I needed to go take a shower, but it seemed impolite to ignore Clive. What had the legal documents said? That he’d agreed to take care of the farm in return for the profits from the milk. It had seemed like a good deal when I’d read it in New York. Added to that, Clive had just had a new baby. Congratulations were in order.
So I made my way into the dairy, careful this time to move slowly, watching my feet and poking my nose around the dairy door with caution. The last thing I wanted was to startle the cows, so I saw the McConachies en masse before they saw me.
I saw a short, wiry man, lean and weathered. I guessed he was in his early forties, and by the look of his nose he’d been the loser in more than one argument in his life. My nose was pink and his nose was squashed. He was messing with a spanner in the middle of the rotating dairy while the cows watched on, patiently waiting to be milked.
Then there were kids, four of them, ranging from about eight down to a toddler. The oldest, a skinny little girl with red hair and freckles, was clipping a chain behind the first cow, and a boy of about six was encouraging the next cow onto the platform. Sitting on the rails where I’d sat this morning were two more little boys. Every kid had the man’s ginger hair and shower of freckles.
The cows saw me first. There were only two on the platform as yet, Christabelle and one other. The rest were lined up waiting, jostling for position. As they saw me they turned to stare, and the McConachies did the same.
Whoops. I wasn’t exactly your dignified new owner. Bikini, dripping wet shirt, spirals of red hair and Grandpa’s flip-flops.
‘Hi,’ I managed, and the man straightened from his spanner work and smiled.
‘You’ll be Dr Kelly.’
‘Call me Jenny.’
He stepped off the platform and came forward to grasp my hand, drawing me further into the dairy. The cows barely blinked. Maybe they’d become used to me this morning, or maybe they’d decided with four kids here, what was the use of bothering about one more?
That was what I felt like. A kid.
But Clive was welcoming me as if I were a hugely missed friend. ‘Jenny.’ His grip was warm and firm. ‘We’re real pleased to meet you. I’m Clive McConachie.’ He motioned to the kids. ‘This is Becky, my eight-year-old. This is Harold, who’s six. Sam’s the next and he turns five next week and Benjamin’s three.’ I received four bright and toothy (though in Harold’s case, gappy) smiles. ‘We’re really sorry we couldn’t be here last night to welcome you. Mary put a pie in the freezer for you and she was planning on doing some cleaning and coming round with a casserole, but then she got her pains. Henrietta just arrived.’
‘A baby takes precedence over a casserole,’ I agreed, relaxing. This welcome was unexpected. Every local I’d met so far had looked askance at me and Muriel. The ladies in the general store. Jack. But here was a real welcome.
‘Aye, and I was so bombed. Henrietta’s our fifth but it never gets any less … you know. Emotional and stuff. The kids stayed in the waiting room until they heard the baby cry, and then they were in with their mother. After that the nurses put them to bed. I made a few phone calls and had a wee lie down beside Mary—and the next thing I knew it was ten this morning and Doc McLachlan had done all my milking. Eighty on his place and thirty here. Doc must have slept before Henrietta was born ’cos he didn’t go back to bed.’
‘You milk eighty cows on Jack’s place?’ I was having trouble working this out.
‘Well, I usually do. Me and Mary rent the farm on the other side of your grandpa’s place so there’s three places in a row. Makes it easy.’
‘You have your own herd, too?’
He shrugged and shook his head. ‘Not anymore. Kills me when I think of it.’
‘What happened?’
What was wrong with me? I never probed into people’s lives. I spent life in New York refusing to make eye contact with strangers, yet here I was pushing for information from someone I’d known a whole two minutes. And that person wasn’t even a patient.
Isabella wouldn’t recognise me. Richard wouldn’t recognise me.
And what I asked for, I got. Of course.
‘The place we’re on used to be our family farm.’ Clive settled against the rails, obviously intending to give me the whole story. Well, I’d asked. ‘We were one of the original landholders after the shipwreck. My great-great-granddad was a shipmate. He washed up here and decided it was paradise. But I got it into my head to be a jockey so I left. Got myself an apprenticeship in Sydney.’
‘That’s good,’ I said faintly and he grinned.
‘It was good. I was a damned good jockey. But the island’s in my blood. It gets to you after a while. My dad kept the farm and I worked it during the off season—for no pay, but on the understanding that when I retired from racing I’d come home. So Mary and I … well, we never worried too much about the future. Then I had a bloody awful fall, and I couldn’t ride anymore. Time to come home, I thought, but meanwhile Dad was approached by one of these developers.’
He said the word developers like he’d say pond scum. He stared at his feet and it took him a minute to start again.
‘Well, the price they paid him…’ he said at last. ‘Most of the island’s coast is locked into family holdings and you can just about name your price. They want flat land, you see, and there’s not much of it. Turtle Bay’s ideal for a resort, an air strip, a marina, maybe even a golf course but yours and Doc’s place are the only two with access. I reckon they thought they’d buy my place and then buy yours when Henry died. Henry always said over his dead body and maybe that’s what they were counting on. It’s a wonder they haven’t approached you already. Anyway, Dad sold and took off to Sydney. With bloody Erica Maiden. Widow of Angus Maiden and hell, we reckon he died from the worry that woman gave him. Talk about a black spider … Anyway, off Dad went and watched her spend all his money on the poker machines, and then she left him. She went to the Gold Coast with someone richer and stupider, and he was left with nothing. We were left with nothing.’
There was so much I didn’t understand but I was trying. ‘That’s terrible.’ It was an inane comment, but it was all I could think of. I was standing in my wet bikini, with sand between my toes, my skin fast turning a colour to match my hair. Four children and thirty cows were watching, and I was listening to real life drama. This drama would affect me. I knew it. There was a reason I was being told this.
But stupidly I’d asked, and now there was no choice. With all these eyes watching—expecting—I had to probe further.
‘So what happened?’
‘Dad came home,’ Clive said sadly. ‘We managed to lease back the house, but of course the land’s gone. Dad apologised and asked if he could live with us anyway. Like a kicked dog he was, so what were we to do but take him in? So there we were, with no herd, with our land to be turned into a bloody marina resort as soon as Henry agreed to sell, with the kids and Dad, and Mary pregnant again—not that we’d meant that, of course, but you’ve got to take it as it comes—and no bloody income at all. We would have gone to the dogs without Doc McLachlan. Wouldn’t we, kids?’
Four heads nodded in solemn agreement. I had the feeling this was a story they’d heard before, but still found gripping.
‘What did Jack … Doc McLachlan do?’
‘He came back six months ago, just in the nick of time, and organised me to run his farm. You know his brother was killed—the one that ran his farm? Bridget’s dad?’ Clive didn’t wait for an answer but kept right on. ‘Bridget’s a mate of Becky’s, and she’s a great little kid. Anyway, Doc McLachlan wants the farm kept as a going concern for Bridget if she wants it. There’s no way he’ll sell out to developers. So I milk his cows and I keep the profits. The only stipulation is that I look after the land. On its own it’s barely an income but he organised me to do the same for Henry—for your granddad.’
So much information was coming at me that I felt stunned. Jack’s brother … killed? Bridget’s father. Cl
ive’s livelihood. I was being slammed by events that had nothing to do with me, and emotion was doing my head in. I fought for a way forward that didn’t seem like stepping into a chasm. Henry should be our only link. Was it safe to venture there?
‘You knew Henry?’
‘Of course I did. As a kid I used to be scared of him, but then I was just plain sorry.’
‘He couldn’t milk his own cows?’
‘He milked them night and day until I came back. He put in this bloody fantastic rotary dairy which is stupid for such a small herd but it makes milking by yourself much easier. But he was glad to hand it over to me. He used to come and watch. Sat here every milking time, he did, and listened while I talked.’
What else could he have done with Clive?
‘Do you know anything about the surfboards?’ I was still trying to distract myself from the thought of Jack and Bridget’s loss, and it seemed Clive knew about that, too.
‘Well, I knew about them, of course. They’ve always been propped up out the back, ever since I can remember, getting more and more dilapidated. A couple he always kept lovely. Those are the two real old ones. But when he stopped milking—he was so damned frail— he started fixing them up. He was polishing every one of them, and he even bought some more. “My kid’ll be coming,” he told me. “My grandkid. She’s a fine girl. She’ll learn. She’ll use them.”’
‘He didn’t know me,’ I whispered. What had he thought I’d do with twenty surfboards?
‘He used to tell me about you.’ There was no stopping Clive. The children hadn’t moved. They were still staring at me like I’d arrived from another planet. ‘Your grandpa said you were a doctor and you’d made something of yourself. He told me he thought you’d like it here.’
‘But the surfboards…’
‘He got most of them together for your mother when she was out here.’
‘My mother was here?’
‘Thirty odd years back.’ He shrugged. ‘Maybe a bit more. I can only just remember her. Looked like you, she did—that same hair. Bloody wild, though, if you don’t mind my saying. Said she’d come out to find herself or some such, but I wouldn’t be surprised if she’d run away from home. She was that sort, if you know what I mean. No offence. I was only a nipper of ten or so but the locals … well, they talked about her long after she left.’
‘She came by herself?’
‘With mates. A bunch of them arrived on a fishing trawler and more came after. They stayed for about a year. That’s when your grandpa built the hostel—like a boarding house. He used the base of the old hotel and pulled out all stops to get it done fast. He didn’t like your mum camping out, you see, but she wanted to stay with her friends. Anyway he built it, but almost as soon as it was finished they got sick of it and moved on. Your grandpa though … My dad said when she was here he’d never been happier. He sat on the headland and watched her surf. Her and her friends. He didn’t charge any of them for accommodation, you know. He’d have done anything for her.’
I was starting to feel ill. ‘Why didn’t she stay with him?’
‘A kid like that?’ He shrugged. ‘I’d imagine she wouldn’t have wanted to. Your granddad wasn’t exactly an oil painting. Made you sick to see his face, poor old coot. As far as I know she never came back. Then a couple of years ago he suddenly got it into his head to do up the hostel again. Brought workers in from the mainland. They worked like fury for three months but then they were gone and the place was boarded up again. We were sort of expecting you to arrive with surfing mates, but here you are, just you and your grandma.’ He shrugged again, then turned back to his milking, prodding the kids back to their efficient assembly line. The cows looked resigned, as if accustomed to being hooked up to their cups, patted and gossiped over.
I’d been feeling as if there’d been an impermeable fog between the past and now. Through Clive’s friendly chat, the fog was lifting, leaving a mist through which I could glimpse shadows.
The shadows of Grandpa.
And … a spoiled brat who was my mother?
I needed to talk to Muriel. Really talk. Somewhere where she couldn’t make excuses and leave.
What better place than a hospital bed?
‘Anyway, between the pair of them, Henry and Doc fixed us right up,’ Clive was saying, cheering up a little. ‘When I came back here, Doc made Henry see he couldn’t keep on milking and he suggested I help. So now I milk both lots of cows, and combined it’s a living.’
‘That’s great.’ But was it? I was starting to see a chasm before me—the reason I was being told this. And here it came.
‘They say you’re thinking of selling, though,’ he said, and his face changed. His voice changed. I recognised sudden, fierce anxiety. ‘You wouldn’t, would you? I mean, it’s such a bonnie farm. If you sell … the cows will go and we will, too.’
‘I haven’t decided what to do yet.’ It was true, I thought defensively. I hadn’t. And my words made Clive’s face clear, like the sun had come out again.
‘There. I told Doc he had the wrong end of the stick. A true islander doesn’t sell. Apart from my dad, and I don’t mind saying it, that woman got into his head. For generation after generation, we hang on. That’s the way it’s always been. Let’s not judge the girl ’til she gets here, I told him, and wasn’t I right? Think about it for a year or so. Come over for a few holidays and get a feel for the place. It’ll draw you in. It’s in your blood. It’s your home.’
In my blood? He had to be joking.
I’d told Richard the farm would be on the market in a week.
And Jack McLachlan had the wrong end of the stick?
‘I need to take a shower and visit my grandmother,’ I said, and if I sounded desperate there was nothing I could do about it.
‘That’s right.’ Clive turned back to his milking, anxiety dissipated. ‘She’s in the room next to my Mary. One of the nurses told me she was there—the lady who walked out on old Henry.’
‘That’s hardly fair. It was over fifty years ago.’
‘So it was,’ he agreed, placid again. ‘And maybe I’d have done the same. He was a cantankerous old codger. But those scars … They say he was a war hero.’ Clive thought about it for a minute, then gave himself a shake. ‘Well, who am I to sit in judgement on what happened fifty years back? There’s enough locals doing that without me adding my mite to the poor girl’s worries.’
‘She’s hardly a girl. Muriel’s seventy-five.’ Had I just said that out loud? Muriel would kill me.
‘So she is,’ he said slowly, scratching his head. ‘You’d think they’d have forgiven by now, or at least forgotten. But the islanders have long memories. She’s a girl to them. A girl who walked out on Henry. But off you go to see your grandma. Give her our best. My dad remembers her. He says she was a real looker. Kids, say goodbye to Dr Kelly.’
‘Goodbye,’ chorused four little voices.
I left. The cows gazed after me, their huge eyes asking questions I had no hope of answering.
I showered. I dressed in slim-legged pants and a crisp white shirt. I tied my hair up into the elegant knot Richard loved and I made up my face with care, camouflaging sunburn.
I’d been stupid to go to the beach. I’d been stupid to get involved at all. I had to get the place on the market and get out of here, but I couldn’t get Henry out of my mind. I needed to go back to the hospital but before I went I pulled out the bundle of letters and read a few more.
Dear Jenny,
Have you ever seen a nautilus shell? I don’t suppose you have. One washed up on the beach today and you don’t know how rare that is, to get one intact, unbroken.They used to be here in droves—apparently they’re how the island got its name—but I’ve never seen an intact one before.
This one was as big as my hand. It was unblemished, thinner than egg shell, with the waves running down from the apex to the shell’s entrance.
When I picked it up it was so delicate, so fine, I could see the sea t
hrough it. It was glistening white, with the sapphire of the sea glimmering behind it. Perfection.
It made me think of your grandmother. Stupid, that. She wouldn’t thank me for comparing her to a shell, and maybe I’m wrong.
The shell was fragile, and Muriel’s tough. I know that now. She’s a survivor.
I stood and looked at it for a long time, thinking how amazing it was that I could hold such a thing in my hand.Then I walked up to the headland, where the open sea lay below me, and I threw it off.
It’ll be broken now but that’s how it should be. It’ll soon be the sand under my feet.
Why would I try to keep beauty like that?What right do I have?
No right at all …
I arrived at the hospital just as Jack did. He was in the car park as I pulled up. Minus Bridget. He was dressed for medicine again. His stethoscope was stuffed in his pocket. A medical colleague. Excellent. Colleagues I could deal with.
‘You’ve been called back?’ I asked—formally—and he nodded.
‘I have.’ He eyed the beach buggy and grinned. ‘So you’re out enjoying a Sunday drive in the limo then, Dr Kelly? And you’re visiting your grandma?’
‘I’ll visit her whether she likes it or not.’
‘You and your grandmother really don’t like each other.’
‘It’s not dislike, exactly. More that we don’t … connect.’
‘She’s not exactly warm.’
‘Neither am I.’
‘I might have agreed with that,’ he said, considering. ‘Until I saw you dog paddle.’
‘It worked.’ I sounded defensive and childish, and he grinned again.
‘It did, and I’m grateful.’
We were walking towards the hospital entrance, and somehow our steps slowed.
‘What’s wrong with Bridget’s legs?’ I asked. Damn. It was as if there was a misguided voice inside that kept coming out with personal questions, whether I wanted to get involved or not.
‘Reluctance,’ he said.
‘You mean it’s psychological?’ Hysterical paraplegia was a known side effect from major trauma.
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