The Cottage at Rosella Cove

by Sandie Docker

  ‘I sat here and bawled my eyes out. Don’t tell the boys. I even decided I was going to build a hut and live up here and never go back to town.’ He gave Nicole an embarrassed grin. ‘Trouble was, some other hermit already had it staked out.’ He laughed. ‘Charlie found me here. When I saw him, I thought I was in deep shit. We all heard the rumours about the crazy old fella in the boatshed. We even helped spread them. I thought he was going to eat me or something.’

  Nicole laughed, unable to help herself.

  ‘I know, stupid, hey? He didn’t, obviously. Didn’t even say a word to me. But I remember the look in his eye. He knew about Grandpa, for sure. I reckon he knows more about what goes on in this town than anyone else, you know?’

  Nicole smiled wryly. She didn’t doubt it. She remembered Charlie’s words to her: ‘The less you’re seen, the more you see.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Nicole took Danny’s hand and squeezed.

  He squeezed back and didn’t let go. ‘Thanks. Anyway, Charlie said nothing. He sat just behind the tree line over there, looking out for me I suppose. Come dusk he got up and waved his hand for me to follow and he led me back to town. Just as well too, ’cause I had no idea how I’d got here or how to get back, and I doubt I could have built a sturdy enough hut to sleep in for the night.’

  Nicole let out a little chuckle and Danny smiled at her.

  ‘I tried to find my way back a few times after that, but never managed. Then, one day I followed Charlie. Like every kid before and after me, I’d tried to follow him many times and learn his deep dark secrets. And like every other kid, I’d failed. But, that day he let me and led me here. I soon learned the way on my own. As I got older I figured out the four-wheel-drive route and I warn Charlie when I’m coming. Truth be told, it’s as much for my sake as his. Sometimes he still freaks me out a bit.’

  Nicole laughed out loud.

  ‘I came up here a lot too after my gir—’

  Nicole turned towards him and saw pain in his eyes.

  ‘Well,’ he shrugged, ‘let’s just say there was a time in my life when I really needed to come up here a lot.’

  ‘So why did you bring me here?’ Nicole asked.

  ‘It always seemed like a good spot for lost souls.’ He shrugged. ‘Thought maybe it might be some comfort to you.’

  Nicole could feel tears welling.

  ‘It’s all right.’ Danny put his arm around her and she rested her head on his shoulder. ‘You’ll find your path again. We all do.’

  The return run was faster, scarier and more fun. Nicole found herself laughing out loud as they careered downhill back to town. It probably helped that she was more relaxed, having not been dismembered and scattered through the forest.

  Danny dropped her home and walked her to the door.

  ‘Thank you. Today was … I haven’t felt so … in such …’ She coughed, gathering herself. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Anytime you want to go back, you just let me know.’

  He kissed her on the cheek and heat teased her skin as she watched him walk down the path.

  She closed the door behind her, unwanted memories forcing their way forward.

  September, Last Year

  Time, it seemed, was not Nicky’s friend.

  With each passing week, Mark’s stubbornness grew.

  He didn’t go to therapy with her. Apparently, he didn’t need some stranger telling him how he felt about things. But he didn’t have any better solutions. His preference was to carry on as if nothing had happened. The only thing he did do was push back their wedding plans. Nicky had been through a lot, after all, and Mark was concerned about what the stress of planning their big day would do to her. She needed time to recover properly, and he would be as patient as she needed.

  One night over dinner, when she tried once more to bring up their situation, he groaned heavily. ‘We’ve been over this, Nicky. There’s no point rushing into things. If you don’t take the time to heal properly, emotionally, then where will you be?’

  Was he right? Did she need more time to heal, emotionally?

  She’d kept trying to write, but to no avail. She’d tried to read. But no book could hold her attention for more than a few pages. She’d even tried to learn to cook. But every recipe turned to disaster. She’d padded around the apartment aimlessly, day after day. Everything she did was tainted with the pain she was carrying in her heart.

  But could she let the pain go as Mark seemed to have done so easily?

  She stopped therapy after her third session and started visiting her Moreton Bay fig every day. She took her laptop with her and instead of trying to work on her next novel, she decided to try writing about her surroundings – people, pets, trees, detailing the private moments that passed before her.

  The third week after she started her daily pilgrimage to the park, she decided not to sit on her bench and wandered the tree-lined paths that crisscrossed the manicured grass, exploring parts of the green oasis she rarely visited. In one little corner of the park a small group of middle-aged men and women practised tai chi, led by a tiny Chinese woman dressed in a wine-red velour tracksuit. Around another bend, four artists had set up easels and were painting the scene before them, supervised by an octogenarian in a baggy linen suit, who was encouraging them with gentle words. A group of schoolchildren straggled past her in loud excitement as their teachers tried to wrangle them into groups and finish whatever worksheet they were supposed to be doing.

  All around her people were learning. People were teaching.

  An idea started to form in her mind. A half-baked idea, maybe. But the spark was enough to cling on to and she raced home to start exploring it further.

  When Mark came home that night, her half-baked idea had turned in to a plan and she was bursting to tell him all about it.

  He walked into the dining room with a large chocolate bouquet. ‘Hey, princess. Thought this might cheer you up a bit.’ He kissed the top of her head and poured himself a glass of wine to have with dinner.

  ‘I have some news.’ She sat down beside him.

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Well, I’ve been doing a lot of thinking and …’ she put the proposal she’d been working on all afternoon in front of him. A proposal for a course at the writers’ centre that she would teach. ‘What do you think? I have to get the expression of interest in this week if I’m going to be considered for next semester’s program.’

  Mark read the pages. ‘So you’d be teaching every Wednesday? For eight weeks?’

  ‘Yes. I just thought …’

  Mark stood up. ‘Even though we agreed you wouldn’t go back to work?’

  ‘Yes, but …’

  ‘Am I not enough for you?’ He frowned.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Well, it seems to me like you’re desperate to fill your life with things other than me.’

  Nicky stared at him, not comprehending.

  ‘You’re still hanging on to the idea of having children. I saw the IVF brochure in your drawer. I was going to ignore it, but now you’ve forced me to bring it up.’

  Nicky felt her face go hot from shame. She had gone behind his back.

  ‘And now this. What else am I supposed to think other than I’m not enough for you?’

  Nicky didn’t know what this was, and she scrambled to form a coherent response.

  ‘Well?’ Mark asked.

  ‘I just thought maybe it might be fun. Give me something to do other than sit around here and stare at my computer screen.’

  Mark shook his head and retreated into silence.

  ‘Mark, please. You won’t talk to me about our options for having children, you won’t talk to me about this. What’s going on?’

  ‘You want to talk? Then let’s talk.’ He took her hands. ‘I don’t want to have a child in a test tube and I don’t want to raise someone else’s kid, so adoption is out of the question. Do you ever stop for one minute and think about my feelings in this? No. It’s all about you. And now
you come at me with this idea that will take you even further away from me and you wonder why I’m not thrilled. I never thought of you as selfish before, Nicky, but I’m starting to wonder if you even love me at all.’ His face fell, forlorn.

  ‘Of course I love you.’

  ‘Then why aren’t I enough for you?’

  Mark walked out of the apartment and Nicky couldn’t move. How had they ended up here? So far away from each other? She collapsed on the floor.

  Early the next morning as Mark snored, fast asleep, Nicky stood at her open cupboard and took out a pair of jeans and a couple of T-shirts and packed them into her small overnight bag. She’d feigned sleep when he came home just after one, smelling of red wine and she lay there all night, going over and over the conversation they’d had. She needed to get away. Just for a day or two. After everything that had happened lately, she needed to get some perspective. Just a couple of days to clear her head. Refocus. Deal with all these emotions she’d been bottling up.

  Mark wouldn’t be thrilled. But surely he’d see the value once she came back fresh and happy and devoted once more.

  But where would she go?

  She stopped packing. She had no money for a hotel. Not a decent one, anyway. She tiptoed to her desk and turned her laptop on. There was usually a few hundred dollars in their joint account.

  She opened the bank balance.

  One hundred dollars. That wouldn’t be enough for one night anywhere near here. Shouldn’t there be more than that? Last time she checked, which was only yesterday when she did the online grocery shopping, there was five hundred in the account.

  She clicked on the transaction history. At nine thirty last night, the rest of the money had been withdrawn. Mark had drunk it all away.

  ‘Nicky?’ Mark’s groggy voice came from the bedroom. ‘Come back to bed.’

  Nicky stayed right where she was.

  Fifteen

  Nicole sanded back the peeling layers of decades-old paint from the window frame in the spare room, revealing the bare wood beneath. She went over it gently with some fine sandpaper and then a soft cloth. Opening the tin of primer, she dipped her brush in and made her first, slow, precise strokes.

  Were her memories possibly now false, ruined by pain, and therefore not to be trusted? Was the Mark who supported her writing career the real Mark? Or was the real Mark the man who’d damaged her so badly? Which version of the past was correct? The past she’d thought she had in the heady mist of happier days, or the past she now remembered? Were the first deep layers of memories of a first love true? Was the middle layer of choking grime always there beneath the surface? Did the top layers of anguish simply tarnish any memory connected to Mark, or was the pain the clear varnish that enabled complete transparency and clarity?

  She wiped the tiny white splatters of paint from the window glass with a damp cloth.

  A constant shadow of self-doubt and questioning now clung to her every waking moment. A lack of certainty of the history she thought was hers. A lack of trust in her own thoughts and feelings.

  Nicole crossed ‘prep & prime window’ off her list.

  That was the worst part of all in this whole sorry situation – that she could no longer trust herself. Would that trust ever come back? How did you go about finding yourself after getting so completely lost?

  Ivy had done it, hadn’t she? Nicole cleaned up, made herself some afternoon tea and opened the next letter.

  6th February, 1948

  My Dearest Tom,

  I have found myself in the dubious position of leading the ladies at the CWA. That Lucy Falcon has a lot to answer for, putting my name forward like that. Still, the choice was myself or Joan Wetherby, so you can see why I could not refuse.

  My first order of business is to organise a fundraiser. We are in desperate need of an extension to the hall. I am not sure how best to go about it, though. It will still be some time before a full recovery from the effects of the war can be declared. How do I ask people to give when they have so little?

  I shall discuss it with Lucy on Sunday when she comes for dinner. It has become a regular event now, a roast with Lucy. We take turns hosting. Occasionally we invite others to join us. This week it is only the two of us, however. And it is her turn to cook. She has quite a talent.

  Her home is lovely, though one thing I find quite odd is that there is not a single picture of Henry in the place. Not on display at least. It is as if he never existed. My photos of you are jammed so tight on the mantle above the fire. I must admit though, for months I would pass your face and have to close my eyes. Maybe she simply has them in her bedroom, so she is surrounded by him during those dark, lonely hours that, for me at least, are still so terribly hard to endure.

  No doubt Joan Wetherby will express her ideas for the fundraiser at the next meeting. When I suggested we could make the Spring Dance our fundraising event she shouted at me. Actually raised her voice in front of everyone there and accused me of selfish motives. What selfish motives could I possibly have?

  I have asked Father Anthony’s wife, Peggy, to sit on the committee. I believe she will add some much needed temperance to the discussions. Joan would never upset her publicly, though what she says behind her back is downright sinful. Is it unchristian of me to use the innocent wife of our beloved spiritual leader for my own means?

  William Tucker has decided to take a wife. Do you remember young Iris Telford? She was an ungainly, tall, thin stick of a teenager when you left. Well, she has grown into her looks quite stylishly, I must say, and William is smitten beyond words. She is warm and caring and perfectly suited to his quiet nature.

  The entire town is abuzz with excitement. Something so lovely to look forward to. Iris has asked Mrs Li to make her wedding dress, which upset Joan. The spiteful woman took it upon herself to speak to Grandma Telford about the ‘unseemly matter’, not for a moment considering that the Matriarch would actually approve of the arrangement. Joan forgets that the Telfords are the Telfords for a reason and they are astute business people with tight purse strings. Mrs Li’s work is impeccable and she charges only what she must.

  Why Joan would want to destroy this joyous occasion, I do not know. Perhaps she simply cannot stand to see others happy. Do you remember the kerfuffle she created right before our wedding? Of course you do – it almost ruined our beautiful day. I will not allow her to interfere in these nuptials.

  William smiles constantly nowadays. It is a nice change to see him happy. I believe he carries the burden of being our only returned soldier quite heavily around his heart.

  I must to bed, my dearest. I would ask you to wish me dreams of inspiring fundraising events, but I only ever dream of you.

  Forever yours,

  Ivy

  Nicole could imagine Ivy running the CWA. It would have been a sight to behold. And the fights with Joan? She could see them clearly in her head. Her own mum had had a nemesis when she was on the Country Women’s Association, though Nicole had long forgotten the woman’s name. It would be somewhere in the minutes of the old meetings.

  Minutes? Maybe … no, she couldn’t be so lucky.

  At nine o’clock the next morning she grabbed her bag and ran out the door.

  Danny was right. The local history section of the cove library was, indeed, impressive. Someone had scanned and digitised all the CWA minutes dating back to the 1920s. Many of the pages were hard to read, some impossible. But they were all there.

  Nicole searched for the right dates. 1948. There was Ivy’s name. CWA President.

  She made a copy of the minutes for the rest of that year.

  What else had Ivy mentioned in the letter? Something about a dance. Maybe there was mention of that in the newspapers.

  Nicole didn’t know which gods to thank, but the newspapers had all been digitally preserved, too.

  ‘The library’s going to close soon,’ Cheryl said, putting a gentle hand on her shoulder. She’d have to come another day.

  ‘Ch
eryl, who copied all these documents? It must have taken forever.’

  ‘Volunteers from the local history society. We’re a small bunch, but dedicated. Would you be interested in joining us? We could always do with new members.’

  Under other circumstances, she might have been tempted. For a town broadly aware of her living situation, they seemed to quickly forget how temporary it was.

  ‘I’ll think about it,’ she said, with a polite nod. There was no point making a big deal out of reminding people she wasn’t sticking around.

  She quickly photocopied the newspaper clipping she’d found that mentioned a spring dance. There was a photo of a group of young men and women dressed in their best outfits, big smiles on their faces. She recognised Ivy, the smile the same as the woman in Mandy’s photos. Here she was looking at Ivy’s past. A happy past, it seemed. Unlike her own.

  October, Last Year

  For the next two weeks Mark was a model fiancé – coming home early, taking Nicky out to dinner, bringing her chocolates, listening with interest as she described the vignettes of her day.

  That Saturday night they sat down to a feast of Indian curries that Mark had prepared. When they’d finished eating he presented her with a gift. A pair of diamond earrings that matched the bracelet he’d bought before. They were stunning.

  And they left Nicky feeling cold.

  ‘What?’ He frowned. ‘You’re upset with me again? Seriously, Nicky. I just can’t win with you, can I? No matter what I do, you get upset with me.’

  She raised her eyes to meet him.

  ‘Is this still about you being barren?’

  ‘I’m not barren.’

  ‘Oh, Nicky. Don’t go nitpicking over semantics. Barren, infertile, reproductively challenged. Whatever. I thought you’d moved past this.’

  Silence filled the room. Nicky slowly rose and walked towards the front door.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  Nowhere. There was nowhere for her to go. No friends to go to. No money to take her anywhere. No choice. But she couldn’t stay there.

  She walked out into the night.