She sucked in a deep breath. It wasn’t just the two of them, though. Mark was there, always there, and now he had her number. She could not face him, dredge up all those wretched emotions, and relive the past. But if she stayed here he’d find her and she’d have to.
Danny took a deep breath. ‘Whenever you’re ready, I’m here to listen. But can you promise me one thing?’ He looked at the suitcase at the door. ‘Don’t do anything rash. Not until you’ve talked to someone. It doesn’t have to be me. Mandy is there. Anyone. Please just stay, Nicole. Not for me. For you. This is your home now.’
He held her tightly. How could she leave?
Twenty-three
The gums were completely stripped bare of their flaking skins, revealing a smooth, pale grey layer that shone in the sunlight. Scores of them stretched before Nicole like ghostly statues left scattered, uncared for. Their spindly branches reached out in all directions grasping for intangible love. The green leaves, like elongated tear drops, swayed ever so slightly in the gentle breeze. She could hear rosellas tweeting to each other from the foliage, and caught glimpses of bright red and blue and green darting from tree to tree. The sound of the ocean crashing in the distance reached her ears in waves and the smell of grass filled her nose.
As Nicole walked to the boatshed, she breathed deeply. In and out.
When she arrived, the small collapsible table and chairs were set up with the Scrabble board in place. She sat down and pushed and trailed the tiles across the board while she waited.
‘Wasn’t sure you were still around,’ Charlie grumbled as he emerged from the boatshed.
Nicole looked at him and smiled.
They played in silence. Nicole studied Charlie as they made words and kept score. She could tell when he had good letters, his left eye would crinkle ever so slightly at the edge, almost as if he were about to wink. When he was about to place a word across a triple score, his thin lips tightened just a little. Needing extra time to figure out his next move, his thick, wrinkled forefinger on his thick wrinkled left hand tapped the table.
There was no banter. None of their usual one-upmanship of meanings or origins of words. No interesting anecdotes. But it was peaceful and for that Nicole was grateful.
Charlie won once again and Nicole congratulated him with an extended hand, which he took, grasping it firmly as he would another man’s.
‘Thank you, Charlie,’ she said, but didn’t let go. ‘I don’t know if you were right. About not running. But I am going to think it through.’
‘I haven’t got much right in this life, my girl.’ He shook his head.
‘Well, there’s a first time for everything.’ She smiled.
‘Keep that phrase for if you ever beat me by more than a small margin,’ he said, packing away the board.
‘When, not if.’
‘Let’s not get carried away.’
‘Thank you also for sending Danny round. It helped. Talking to someone.’ Not that she’d told him anything. But it had given her pause. And she knew that if she ran, Mark would just find her again. There had to be another way.
Charlie shrugged. He headed to the door of the boatshed, but turned before going in.
‘I don’t know what any of this is about, young lady. But I do know one thing. If you want whoever this is out of your life, running doesn’t work. You’ve got to stand up for yourself.’
Nicole stared at Charlie. How could he possibly know?
The less you’re seen, the more you see.
How much did he see?
On the way back to the cottage Nicole took in a deep breath of warm air and allowed herself to smile and walk with her shoulders back. She had Charlie, and in the topsy-turvy world that was now her reality, that was at least something.
She had Charlie and Danny and Mandy and Ivy. And in this reality, where she’d lost everything else, that amounted to a big something.
2nd January, 1959
My Dearest Tom,
The Christmas stall was a great success. I sold all bar three of my sculptures. It will not be long before every house in the cove has an Ivy Wilson original on their mantlepiece or side table. Of course, once that happens my artistic career will be over with no new buyers, but that is the lot of a suffering artist, is it not? Yes, you are allowed to laugh.
Lucy has been receiving letters from Fabricio, although she continues to insist there is nothing to it beyond friendship. But, you and I know differently, my love. I wonder if their ‘friendship’ will be renewed when we return to Tuscany later this year. Yes, my dear, we have decided that as widows of means we are perfectly within our rights to flit over to Italy as often as we wish. Or perhaps we might go to Spain or France. We have discussed this also. Our tickets for June are already purchased. We are going to stop first in London for the coronation of Elizabeth.
Father Anthony is thrilled with the news and has given us the specific task of taking in two or three churches during our time away – places he has always wanted to go. Naturally, the first on his list is the Duomo in Florence. We did, of course, go there last time, its sage and pink beauty glorious, but he has a distant relative there, a clerk or some such he wishes us to look in on.
We are happy to oblige.
Of course, having Father Anthony’s blessing for our trip also helps keep Mother’s tongue in check. I am not as selfless as I pretend. She does not approve of two single ladies of breeding gallivanting around the world without a chaperone. She certainly would not approve of Lucy’s friendship with Fabricio, but she is none the wiser on that count. But what can she say if we are on a mission for Father Anthony?
Mother and Father have joined me again for the holiday season. Father’s wit seems to have slowed somewhat in the past twelve months and Mother is pressing him to retire. She has her building now and a wing of the library, so perhaps she feels she has got all she can out of his situation.
In our quiet times alone I encourage Father to continue working for as long he wishes. He is a happy man ensconced in academia.
It may not surprise you to learn that Mr Wetherby is no longer in the family home. He is back with his parents. Joan is telling everyone who will listen that it is due to the ill health of his mother, but the entire town knows that the sour woman has kicked him out. Not that he is not deserving – the wretched scoundrel is the worst of men. Why she married him so quickly I have never understood.
Almost the whole of the cove heard the raging argument that preceded the separation, though we act as if we did not.
I saw her yesterday, though she pretended not to notice me. Beneath her usual cantankerous expression I believe I saw genuine sadness. Perhaps it were a trick of light, but her cheeks appeared moist. My heart did reach out to her, even if I did not.
The New Year’s fireworks down on South Beach were lovely once again. They are getting bigger every year.
Take care, my darling. Till next I write.
Forever yours,
Ivy
Sitting in his worn-out chair, Charlie felt every day of every year of his eighty-odd years on Earth pressing on him. He’d forgotten how draining being connected with someone could be, especially at his age, especially with the young whose every up and down in life is a drama of Odyssean proportions.
Still, he was glad she’d stuck around. It showed she had character, and character was what he needed her to have. And playing Scrabble with her took his mind back to more pleasant days.
He could still picture Ivy sitting on the bench, him sitting opposite. He often let her win, holding back words that would give him a high score. It was the least he could do for the woman who’d shown a perfect stranger such open kindness. After that stormy evening on the beach, the cloud thick, black and rumbling in anger, the sea grey and violent, she could have simply thanked him or given him a small reward and sent him on his way. She could have ignored him. She could have called the police. But she gave a dishevelled young man shelter. She asked no questions of him; who he was, where
he’d come from, how he’d come to be on that damp stretch of sand that day.
She’d saved him. A waste, most people would say, to save a man so he could live alone with his guilt and pain, decade after decade. But that wouldn’t be the harshest thing they could say.
Pulling out his copy of David Copperfield, the cover clean and cared for, he opened it up at the first chapter. He’d read it so many times the words were part of him, the story part of his memory. If only all his memories were so well written.
The opening lines sang in his head and he disappeared into Dickens’s world. ‘Whether I shall turn out to be the hero of my own life, or whether that station will be held by anybody else, these pages must show.’
All Charlie knew was that he was no hero. Of his life or anyone else’s. But he could still do something right. The appointment tomorrow with the lawyer in Sydney would enable him to. He hoped.
Twenty-four
Trivia was still half an hour away. Nicole paced the empty rooms of the cottage, read through her lists, checked her phone.
No further messages. Maybe Mark had given up. Nicole blocked his number.
The minutes ticked by, her thoughts drifting to the fact that Danny would be there. His green eyes haunted her, stirring feelings she’d rather remain un-stirred.
With too many untamed thoughts raging through her mind – Mark, Danny, Mark – Nicole turned to Ivy’s words to soothe her soul.
She pulled out a postcard stamped July 1959. They were always stamped and franked, sent, but none of them were addressed to a person, just to the cottage. If the postman read them, which surely he would have, it would have appeared as though Ivy was simply sending home pretty reminders of her trips – not writing to her husband who’d been dead fifteen years.
We journeyed to Positano today with Fabricio. I was certain we would not survive the precariously winding roads. But it was well worth the angst. We are staying with a friend of Fabricio for a week and tomorrow plan to go to the Collegiate Church of Santa Maria Assunta. They have an icon of a black Madonna – what will Father Anthony say?
The picture on the front does not do justice.
Perhaps Ivy wanted to feel connected to Tom while she was so far away from home. Perhaps she wanted to pretend, briefly, there was someone back in Rosella Cove who wanted to know what she was doing on the other side of the world, and eagerly awaited her return. Perhaps it was simply habit now, part of her routine, to write to Tom.
The next letter brought a smile to Nicole’s face.
15th October, 1960
My Dearest Tom,
You simply will not believe what has happened. Fabricio is here. His wife has passed away and he has finally declared his love for Lucy. I am, in some respects, most relieved as I had thought perhaps he had been mistreating Lucy’s affection for him, that she was merely a convenient annual affair. But, I suppose I was wrong. He is here. With Lucy. And yesterday he proposed. Proposed! She said yes.
I should be much happier than I am.
Of course I am glad my dearest friend has found love again after such loss. And she is ever so happy. But, and I know it is desperately selfish of me to say it, she and I have been the closest of friends for so long now, I cannot bear the thought of someone stealing her away from me.
Lucy talks of adventures the three of us will have together now he is here, but I am not naïve enough to believe her. I know how things will be once they are married. And so it ought to be, too.
He stays in the boatshed. Naturally, he could not stay with Lucy, despite how the world views such things these days. Oh, I am starting to feel my age. Still, there are morals one must stand by and rather than see Fabricio waste his money staying at The Royal, I offered him the boatshed.
We have borrowed a bed from the Tuckers and have made the space comfortable enough. He shall not be there long. They plan to marry as soon as is practical.
Naturally, Joan Wetherby has been protesting quite loudly around town that a widow of my standing should not allow a strange man to take up residence on my property. She even raised the issue at the last CWA meeting, can you believe? Suggesting my actions were condemning the entire town to moral degradation. Said I never did give due respect to the relationship between a man and woman, and that I have gone completely mad as is evidenced by the fact I continue to refuse to wear shoes to our meetings. I have had my fill of that woman.
I resigned. Needless to say I shall not be winning any ribbons at the next fair for my baking.
Father’s health worsens. He has stopped lecturing now and he and Mother spend their time in their apartment. I visit often and even suggested to Father I move there while he is so ill. He laughed and asked if I was trying to kill him faster. You see, it seems Mother is around him far more when I am there than when I am not and the peace of her absence is what is keeping him going. I write to him every week and he is still able to read my letters for himself and takes great joy in them.
Lucy has a cousin in Kingsford who has offered to put me up for as long as I need should it come to that.
I must go. Fabricio will be here shortly to cook dinner for Lucy and me. One of his many talents. He is actually quite a wonderful fellow. I wonder if he has a cousin we could impose upon to take on Joan and whisk her back to Italy?
Missing you dearly,
Forever yours,
Ivy
PS The Rangers play their first grand final next week – against the Wolves. The entire town is abuzz and we all plan to attend. Even me.
Nicole folded the letter and put it back. She looked at her phone. Damn. She was late for trivia. Again.
When Nicole got to The Royal, the others were sitting there, chatting quietly. Jason had held off on the questions at the behest of Mandy and a promise of a tray of lamingtons. But the second Nicole walked in, he started.
‘Which Greek goddess has the symbol of the moon, or the deer?’
Nicole looked to Mandy who stared back at her with a blank expression. She turned to Danny. He smiled and gently brushed her thigh with his hand. That was no help. And it made her blush. He wrote down the answer: ‘Artemis’.
As the questions rolled out, Danny got up to refresh everyone’s drinks. He placed a hand on Nicole’s shoulder as he passed and squeezed gently. It was a simple gesture, but a powerful one.
A table of German backpackers passing through town won the game, much to Cheryl’s distress, but Danny bought her a glass of her favourite wine and she was placated. She sat quietly in the corner, chatting with Jacqui.
‘Hey, Nicole.’ Mandy interrupted the quiet conversation of the table. ‘Before you got here tonight, we were talking about all the painting you still have to do.’
‘Oh, please. Don’t remind me.’ Nicole rolled her eyes. Painting, the one thing she thought she could do before starting this crazy project, was now the thing she dreaded most.
‘Well, we were thinking, how about a painting bee? Get that job knocked over,’ Jacqui suggested and, before Nicole could answer, she and Cheryl got to work making plans for a fortnight’s time.
As the group disbanded Danny leaned in to Nicole. ‘Shall I walk you home?’
Nicole was torn.
‘Just a walk.’ He grinned.
‘That would be nice.’
She and Danny stood on the verandah, saying nothing, looking into each other’s eyes. There was a calmness to the moment, a gentle stillness that made Nicole feel alive.
‘Goodnight, Nicole.’ Danny leaned down to kiss her on the cheek.
She lifted her head slightly and his lips caught hers. He kissed her softly, sending warmth radiating through Nicole’s entire body.
‘Goodnight,’ she breathed.
Nicole pushed open the door to the cottage. She’d forgotten to leave a light on and in the blackness she couldn’t see. A few steps in she stubbed her toe and yelped. It was her suitcase, left at the door.
She wheeled it to her bedroom, and unpacked it.
Twenty-five
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The next day Nicole spent the morning going through her Ivy folder that she kept under her bed.
Inside was the photo Mandy had given her (she should probably give it back), and the newspaper clippings and church bulletin copies she’d dug up from the library so far. She looked back at the Cove Chronicle’s article about the dance, the faces in the yellowed photograph known to her now. Joan was easy to spot, her steely glare the only unhappy visage in shot. Tom and Ivy, the targets of her scowl, looking as if they had touched the stars, stood just to the right. A young Bill Tucker standing off to the side, looking at the older men as if they were his heroes, was instantly recognisable, his stance and gaze unchanged after all these years.
An idea teased her thoughts and Nicole took out the large leather-bound notebook from the bottom drawer beside her bed and wrote more questions.
Who was the boy off to the left with the pointy face looking as if he owned the world? Why would Ivy be at this dance, if she was from Sydney?
Was there something here for Nicole? Something she could perhaps turn into a … No. This was for personal interest only. Ivy’s letters were simply a way to pass time. A hobby.
She opened the next piece of her hobby.
28th December, 1961
My Dearest Tom,
Father is gone. Thankfully I was with him when he passed. Mother had insisted after Christmas that I return home to the cove. But, I could see Father was far more ill than she wished me to believe, so I stayed.
Father’s passing was quiet, his breathing slowing as I held his hand. Mother was inconsolable. You know, I have never paused to consider the possibility that deep down she did love him.
The funeral was elegant and sombre. The university choir sang ‘Amazing Grace’, which was lovely. Father’s contemporaries and his students made a point of speaking to me afterward, all of them praising his work and dedication. I felt most proud.
The Cottage at Rosella Cove Page 19
