Whispers Through the Pines

by Lynne Wilding

  Marcus intended to make sure that he used her time here well. On a patient-to-psychologist level, he needed to get her complete trust, but she was still holding back. Intuition and years of experience told him that this reserve mostly related to her relationship with Simon. Even someone with poor eyesight could see that the marriage was under stress and that the rift was playing on her mind and her emotions. From the notes Nikko had sent him, he knew that in the last seven months they’d both been through a lot. Simon, though, appeared to have reached the end of his patience with Jessica’s problem, which was partly why he’d been happy to hand her over as a case to him. And for reasons not entirely professional, he knew he had to get to the bottom of Jessica’s problem and soon, before it really began to affect her mentally!

  ‘After dinner,’ he said, ‘we’re going to be challenged to a game of Scrabble. The young versus the not-so-young.’ He winked at her. ‘I hope you’re a good speller ‘cause my two usually beat me hands down.’

  Jessica looked thoughtful for a moment, then she grinned. ‘Oh, I think we’ll give them a run for their money.’

  Marcus groaned. ‘Don’t mention the word money. They’ll want to bet me they’ll win and make me promise to increase their allowances if they do.’

  ‘Then we have to make sure they don’t.’

  The adults lost at Scrabble by a margin of two games to one, which pleased Marcus because it wasn’t, technically, a walkover. After Rory, Kate and Nan went to bed, Marcus and Jessica sat out on the timber deck, having a last cup of coffee.

  Secretly Marcus was very pleased with Jessica. She had laughed and joked with the kids, given them as good as she got, and generally been so normal it was hard even for him to believe that there were mental and possibly emotional difficulties weighing her down. However, years of observation had taught him that some patients were masters at subterfuge, and could pretend they were fine when inside they seethed and bubbled with mental instability. He didn’t want to think such was the case with Jessica but, for the moment, he knew he had to reserve his opinion.

  ‘The Hunter family must have been here a long time,’ Jessica said. She could tell that the house was quite old and that rooms had been added on as needed.

  ‘Seven generations, if you include Rory and Kate. Bede Hunter was a timber-cutter from Dorrigo, in New South Wales. He, his wife and their six children came to the island when some enterprising chap was trying to get a timber industry going, in the 1890s, according to the family bible. By the time the industry declined in the 1920s, the Hunters had found other occupations and stayed on.’

  ‘Then how come there aren’t more Hunters on the island?’ she queried. She had noted that on Christmas Day, only Nan’s offspring and their families had been present.

  ‘The usual. Two of Bede’s children died before reaching adulthood. Clarence, the eldest boy, was killed before they came to Norfolk. He was only eighteen. One of the girls, Frances, married and went to live in New Zealand, which left Beatrice, the youngest, who never married, and my great-great-grandfather, Stewart. He married one of the Quintals, but succeeding generations only had one son. My great-grandfather, his name was Luke, turned Hunter’s Glen into a proper farm.’ He paused to take a breath. ‘The family, back then with wives, husbands and offspring, numbered thirteen. They lived off the farm and sold produce to other folks, and his son, Geoffrey, continued the tradition but Eric, my Dad, was inclined towards business. He owned a men’s store in Taylors Road long before Burnt Pine turned into a tourists’ duty-free mecca. But after Mum died, he kind of lost interest in everything and just faded away.’

  ‘That’s sad, Marcus.’

  ‘Yes,’ he agreed. ‘It happens, though.’ His wide shoulders tried to shrug away the melancholy memories. ‘It’s life, I guess.’

  ‘And some of us don’t appreciate what we have until we’ve almost lost it.’

  Marcus glanced sharply at her profile, wondering if her prophetic sentence was a generalisation, or whether she was referring to her own life, perhaps even to her own marriage, and Simon? And to the fact that her husband’s remoteness and disinterest in her problem were becoming more obvious?

  ‘That’s very profound,’ he said with a chuckle, as he tried to lighten the moment. He didn’t want her looking inwards, dissecting her marriage. He wanted her to keep her emotions on an even keel. ‘All marriages go through rocky patches, Jessica. Mine, for instance. I didn’t realise how far Donna and I had drifted apart, how our lives were changing and how we wanted different things, until it was too late.’ His lips pulled into a smile of self-derision. ‘I’m supposed to be a good psychologist, yet I didn’t see my own marriage falling apart.’

  She gave him a sympathetic smile. ‘What’s the saying, sometimes it’s hard to see the wood for the trees? So, theoretically speaking, of course, what does one do when one knows one’s marriage is in difficulty and one can’t seem to do anything to improve it?’

  ‘That’s a tough call, theoretically speaking. In your line of work, you’ve seen many marriages break up. I bet if you looked hard, you’d find a few common triggers. People change, people drift apart, people outgrow each other. And, without meaning to preach, many couples these days don’t try hard enough. Some think it’s easier to walk away, start afresh, rather than suffer the pain of admitting their mistakes and trying to learn from them. There are many reasons some marriages last and others don’t.’

  ‘That’s a fair summation. You’d have made a good barrister,’ she kidded him as she smothered a yawn. She couldn’t remember when she had felt so…at ease, with herself and with him. It was, almost, as if her problems didn’t exist and perhaps, if only for tonight, she could pretend they didn’t.

  ‘Tired?’

  ‘Limp, actually.’ Her blue eyes sparkled briefly in the glow of the subdued deck lighting. ‘Rory and Kate are effective weapons to wear adults out, but I have enjoyed their company. They’re wonderful kids.’

  ‘I think so. And yes, you look pretty relaxed.’

  She watched him raise his arms over his head and stretch. His action made her conscious of him in a purely physical way, as she had been at the beach. Marcus Hunter was easy on the eye, and that was a fact, and there was a warmth and genuineness to him that had a definite, almost old-fashioned appeal. It made her wonder why eligible women on the island or in Auckland weren’t swarming around him like flies—or was it bees?

  From somewhere deep inside, a primitive throbbing began. The pulse at her throat began to beat double time, and she could feel her veins coursing, almost singing with what? Oh, she knew what! Desire. No-o-o. She squashed the embryonic sensation before it gathered momentum. What was the matter with her? She had never looked sideways at another man in all her years of marriage to Simon, and here she was, as soon as he was off the island, wondering…wondering? What would Marcus think of her if he knew the way her thoughts were going? He’d be shocked, yes. Disappointed, sure, and yet…Occasionally, she caught him looking at her as if he found her attractive. Will you stop!

  ‘Nan says you’re going to work in the studio with her tomorrow.’

  She heard his comment as if he were speaking from a far-off place. ‘Er, yes. I’m such an amatuer. Your sister has the patience of a saint to put up with me.’

  ‘She was once an amateur, too, you know,’ he countered. ‘Well, the kids have an early morning flight out, so I’d better hit the sack.’

  ‘Sounds like a good idea to me, too. I’m ready for a good night’s sleep,’ Jessica responded yet, somehow, she knew that in her suddenly heightened state of awareness, if she slept, it would not be the ethereal Sarah who haunted her dreams, but a certain brown-eyed, curly-headed man.

  ‘Have you ever ridden on a motorbike before?’ Nan asked as she watched Jessica regard the ancient Harley Davidson with something less than enthusiasm.

  She shook her head negatively at Nan’s question. ‘You call this a bike?’ she teased Marcus, who said he was adjusting the carburettor
. ‘This is a relic. It should be donated to the island’s museum.’

  ‘Shhh,’ he warned, ‘don’t hurt Bonnie’s feelings, or I’ll never get the darned thing going.’

  ‘Bonnie!’ both women exclaimed in unison and laughed.

  Marcus, looking slightly embarrassed, lapsed into native Norfolker. ‘Hei, du tork faret, shi miin bii es bohni baik ef she uni wanto goe.’

  Jessica who, by now, was a little acquainted with the quaint language, translated mentally that they shouldn’t make fun of ‘Bonnie’ because the bike was cantankerous enough to take offence. She giggled under her breath, for she had heard stories, mostly from Nan, about the bike’s contrary nature and, in particular, Marcus’ patience with tinkering and scrounging for replacement parts. With much cajoling he managed to keep the bike running, more or less.

  Jessica had been on the go since early morning, farewelling Rory and Kate, though she hadn’t gone to the airport, and then working with Nan in her studio. She had learned a lot today about the business of pottery; what pieces sold and what ended up as unsaleable items, or back on the clay pile to be remoulded. In fact, Nan had cunningly conned her into promising to do a few personal pieces, painting miniature island scenes on several vases, which would then be highly glazed and sent off the island for sale.

  Jessica believed that Nan’s intention was to keep her busy in an attempt to keep the ‘weird things’, as her friend called them, at bay. Somehow, though, and while she appreciated Nan’s intentions, she had come to believe that if Sarah wanted to intervene, to impose her presence upon her, there was no way anyone could stop her.

  She and Marcus had talked at length about Sarah. And, eventually, she had been forced to admit, though she had struggled for weeks against the conclusion because it went against everything she had previously believed, that Sarah was a spirit who had, for her own mystical reasons, latched onto her. Now she and Marcus thought the same thing: Sarah wanted or needed something from her, and that something related to an event in Sarah’s past life which somehow involved the faces in the painting.

  Thank God she could talk to Marcus! She could do so in a way that she couldn’t with Simon. Spiritualism and the supernatural made her husband uncomfortable, as did the possibility of her being mentally unstable. A ripple of sadness went through her as she admitted this to herself and how much Simon’s attitude disappointed her. She had expected more of him, and his increasingly stubborn refusal to help her deal with the experience of Sarah added to the disillusionment she was experiencing as she periodically debated the health of their marriage.

  The more she dwelt on it, the clearer it became. Damian’s death had not been the catalyst which had set them on this rocky path; the change had begun just before he was born, when Simon had dreamt up his geriatrics complex idea and become, over the last two years, obsessed by it. And while she hoped their marriage would get back to how it had once been, strong and happy, day after day, Simon’s withdrawal from her—and her own reaction…

  She paused mid-thought. What was her reaction? Acceptance, despair, a feeling of melancholy for what they had shared together and yes, now, a certain level of indifference. Really? She gave herself a mental shake. Stop these thoughts. We’re just going through a bad patch, that’s all.

  ‘Ready?’

  Jessica started at the sound of Marcus’ voice. Already astride the bike, he was gunning the accelerator. He handed her a helmet, which she hurriedly put on. She knotted her cotton sweater around her shoulders and climbed on behind him and, for a moment, was flustered as to where to put her hands.

  ‘Put your arms around his waist, love, he doesn’t bite,’ Nan said with a grin. ‘At least that’s what he tells the women.’

  ‘Women!’ Marcus laughed, ‘what women?’

  With some trepidation, Jessica slid her arms around his waist and locked them firmly against his stomach. She wouldn’t, she definitely wouldn’t think about her body’s traitorous response to being this close to him. The heat of him was searing through her skin, the tissues, right to her very soul. Dear God, she was acting as if she had a huge teenage crush on him. Which was quite ridiculous at the ripe old age of almost thirty-nine.

  ‘Where are we going?’ she asked, yelling to be heard over the noise of the bike’s engine.

  ‘I’ve got some special places to show you. We’ll be going down a couple of tracks you can’t get to by car. Got your camera?’

  ‘Around my neck.’ She double-checked and patted the polaroid.

  ‘Okay, let’s go.’

  They rode to the northernmost tip of the island, Point Vincent, and to the highest part, Mt Bates, to look at the views, and by late afternoon, they found themselves at Kingston, on the wooded side of Slaughter Bay. Nan had packed them a flask of coffee, cakes and biscuits which, after the exhilarating ride, they proceeded to demolish as they sat on the grass overlooking the pier.

  ‘Well, how did you like it?’

  Jessica looked across at Marcus. His hair, previously tamed by the bike helmet, was springing free and curly again. ‘The scenery was magnificent. I got some great shots. I see now what you mean about there being enough material to paint for years.’

  His eyebrow rose. ‘I meant the bike. How did you enjoy the ride on Bonnie?’

  ‘That was an experience!’ She gave him a cheeky grin. ‘I don’t know how you managed to find every bump in the roads and trails we went over, but I know my backside will remember them for the next few days.’ She had enjoyed it, though, once she’d got used to the leaning in around corners and holding onto him so tight she wondered whether he could breathe. Now that she thought of it, he hadn’t complained. Not once!

  ‘I can’t believe you’ve never been on a bike before,’ he chipped back. ‘You must have had a very secluded upbringing in Perth.’

  ‘My parents would have been horrified if I’d brought a bike-riding boyfriend home to introduce to them,’ she admitted. ‘If Mum had been alive, she would have thought my virtue was in danger, and Dad would have shown him the door quick smart.’ She reflected for a moment or two. ‘Dad was a pushover after Mum passed away. Alison and I could wheedle anything out of him.’

  ‘Hhhmmm, bet you were spoilt rotten.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘What happened to your father, Jessica?’

  The smile she gave him was tinged with sadness. ‘He virtually worked himself to death. A heart attack took him in the end. He wanted to be the wealthiest property developer in Perth, was paranoid about being the best.’ She gave him a droll look, ‘Maybe paranoia is a family trait. Actually, Alison’s more like Dad than I am. She has to be the best wife, the best mother, the best hostess in her social set. Her children have to excel, etc…’ She began to tidy up the remains of their afternoon snack, not that there was much left to put back in the bike’s saddlebags.

  Tomorrow, the thought came to her, she’d be back at the cottage when Simon returned from his conference. With no small amount of guilt, she wished she didn’t have to be there. Hunter’s Glen was more pleasant and peaceful. But, she realised, she had to go back and face…what? Simon, Sarah, the unfinished faces on the painting. Yes, all three. She was grateful for being able to play hookey from her problems for a couple of days, but that didn’t mean they had gone away. She couldn’t be that lucky.

  She watched Marcus stuff the flask and leftovers in the saddlebag of the bike, then put his helmet on. He straddled the bike and pushed his right foot down to kick-start the motor. Nothing. He did it again and again, nothing. Not a splutter, a spark or a puff of smoke.

  ‘Shit,’ he muttered crankily, ‘damn cantankerous bike.’ He propped the Harley up and got down on his haunches, after which he threw her an apologetic glance. ‘Bonnie’s being difficult. This could take a while. I probably flooded the carby.’

  ‘I’ll go for a walk up the slope, see what the view’s like,’ she said, pulling on her sweater as she strolled away from him.

  A breeze was coming off the wate
r, stirring the tall pines so that the branches made a soft, whispering sound. They also made ever-changing crisscross patterns of light and shade on the ground, which was strewn with brown pine needles inbetween patches of lush grass and clumps of, boulders of varying shapes and sizes.

  The slope was surprisingly steep, and Jessica walked until the land began to drop away to the rocky shore and ocean beyond. Standing close to the edge, she ran her hand through her hair, liking the feel of the wind through it. Out on the ocean she could see the sky greying as sunset approached. She sighed with contentment. These last few days had revitalised her, and she felt stronger than she had for weeks. A blast of crisp, cool air off the water made her shiver beneath her lightweight sweater.

  She glanced further up the hill and saw something peculiar. Or could it be a trick of the fading light as it filtered through the pines?

  What was it? A patch of fog.

  A mistiness had settled near a fallen tree trunk and a mound of rocks, and the harder she focused on the mist, the odder it became. The colour was a greyish white, but a kind of shimmering light came from it, as if the sun’s rays were bouncing off the vapour. Curious, and puffing a little, Jessica began to walk towards it, almost unaware that with every step she was becoming colder and that the mist, initially inert, started to move and change shape. It grew to over a metre and a half, and there were contours within it, patches of light and shade. By the time she was less than ten metres away, the shape was defined…that of a woman.

  Jessica stopped in her tracks. God, what was she seeing? But she already knew—

  Before her stood a visual representation of Sarah O’Riley. She recognised the face, her shape, from the dreams she had had. With something close to fascinated horror—her throat went dry, her breath almost stilling at the phenomenon, yet her pulse rate jumped erratically—she watched a grey arm rise as if beckoning her.

  ‘Come, Jessica. Do not be afraid, lass.’