The Cottage at Rosella Cove

by Sandie Docker

  ‘Mandy?’ Nicole stopped as they walked into Mandy’s kitchen. ‘I’m sorry. It must be so hard, watching your mum, well, I …’ She reached and touched Mandy’s arm.

  ‘Nothing to be sorry for.’ Mandy sighed. ‘Believe it or not, that was one of her better days.’

  ‘How do you do it? Find the strength?’

  ‘She’s my mum,’ Mandy replied with a shrug.

  A stab of pain hit Nicole’s chest. What she wouldn’t give to have her own mother back again.

  ‘It’s okay. Really. I enjoy the trips down memory lane. It was hard at first, but we’re used to it now. Come. Sit down.’

  Nicole was all but plonked into the kitchen chair as Mandy fussed about, putting on a pot of tea and telling her all about how Carole was diagnosed with early-onset dementia. Nicole’s heart went out to her as Mandy described the day Carole had walked out the front door and up the street completely naked. Thankfully, Charlie had found her at the cove and brought her home, knocking on their front door, silently returning Carole into their care. Mandy’s gratitude was not just for her mum’s safe return, but also for knowing Charlie wouldn’t speak a word of her mother’s undignified demise. Nicole wondered if this was the memory that had choked Mandy up at dinner when she was talking about Charlie that night.

  Nicole poured milk into her tea and stirred absentmindedly as she contemplated Mandy’s stories about Carole and Charlie.

  ‘You said that night at your place that Charlie’s been here about fifty years, right?’

  Mandy nodded. ‘Something like that.’

  So many questions ran through Nicole’s head. She was losing her battle to quell her curiosity. ‘Was that before or after Ivy died?’

  ‘Before. A bit before the picnics started, I think,’ Mandy said. ‘Let me see.’ She pulled an old shoebox out of the cupboard. ‘I have some photos from when I was a kid. Maybe there’ll be something useful in here.’ She pulled out a silly baby picture of herself with a nappy on her head, and a faded photo of her with friends, all of them covered from head to toe in mud. She’d been about ten, apparently, and she told Nicole how the rain just didn’t seem to stop that summer. Then she pulled out a Polaroid with muted colours and handed it to Nicole.

  Nicole looked at it closely. There was a group of kids running round the edges of a picnic blanket laid out on a lawn. Even in this tired old picture the blue and white painted exterior of the cottage was striking.

  ‘That’s me.’ Mandy pointed to a little girl with tight red ringlets sitting with two others, surrounded by dolls, on a picnic blanket laid out on the lawn. A young boy kicked a soccer ball next to them. They were all about three or four, Nicole guessed.

  ‘That’s Trevor.’ Mandy pointed to the boy.

  An old lady stood in the left of the photo, watching the children with a contented look across her face.

  ‘Is this Ivy?’ Nicole asked.

  ‘Yes. I don’t remember much about the picnics, but that’s her for sure.’

  Ivy’s grey hair was long and wild. Nicole, for some reason, had pictured it neat. She wore a flowing gypsy skirt and peasant blouse in bright blue. This didn’t fit with the Ivy of well-tailored clothes and prim and proper manners that she’d imagined from the letters. The woman wore no shoes, and her bare feet peeked out from under the layers of her skirt.

  In the background of the photo, where the blurred gum trees stood tall, she thought she could make out the dark shadow of a man leaning against one of the trunks.

  Could that be …? Nicole could no longer fight the persistent curiosity bubbling inside. She did, however, manage to fight the urge to pull out her notebook and write down the thousand questions flashing through her mind.

  ‘Here’s another one of Ivy.’ Mandy handed Nicole a photo. Ivy was obviously in it by accident; she was clearly passing by while Mandy’s mum was in the main part of the frame fussing over Mandy and her two brothers standing outside the post office in town.

  ‘We were heading to someone’s birthday or something in that one, I think,’ Mandy offered as Nicole studied the picture. ‘Dad was trying to get a family shot, but apparently we weren’t being all that cooperative.’

  Nicole was transfixed by the image.

  ‘I hope these help. From what I remember the picnics were held once a month after the Sunday service. The whole town would go. I was only a baby when they started.’

  Nicole reached across and patted Mandy’s arm. ‘Thanks for this. It’s brilliant.’

  ‘As I said, I hope they help.’ Mandy shrugged. She started drumming her fingers on the side of her chair and tapping her foot.

  Nicole continued to scrutinise the photos.

  ‘Okay, Nicole. Time to spill the beans,’ Mandy blurted out.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘This interest in Ivy Wilson? It’s got nothing to do with the house. Something else is going on. If I knew what you were looking for maybe I could be better help. Otherwise I don’t know what needle I’m searching for in the bloomin’ haystack.’

  Nicole looked Mandy in the eye. ‘There’s …’ She wanted to tell Mandy the truth about the letters, talk it over and find out more, but she wasn’t sure what it all added up to yet.

  ‘If you’re researching for another book, maybe I could help. That would be so much fun.’ Mandy’s eyes lit up. ‘Oh, please say yes. I can just see myself as a research assistant to a famous author.’

  Nicole held back a laugh. Even the most famous writers she knew did their own research. Mandy’s view of authors was charming, if not entirely correct.

  ‘Oh, no. It’s nothing like that.’ Nicole’s curiosity may have been piqued, but writing again was another matter entirely. ‘It’s just …’

  No. It had nothing to do with waiting to see what it added up to. The actual truth of it was she just wanted to keep Ivy all to herself. To have a friend no one else knew about, something no one else could touch or tarnish.

  ‘I have to go.’ Nicole dropped the photos and Mandy looked at her with wide eyes.

  ‘I appreciate your help.’ Nicole stuttered and ran out the door, leaving her fledgling friendship behind.

  Friendships were such fragile things.

  June, Last Year

  Nicky nestled into the couch, legs tucked under, to doodle in her notebook. She scribbled words down, trying to find an idea for her next book that she was sure was somewhere in her mind. She just couldn’t find it. Mark was in the shower. They’d had sex as soon as he’d got home from work, but Nicky had been distracted the whole time. She was still distracted now.

  She’d finally read Jane’s manuscript, six embarrassingly long months after her friend had given it to her. And it was good. Really good. She’d sent her a text yesterday to tell her so, two of them actually, but there had been no reply.

  Maybe Jane was angry with her, despite the glowing feedback. Nicky couldn’t blame her. With each week that had gone by since Christmas, her shame at being such a bad friend had grown, and her courage to make contact had shrunk.

  And with each week that had gone by without Jane calling or texting her either, it was harder to break the silence.

  But surely now Nicky had read the manuscript and reached out, her old friend would respond.

  She sent another text and waited.

  No response.

  What if something had happened to Jane? No, Miles would have got in touch if that were so.

  Jane wasn’t on any social media. She hated the whole idea of it. So Nicky couldn’t her look her up. But maybe Miles was. Why hadn’t she thought of that before? She flipped open her laptop.

  A quick search was all it took to find him on Facebook and Nicky sat there, staring at the screen, silent tears falling down her cheeks.

  ‘Nicky? Is everything okay?’ Mark came up behind her, wrapped in a towel. ‘Oh, Nicky.’ He put his arm round her shoulder.

  She couldn’t believe what she saw. There, looking gloriously happy, was a photo of a beaming Jane, barefoot on t
he sand in tropical Queensland, a flowing wedding dress, standing next to Miles as he planted a kiss on her cheek. It was posted a week ago.

  Jane had got married. Without her.

  ‘It’s okay.’ Mark embraced her tightly.

  ‘I just … How could she … I don’t understand. I mean, I know we haven’t been close lately, but she’s my best friend.’

  At least she was.

  Mark crouched on the floor, his hands on Nicky’s knees, his eyes level with hers.

  ‘I hate to say this, but maybe she isn’t the friend you thought. She didn’t come to any of your events. She hasn’t answered your texts. She’s always been jealous of you. You’re better off without her.’

  ‘No.’ Nicky shook her head. Even if Jane was a little bit jealous, surely she wouldn’t … But she stared at the bright aqua hues of the perfectly clear ocean and the powder-white sand – the evidence was there in front of her.

  Jane hadn’t wanted Nicky at her wedding.

  ‘It’s okay. Let it out. It’s not nice finding out people aren’t who you think they are,’ Mark said, wrapping her in his arms.

  Nicky did let it out. In great big ugly sobs as Mark tried to soothe her, stroking her hair, whispering into her ear.

  ‘I love you, princess. I’ll never let you down like this. Come to bed, hey?’

  Nicky shook her head. ‘I just need to …’ She didn’t know what she needed. She closed her laptop and tossed it to the other side of the couch. ‘I’m okay. I’ll be in in a minute,’ she said, squeezing Mark’s hand.

  He kissed the top of her forehead and headed to bed.

  Nicky lay on the couch, silent tears falling down her cheeks. As the hours ticked by, sorrow swelled and subsided at random intervals and sleep didn’t come.

  At five in the morning she crawled across the couch and turned on her laptop. She opened a new document and started typing half-sentences that went nowhere.

  She knew nothing she wrote that morning would be worth keeping, but she found some small comfort in the ritual.

  Nicole spent the afternoon scraping the living room ceiling, but it did little to quell her guilt. She wasn’t proud of her behaviour that morning. Mandy had done nothing but extend a hand of friendship, and Nicole had responded rather rudely. She’d have to think of a way to apologise. Flowers? No. Not the right sentiment. What did her mum used to do when she was trying to mend a bridge?

  She baked. Now that was something Mandy would probably appreciate. But Nicole’s skills in the kitchen were questionable at best. There must be something basic she could make. Like choc-chip cookies. How hard could those be?

  The next morning she’d give it a crack. If it failed, no one would know and she’d fall back on the flowers option.

  As the night grew cold, she curled up on the sofa under a blanket in front of her empty bookshelves, and read over her notebook where she’d jotted down the questions that had come to her that morning looking at photos of Ivy. It was getting harder not to skip ahead with Ivy’s letters. But the routine was comforting and it was almost as if she was checking in with a friend at the end of the day. Nicole missed having someone to check in with. In her lonely life, these snippets of light were worth holding on to a little longer.

  2nd November, 1941

  My Dearest Tom,

  The sun was so warm today, my love. The morning began as it often does in late spring, crisp and cool, and melted into a warm bright day with clear blue skies and a gentle breeze. The sea was such a beautiful deep shade of turquoise and I found it soothing as ever to watch the gentle, rhythmic ripples. Had you been here, I know you would have loved removing your shoes to feel the warm grass between your toes. So, my dearest, I did so in your stead and I must admit I giggled like a schoolgirl as I danced our wedding waltz barefoot around the headland.

  Perhaps I shall never wear shoes again. What would Mother have to say about that?

  Nicole thought back to Mandy’s photos, with Ivy barefoot in each one, and smiled to herself.

  As fate would have it, I had no need to send her on an errand today as the CWA required her services. You know how she cannot refuse being needed. She tried to take me with her but I feigned illness.

  Mother was out of the house by ten, which gave me ample time to ready our anniversary picnic. Naturally, I prepared far too much food. Even when you were here I would make too much. Imagine the excess today with only one mouth to feed! Still, the seagulls did not complain.

  I found myself talking to them as I would you while they squawked and scavenged around me. They were not very good listeners.

  I could not bring myself to enter the boatshed, my darling. I made it as far as placing my hand on the doorknob, but before I could turn it open, images of that night before you left for war flooded my mind. Oh, what I would not give to have another night in the boatshed with you.

  So, I remained outside today, eating our anniversary lunch with the seagulls. I miss you so, my darling.

  On a far brighter note, Father has been asked to present a series of summer talks at the university in Sydney. If he accepts, he will be gone for at least a month and he plans to take Mother with him. She is saying, of course, that she cannot possibly leave me in this state. ‘Not until the child stops wallowing in permanent grey and pulls herself together,’ I heard her say. ‘The child’? Honestly!

  Perhaps I will wear the red floral dress you bought me for my birthday a few years ago so she is convinced she can leave me here. Then I will have my peace back. I blame you entirely, Thomas Wilson. Until you went missing she was perfectly content to leave me be, even with you so far from home. But since you refuse to be found, she has been smothering me. She will not let me out of her sight and she fusses and barks instructions and has even, can you believe it, started looking for potential suitors for me. Just in case the worst should come to pass.

  Yes, I think I will have to fool her into going with Father.

  Happy Anniversary, my love.

  I will bring more cheer when next I write, but for now I cannot disguise how desperately I miss you and how wretchedly my whole being aches each day that passes with no news.

  My days are empty and nights bitter without you here with me. You must return to me soon.

  Forever yours,

  Ivy

  Eight

  The first attempt at chocolate-chip cookie dough ended up in the bin. How could flour, sugar and butter taste so bad? She’d followed the recipe, hadn’t she? She looked again at the app on her phone. One cup of flour. Check. One hundred and twenty-five grams of butter. Check. One cup of sugar. Che— Hang on. She picked up the canister of sugar and tasted its contents. Argh. Salt. No wonder.

  ‘Damn it.’ She threw the tea towel onto the table.

  ‘Anyone home?’ A familiar voice trilled down the hallway.

  Nicole went over to the front door. ‘Come in.’

  Mandy reached up to wipe the butter out of Nicole’s hair. ‘Oh my. What’s happened here?’

  ‘I was trying to bake. For you, actually. To say sorry for running out on you yesterday.’

  ‘Oh, Nicole. No need for that.’ Mandy shook her head. ‘It was an emotional day for both of us. What did you make?’

  Nicole frowned.

  ‘Oh.’ Mandy steered Nicole to the kitchen. ‘Oh,’ she said again, taking in the mess. ‘Just as well I brought these with me.’

  She held up the Tupperware container she had with her. It was filled with lamingtons.

  After cleaning up the kitchen, they went out to the verandah. Nicole brought a pot of tea and mugs, while Mandy carried a plate piled high with her lamingtons.

  ‘These are delicious,’ Nicole said, grabbing one – her second – and stuffing her mouth as they sat down.

  ‘A bit of a specialty of mine,’ Mandy said. ‘Once you’ve got the sponge right, the secret’s in the consistency of the icing.’ She winked.

  ‘I’ll take your word for it. Not much of a domestic goddess here. As you saw
. Baking never was my strong point.’

  ‘Happy to show you someday.’

  ‘I may just take you up on that.’ Nicole smiled warmly.

  They finished their lamingtons in silence and Nicole worked up the courage to explain herself. She knew it wasn’t necessary, but she owed Mandy something. Just, how could she explain anything, without explaining everything?

  ‘I, ah, really did want to say sorry.’ She took a deep breath.

  Mandy’s expression was soft and warm. ‘Honey, you don’t need to explain yourself to me. I suspect there’s a whole lot more going on with you than a bit of an interest in a woman who’s been dead for a few decades.’

  Nicole raised an eyebrow.

  ‘I read people. It’s a gift of mine. Besides, no one with their life totally together would have taken this renovation deal.’ She laughed gently.

  Nicole’s life was certainly not together.

  ‘Look. It’s not my place to pry, but if you ever feel like talking about it, you always have me. If not, well, we’ve plenty of other excitement to keep us busy round here. This afternoon’s match, for example …’

  Nicole laughed out loud.

  ‘You will join us, won’t you?’ Mandy asked.

  ‘Well, I am the lucky socks,’ Nicole replied with a shrug. ‘What choice do I have?’ She grinned.

  ‘Attagirl.’ Mandy chuckled.

  ‘Carn, Rangers!’ screamed a man standing right behind Nicole on the hill. The deafening cheer went up from the crowd as Danny crossed over the try line, extending their lead beyond the reach of the soon-to-be beaten Giants of neighbouring town Glensdale, some hundred clicks south of the cove. Some of the Giants supporters, unable to watch their team lose, started packing up their deckchairs and picnic blankets to head back to their homes. Nicole had never heard of the town, but she knew it would be a sad place to be tonight.

  ‘Never were a loyal crowd, that lot.’ Cheryl shook her head.

  ‘That’s one sure thing about the cove,’ Mandy said. ‘No matter how far down we’re beaten, we stick by our boys to the end.’