‘That’s why I took this place, the agent sent me photos. I knew you’d love the view. And you can see the end of the garden as the land drops away. See the trellis arch? A gate there leads to the fields, and if you keep on walking, you’ll reach Kingston, where the first settlement was founded. There’s a small, paved patio outside the back door with a barbecue.’ He grinned. ‘All mod cons, see.’
She went to the back door and peered through the half-glass door. A flagstone patio with a garden table and chairs, complete with a vine-laden pergola, stood just outside the door. ‘Yes. It all looks very nice,’ she conceded. Not Mandurah, and certainly not as modern as their townhouse on the eastern end of Riverside Drive either, but she thought she could manage happily here for six months or so.
‘And look at the verandah. Jess, it’s perfect for a studio. The agent told me it’s been used as a studio before. You’d have plenty of light, it’s big enough, and there’s a view to paint whenever you feel inspired.’
‘I don’t know, Simon, you know I haven’t painted for years.’
His glance was reproachful. ‘Painting is like riding a bike, you never forget how to do it. Darling,’ he pulled her into his arms and kissed the top of her head, ‘I’m not saying you have to paint, but this room’s here for you if you want to.’ Personally he thought it would be good therapy for her, and so did Nikko, but he knew Jess’s stubborn streak well, after eleven years of marriage. If and when she painted was something Jessica Pearce alone would decide. But, just in case, he’d had her easel, some canvasses and paints shipped across. ‘Now what do you want to do first, unpack or have dinner?’
She looked back at the three bags of groceries on the kitchen bench and then at him, speculatively. ‘Who’s cooking it?’
‘Me.’ He held up his hand like a school kid wanting to answer a teacher’s question. ‘Don’t I cook a great steak and chips?’
She smiled. They both knew that was about all he could cook without doing the food terminal damage. ‘With salad?’
‘Sure.’
‘Okay. You get started while I find a place for the groceries.’ She looked about the sixties-style kitchen searching for a pantry but, not finding one, she began to stack tins and other essentials in the cupboard furthest away from the stove.
No sooner had they finished dinner and were sipping their coffees when the phone on the kitchen benchtop rang. Simon answered it.
‘Yes, it’s me. Thanks, yes, we’re settling in. What? Oh, I see. Of course.’
Jessica had been a doctor’s wife long enough to know what the serious expression on his face and his stilted tone meant.
‘Well, refresh me, how do I get there? The roads all look different at night…Thanks, be there in ten minutes. Prep the patient straight away.’
He put the receiver back in its cradle. ‘A ruptured appendix, according to matron. I have to go.’
She smiled at him, then her left eyebrow quirked upwards. ‘Of course you do. But couldn’t they have waited until you’d done the washing up?’
‘Aahh, there are some small advantages in this line of work.’ His gaze rose to the ceiling. ‘Thank you, God.’ Then, ‘You’ll be okay here, alone?’
‘Simon! I’m not a child, I’ll be fine. Off you go.’
She could unpack in peace without him hovering, then take a bath and later, have a real prowl around the place, get used to what was to be their home for several months. And try to accept the newness of it all too, rather than fight it. Funny, she had always liked doing new things, accepting new challenges until…the last few months she’d become a different person but…she sighed. When was the old Jessica going to come back? The Jessica she felt comfortable with, the real Jessica Pearce.
Nikko had said time was the real healer of grief. She didn’t believe him. She still felt as miserable now when she thought about Damian as she had the day of his death. The only thing that had improved was that she was becoming better at blocking the pain out, but it remained inside her, deep, dark, festering. She had a black emptiness in the corner of her heart and she knew, just as she knew the sun would rise tomorrow, that it would never completely leave her. She would just…as the years sped by, learn to live with it.
Knowing where these thoughts were heading, with a burst of energy she rose from the table and began to clean up. She switched on the radio for company, but there was so much static that she decided it must be faulty. She turned the damned thing off and just listened to the silence of the place as she worked.
Refreshed from the bath, in her dressing-gown and slippers, Jessica padded through to the back verandah to look out at the darkness. She couldn’t see more than a couple of winking lights—the red-roofed farmhouse, she supposed. Even the nocturnal insects had quieted.
It had been a long day and, admitting to the tiredness within her, she allowed her body to sag against the window pane. She glanced at her watch. Almost midnight. Simon must be having complications with his patient. She spared a thought for the patient and knew that he or she was in the best of hands. That was one of the things she’d liked about Simon when she’d first met him—he had nice hands. His long tapered fingers were more of an artist’s or a musician’s hands than a doctor’s, but then, doctors were artists in their own way. Her thoughts meandered on. A yawn escaped her lips, and she stifled it with her hand.
Without a few seconds warning, which would have given her time to react differently, the silence closed in on her and, with it, a sense of loneliness so intense that she caught her breath. So far away. From everything she knew, every comfort zone she possessed, family, friends, people at work, familiar, safe things and, most of all, away from Damian and his resting place. That’s all that was left of him now: marble headstone, gold lettering, cement, to prove he’d once existed, except for her memories. Her fingers bunched up and she pressed them against the glass. How could she bear to never be able to touch him again, to run his fine hair through her fingers, feel the warmth of him, to hear his baby voice? And he would never touch her face with his tiny hand, he would never hold up his arms to be picked up again, never…never…
For a moment she stiffened and held her breath as she tried to push back the tears. It became a vain effort. Almost in slow motion the droplets began to spill from her eyes and run down her cheeks. The trickling became a stream and then a torrent as her body shook with the force of her grief, the breaking down of her emotions, as precious memories flooded through her brain and couldn’t be stopped. You must stop doing this to yourself. How will you ever get better if you can’t control yourself?
The words hammered inside her head, but then she remembered that Nikko had said it was okay to cry, that doing so was like releasing a stop valve on her emotions. He’d said it could be therapeutic, so long as she could stop when the pressure was released, preventing the aftermath, deep depression.
Eventually the heaving of her shoulders slowed and the tears were reduced to a sniffle. And then the familiar, drained feeling, as if all her energy had been spent, took over. Exhausted, she turned away from the window and made her way through to the bedroom. Pulling back the covers she crawled under the sheet and blanket and closed her eyes, praying as she always did, for a sleep that was without dreams…
The figure sat on the rock, elbows on knees, chin in hands, her mood contemplative. Blackness swirled around, enveloping her in a welcoming blanket. She was used to the dark, she felt comfortable with it. A gentle sea breeze stirred her hair, ruffling it about her face. Then, all at once she sensed something. At first it was a mere whisper of sound. A stillness stole through her. She listened, harder than she had ever listened before. Standing, she turned away from the ocean towards the land, even though it was too dark to tell one shape from another.
What was it?
The sound, carried by the night…and little more than a ripple in the cosmos…was there. A tension ripped through her body as the sound became stronger. No, she wasn’t mistaken.
Her head tilted to
the left as she strove for total concentration on a sound that few had the capacity to hear. It was important that she hear and understand it.
Waves of desolation were carried by the breeze. And then, suddenly, the sound was all around her, like a spiralling whirlpool, ebbing, flowing, deepening, sucking the life force out of someone. Waves of sadness. Despair. A human being in agony.
She allowed herself to absorb first the ripples, and then all the sensations. Oh, they were strong, very strong.
Her face lifted to the stars as a triumphant smile creased lips that had been cracked by the night air. At last. She whispered to those who would be listening, ‘Thank you’.
CHAPTER FOUR
Marcus Hunter loped down the main street of Burnt Pine, shouldering his way through the stream of summertime tourists. He could recognise them from the way they dressed and the inevitable cameras and cam recorders slung over a shoulder, even before their varying accents made their foreignness clear. Nan didn’t like tourists much, even though their flocking to Norfolk to partake of the holiday atmosphere, as well as the duty-free shopping, meant she could make a half-decent living from her pottery sales. She reckoned they cluttered up the place, made some of the merchants greedy, and took away the islanders’ sense of privacy. Which was true, he admitted to himself as he ambled towards the mall which housed the island’s largest supermarket, but the inconveniences were a trade-off for the islanders’ overall prosperity.
Nan had given him a shopping list on her way into her studio, telling him that if he wanted a decent meal tonight, he’d better go to the shops. Being the elder by eight years, she still bossed him around as if they were kids. Most of the time he let her get away with it because it didn’t faze him one way or the other, though occasionally, he’d rebel and tell her where to go, just to see the shocked expression on her time-lined face.
About seven metres away, striding towards him was a tall, fair-haired man wearing chinos, a blue shirt and a tie. He didn’t look or walk like a tourist. Probably a new resident, maybe a businessman. Marcus shrugged his shoulders. Maybe. Something, a memory, clicked inside his head as he studied the man. His good-looking features seemed a little familiar, as if he’d met him somewhere before.
Marcus was proud of his memory, it helped to make him a good historian because he could remember people, names and dates without much difficulty.
Oh, he might forget the occasional name, but he never forgot a face, providing he’d met that face before. And he reckoned he knew the man in the chinos, but from where? University? Socially? The fact that he couldn’t tag the memory annoyed him. His pace slowed as they drew abreast of each other. The man gave him a quizzical glance, then frowned at Marcus’ obvious interest. His step faltered for a second, but then he moved past.
Marcus stopped. He turned around and the other man did the same. He made the first move. Smiling, he walked up to the stranger. ‘I know you, but I can’t remember where or when we met.’
Simon Pearce grinned back. ‘Me too. Damned annoying, isn’t it?’
Marcus’ expression became serious as he tried to force the memory to the surface. ‘Auckland University, perhaps?’
Simon shook his head. ‘Don’t think so. Maybe a conference, I’ve attended several. I’m a doctor, I’ve just taken charge of the hospital here.’
Marcus clicked his fingers. ‘That’s it. Sydney, 1997, the convention centre at Darling Harbour. You presented a paper on geriatric expectations for the new millennium. Though I don’t practice any more, I like to attend the occasional conference to keep my hand in, so to speak.’
‘Dr Simon Pearce.’ Simon held out his hand. ‘You’re a doctor…?’
Marcus grasped the man’s hand. ‘Psychologist. Practised for several years in Christchurch, but then I went back to university. I teach South Pacific rim history at Auckland Uni. I enjoy it more than psychology. Marcus Hunter,’ he introduced himself.
‘I’m amazed you remembered that geriatric piece. What a dry old paper it was,’ Simon said as he appraised the man. Not quite as tall as he, Marcus Hunter had the build of a footballer. His green T-shirt stretched tight across wide shoulders and the cut-off jean shorts revealed well-muscled legs. His curly hair, dark brown, was a touch too long for Simon’s taste, but the length suited Marcus. Brown eyes were his most remarkable feature and they sparkled with intelligence and humour. They were set wide apart in a rugged face with high cheekbones, a prominent, once-broken nose and a wide slash of a mouth.
Marcus’ smile was a touch cynical. ‘You’re talking about a future growth industry, you know, in medical terms. I hear that a good percentage of your colleagues are investing heavily in nursing homes and aged hostels.’ With a lift of an eyebrow, he added, ‘Their form of superannuation, I guess.’
Simon nodded. ‘I’m rather keen to go down that road myself. I’ve a project bubbling away in Perth as we speak. And you’re right, the whole geriatrics thing has enormous dollar-earning potential.’
‘So you’re the new head at the hospital. I’d heard that someone well connected medically was taking over. My sister and I know Matron Levinski.’
By mutual consent the two men gravitated towards the mall, talking as they walked.
Simon nodded. ‘Only been here a week, still finding my way around.’
Marcus bit back the comment that Norfolk wasn’t a large place to have to find one’s way around. He said instead, ‘You brought your family, I expect?’
‘My wife, she’s a barrister.’ Simon paused, then added, ‘Jessica hasn’t been well. I hope the change of scene will rejuvenate her and that she’ll take up painting again. I’ve been told there’s some marvellous scenery on the island.’
Marcus gave a low chuckle. ‘That may help to stop her from getting bored. It’s pretty quiet here, if you’re not a tourist or not involved in the tourist industry.’
‘Just what she needs at this point in time.’
Marcus spotted the bottle shop and a thought came to him. ‘We’re having Christmas drinks at my sister’s place on Saturday night. Nan has a pottery studio. She supplies several of the retail outlets with her work,’ he explained. ‘It’s only a smallish get-together, islanders, local folk. If you and your wife are free…?’
‘Kind of you. We’d love to come.’
Marcus wrote the address on a piece of paper he found in his pocket. Then he waggled Nan’s list at Simon. ‘Shopping calls.’
They shook hands again and Marcus watched the doctor walk away. His head tilted to one side as he projected a curious thought about Dr Simon Pearce. Why would a doctor of his standing and expertise bury himself in a backwoods place like Norfolk? Such a career move seemed decidedly odd and out of keeping with his presumed high profile.
By Saturday evening the weather remained stiflingly hot, without a breath of a breeze to cool anything after a long day of high humidity. Jessica hadn’t expected such heat on a Pacific island. She’d thought that balmy offshore breezes would keep the temperature pleasant, especially in summer. She shifted with discomfort in the small sedan as Simon drove towards Nan Duncan’s place. The seat clung to her skin as did the lightweight shoestring-strap frock she’d decided, after much indecision, to wear.
‘You’re not nervous about meeting these people, are you?’ Simon asked as he glanced at her.
‘No,’ she said firmly, but she was. For several months, back in the sanatorium in Perth, and once out, she had lived in virtual isolation. While in the sanatorium she had seen few people, and then Simon, protective man that he was, had deemed it wise to cocoon her on this island, away from the legal practice, away from her family and the friends they’d known for years. She admitted that she had always enjoyed her own company, but she also liked to interact with people of various social backgrounds—only now she’d got out of the habit.
‘Good, you shouldn’t be. Marcus is an easygoing kind of fellow. I’ve no doubt his sister is, too, and later on Sue will pop in, so you’ll get to meet her.’
/> Jessica arched a surprised eyebrow. The indefatigable Matron Sue Levinski. Simon had, since taking up his position at the hospital, waxed lyrical over the woman’s capabilities. A medical wonderwoman, super-efficient, caring, a born organiser…the list of the matron’s virtues had gone on and on, all combining to give her a mental vision of Matron Sue as being the sergeant major type. All starch and polish, like the hospital matrons of old. Maybe the woman was a throwback to times gone by. She gave a little sigh. Well, she would soon find out.
In the gathering twilight, as Simon saw three cows meandering across the road, he slowed the vehicle to a crawl. Soon after their arrival on the island, they’d learned that livestock had the right of way on all roads and tracks. How quaint, they had thought and laughed about it. He honked the horn a few times and, after a defiant lowing from the lead cow, the three ambled across to the road’s verge.
Five minutes later Simon stopped behind a row of cars parked outside a small timber cottage surrounded by a picket fence. Every light in the house seemed to be on, and music wafted across the front yard as if to entice them inside.
Jessica held Simon’s hand tighter than she needed to as they advanced up the timber steps to the verandah. Irrational as it was, she felt as if she were going through a baptism of fire and wanted to turn and run away. She wasn’t ready for this…this…Dear God, she was afraid of a room full of strangers. How ridiculous! She had never been afraid of anything or anyone in her life…until the loss of Damian had created this terrible void inside her.
Simon sensed her hesitancy. He gave her cheek a reassuring pat. ‘Okay?’
Whispers Through the Pines Page 5
