The Lost Summers of Driftwood

by Vanessa McCausland

  A cold prickle ran down Phoebe’s spine. ‘Tea would be great, thanks,’ she said, joining Ginny on the pebbled drive.

  She remembered the angry man they used to call Old Tom who had once lived here. They had taunted him by throwing gumnuts over the fence while he gardened, Camilla and Jez egging each other on while Karin tried to distract them with freshly picked mulberries. Perhaps Old Tom had been Ginny’s husband.

  The air had the sweet and sour smell of crushed ants and eucalypt, and Phoebe tried to imagine Karin walking through the front yard to visit Ginny. She would have warmed to Ginny for the simple reason of her being vulnerable in the world.

  Phoebe followed Ginny through a screen door. There was a swift scatter of paws on tiles as Steffi barked once, loudly.

  ‘Oh shush,’ Ginny berated the dog.

  The dog’s ears were velvety and her eyes squinted in pleasure as Phoebe rubbed them. ‘She’s very friendly.’

  ‘The cleverest dog to ever graduate from assistance dog school. But I’m biased.’ Ginny chuckled warmly. The lounge off the hall was dark as they moved deeper into the house. ‘Sorry, I usually pull the blinds up, especially when I’m expecting someone,’ she said, ‘but when I’m on my own sometimes I forget.’

  ‘That’s understandable,’ Phoebe said, feeling a twinge of sympathy.

  The back of the house was brighter—a picture window filled with the weak sunlight reflected off the river. It was a large family room with a sofa, TV and dining table. This was obviously where Ginny spent most of her time. It was funny how humans always moved towards the light, even when they couldn’t see it.

  ‘This is lovely. So bright.’

  ‘Yes, so I’m told. I can’t see it but I can feel it.’

  ‘The warmth?’

  ‘Yes, but also it feels bright in here. It’s hard for me to describe how.’

  ‘I expect you have very heightened senses in other ways.’

  ‘Oh yes, I rely on hearing, of course, and touch.’ She eased herself into a chair at the wooden table. ‘Take a seat, Phoebe. Oh, I wonder if I could impose on you to make us a cup of tea. I’m quite able to do it myself but I’m feeling a little tired today.’

  ‘Of course, I’d be happy to.’

  ‘The teabags are in the tin next to the kettle, and there are some biscuits in the pantry—Scotch Finger, my son usually buys them for me.’

  Steffi padded into the kitchen with Phoebe as she set about making tea. There were braille stickers on the kettle and the tea tin, and fresh daisies sat in a blue vase on the bench. The sight of them struck Phoebe as heartbreaking. But perhaps Ginny just enjoyed the scent, or the soft petals between her fingers. She set the mugs and the biscuits on a tray and returned to the living room. Ginny had picked up knitting needles and her hands moved deftly over them, feeding from a ball of red wool in her lap.

  ‘Thank you, Phoebe. You’re just as kind as your sister, I see.’

  ‘Oh, I think Karin was much nicer than me. She and my dad are the good eggs in the family.’

  ‘Do you mind talking about her? I wouldn’t want to make you feel uncomfortable or upset.’

  Phoebe smiled. ‘No, I like talking about her. It’s just . . . a little more painful sometimes because of what happened.’

  Ginny nodded and her gnarly fingers closed around her mug of tea. ‘I understand.’ She paused. ‘I don’t know if this is at all helpful, but I had a dear friend who took her own life. Bonnie was her name. She was a sweet but troubled person. Very vivacious. Got away with murder because of her looks. It was a long time ago and back then they didn’t have the mental health knowledge that they do today. Looking back she probably had bipolar or some kind of depressive illness. Anyhow, her leaving the world in such a way was tragic but not unimaginable, but Karin . . .’ Ginny paused, as though deciding whether to go on. She smoothed the pelt of red wool in her hands.

  Phoebe felt the movement of her own blood slow. ‘You don’t think Karin took her life either? Is that what you mean?’

  Ginny dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief she pulled from her sleeve. She wasn’t crying but seemed overwhelmed. ‘Who am I to say such a thing? A blind old lady who used to chat with her a few times a week. But no, I must admit, it doesn’t seem right that Karin would do that to herself.’

  Phoebe swallowed and tried to gather her thoughts as they raced through her head. There were so many questions she wanted answered.

  ‘Thank you for telling me that. I’m so sorry about your friend.’ She wanted to reach out and touch the old lady’s hand but was unsure about the etiquette with blind people. ‘Karin was terrified of the water,’ she went on. ‘She nearly drowned in this river when she was eleven and didn’t go back in the water again after that. I just can’t accept that she would have done it like that, if she was going to . . . you know.’

  ‘And tell me, Phoebe, why did they conclude it was a suicide?’ asked Ginny. ‘I only know what my son Chester read out to me from the paper. I think they said it was not suspicious. Surely an accident would have been more likely if she was afraid of water and not a strong swimmer?’

  Phoebe took a deep breath. ‘There was a suicide note.’

  Ginny shook her head. ‘I didn’t know that. The papers didn’t report it.’

  Phoebe looked out the window. Still, after all this time it hurt to say it out loud. ‘It was written in flowers. It said, “I’m sorry”.’

  Ginny’s mouth turned down. ‘I didn’t know that,’ she said again.

  Phoebe tried to talk but her voice had abandoned her. She cleared her throat. ‘I think because she was a florist they thought that flowers were a reasonable way to write a goodbye . . . even though anyone could have put those flowers there.’

  ‘Can I ask what they were?’

  ‘What type of flowers, you mean?’

  The image was seared into her like a scar. The police had given them a photo. The flowers were laid out over the white lace of the tablecloth, still in the shape of her final words. Phoebe would never forget the sad bow of the rose’s heads, the tangled brown stems of the snapdragons and the stiff and brittle peony petals. For months they were the only things she could see when she closed her eyes. She had never allowed herself to picture her sister dead, instead she saw the flowers.

  ‘Wild roses, peonies and snapdragons. They were all dead by the time they found her. A fisherman called the body in.’ Phoebe hadn’t allowed herself to think about the gruesome details in a long time. ‘And I guess they didn’t see how it could be homicide. She was a friendly person in the community who didn’t have any enemies. And there were no signs of struggle or trauma.’

  Ginny’s lips trembled. ‘A note made of flowers seems like something lovely and thoughtful Karin would have done, not . . .’ Her voice trailed off and she angled her face towards the light. ‘The reason I asked what flowers they were, is because Karin knew what all the flowers meant.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Phoebe felt a tingle run from the nape of her neck to her toes.

  ‘She used to bring me flowers all the time—cuttings left over from the shop. I think she felt bad I couldn’t see them, so she used to tell me the story of each one. When she put together her bouquets in the shop, she’d take into account the meaning of the flowers. She was so thoughtful like that. I still remember—pink roses and geraniums are for true friendship. She found a book about it on one of her antique hunts. She gave it to me as a gift. It’s in the bookcase, in the lounge.’

  ‘Here? Do you mind?’ Phoebe got up, hands trembling and head light. She found the book next to an old leather-bound bible: Flowers and Their Meanings; A Victorian Custom.

  The book was reed thin, and coming away from its spine. It smelled like tea leaves and dust, the pages flimsy with age. Phoebe stood there, transfixed in the dim light. She opened it carefully, skipping the introduction. The flowers were in alphabetical order, and accompanied by a finely drawn sketch. She found each one, methodically, her heart a mess in her chest.
Red roses were love. Yellow roses meant friendship or jealousy. Snapdragons meant graciousness and strength, or in the negative, deception. Peonies were for compassion and shame but also a happy life and marriage.

  The beat of her heart was the only sound in the room. What did it mean? Did Karin really leave a hidden message in her final words? Should Phoebe read the positive? Love, friendship, strength, compassion—everything that Karin was? Or the negative? Deception. Shame. Jealousy. What did Karin have to be jealous about?

  Phoebe went back into the living room to find Ginny still facing towards the river. ‘I found it.’

  ‘Well, what do they mean? The flowers she left.’

  Phoebe read out directly from the book, and Ginny let out a soft sigh.

  ‘What do you think?’ asked Phoebe, sitting down and smoothing the book shut.

  ‘I don’t know. I guess the police know what they’re talking about.’

  ‘Did they question you?’

  Ginny blinked. ‘A young policeman came to the door and asked if I’d noticed anything suspicious. When he realised I was blind he didn’t ask many questions. He didn’t tell me it was suicide, maybe they didn’t know at first. He said that my neighbour had drowned in the river. He kept calling her “Your neighbour” instead of using her name. I couldn’t stand it. I can’t tell you how shocked and saddened I was. I had to call Chester to leave work. I couldn’t be alone. Just the thought of Karin alone in the river . . .’

  Out the window the water was twinkling innocently, throwing light into their eyes.

  ‘Did you know she was found with all her clothes on?’ Phoebe said. ‘That’s why they think it was a suicide, as well. People who are going to kill themselves don’t want to be found naked. I think about that all the time. How can someone not care about their own life and the pain they’ll cause others but care about being found naked?’

  Ginny smoothed her hair behind her ears. ‘When they found Bonnie, she was in her best dress and shoes. It was a purple ball gown with gold trimming she’d worn for her twenty-first birthday. All the boys wanted to dance with her in that dress. And her hair was braided.’

  Phoebe felt humbled by Ginny’s story. Sometimes grief was so selfish, you forgot you weren’t the only one suffering. ‘Do you still think about her?’

  Ginny smiled sadly. ‘Oh yes. The pain eases with time but it never goes away.’

  ‘I dream about Karin every night,’ said Phoebe. ‘I wake and see this woman out in the middle of the river in a boat. She has long dark hair, like Karin, and she’s wearing white. It takes me a minute to realise it’s her because sometimes she’s Karin as a child. But then I know I have to save her, and I get up and run down the hill and dive off the end of the jetty. And I’m feeling around in the cold water, getting tangled in the white gown but I can never find her. I wake up holding my breath.’

  Ginny reached out and squeezed her hand. ‘You poor girl, what an awful dream.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I’m just blubbering now.’ Phoebe straightened and dabbed under her eyes with a napkin from a dispenser on the table. She had thought it might be awkward quizzing Ginny about Karin but the opposite was true. It was so nice to talk to someone who understood. She took a deep breath. ‘I wanted to ask you about what you said before . . . that you thought Karin went away on weekends. I used to talk to her every Sunday night without fail, it was our thing, and she rarely mentioned she’d been away. Do you know where she went? Why?’

  Ginny reached down and as if on cue Steffi arrived to have her ears scratched. ‘Good girl . . . I never felt it was my place to ask but I always assumed . . . there was someone, wasn’t there.’ It was more a statement than a question.

  ‘I don’t know, was there? None of us was aware she was seeing anyone.’

  Ginny pressed a finger to her lips. ‘Well, let me see. I must admit, I didn’t take a lot of notice. Karin was intensely private about these things and it wasn’t the kind of thing we talked about. We usually chatted about our gardens, the state of our tomatoes, or the abysmal state of the herbs—we had a resident possum. She told me about who she was doing flowers for in town, what had happened that week—births, deaths, marriages. Though she wasn’t a gossipy person, just someone people spoke to during important milestones in their lives. I think she knew it made me feel like I was part of the community.’

  ‘And she went away on these mystery weekends a lot?’

  ‘Oh, probably one or two weekends a month. Yes, I think it was mostly weekends, but I don’t pay a lot of attention to which day it is. No one seemed to visit her here. I rarely heard her with anyone next door.’

  ‘And she didn’t talk about anyone? Mention why she was going away?’

  ‘No. Well, yes, I suppose she used to talk about going to the trade shows in Canberra sometimes.’ Ginny paused. ‘So you must wonder why I assumed she was seeing a man.’ She took up her knitting and sat back in her chair. ‘If I had to explain it, it was that when she returned after being away she was always more . . . wistful, a little sad. When you can’t see people’s expressions you pick up a lot from the tone and volume of their voice, the words they use.’

  It was hard for Phoebe to ask, but she asked it anyway, ‘Sad enough to commit suicide?’

  ‘Well, no, it wasn’t unhappiness as such. More a longing, a distraction. It came out in her voice. The way she trailed off from her sentences. And she’d visit me more, as though she didn’t want to be alone.’

  Phoebe thought of all the Sunday nights she’d talked to Karin on the phone. Had she spent some of those weekends away and not mentioned anything? Where did she go and why did she hide it?

  Phoebe took a sip of her tea. She realised it had gone cold and put it down.

  ‘You didn’t drink your tea,’ said Ginny, and Phoebe laughed.

  ‘Can you tell?’

  ‘And you have only taken a bite or two of your biscuit.’

  Phoebe shook her head. ‘That’s amazing.’

  ‘I’m sorry I can’t tell you more about this mystery man. Or even if there was one. I’m afraid I’ve led you on a wild goose chase, haven’t I? Your sister was a very kind, generous person but she didn’t talk much about herself. She was very practical. It takes a lot of hard work to keep a property going on the river. I think we both shared that stubborn spirit. She was strong, your sister. I think that’s what doesn’t make sense to me. She wasn’t like my Bonnie; Karin was too strong and grounded to take her own life.’

  Phoebe reached out and put a hand on Ginny’s. ‘Thank you for saying that. Do you mind if I keep the flower book?’

  ‘No, of course not.’

  ‘Everything you’ve said I’ve been thinking. I can’t stop thinking it. My mum and sister never question Karin’s death. My dad might have, but he’s so passive; he doesn’t want to rock the boat or upset anyone any more than they already are.’

  Ginny smoothed the perfect square of red wool flat on the table. ‘Sometimes rocking the boat is the only way forward.’ And for a second Phoebe could have sworn she had perfect vision.

  CHAPTER 9

  Phoebe watched the river glistening through the gum trees. It was hot. A languid breeze murmured through the she-oaks, and on it was the smell of bushfires. The air had a toffee quality, as though it had been burnished over low heat. The things she’d spoken about with Ginny rolled over in her mind, and she didn’t know what to do with these questions and thoughts. She had truly believed she’d known her sister so well. But she’d known nothing of these mystery trips away or that Karin arranged flowers according to their meanings. Why hadn’t she known all this? A feeling of helplessness settled in her. What else had she missed about her sister?

  She went inside and took a six-pack of Heineken out of the fridge then retrieved the straw hat she had bought in the Bay that morning. She didn’t want to take more, didn’t want to presume she’d be staying all that long.

  The walk down the road was dusty and dry but the grass at Driftwood still looked lush.
The area had once been swampland and Phoebe imagined the plant roots reaching into subterranean pools and sating their thirst. The sound of voices and splashing came from the dam. The water shimmered, reflecting the low sky, and Phoebe shielded her eyes against the glare and watched Jez take a run off the pontoon to bomb into the middle. Hoots of protest hailed with the spray of water. She laughed, remembering all the times he’d done that in their childhood. He was still that boy who had kissed her for the first time in the warm afternoon sun sitting on the edge of the dam, legs dangling in the deep. She shook her head. No, he was somebody else’s husband and a man who would always feel special because of what they’d shared. But that was all it was.

  As she watched the others swim she longed for the delicious coolness of water on her skin. It felt even hotter here than at the cottage, the air thick with humidity. She wished she’d thought to wear her swimming costume under her shorts. She made her way to the dam’s entry—a timber weir with an old rubber tyre attached to its side.

  Wendy spotted her first. ‘Phoebe! Did you bring your costume? Come on in. It’s wonderful.’

  ‘Hotter than Texas in these parts,’ the Texan chirped, waving from the shallow end and pouring a bucket of water triumphantly over his head.

  Phoebe laughed. Tommy was waist deep, holding a little boy who bobbed around in yellow floaties. He turned and waved. ‘Hi, Phoebe!’

  ‘Hi, Tommy!’

  He gently pushed the boy towards her on the pontoon. The boy became distressed, his high-pitched cries piercing the air. Tommy took a red train he must have had in his pocket and placed it in his tiny hand. He whispered in his son’s ear and the boy immediately calmed. ‘This is Aunty Phoebe. Phoebe, meet Harry.’

  Phoebe crouched, passing a hand through the cool water and smiling. ‘Pleased to meet you, Harry.’ The boy was very fair, with wavy white-blond hair, nothing like his father’s dark hair and eyes. ‘You’re a good swimmer, Harry,’ she said, trying to meet his eyes. Despite his cherubic looks there was a distance, an absence. A wave of sadness passed over her and she forced a smile onto her mouth to hide it.