Before the Storm

by Di Morrissey

  ‘Where are you?’ Sandy’s voice was authoritative.

  ‘In the car . . .’

  ‘Driving?’

  ‘No, no, I’ve stopped. I’m going to be sick –’ Ellie gasped hoarsely.

  ‘Turn off the engine,’ said her mother firmly. ‘Take deep breaths, count with me . . .’

  Gently but clearly, her mother talked her through her mounting fear and panic until Ellie was breathing steadily, beads of perspiration running down her face.

  ‘Are you with me, Ellie? Deep breaths . . . one . . .

  two . . . speak to me.’

  ‘I’m okay. I still feel sick, but I’m okay,’ panted Ellie. ‘That was so scary . . . What’s happening to me?’

  ‘It’ll be all right, honey. Just sit there. Do you have some water? Take a sip. Open the window, get some fresh air.’

  Ellie gulped down the water in the bottle she’d filled that morning. ‘Thanks, Mum. I feel a bit better. Shaky. Tired. I have no idea where that came from.’

  ‘Oh, sweetheart. I think I do. I wouldn’t be surprised if you’ve had a panic attack. You can’t get over the stress and pressure you’ve been under at work without some cost. It takes time. But I know you, and you will be fine.’

  Ellie sighed, drawing a deep breath. ‘Thanks, Mum. I’m sure you’re right. I think I’ll be okay now.’

  ‘Drive carefully. Deep, slow breaths. Pull over if you feel wobbly and call me, or if you can’t get hold of me, call your father,’ her mother said. ‘I love you, darling.’

  Ellie thanked her again and sighed as she ended the call. She still felt very shocked. Until recently, she’d considered herself mentally and physically strong and stable. This sudden sense of vulnerability, which she hadn’t felt for a very long time, was frightening. She pushed the memories of old away.

  Back on the road she decided to drive a little slower to try to stay calm. The green paddocks and pretty villages that had escaped the horrendous bushfires of a few summers ago were like glimpses into a world she had forgotten existed, an oasis between cities and towns where villages were linked together, small communities bonded by tragedy and uncertainty that had found strength in their shared experiences. Once or twice she saw scarred hillsides, the blackened remains of a farm or charred fence line, or a brave sign – We are open for business. It occurred to her anew how totally immersed she’d been for fifteen years and more in her career. When had she last travelled to places like these? Her world had been bordered by city blocks as she’d paced a well-worn path between her office and her apartment.

  The countryside she was driving through now showed many signs of renewal. Lush green had sprouted against a backdrop of blackened bark. There was plenty of rebuilding going on; some locals seemed to have put the past behind them and moved forward as best they could. Ellie guessed that others suffered behind closed doors and endured sleepless nights. While some people grasped opportunities, others struggled. The fires had changed everything that had seemed secure and safe, but life went on, as it always did, Ellie thought, winding down the window and smelling the fresh air.

  The beauty and tranquillity around her brought back memories of a golden childhood, and the many idyllic summers she’d spent in this part of the world. The small town of Storm Harbour, where her grand­parents had settled, where her mother had grown up, was a place of stability, a calm stopover in the mad rush to a future she’d been so anxious to grasp with both hands, before she learned life could be cruel. She longed to feel that optimism about her future, that enthusiasm for life, again. She was in her mid-thirties and, she realised, at a crossroads.

  She hadn’t been back to Storm Harbour for a couple of years, but no matter where she lived, this township was an anchor in her life. It was the place she knew she could always return to; the sheltered old house on the hill looking out to the Southern Ocean, the familiar ­landmarks, friendly faces, the gentle pace of local life, and always, beaming a welcome with open arms, her grandfather, Patrick; humorous eyes and wise smile, seemingly as strong as a tree, as warm-hearted as the sun, with his ­careworn hands that softly stroked her hair.

  And next to him, the gentle shadow of her grandmother who, like all of them, had basked in the strength, laughter and love of a man no longer youthful but with a young spirit, a man with a kind nature, a poetic heart, a steady gaze, and who stood by his principles of honesty, truth and loyalty.

  The coast road meandered through the rural ­landscape with its neat farms bordered by old dry-stone rock walls. Tears of pleasure and joy pricked at Ellie’s eyes as the township, spread along the riverfront, came into view. She skimmed past the Welcome to Storm Harbour sign, turned left and was soon in the heart of the town. Lining the wide streets were beautifully restored historic cottages and larger homes sheltering behind the magnificent Norfolk Island pines and ancient cypress pines. Some houses were tiny, stone originals with stooping doorways and cosy doll’s-house-sized rooms. Others retained their original entrance ways but Ellie knew that beyond the quaint façades stretched spacious extensions and smart, contempo­rary renovations. Classic pruned gardens were awash with climbing roses or old rosebushes drooping under the weight of glorious heavy-headed blooms. Garden pride and competitiveness was a local obsession, Ellie remembered, thinking about her grandmother’s garden.

  The lifeline of the town, the Derrin River, flowed into the dark and unpredictable Southern Ocean, which was screened from the township by a protective army of soldier-straight Norfolk Island pines standing shoulder to shoulder. The small harbour was sheltered from the wild storms that sometimes battered this part of the coast.

  Ellie parked the car and strolled down the main street, past the beautiful stone library and lecture hall, feeling a tug of sentimental pride as she came to the familiar doorway with its dim windows displaying front pages from previous decades along with that of the current edition. Scrolled across the window in black-and-gold lettering were the words: The Storm Harbour Chronicle. Est. 1901.

  When she pushed open the door, she heard the bell that tinkled to alert someone to come to the reception desk. Everyone was always out the back in the efficient if messy office next to the editor’s small cubicle. An attempt had been made to soundproof the composing room and printer years before, but when the computer age had arrived, it had been demoted to a storage area next to a bathroom and kitchenette.

  The smells and surroundings reminded Ellie of her childhood visits. She walked through into the back room and glanced around at the three crammed desks piled high with folders and photo files, a tower of bound newspapers, a couple of ancient desktop computers, an overflowing filing cabinet, a chalkboard, and dozens of framed photos going back decades that crowded the walls.

  Jonathan Cubbins, now the sole editorial staffer for the Chronicle, as everyone called it, looked up with a big smile and gave her a salute. Pushing his wheelchair back from his desk, he rolled deftly over to her.

  ‘Hey, Ellie. Patrick said you were coming down. Great to see you.’

  ‘Hi, Jon. How’re things?’ She shook his hand warmly. ‘I gather you’re “it” now. Shouldering double the reporting duties for the paper as well as taking the photos.’

  ‘Yep. Sally crossed over to the dark side. Got a job with the local radio mob. We still catch up for a coffee now and then. It’s not the same, though, ’cause we can’t talk story ideas now we’re rivals,’ he added.

  ‘What about Maggie? Is she still here?’ Ellie had always enjoyed spending time with Margaret Berger, who’d been secretary/office manager/researcher/copy-editor and sparring partner to Patrick Addison since he’d taken over the paper in what Ellie’s grandmother had described as his late mid-life crisis.

  ‘Oh yeah, Mags wouldn’t leave,’ Jon chuckled. ‘As she says, chuck her out when she loses her marbles.’

  ‘Well, she’d only be in her mid-sixties, wouldn’t she?’

  ‘Yep,
guess so. But she keeps telling me she’s old enough to be my grandmother. She’s just popped out of the office but I’m sure you’ll catch her at some point.’

  Ellie smiled and looked around. ‘Is my grandad here?’

  ‘Sure is.’ Jon nodded towards the closed door of her grandfather’s little office, where a soft rumble of voices could be heard.

  ‘Who’s in there?’

  ‘Seamus O’Neill, saying goodbye before he leaves on his his cruise.’

  Ellie winced. ‘Are the O’Neills still running things? Surely the town has moved on into the twenty-first century!’

  Jon shrugged. ‘Seamus inherited a well-oiled machine. As will his sons, I s’pose. Do you want a cup of tea? I wouldn’t recommend the coffee. It’s only instant.’

  ‘Thanks, no. I’ll wait till I get home. I should have let Poppy know I was coming here first. A bit impromptu.’

  ‘Well, I know he won’t mind; he’s hanging out to see you. He’s so excited. We’re all really glad you’ve come, Ellie.’ Jon paused, then added, ‘He gets a bit lonely. I mean, he has a lot of friends, of course. But you know . . . family.’

  Ellie smiled. ‘I know. I love my parents, but there’s a special bond with grandparents, isn’t there?’

  ‘Hey! Ellie!’ The door of the tiny office opened and the beaming figure of her grandfather emerged. He looked just the way she’d always thought of him – larger than life, radiating love, comfort and protection.

  He was followed by a man of about the same age, well groomed and dressed in expensive country casual brand-name clothes.

  ‘Oh, you have a visitor. Good to see you, Patrick.’ He gave a polite nod to Ellie and Jon as he headed to the front door.

  Ellie hugged her grandfather tightly. He still felt strong, though she noticed his hair had thinned some and was greyer, but the tang of Old Spice was achingly familiar.

  ‘Are you okay, Poss?’ he asked softly, using her pet nickname, ‘Possum’, which made Ellie bury her face in his shoulder. Patrick then held her at arm’s length, gazing into her blue eyes. ‘It’s been too long, Ellie. You look tired. Burning the candle at both ends, eh?’

  She sighed. ‘Wish I was. Burning the candle, that is – at either end! I sleep too much these days. That’s what happens when you have no commitments.’

  ‘Well, that makes a bit of a change,’ he said, and looked at her but didn’t say anything more about it. ‘Now, c’mon, let’s go home for a cuppa. Have you been up to the house yet?’

  ‘Not yet. I figured you’d be at work, so I came here first. I’m ready for a cup of tea, though.’

  ‘I’ll grab my stuff. You okay to lock up, Jono?’ Patrick turned to him.

  ‘Sure. I’ll just wrap up this piece on the crab thief. Think there’s more to it than petty theft.’

  ‘I’ll leave it with you. Talk to old Norm Watson, retired fisheries inspector. He might have a few ideas or leads.’

  ‘Right. Nice to see you again, Ellie.’

  ‘You too, Jon. I’ll be around for a bit so let’s catch up later.’

  He gave a nod. ‘Sure thing. Good to have you back in town.’

  Ellie waited outside by her car as her grandfather strode out with his ancient briefcase, his shirtsleeves loosely rolled to his elbows and his trademark fedora clamped to his head.

  ‘What time is it?’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Just on eleven. Too early for a beer. Right, cuppa tea it is. You’ve had a long drive.’ He hopped into his ancient four-wheel drive. ‘I’ll catch you up at home.’

  *

  Ellie parked under the gnarled trees that sheltered the southern side of the gracious old house and grabbed her bag. Her grandfather was already inside and probably had the kettle on.

  She drew a deep breath as she walked up the path she knew so well. The double-storey whitewashed home on the rise above the town was surrounded by bushland. Ellie and her mother had always called it ‘the olden days house’ because of its spaciousness and its generous, welcoming elegance. It certainly looked the part from the outside, with its wide wrap-around verandah dotted with comfortable cane furniture, but over the years the interiors had been updated and renovated and an open-plan family room had been created off the kitchen. But there remained rooms which were separate little spaces where one could shut the door and sink into a private world; Patrick’s study, the formal dining room, a children’s playroom with bunks, and a guest bedroom with French doors opening onto a quiet section of the upstairs verandah, which had once been Sandy’s room and was now Ellie’s when she came to visit. From that verandah one had uninterrupted views straight out to sea. Tucked in a corner of the grounds and curving around the house to the backyard was her grandmother’s garden.

  The sensations that hit Ellie the minute she stepped inside were as familiar to her as her own reflection; the smell of beeswax and old roses, and a feeling of lived-in love.

  In the kitchen her grandfather was setting out the tea things and a plate of biscuits on the table, exactly as her grandmother had done since she’d first set up house as a bride, Patrick always boasted. Ellie realised this ritual was one of her favourite childhood memories.

  ‘Hey, Sam, look who’s here!’ her grandfather called.

  The old dog suddenly appeared and, recognising Ellie, plunged at her, rubbing against her, almost smiling, tail flailing energetically.

  ‘Hiya, old fella.’ Ellie squatted and put her arms around the neck of the dog who had been a devoted family member for twelve years. He licked her ear and, as she looked up at her smiling grandfather, she felt her body go limp, as if her bones were melting. The constrictions around her heart seemed to soften and she breathed easily for what felt like the first time in months.

  They lingered over the pot of tea, talking of family news, and then moved on to national politics and world events. Ellie was relieved they weren’t getting into personal ‘deep and meaningfuls’; she felt on safe ground expressing strong opinions about the government, international leaders and her fears for the future of the planet. She’d grown up with her grandfather challenging and questioning her on the world around them, encouraging her to read and listen to the news, as well as think deeply about life in her own little universe. She had given up trying to interest him in IT, even though he always said he was proud that she’d made it so far up her career ladder. They had friendly arguments and sometimes thought-provoking discussions, which made her pause and reflect, or occasionally see things from a different viewpoint.

  ‘I do fear for my generation,’ Ellie said. ‘The state of the environment, world crises, crooked politicians. It’s a relief to escape down here.’

  ‘You’re not out of the woods here either,’ her grandfather countered. ‘This may be a small town but we’re a microcosm of the same elements that make up the world at large: families, neighbours, communities, politics, the ties that bind. We have the same issues, if on a smaller scale. That’s what makes us who we are. Fracture that, take away our commitment to each other and where we live and how we run the joint, and chaos and corruption rule. We may be just a little place tucked away down here, but we’re a link in an invisible chain that holds everyone together.’

  ‘A connection, a community,’ said Ellie quietly.

  ‘Yes. We all have our belonging place. Our country, where our roots are.’ Patrick paused, and they sat contemplating this for a moment. ‘Anyway, it’s going to take a lot more than thee and me to solve things,’ he said. ‘I have a few chores to do. Maybe you could take ole Sam for a

  walk? See what’s changed in the area since you were last here.’

  ‘Nothing, I hope. I like it just the way it is.’

  ‘You can’t stop progress, they say. But down here we try to make sure any changes are for the better. So-called progress is sometimes viewed with suspicion and, as I see it, the paper’s job is to let people know what’s actuall
y going on.’

  ‘Yes. Thank goodness.’ She reached out and took her grandfather’s hand. ‘It’s so good to be back here. I missed it. I missed you.’

  He squeezed her hand. ‘Stay as long as you like, Ellie dear.’ He stood up and carried his mug to the sink. ‘You settle in your old room. Well, your mum’s old room,’ he corrected himself, and smiled.

  ‘Lovely. I might go up now and unpack, and then I’ll take Sam out.’

  As she went down the hall, Ellie felt lighter than she had in a long time. The anxiety attack on the drive down had rattled her, though. She hoped that being here in the place she felt most comfortable would help lift the dark clouds that seemed to obscure her horizon these days.

  *

  The sun was high in the sky when Ellie set off with Sam for a stroll through town.

  As she made her way down the hill, Sam padding along happily at her side, she thought about how things had changed since she’d last seen Patrick. While her grand­father was obviously thrilled to see her and seemed his usual affable self, Ellie had noted a tiredness around his eyes. It was hard to know if it was from work or his health, or just his age. She knew that some of his friends from his time in Vietnam during the war had died recently, and that must have been hard for him. Living on his own for the past eight years, the newspaper had become more than his passion. Ellie’s mother had once said to her that perhaps it had become his reason for living.

  There it was again. She stopped and blinked as the thought slammed into her. She’d let her job run her life in much the same way Patrick had. Ellie had thought she was doing the right thing – hadn’t really questioned it, if she was honest – when in fact the job had come to dictate nearly every aspect of her day-to-day existence.

  As she’d been doing a lot recently, she shut down her mind. It was too hard, too stressful, to think about. Ellie broke into a jog and called out to Sam.

  Running slowly down the hill and through the streets, she noticed that the town had acquired an affluent veneer over its quaint old seafaring, fishing and whaling heritage. It reflected a comfortable, creative community.