by Helene Young
Both her grandparents were dead now. Her poppy died of a heart attack not long after Darcy ran away from the Cove. No one knew where to contact her so Darcy didn’t find out until later. Her beautiful nanna lasted less than twelve months without her husband. When Darcy heard the news she was still hurting from Grant’s death, from Stirling’s rejection and her parents’ divorce. Selfishly she’d refused to come home from Sydney for her nanna’s funeral.
She often wondered who had stood beside her mother. Did someone hold her hand or did Beverley put her well-practised smile in place and soldier on? She was so very good at that. Darcy would always regret her moment of immature rage; she should have been there. She’d been as wilful as Stirling and just as self-centred. She didn’t like to admit she might take after her father. Her grandparents deserved much more and so did Beverley.
Would Nanna and Poppy be happy to see their generous bequest to her used to convert the old whaling station into a restaurant? She hoped so. It was serendipitous that the fifteen-year government bonds had matured this year. If the money had come twelve months earlier, she would probably have squandered it on Duo. But it hadn’t and so she had another chance, older, wiser and with her decisions tempered by the memory of her grandparents. She would still have a significant mortgage, but it wouldn’t be a crippling debt. Real estate was cheaper in Banksia Cove than in Sydney.
She parked on the street, knowing full well that if she pulled onto the driveway Beverley would be out hosing it down when Darcy left. The front door opened before she got to it and her mother, dazzling in white, wafted a cloud of Chanel over her as she hugged her. Her mother’s ribs felt like the corrugation on a kitchen draining board. Polite air-kisses had always been Beverley’s normal greeting, but since her illness Darcy insisted on embracing her mother. It was the only way to really gauge how her health was. Today she felt thinner than ever.
‘Darcy, you look dreadful. I heard what happened last night. Are you all right?’
Darcy stifled her sigh. ‘Fine, Mum, just fine. It was nothing.’
‘That’s not what Roger told me. He’s only just got off the phone. He said they came close to losing you.’
‘He’s just exaggerating. You know what he’s like. The poor guy we hauled from the water’s the one who had a tough night. Apparently he’s lost his memory. No one seems to know who he is either.’
‘Amnesia?’ Beverley had been a doctor’s receptionist for so long Darcy was sure her mother thought she knew as much as the GP.
‘Yeah. He was unconscious when I got to him.’
‘Why weren’t those boys in the water instead of you? What was Noah thinking?’
This time the sigh escaped. ‘Mum, it was the best way to handle it.’ She brushed her hair back from her face, ignoring the familiar rush of claustrophobia as her mother fussed.
‘Oh my god, your arms. You’re bruised. You should be wearing long sleeves. People will think . . .’
Darcy cut her off with a wave of her hand. ‘So how’s your latest quilt coming along? Ready for an exhibition?’ Beverley had taken up quilting when her marriage ended.
‘Oh, I couldn’t possibly do an exhibition, display my work in public.’
‘You should, you really should.’
‘It’s just for fun, Darcy. Just something to do at night. It beats watching reality TV.’ Beverley turned away, but not before Darcy saw the blush in her mother’s cheeks. Fifteen years since her idiot husband abandoned her and still Beverley didn’t think anything she did was worthy of praise.
‘A cuppa?’ Beverley asked. Tea fixed everything as far as Beverley was concerned.
‘Coffee would be great.’ Darcy followed her mother through the double front doors and down the white tiled corridor to the kitchen. The formal sitting room was as immaculate as ever with its white leather lounges, honey timbered tables and sheer drapes. It needed colour, riots of colour in Darcy’s opinion, but that was not Beverley’s way. In their original family home Stirling’s trophies had held prime position and Beverley’s restrained decorating had provided a neutral backdrop. Darcy was pretty sure her bedroom was the only room that wasn’t white. She’d deliberately chosen lavender to annoy her father and then plastered it with posters of pop stars and models – anything to stress the point she was a girl and not a boy.
She sat on one of the stools fronting the breakfast bar. The house was big enough for a family of five and yet her mother had made no move to remarry or even find a companion. Sometimes it worried Darcy, but she could also understand why being independent might appeal. Less mess, less heartache. Marriage was not for her either.
‘So what’s new?’ Darcy asked as she watched her mother grind coffee beans and fill a Bodum with hot water. Beverley’s long-sleeved shirt couldn’t hide the way her paper-thin skin hung on her arms.
‘Nothing particularly. Remember I’m off to Sydney this week. That wonderful Bangarra Dance Company have a new production.’
‘Oh, really?’ A love of ballet and modern dance was something they both shared. One of Darcy’s fondest memories was going to Sydney with her parents to watch the Australian Ballet perform Swan Lake. She’d been ten years old and precocious, wearing a white dress with blue trimming and shiny blue shoes with silver buckles. She’d gazed in wonder at the sails of the Sydney Opera House, luminescent in the late evening sunshine. She could still remember coming home and practising pirouettes until her feet hurt, but the nearest ballet school was in Bundaberg, over an hour’s drive away, and with both parents working there was no one to take her to lessons.
‘I thought I’d stay for a couple of nights. Come home next Friday.’ Beverley continued.
‘You’re not seeing Stirling, are you?’
Beverley still insisted on pretending the divorce had been amicable. ‘No, but I am seeing Chantelle and Amelia.’
Darcy shook her head. ‘Mum, why do you put yourself through it?’
‘Because it’s the right thing to do,’ Beverley said. ‘Amelia is your half-sister. And because life’s too short.’ The brightness in her mother’s eyes took Darcy by surprise. This show of vulnerability was out of character.
‘Mum, is there something you should tell me? Have they found something else?’ Darcy reached across and captured her mother’s fingers.
‘No, of course not.’ Beverley gave a quick squeeze in return and pulled free. ‘I’m just sorry that you haven’t forgiven your father still. He did what he had to do.’
‘What? Walked out on his wife of twenty-two years and his teenage daughter so he could pursue his career in Sydney? Stirling is the ultimate narcissist and that’s never going to change. I hope he spends more time with Amelia than he did with me. It would have been better for her if she’d been a boy.’
‘That’s cruel, Darcy. He was a good father, to the best of his ability. And look how you’ve turned out: you’re successful, you’re healthy and independent. His tough love was the right thing for you.’
Darcy privately conceded that she had turned out all right, but Stirling didn’t get the credit for that. ‘I just wish you’d move on.’
‘Darcy, does it ever occur to you that I’m happy on my own? I gave him twenty-two years of my life and was a good wife and mother. This is my time now.’
‘So organise an exhibition of your work,’ Darcy persisted.
‘Darling, I’m too old for that. Besides . . .’ She turned away to add milk to the coffee. Darcy knew without a doubt that Beverley was hiding something.
‘You look great, by the way, Mum,’ Darcy said as she took the offered mug. ‘You’ve lost a little weight.’ That was an understatement.
Beverley plucked at her shirt, pulling it away from her body. Her laugh was a brittle tinkle. ‘Extra yoga and a liver-cleansing diet.’
The alarm bells were deafening. ‘The only diet you need is to eat more, Mum.’
‘It’s just something to give the body some new energy.’
‘And is it working?’ Darcy bit her
tongue. Her mother didn’t need to hear that she looked frail and grey.
‘I feel on top of the world, so yes. So how’s Whale Song going?’
Darcy sipped the coffee and rolled her eyes. She wasn’t going to worry her mother with trivia about building inspections. ‘I hope you have your outfit picked out for the opening. In four weeks’ time we’ll throw open the doors and celebrate. Champagne all round. Meanwhile I have enough to do with Fish R Biting.’
‘So your little shop is doing okay?’
‘Well, it’s paying its bills and keeping me, Rosie and whichever one of her relatives needs a hand this week gainfully employed, so that’s a good thing. Who knows, maybe I’ll keep it running as well.’
‘You’re thriving back in that little village, aren’t you?’
‘So far so good,’ Darcy replied, not prepared to share any of her reticence with her mother. ‘Maybe small town life suits me after all.’
‘Noah suits you.’
Darcy laughed outright this time. ‘That’s not what you said fifteen years ago when he took me to the school formal in the farm ute.’
‘Well, I’m entitled to change my opinion. He does good things with the kids. Everyone says he’s the best community policeman the district has ever had and there have been some good ones.’
‘I still think he should be climbing the ladder in Brisbane. They need honourable men like him at the top.’
‘He’s not too old for that, Darcy. You both have a long life ahead of you.’ Beverley’s hand was splayed across her stomach as though she was in pain, but her expression was serene.
Darcy narrowed her eyes. ‘You been visiting a clairvoyant again or something? All this philosophical talk is making me nervous. Mum, you have to be honest with me or I can’t help. What did the doctor say at your last appointment?’
‘Fine. He said everything’s progressing as expected.’ Beverley’s smile seemed almost wistful. ‘Now, I hate to rush, but I’m manning the CWA cake stall in the markets in Bundaberg this morning.’
That explained the makeup and the perfume, early in the day even for Beverley. Darcy nodded and gulped her coffee, for once glad that her mother only ever managed to make it lukewarm.
‘Just keep those sleeves down, dear. It doesn’t look good,’ Beverley said.
‘Yeah, whatever.’ Darcy stood up and rinsed the mug in the sparkling sink, then kissed her mother’s cheek. ‘I’ll drop around next weekend then, bring dinner on Saturday night. Do you need a lift to the airport Monday?’
‘No, no. I’ll leave the car there. Then it won’t matter when I come home. You know how those flights are so often delayed.’
‘Okay. Love you, Mum.’
‘Love you, darling. Love you.’ Beverley didn’t see her out the front door and Darcy closed it softly. She left with renewed concern niggling her.
4
Noah opened the car door, the heat of the morning rushing out, to hear an all stations alert on the police radio. ‘A break and enter in progress at the warehouse out on Cummins St, North Bundaberg. Offenders on site, security staff in attendance.’ He ignored the call as two other units responded. He was more perplexed than when he’d arrived at the hospital. Being a community copper meant he spent a great deal of time second-guessing people in order to manoeuvre them into doing the right thing. It was all about communication. The yachtsman may have lost his memory, but Noah was certain there was something else going on there as well.
So far AMSA hadn’t been able to track down the emergency contact for the vessel. Both the details recorded with AMSA for the vessel’s emergency distress beacon and the New South Wales registration form showed the owner to be Tyrone Hillsmith. When they checked his address the Sydney police found only a boarded-up warehouse that hadn’t been used in years. The emergency phone contact was a disconnected mobile number. For now the Queensland police had a request in with their New South Wales counterparts for more information on Mr Hillsmith. Being a Saturday, the earliest they’d have a response would be Monday afternoon.
Old mate yachtie, who Noah was tempted to call Friday, was adamant his name wasn’t Tyrone, but he couldn’t say what it was. Noah was sure the memory loss was real. The fear, the disorientation in the man’s eyes, the rigid clasp of his hands couldn’t be faked.
‘Apart from his memory, a range of cuts and bruises and a nasty knock to his head, he’s in remarkably good shape,’ the doctor had told him. ‘Fit bloke. MRI is clear, minimal swelling on the brain and no sign of bleeding.‘
His fitness probably saved his life, Noah thought. So the mystery remained. No name, no next of kin, no forwarding address. The hospital wanted him in for another night of observation, but tomorrow morning they expected to release him into community care, Monday at the very latest. Noah wasn’t impressed. Where the hell would he take him? The bloke had nothing but the clothes he’d been wearing when they hauled him from the water. Putting him in the watch house after everything he’d been through would be inhuman. Release him to one of the homeless shelters and anything could happen to him. Noah had forty-eight hours at most to come up with a solution.
Ahead he saw a silver sedan pull up in a parking bay outside the CWA hall. Beverley Fletcher, decked out in white, stepped out of the car. Darcy had all of her mother’s beauty and a whole lot more warmth. Noah didn’t hold grudges, but he remembered all too well the subtle put-downs he’d endured at the Fletchers’ house. It’d suited him that Darcy had preferred visiting the farm. Stirling and Beverley had nothing in common with Brett and Jenny from the Daisy Hill Dairy. Stirling had the gift for making you feel important, but Beverley? She had a way of turning a compliment into a criticism. Noah doubted he was ever going to be good enough for her daughter, even though Beverley did stop for a chat these days. He had to admire the way she’d sailed through her divorce with her head held high. Full marks for dignified silence.
Driving back down the highway, past the small crop farms nestled in amongst the tall shafts of sugar cane, Noah wound down the window and breathed in. Cane cutting would start soon, then the rich smell of molasses would pour from the Bundaberg mill. It didn’t matter where he was, the smell of sugar always took him home.
When Noah joined the police he had grand designs on making the world a better place, righting the wrongs, championing the little guy. He’d thrived at the Police Academy at Oxley, had taken out the top honours for his intake. The regimented routine suited someone who’d grown up with the demands of a milking herd. The cows waited for no man and consequently he was ever the early bird and seldom the night owl.
In the three years he spent at Longreach doing his remote area service he learnt to muster cattle – very different from rounding up the Jerseys. He camped out under the stars, slept in a swag and became more attached to the dry outback than he would have believed possible. He fell in and out of love with a grazier’s capable daughter. He learnt a great deal about leading a team from a crusty old sergeant whose people skills belied the bark in his voice. He discovered that B&S balls could be dangerous to his health and a hell of a lot of fun. He realised he missed Darcy Fletcher and her defiantly tilted chin no matter how much time passed.
He joined the elite Special Emergency Response Team, got the obligatory tattoo inked around his bicep, trained hard, played hard and bonded with his crew. It gave him direction, a purpose, until the day a stake-out went wrong and an innocent pregnant woman died, hit by a stray bullet. In the fallout from the investigation his team lost their leader and the close bonds were broken. One by one the other guys trickled away to different units. He remembered thinking he finally understood why the poddy calves were so distressed when they were separated from their herd. He applied to become a detective. He had an aptitude for policing, getting the job done with the minimum of fuss. It didn’t go unnoticed.
Noah took the turn-off to Banksia Cove, the road’s hard shoulder shrinking as he left the main highway. His wheels juddered over patched potholes. Recent flooding had taken i
ts toll on the district. The road ran past scrubby gums and increasing numbers of Banksia trees. After all the summer rain the countryside was lush and green, thriving on the groundwater. Winter grass would be thick and those crops that survived the summer floods would produce bumper returns.
In Brisbane he’d missed home more than he’d believed possible. The final straw was a chance meeting with a young man he almost arrested for being drunk and disorderly in King George Square. The lad had come from a remote aboriginal community up the Cape. He’d been identified by a talent scout as having potential on the footy field and so he’d come to the big smoke. When he didn’t make the cut for the team, the club let him go. Noah had cautioned him, confiscated his bottle of bourbon and left him to sleep it off, thinking a jail cell would have been too confronting for a boy from the bush.
With the rising sun gilding the dome of the Brisbane Town Hall beneath a cloudless blue sky, Noah had driven past the Roma Street Parklands at the end of his shift. A dark shape, dangling like an oversized seedpod from the sturdy limb of a gum tree near the park’s amphitheatre, had Noah breaking into a run.
He’d struggled to support the weight of the young man’s lifeless body as he hacked at the length of old rope. Noah caught him as the strands parted, hugging him to his chest before he lowered him to the ground. Noah had cried like a baby as he waited for the ambulance to arrive. He’d cried for another life he couldn’t help, a life he couldn’t save. He’d cried for the idealistic dairy farmer’s boy who thought he could change the world. He’d cried for his friend Grant and for the loss of a friendship. A previous chance meeting with one of Rosie’s nephews had given him reason to doubt his current direction. And now this young man’s death had sealed it for him. He was going back to Banksia Cove to try and ensure they didn’t hit the city with no street smarts and little hope of survival.
It felt right being back in this small coastal town, living and working with adults who’d grown up beside him. He knew their history, understood their fears, championed their triumphs and now helped their kids through the PCYC. It was enough. His eyes strayed up Fenwick Road as he cruised past.
