant he was temperamentally unsuited to the committee meetings and conspiracies of politics was another matter, but if it was what he wanted…

  Not for the first time, Shannon wondered how he’d survived the long years in New Guinea, when he’d told her that every day had been dangerous but not exciting at all. That must have been a hard slog, Shannon thought. He must have used up all his patience in the jungle.

  The property division was established now: cash flow was fine, building was on schedule and they had money in the bank. For other companies in the group they had competent managers and with his father in no hurry to retire Hal was without real authority. That being so, it might be better if he did find another interest.

  ‘If you fancy the idea, I think you should do it,’ she said.

  He looked at her. ‘And the business?’

  ‘The business will be fine,’ she said.

  ‘Dad won’t like it.’

  ‘Maybe not. But it’s your life, not his.’

  ‘You know,’ he said, ‘I’ve half a mind to give it a go.’

  It was a safe seat; if he won the nomination he’d be a shoo-in. And it would give him the chance to make a difference. Although how much of a difference only time and the premier would tell.

  ‘Will you campaign for me?’

  Politics was emphatically not for Shannon. ‘I’ll wear a rosette on polling day. And smile nicely for the cameras. How does that sound?’

  It would mean a different life for him, not so different for her, although she would see less of him than she would have preferred. But he wanted it – that was painted all over his face – and losing him for part of the year would be a small sacrifice for the man she loved.

  ‘I’ll be that proud. And so will your dad, underneath.’

  She’d promised to wear a rosette and smile nicely for the cameras but when it came to it, busy though she was, she did a lot more than that.

  She smiled for the cameras, and the voters. She went to meetings, although she drew the line at speaking at them. Instead she sat on a variety of platforms, putting on what she hoped was an expression of rapt enthusiasm while secretly being bored witless as the platitudes poured in a turgid stream from one speaker after another.

  ‘How d’you think it went?’

  ‘Wonderful! Marvellous! Couldn’t have been better!’

  She compelled herself not to yawn and never once did she permit the word tedium to cross her lips. Finally, suitably rosetted and wearing a forest of flowers that threatened to engulf her at any moment in a cataclysm of sneezing, she raised her husband’s hand as the successful candidate faced a cheering mob of supporters.

  Thank God that’s over.

  Hal headed off to Brisbane, face aglow at the prospect of making a difference for the people of his constituency and state, while Shannon, duty done, couldn’t wait to get back to the real world and the challenges that awaited her.

  She’d been back two days when she faced the first one, and a major problem it was.

  1969–70

  Shannon

  The phone beside the bed rang at six in the morning. Shannon had not got used to sleeping alone after sharing a bed for so long and had had a restless night. She reached for the receiver.

  ‘Hullo?’

  ‘We got trouble.’

  It was Jim Marks, one of her site engineers.

  ‘What’s the problem?’

  ‘Jake and Emmet Sykes were roughed up last night.’

  ‘What?’ Shannon sat up in bed. ‘Are they badly hurt?’

  The brothers were two of her plant operators – she took pride in knowing the names of those who worked for her – tough and capable men, and news like that was enough to wake anybody.

  ‘They’re in hospital but they’ll be OK. More than you can say for their plant.’

  ‘What’s happened to it?’

  ‘Those big front-end loaders they were working? They’re a write-off.’

  ‘Never mind the plant. It’s the brothers I’m worried about. You’re sure they’ll be OK?’

  ‘Quite sure. They’re shaken, as you’d expect, but it’s basically only bruises. They took them in for observation The doctor says Emmet should be out later today but they’re not so sure about Jake.’

  ‘I’ll go and see them,’ Shannon said. ‘Have the police been told?’

  ‘First thing I did.’

  ‘Any thoughts who might have done it?’

  ‘I know who’s responsible. Proving it will be another question, of course.’

  ‘I’m on my way,’ Shannon said.

  It was the site where they were building the new school. They were on a tight deadline and were already behind schedule because the planners had stuffed up, positioning the school at the top of a low cliff, and there’d been problems with the foundations. Any more delays could mean horrendous penalties and they’d been working double shifts to make up time.

  What had happened was that the two front-end loaders had been driven off the cliff and set on fire. One glance and Shannon could see that Jim Marks had been right: the loaders were both write-offs.

  ‘Let’s hope the insurance covers vandalism,’ she said.

  It had better, she thought. Or there’ll be a bookkeeper looking for another job.

  ‘What do the police say?’

  ‘Not a lot. They had a look, asked a few questions and pushed off. They asked if you’d drop into the station when you’ve got a minute. I didn’t get the impression we’re high on their list of priorities.’

  ‘You said you know who did it but can’t prove it. Tell me.’

  ‘I said I knew who was responsible, not who did it.’

  ‘And that is?’

  ‘Not hard to work it out,’ Jim Marks said. ‘When you put in your bid for the school, who did you beat into second place? And who would take over if we missed our deadline and got kicked off the job?’

  ‘A crowd called Woodcock Construction. I know nothing about them.’

  ‘Harley Woodcock’s a Sydneysider. New boy on t
he coast but the word is he had a bad name down south.’

  ‘Bad name for what?’

  ‘For being a total bastard. Jerry-building, bribery: you name it. I’ve heard violence mentioned, too, but no details, of course. There never is.’

  ‘Did you pass that on to the police?’

  ‘They said if we had proof they’d act.’

  ‘How did it happen?’

  ‘We’ve got the boys sleeping in portable cabins. The Sykes boys heard their loaders start up and went haring out to see what was going on, ran straight into a group of thugs in balaclavas. Four or five of them, they reckon. Got knocked about a bit. Next thing the loaders were over the cliff.’

  ‘Did they get a look at the men who attacked them?’

  ‘Apparently not.’

  ‘What I want you to do,’ Shannon said. ‘Get a couple of loaders up here quick smart.’

  ‘Where from?’

  ‘Any of our sites.’

  ‘They won’t like it.’

  ‘Tell them I’ve authorised it. We must meet the deadline: the penalties will kill us, otherwise. I’ll go and see Jake and Emmet in hospital and drop in at the police station on the way back. Got all that?’

  Full-steam-ahead Shannon. She’d always known she was best in a crisis, relishing the challenge.

  ‘Sure, I got it.’

  ‘Then let’s get to it, then.’

  ‘It’ll mean a lot of overtime.’

  ‘Just do it, OK?’

  Shannon saw the brothers in the hospital. She found them with both faces and pride bruised and as mad as hell – with the unknown thugs who’d beaten them up, even more with themselves for letting it happen – and itching to get back to work.

  ‘Soon as the doctor gives his OK,’ she said. ‘And don’t worry about it. Nobody’s blaming you.’

  Next, she visited the police station.

  The sergeant said that without evidence there wasn’t much they could do.

  ‘How about looking at who stands to gain if we fall over?’