Home to Turtle Bay

by Marion Lennox

  ‘We’re not going down that road, lass. The past’s buried.’

  ‘The past still seems enough to make Muriel want to end her life.’

  ‘Nope,’ he said and the pipe was clenched still harder. ‘That’s the present. That’s why you need to help Doc tomorrow and give me time with her. Butt out where you’re not wanted.’

  Butt out where I wasn’t wanted? I had no idea where I was and wasn’t wanted anymore.

  16

  macking v. being thrown about in surf, pounded by waves until it feels like being hit by a ‘Mack’ truck.

  Half an hour later Muriel was tucked into bed. We’d left Fraser at the wharf and driven her home. She hardly stirred as Jack carried her into the cottage. Jack set up a drip—more to counter shock than anything else. He checked and re-bandaged her leg, and then we let her be. She was warm. Her vital signs were good and she was showing every sign of surviving.

  We walked out of the house and stood on the back porch. I watched as Jack’s eyes raked the moonlit grass.

  ‘Do you think Fraser and Muriel once …’ Jack sounded interested and vaguely amused.

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t know anything.’

  ‘Yes, you do.’ He strolled over to a clump of rhubarb and lifted a leaf. ‘You’re a clever woman. A specialist, even.’

  ‘Not a specialist in grandmothers.’

  ‘So leave her to Fraser.’

  ‘How does he know her better than I do?’

  ‘I’d imagine …’ He stooped, intent. ‘Ha!’

  Was he looking for snails?

  ‘Stop changing the subject.’ Who cared about snails? ‘You imagine what?’

  He dropped the rhubarb leaf and looked back at me. The humour faded and he searched my face. ‘I imagine Muriel hasn’t let anyone close for a long time. You know … tonight while we were searching … I was thinking that being brought up by Muriel must have been the loneliest childhood in the world.’

  ‘I don’t think my mother—’

  ‘I’m not talking about Muriel bringing Sonia up,’ he said gently. ‘I’m talking about Muriel bringing up you.’

  I blinked as his words sank in.

  ‘I don’t see why you should think that,’ I said at last, disconcerted. We’d had a happy ending this night, so why was I getting emotional now? ‘I’m not … I haven’t been lonely.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘No. And now I have Richard.’

  ‘Of course,’ he said cordially. ‘How could I have forgotten Richard? He’s like some cardboard cut-out in the background. Why isn’t he here tonight?’

  ‘He’s in New York. Trying to make a living.’

  ‘Oh, that’s right. Eking out an existence as a top neurosurgeon.’

  ‘How do you know Richard is a neurosurgeon?’

  ‘I have my ways.’

  ‘Muriel’s been talking. She has no right.’

  ‘To talk about your life? That’s what the whole problem is,’ he said enigmatically.

  ‘What?’

  ‘No one interferes. No one wants to mess with anyone’s life. Like Henry. Henry wasn’t wishing to mess with anyone’s life so he stood back, and in doing so …’

  ‘Muriel destroyed him,’ I said.

  ‘Did she? Maybe you have things the wrong way around.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ I was so confused—so tired—that I was past thinking. I needed to go to bed. I needed this man to leave my strange, moon-shadowed garden. He was doing things to my emotions I couldn’t begin to understand.

  I needed him to walk away and to never come back.

  Never?

  For some reason my head was suddenly screaming, Richard. Richard, Richard.

  Like a shield.

  It’s no good me making guesses,’ Jack said at last, as if regretful. ‘Or you either for that matter. It’s up to Muriel to tell you—for the pair of you to sort things out. Ask her what happened all those years ago.’

  ‘You think she’ll tell me? She hasn’t told me anything in thirty years.’

  ‘Maybe her armour’s never been as thin as it is now.’

  ‘She’s all armour.’

  ‘And no heart? I don’t think so.’

  ‘Jack …’

  ‘Just ask her.’ His own weariness showed through then, and I felt a sharp stab of remorse. It was three in the morning. I’d striven to take some of the workload off his shoulders, and instead I’d dragged him out to sea searching for a suicidal grandmother. Now I was wasting more of his time.

  This man had his own demons. He didn’t need mine.

  ‘You need sleep,’ I told him. ‘I’m sorry I dragged you into our mess.’

  ‘You think I would have slept anyway?’

  It wasn’t the response I’d expected. He’d been so in control. But now suddenly it was like he was veering off course. His words sounded angry in the stillness, rough and desperately personal.

  Uh-oh. I’d meant to fortify my own armour—not pierce his.

  But somehow I couldn’t back off.

  ‘You need to move on,’ I whispered. ‘Find some forgiveness.’

  ‘Forgiveness? Who from?’

  ‘From the ghosts. You know who I mean.’

  The ghosts were everywhere in this place. They were standing right here. The sign under the surfboards said Dr J.R. Kelly’s Surfing School, and it was as if there were twenty ghosts lined up demanding our attention. My ghosts had played their part this night, and now it was time for Jack’s to step forward.

  And it seemed this wasn’t some figment of my imagination. Jack’s reaction was as if they were staring straight at him, only there were more lined up behind. His ghosts as well as mine.

  ‘Oh, right,’ he said, mocking and furious. ‘Mess up Bridget’s life forever. Kill my brother and my brother’s wife. Forgive myself and move on. Easy.’

  ‘Do what I do.’

  ‘What’s that?’ He kicked out at the rhubarb and then stared at the broken stems as if he didn’t know where they’d come from.

  No matter. We could spare a little rhubarb. What I couldn’t spare, though, was any more involvement.

  Who was I kidding? I was involved up to my neck, but I had to try.

  ‘I keep to myself.’ It sounded weak even to myself.

  ‘Is that right?’

  ‘You can do it,’ I told him. ‘Stay aloof.’ I looked at the rhubarb and winced. ‘It beats … being kicked.’

  ‘You mean I shouldn’t care about Bridget?’

  I thought about that. Or tried to. I was so tired. So confused.

  Bridget seemed like another of the ghosts, demanding attention. I thought back to myself at Bridget’s age—to the lessons I’d had to learn.

  ‘Bridget needs to develop armour herself.’

  ‘So you don’t care?’

  ‘It’s not my place.’ It was all I could think of to say.

  ‘You don’t care about Muriel? What about Richard?’

  ‘This is stupid,’ I snapped. ‘Psychoanalysis by moonlight.’ I glowered, striving to shake off the surreal impression that the ghosts were eavesdropping.

  Was I going moon-mad?

  ‘No, but it’s interesting,’ he said, suddenly thoughtful. ‘Isolation. Dr Jennifer Kelly’s patent cure for human suffering.’

  ‘There’s no need to mock.’

  ‘I’m not mocking.’ But his eyes were definitely mocking—self-mocking almost—as if he wanted to believe what I was saying but knew it was impossible. Then, before I knew what he intended, he took a step forward, lifted my hands and tugged me close.

  ‘You don’t want to be separate,’ he said, and the anger in his voice grew more pronounced. He was growling his words into my hair. ‘You don’t mean what you say about Bridget. I saw the way you responded to her. I saw the way you hugged your grandmother tonight. You’re all talk, Dr Kelly. That armour you’re talking about is way too thin.’

  ‘It’s not. What are you doing?’ I tried to p
ull away.

  But did I want to?

  No. And I had a cheer squad egging me on.

  ‘Go on,’ the ghosts were shouting. ‘You know you don’t want to pull away. Join us and the mess we’ve already made. Kiss the man. Let yourself go.’

  Confusion and emotion—and need—were colliding to make me want to sink into this man, but there was still a part of me that was sane. There was still a part of me that was real.

  My feet still wore my gorgeous sandals, even if I was in stupid, country-hick jeans, in a garden in moonlight surrounded by too many surfboards.

  Enough!

  I lifted my foot and stamped on his toe. Hard.

  ‘Hey!’ He pulled back, startled. ‘What the—’

  ‘Don’t you dare kiss me, Jack McLachlan.’

  ‘I thought you were—’

  ‘I’m not!’

  ‘You were, too.’ He sounded astonished. I was astonished myself. But someone had to be strong here, and if it wasn’t Jack then it had to be me. Because I knew … I just knew that if this man touched me one more time I’d end up in bed with him.

  And if I fell in love with this man—

  Love? No! If I fell in lust with this man …

  ‘Get away.’ And I wasn’t just speaking to Jack.

  And damn, the laughter was back in his eyes—that dangerous, sardonic laughter that seemed to have caused all the problems in the first place.

  ‘You’re scared.’

  ‘I’m not scared. I’m in control.’

  ‘No one’s in control.’ And then: ‘You’ve scuffed my boot.’

  ‘Put the other one close. Watch me scuff it even harder!’

  ‘Jenny …’

  ‘Jack,’ I said, copying his tone to a nicety. ‘Please leave. You’ve helped me rescue my grandma and I’m grateful, but I’m engaged to Richard. I have my life in order, and if you think I’ll risk that … If you think I’m falling into bed with you because I’m grateful …’

  ‘I wouldn’t think that. And I don’t think you have your life in order. I think you’d fall in bed with me because you want to.’

  ‘I don’t.’ I thought about stamping my foot again but I wasn’t quite so petty. Even though I felt like it. ‘Go home.’

  ‘You really want me to?’

  ‘Yes! You’re complicating my life and I don’t want it complicated.’

  He didn’t reply.

  I couldn’t think what else to say. I should just turn and walk inside the house. Instead the silence stretched on.

  Drifter had been at the house when we returned. She’d been inside while we settled Muriel. Now she emerged and stood hard by Jack’s side, as if reminding him he wasn’t alone.

  Finally, Jack nodded. He put a hand on Drifter’s head, as if grounding himself. He’d pulled himself back together.

  As I needed to. My rules for my life were pulling themselves back into line. The ghosts were lined up against the woodshed again and they were surfboards. Nothing more.

  ‘Of course,’ he said courteously. ‘I’m sorry.’ He shrugged. ‘Just because my life has veered off course there’s no need for yours to do the same. So I’ll get out of your life, shall I, Dr Kelly?’

  ‘You’re not in my life.’

  ‘Of course not.’ He was pulling himself back into his shell as he spoke. ‘I’ll leave before …’

  Before what? Before pain? It was too late for that. I wanted to reach out to him again.

  I couldn’t. I had to keep control.

  ‘I’ll check on Muriel tomorrow,’ he said.

  ‘There’s no need.’ Damn, how had this happened? This formality. It was absurd.

  ‘There is a need. I’m her treating doctor.’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘Goodnight, then.’

  ‘Goodnight.’

  I bit my lip and watched as he turned away, but then I could bear it no longer.

  ‘Jack?’

  He stilled and then turned back.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said, my voice heavy with an inexplicable sense of loss. ‘Thank you so much. Without you …’

  He hesitated and then said softly, ‘Jenny, without me, Fraser would have saved your grandma. And you never know, he might still.’

  What was that supposed to mean? I didn’t have a clue.

  ‘All the same, I’m very grateful.’

  ‘But not involved,’ he said wearily. ‘If I were you, I’d contact your Richard straight away.’

  And without another word he turned towards the cliff track and took himself off into the night.

  I should have gone to bed but I knew I wouldn’t sleep. Instead I checked on Muriel, who was still sleeping deeply, and then went to work in the vegetable garden, mindlessly picking at weeds. Or chives. Frankly, I didn’t give a damn.

  The snails could eat them all.

  What had I done?

  I’d stomped on a man’s boot and behaved like a child. Nothing else.

  So what? Why did it feel like a betrayal of Richard? Kissing Jack McLachlan hadn’t seemed like a betrayal. So why had stomping on his boot tonight?

  I needed to focus on Richard. My future.

  Richard was my perfect partner. He was angry with me now, but only because I was acting out of character. I wasn’t following our plan.

  Richard’s plans were good. He’d decided early he was to be the world’s best neurosurgeon. He was pushing the boundaries, both for himself and for medical science.

  Richard and I were headed in the same direction. We shared ideals. We’d even agreed that when we peaked in our chosen professions we’d take time off to teach in third world countries. We’d give something back. We’d do good with our lives.

  ‘I’ll do Jack’s clinic for him every morning and I’ll take care of Muriel,’ I told myself. ‘That’s doing good. That’s my role. I’m useful.’

  You’re lonely.

  ‘So ring Richard.’ I was talking out loud. Was I going crazy? Maybe, but so what?

  Richard’s furious. He’s building up the Clayburgh thing like it’s the end of the world. I can’t phone him until he accepts I have no choice but to stay here.

  He wouldn’t accept it. Damn.

  The dew was soaking my feet. I shivered.

  I needed to put on gumboots, but that felt like giving in.

  I wanted to be in New York. Desperately. This place was all wrong. The hospital was a microcosm of the whole community. Fishermen were orderlies, farmers did the cleaning, doctors grew food for the hospital kitchen, everyone worried about everyone else.

  A Manhattan obstetrician acted as a stand-in locum for free …

  ‘Hey, don’t include yourself,’ I said out loud. ‘It’s not your place.’

  There was a soft moo from across the fence. Christabelle?

  First cow in line to the knackery.

  I hardened my heart.

  ‘Salami,’ I muttered. ‘There’s no reprieve for you guys. Salami it is.’

  I headed inside but where could sleep be after that? But I climbed into Henry’s pyjamas and lay down—and something rustled under my pillow.

  This might be dumb, but you know what had been eating me from the moment we found Muriel? It was that she’d decided to suicide and left no word. No final message. Nothing! I knew she had her reasons but that small thing … well, it wasn’t small to me. It was huge. I’d been trying to be a big girl and ignore it but now I lifted my pillow and hoped with everything in my heart.

  But it was one of Henry’s letters. An envelope fatter than the rest. Fatter than any of the ones I’d found.

  The envelope, though, wasn’t addressed to me. It was addressed to Muriel. It had been sealed and sent via airmail, and then opened.

  A few lines, in Muriel’s elegant handwriting, had been added to me, underneath the address. This, then, was her suicide note?

  Jennifer.Your grandfather sent you this a few weeks before he died but he sent it via me. He sent me a covering note saying he
wanted me to read it and then give it to you if I agreed. He said it was my choice. Of course I didn’t give it to you. After all these years why should I? I should have ripped it up. These are things that are best left buried. Now, though, maybe it’s useful as an explanation.

  I never was good at emotion but I don’t want to finish things as they are. I find I do want you to read it. A final conceit?

  Anyway, read it and then go back to your life, to Richard. I wish you both well.

  As you’ll have worked out by now, I’m taking my board out to sea.

  I’m staying here.

  I stared at it in disbelief. As a suicide note it lacked a certain … something.

  Bemused beyond distress, I opened Henry’s letter to me. It was dated two months ago, and by the look of it, it had already been read, maybe a few times. By Muriel?

  Jenny,

  How can I write this? Of all my letters, will you finally get this one? At least I’ll put a stamp on it. Whether you read it or not is Muriel’s choice.The bottom line is that this letter is as much to your grandmother as it is to you. An apology? After all this time? She’ll never accept—I concede that she never should— but the least I can do for her is explain to you.

  I paused. This was … well, strange was too simple a word for it. The letter was addressed to me but … was this Muriel’s letter? She’d given it to me on the assumption that she’d die. Her suicide attempt had failed. Should I therefore give it back to her unread?

  Was I kidding? After this night?

  I took a firm grip on the pages, as if she might appear at any minute and demand them back.

  My grandfather was talking to me.

  Where to start? What damage can I hope to repair with a letter? You need to indulge me, Jennifer, while I try to figure it out.

  The islanders blame Muriel. I know they do. In the beginning I was too ill to care, and later, it was none of their business. Muriel was gone. Fraser and Louise kept silent. There was no need to tell anyone anything. Finally, though … If you come here you deserve the truth, but it’s Muriel who deserves the truth most. If you’re reading this … I hope you are.