Only We Know

by Victoria Purman

  Four nights there would give her a chance to talk to the locals and start investigating. Yes, she thought, as she glanced around, this will do nicely. Even more nicely if she could find one of the bottles of red she’d brought from Adelaide.

  Half an hour later, Calla flopped onto the sofa and dialled her sister for the promised check-in call.

  Rose picked up almost immediately. ‘Are you there yet?’

  ‘Yes, Rose. I’m here. I’m showered and warm and in my pyjamas and Ugg boots. I have a glass of fine red wine in my hand.’ Calla sipped it and it smoothed its way down her throat. ‘Mmm, drinking red wine as we speak.’

  ‘And are you okay?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ Calla said and then paused for dramatic effect. ‘Except for the part where I threw up over the side of the boat.’

  There was a gasp down the line and then a hearty laugh from Rose. ‘God, no, don’t make me laugh. My pelvic floor is under enough stress as it is.’

  Calla took up the challenge. ‘It wasn’t my finest moment. And then, after I puked, I lost my denim jacket with Mum’s brooch on it and my glasses.’

  There was another muted laugh down the line. ‘You idiot. Why don’t you get one of those string things that the nannas wear?’

  ‘Because, Nanna,’ Calla said, ‘I’m thirty-two, not eighty-two.’

  ‘Thirty-two is old.’

  ‘Thanks for that, little sister. Lucky for me, both were found, safe and sound. But then, wait for it, I got lost on the way to the cabin. In the pitch dark. And I nearly drove off a cliff.’

  ‘Cal, you’re hopeless. Why didn’t you get like a Sherpa or a guide or something?’

  Calla had to laugh. This was such a turn about for the books. Growing up, they’d had their roles to play: Calla was practical and Rose was wild. Calla had always liked her world ordered and organised. She would no more throw some things into her car and book a one-way trip to Kangaroo Island than leave crumbs on the kitchen bench. Rose was the one who borrowed Calla’s clothes and never returned them. Rose was the one who didn’t do her homework but got into university anyway; the sister who had her heart broken eight times before swearing utterly off all men in the summer of the year 2010 … and who then fell madly in love with the next guy she met. In contrast, big sister Calla spent every Saturday night studying when she wasn’t waiting tables, and didn’t have her first boyfriend until she was twenty-two because she weighed up the pros and cons and decided it would interfere with her studies and her practice and her dreams of being an artist. She’d half-heartedly dated a few guys after number one broke up with her. Number two was boring. Numbers three to five only lasted two dates and number six had provided a year of mutually satisfying casual sex. It was a long time before she’d met number seven. Three years, in fact. Number seven had been Josh. Number seven had split her heart in two.

  ‘What’s it like, the island?’

  Calla thought back to the afternoon she’d had. ‘It was about four when the boat got in and so far I’ve really only seen the inside of a supermarket and the darkness. But,’ she paused, trying to get it right, ‘the winter colours and the sky and the sea are incredibly beautiful; and wild and dramatic. The air smells different. And it feels, I dunno, mysterious? Even mystical.’ She’d have been embarrassed using words like that with anyone except Rosie.

  There was a beat of silence. ‘So you still think this is a good idea, huh?’

  Calla sighed and took another sip of wine. ‘I do. I need to know what’s happened to him. And I think you do, too.’

  Their younger brother was James Edward Maloney, but he was quickly called Jem when he was born, the year that Bruce Springsteen was dancing in the dark. Everything had changed since then, of course: it had been so long since there’d been five of them together. Jem had disappeared from their lives two years before, on the day their father died. He’d vanished, cut himself off from them in every way. No calls. No forwarding address. Nothing. It was as if he’d fallen through a time portal or something. For two years, they’d had no clue about whether he was alive or dead. Finally, two weeks back, the Adelaide police told Calla that Jem had been charged with speeding on Kangaroo Island. It was the best — and only — sign they’d had in a long time. Calla had immediately booked herself and her car on to the boat across the water at her first available break from her current school contract. It was the winter school holidays, which meant no classes until her new job started in a fortnight, and she’d left Adelaide at lunchtime on Friday.

  ‘You’re right. I do want to know where he is and that he’s okay. But I don’t know if he’ll want to see you. I mean, he’s the one who left us, remember? Don’t you think if he wanted to be part of this family he would have done something about it by now?’

  Calla took a minute to think over Rose’s words. ‘Maybe. I don’t know.’

  ‘Half of me wishes I wasn’t so bloody pregnant, so I could have come with you. The other half of me is glad it’s you and not me. Call me and let me know the minute you find out anything. Pinkie swear?’

  ‘Pinkie swear. How is that baby?’

  Rose laughed. ‘Bouncing. Huge. And I can’t wait to meet HeSheIt. Oh no. I’ve got to pee. Listen, Cal, call me tomorrow, all right?’

  ‘I promise.’

  ‘Sweet dreams.’

  Calla ended the call, finished the bottle of wine and fell into bed.

  CHAPTER

  5

  Sam didn’t figure he would get away with sneaking in for one quiet drink.

  Even though he’d been gone for half his life, it would be bloody well impossible to hide from anyone at the local pub. He stepped up to the veranda and looked around at what had once been so familiar to him. Even in the dark he could see the two Norfolk Island pines at the end of Middle Street, silhouetted against the night sky. It advertised itself as the only place in the world where you could have a beer and sit back and look at Australia, which had the benefit of being true. He pushed the door open and went inside to the front bar. It was warm and full of conversation and laughter. Above all that, he heard his name being called.

  ‘Sammy? Is that you?’

  His cousin, Ben Hunter, was waving him over from behind the bar. He’d got his first job there straight out of school and had been polishing glasses and pouring beers ever since. Ben was as tall as a tree, strong as an ox, had hands like plates — which had been incredibly handy in ruck — and was the least ambitious bloke Sam had ever met. He grinned at his long-lost cousin from his domain.

  Sam was hit by the impression that Ben looked like he was on stage. Behind him, the fridges were filled with a kaleidoscope of colourful wine and beer bottles. Above them a big TV was showing a footy game and on either side of it hung framed guernseys: the Adelaide Crows on the left and Port Power on the right. This man appeared as if there was nowhere on earth he’d rather be.

  Sam strode over and extended his hand. ‘Hey, Benny.’

  ‘The kitten whisperer. How the hell are you?’ Ben reached one of his long arms over the bar and the two men shook hands heartily. Ben had barely changed since the last time they’d caught up. His blond hair looked as though he’d just got out of bed and he’d long ago developed the island tan, which creased the features in a very particular way.

  ‘About bloody time you dropped in for a beer,’ Ben said.

  ‘Yeah, yeah.’ Sam shrugged off his big coat and dropped it onto the bar stool next to him.

  Ben poured a beer, placed it without a word in front of Sam. ‘How’s tricks?’

  ‘The usual.’

  Ben planted his huge hands on the bar and looked at his cousin. His face broke into a squinting grin. ‘You’re getting old, mate. I think I see grey hairs.’

  Sam sipped his beer and smiled. ‘Fuck off.’

  ‘No surprise, really. Must be pretty stressful climbing ladders all day and rescuing little old ladies’ pussycats from tall trees. And then there’s all the cups of tea and homemade biscuits you get from all those b
ored housewives.’

  ‘It’s exhausting.’ Sam smiled and took a good mouthful of beer.

  ‘The wife keeps asking me when my pretty-boy cuz is going to be in the fireman’s calendar. She’s been waiting years. And you’re not getting any younger, you know.’

  ‘Tell Susie she doesn’t need a calendar to see me oiled up and holding my fire hose.’ Sam winked. ‘I’ll give her a special preview any time.’

  Ben laughed again, thumped a palm on the bar. ‘I’m not telling her that. She’ll take you up on it, you bastard.’

  Sam leant his elbows on the bar. ‘So. How are your olds? Ruth and Clive good?’

  ‘Yeah, pretty good. Mum’s trying to get the old man to play more golf so he doesn’t get fat now that things have slowed down on the farm. But his knee gives him the shits and he keeps refusing to listen to his doctor and book in for that knee replacement he’s needed for two years, so the whole thing goes round and round.’ Ben shook his head ruefully. ‘Don’t know what they’d talk about if they weren’t fighting about it.’

  ‘Say hello from me, will you?’

  Ben looked taken aback. ‘You’re not gunna drop in and say hello?’

  Sam usually did when he was on the island, even if it was for a quick g’day and a cup of tea. He genuinely liked his Auntie Ruth and Uncle Clive, his father’s brother and his wife. They lived on the same side of the island and had been good to Charlie since he’d been alone the past four years. Sam called them regularly to check up on the old man, to get their take on how he was going. Lately, the news from Auntie Ruth hadn’t been good. Her no-nonsense honesty had been tough to hear, but he’d needed to hear it. ‘I’ll try. Depends what I’ve gotta do with dad.’

  Ben paused. ‘When did you get in?’

  ‘An hour ago. I came over on the boat.’

  ‘And this is your first stop?’ Ben looked at Sam suspiciously.

  ‘Pretty much.’ Sam didn’t need to explain. ‘How do you think he’s doing?’

  ‘Every Saturday night he comes in for a beer. Just one: I make sure of it. He’s still driving that bloody old ute, you know.’

  Sam was all too aware. He’d been paying the registration and insurance on it for years. ‘Do you think he’s getting worse?’

  Ben thought for a minute, chuckled. ‘He always remembers to put the hard word on me about a freebie.’

  Sam smiled. That sounded like Charlie. ‘I got a call from his doctor. She agrees with your mother. They don’t think he should be living out on the farm by himself any more.’

  Ben shook his head. ‘And you’re here to get him to see sense, right?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘Did you bring a crowbar with you?’

  ‘Yeah, right. I was thinking maybe a forklift.’

  Ben laughed ruefully. ‘If he’s anything like my old man, that’s what you’re going to need to get him out of there.’

  Sam woke up the next morning with a thick head and a desperate caffeine-withdrawal headache. He blinked his eyes open. He was still in his car. He’d ended up staying at the pub until closing the night before, shooting the shit with Ben and some other guys he knew from high school. It was a good distraction to listen to them talk about the rain and lamb prices. Before long, they were all involved in a shooting-the-shit discussion about the AFL. And then, before Sam knew it, it was closing time and the evening was gone. He’d had way too many beers — yes, freebies — to drive on to his old man’s place late at night. So, despite the cold, he’d opened the sleeping bag he had in the back of his four-wheel drive, laid back the front passenger seat, and slept like a baby. Years in the fire service meant he was used to sleeping anywhere. He was at home a third of the time, one third on day shift and the rest on nights. Some people didn’t cope with shift work. He wasn’t one of them. He’d never had problems sleeping when he could, wherever it was. He’d had a lot of practice at turning his head off and thinking about nothing so he could get some shut-eye.

  It was the waking up that was the problem these days. Sam winced at the dull ache of pain in his lower back and sat up slowly, yawning the sleep away. The light was just starting to brighten the sky and the windows of his car were clouded with condensation. He checked his watch. It was seven a.m. With a yawn, Sam opened the car door and gingerly dropped his legs to the ground. He stretched up tall, his arms over his head, bending from side to side. The shock of the chill in the air snapped him out of his drowsiness.

  He needed breakfast.

  Calla took her morning coffee and toast out onto the front deck of the little cabin. The chairs were wet with dew so she put down her plate and cup on the table and pulled her blanket tight around her shoulders. She looked out at the view that had been hidden by the darkness the night before.

  The big dramatic sky was purples and lilacs, washed with brushstrokes of white cloud and shadow. It was the biggest sky she’d ever seen. Across the water, clouds hugged and smothered the mainland like a foggy rug and smudged the faded green of the hills of Cape Jervis. There were no houses or reflections to suggest that part of the South Australian coastline had anyone living there. In between, the wild ocean of Backstairs Passage frothed and rolled. Closer to shore the waves broke into white caps and the small sliver of beach looked just wide enough to walk on. A small white boat was perched on the sand and next to it a windmill, mysteriously not turning in the wind.

  The colours were glorious and Calla was surprised when she found herself thinking about painting it, about how she might create those stunning hues on a canvas. Her tubes of paints had gone un-squeezed for two years; she hadn’t wet a brush except to demonstrate to her students. But now, the colours sprang to life and her fingers twitched. Mauve and grape and red wine. Slate and stone and ash. Sage and grass-green and moss.

  Calla felt as if she’d crossed the water and ended up a million miles away from everything she knew. She went to get her phone from the table so she could capture the view. With the press of a button, she sent the photo to Rose.

  Was that why Jem was there? Had he been looking for a place that felt a million miles away from everything he knew and everyone who loved him? The cleaving of their family had never healed. Nothing had felt right for Calla and Rose since their parents had died and their brother had walked out of their lives. It was like a crack in the wall in the corner of a room that never closed over, no matter how many times you applied fresh plaster to it. It was a structural fault, cast now in the very foundations of their family.

  Calla wrapped her fingers around her coffee cup, trying to warm them. Her life had been too complicated for too long and this trip was in part about changing that, recalibrating it, so she could start fresh. Simplify her life. For months, she’d been shedding all the things that had broken her heart, and sorting things out with Jem was the culmination of that process. She’d had to travel away from home to try to make home a happier place to be.

  She and Rose and Jem were alone — no parents or grandparents or cousins — though since Rose had married David and got pregnant, their ragtag bunch had started to feel more like a family again. And that’s what she wanted to tell Jem when she found him; that there was still a family waiting for him if he wanted it. She needed to find her brother so that, whatever he decided, Calla could go home knowing that she’d done everything she could to get him back.

  Calla rugged herself up in jeans, a thick black jumper and her warmest winter coat and began her walk back to the main street. On the way, she passed small fibro cabins, new architecturally designed homes and pretty stone cottages.

  She had a photo of Jem, albeit an old one, and she’d taken a picture of it with her phone. At the supermarket, she bounded up the steps and slipped in through the automatic doors. There was a young woman behind the cash register, a different girl from yesterday.

  ‘Hello,’ the girl said.

  Calla suddenly felt awkward. She wondered what people would think — that she was an undercover cop? A jilted lover looking for
revenge? An abandoned mother on the hunt for child support? Maybe she’d been reading too many murder mysteries.

  ‘Hi. I’m sorry to bother you, but I’m looking for someone I believe might be here on the island.’ She jabbed the screen of her phone and called up the photo, and turned it towards the girl. ‘Does he look familiar to you?’

  The girl studied it for about two seconds and passed it back to Calla, eyes wide. ‘Are you a cop?’

  ‘No, I’m not. You don’t recognise him?’

  Shop Assistant Girl shrugged her shoulders. ‘Sorry. We get a lot of tourists in here.’

  ‘No problem. Thanks for taking a look.’ Calla put her phone into her pocket and walked back out onto the street. The sky was slate grey and it had begun to rain. She tucked her hands into the pockets of her coat, rearranged the small backpack on her shoulder and wished like hell she’d thought to put an umbrella in it. She looked up to the darkening sky, waited a minute or two to see if it was going to pour or pass over. A truck slowed as it rumbled by but, other than that, the street was empty of people. Calla glanced to her left and right and, just as she stepped off the curb, it began bucketing down, big fat raindrops that splattered on her glasses. She remembered the café on the other side of the street towards the cliff top — she’d passed it twice the day before when she was lost. She headed off in that direction, jogging with careful footsteps in case she slipped.