The Summer of Secrets

by Barbara Hannay

  Bree had barely added the full stop to this sentence before her memories rushed in, like a fierce wind gust. Without warning, she was back in Bangkok in the house decorated with wonderfully carved furniture and silk lanterns and beautiful antique floor tiles, and she was reliving those last days before her world fell apart.

  Her dad had been busy chasing a story with an important Australian politician who was only in Thailand for a few days. Back then, he’d always been busy with reporting assignments and Bree had seen almost as little of him as she did now. But her mum had made a fuss of Bree’s birthday. She had made her a special swimming pool cake with chopped green jelly for water, a licorice ladder down the side and tiny plastic dolls on a chocolate-wafer diving board.

  And Louis had stuck his grubby little fingers into the jelly on the top of her cake before Bree had even finished blowing out the candles.

  If only she hadn’t yelled at him! She’d made him cry and her mum had gently reproached her.

  ‘He’s only little, Bree. He doesn’t understand.’

  I wrote about yelling at Louis in my letter today. I hope that by time I’m in high school, I won’t be so mad with myself for being such a crappy big sister. But then, yelling at your little brother just before he dies is probably one of those things you can never forgive, isn’t it?

  I think Dad understands how I feel about cemeteries and remembering. He doesn’t talk about it much either, not the way Gran does.

  He didn’t ring me tonight, but that’s okay. I was almost hoping he wouldn’t ring, because I know I would have bawled my eyes out and I didn’t want to. I know he hasn’t forgotten me, because he sent me three books for my birthday last Sunday and he rang me then and we talked about all the cool things we can do up there in Burralea where he lives, like swimming and canoeing on the lake. He actually talked about me going to visit him in the Christmas holidays, instead of him coming down here as usual. I can’t wait.

  The books he sent are totally cool, about witch wars and bad mermaids and a babysitter who’s an alien in disguise. They look so much more fun than the boring books Mrs M gives us to read.

  Bree stopped again as footsteps and voices sounded in the hallway outside. Girls called to each other.

  ‘Goodnight.’

  ‘See ya!’

  ‘Hey, Kelly, don’t forget you promised to lend me your iPad.’

  The school choir was coming back from their rehearsal, which meant it wouldn’t be long till lights out. Bree closed the diary, locked it and stowed it in the drawer of her desk, anxious to continue reading one of her birthday books right away. She was halfway through the one about bad mermaids.

  Her roommate, Abbey, was still wearing the headphones, so she didn’t hear Bree’s goodnight. Climbing into bed, Bree snuggled down with her book. It still had the lovely ‘new’ smell and it came with a special colouring-in bookmark decorated with mermaids and fish of every shape and size. So far, Bree had coloured in three mermaids and half a fish, but now she set the bookmark on her bedside table and escaped into her favourite place – a world of make-believe.

  CHAPTER NINE

  By the time the paper had been emailed off to the printers, it was quite dark outside and still raining. Finn, looking pale and drawn, with his hair more tousled and untidy than ever and his jaw shadowed by more than a day’s growth, somewhat grudgingly thanked Chloe for her assistance.

  She didn’t expect effusion. She hadn’t really done much except fetch more coffee and turn those few snippets of news into usable stories. And she’d seen enough of Finn’s work to know that he was extremely competent. Perhaps he was used to working with a hangover.

  ‘I – er —’ He shot a frowning glance to her suitcase, still standing where she’d parked it near the door. ‘I forgot to ask. You do have some kind of accommodation organised, don’t you?’

  ‘I thought you were organising that.’ The obvious chance to tease him had been irresistible and the stricken look on Finn’s face was priceless.

  ‘Is – is that what Emily told you?’

  Chloe was tempted to drag out his suffering, but she relented and grinned. ‘No, you can relax. I’ve booked a room at the pub.’

  His relief was so patent it was almost comical. He managed a quarter-smile. ‘Well the pub’s on the next corner. You can’t really miss it. I’d offer to walk you down there except —’

  He didn’t finish the sentence, but he didn’t need to. Chloe guessed he was embarrassed about accompanying her with his haggard visage, crumpled clothes and a lingering aroma of whisky.

  ‘I’ll be fine,’ she said.

  He gave a brief nod. ‘I’ll say goodnight then. And I’ll lock up after you.’

  ‘All right.’ She began to gather up her things. ‘What time do you start work in the morning?’

  ‘Nine o’clock.’

  ‘See you then.’

  ‘Goodnight.’

  Chloe opened the door, shivering at the unexpected drop in temperature that had arrived with nightfall. Then, juggling her suitcase, her laptop and her umbrella, she set off into the night. She was quite exhausted, she realised. She’d risen at some ungodly hour to arrive at Mascot airport well ahead of her departure time. Then there had been a three-hour flight, another hour or more spent hanging around at Cairns airport, followed by the winding drive up the range.

  The day had already been long enough even before she’d arrived at the Bugle, but the subsequent meeting with her new boss and the work she’d put in had drained the last of her reserves.

  At least Finn had been right about the Burralea Hotel’s location. It was on the next corner, so within easy walking distance of the Bugle’s office. Now, Chloe only hoped the hotel was comfortable and warm and that there was a cosy bed waiting for her.

  She wasn’t disappointed. The two-storey timber hotel was large, old-fashioned and rambling, with the tempting smell of roast lamb drifting through from the kitchens beyond the dining room. When Chloe climbed the rather magnificent old staircase, she discovered a room with air conditioning, a huge bed covered by a luxurious white broderie anglaise quilt, a well-upholstered armchair with a foot stool, a desk with a lamp and an ensuite bathroom that provided plenty of hot water. Bliss.

  Tomorrow she would worry about the likelihood of her future in Burralea. For now, these creature comforts were enough.

  Finn woke with a start, sure that his phone was ringing.

  In the darkness, he groped on the bedside table, feeling for his phone, as he’d done so many, many times during his ten years as a foreign correspondent. He knew from experience that a midnight phone call required instant alertness. Any one of a number of disasters might have occurred – an earthquake, a tsunami, a military coup, a plane crash.

  His heart juddered as his fingers closed around his mobile, thumping so loudly that the beats almost blanked out the noise of its ringing. But despite the speed of his reaction, the phone seemed to have stopped.

  Finn heard nothing but silence within the house and the soft whisper of rain falling outside. He stared at the device cradled in his palm. The screen wasn’t alight and when he flicked it on, he saw that it was 2.05 a.m., and there was absolutely no indication that he’d missed a call.

  Had he imagined the phone call? Damn. He knew what this meant. He’d been dreaming again, and almost certainly he’d been dreaming about Thailand.

  With a heavy sigh, he dropped the phone onto the bedside table and sank back onto the pillows, staring through the darkness to the shimmer of a streetlight outside that showed as a fuzzy glow around the edges of the bedroom curtains. He knew, from the tension drumming through him, from the wired alertness that now gripped him, that he was wide awake. And after the previous night’s bender that had rendered him unconscious for most of the day, he also knew that his chances of getting back to sleep were sub-zero.

  What a spectacular stuff-up.

  This year he’d been planning, had desperately hoped, that he would get through the anniversary w
ithout falling apart. He’d deliberately stayed back at work, typing away late into the night, fighting the dark memories, trying to bury them by writing an entire month’s worth of editorials for the Bugle.

  He’d written a commentary about the disturbing spate of recent burglaries in the district, as well as Ben Shaw’s disappearance, reinforcing a plea from the police for the community to be more vigilant. He’d followed with a tribute to Burralea’s junior soccer clubs and the hard work of the coaches that had resulted in two Burralea Primary School boys and one girl being selected to represent North Queensland in their age groups.

  He was sure he’d also started another editorial, but he couldn’t remember what it was about. It was somewhere around then that Finn’s cruel memories had prevailed. Eventually the horror had overwhelmed him, tormenting him beyond endurance until a trip to the pub and a large bottle of Scottish single malt had been the only way to drown the brutal onslaught.

  Of course, he’d been well aware of the foolishness of such a tactic. And, yeah, he’d known that this year’s anniversary coincided with the final twenty-four hours before the newspaper’s deadline, as well as the imminent arrival of a new journalist at the Bugle.

  Regrettably, his pain and guilt had outweighed his sense of professional duty.

  But what a fucking disaster – for him to wake in the middle of the afternoon, with a raging hangover, only to be confronted by the Dolly reporter from Sydney, staring at him like a scared rabbit, as if she’d walked into the Chamber of Horrors.

  Recalling this encounter now, Finn gave a disbelieving shake of his head and discovered to his relief that it was no longer splitting. At least that was one thing he could be thankful for.

  He thought about the new girl. Not Dolly, but – damn it, he’d already forgotten her real name. Her surname was Brown, he remembered that much. Brown to match her eyes.

  He supposed it was rude of him to have called her Dolly, but he’d mentally applied the name weeks ago when Emily had informed him of her high-handed decision to employ the woman whether he wanted her or not. He supposed, in time, he would learn to remember her real name. If she stuck around.

  If he didn’t sack her.

  He had to admit, though, Dolly wasn’t quite what he’d expected. She was older, for one thing. Somewhere in her mid thirties, he guessed, and her looks weren’t nearly as trendy and citified as he’d expected. Dressed conservatively in black trousers and a white shirt, she was of average height, slim, with shoulder-length curly hair of a nondescript, light-brown shade that was surprisingly free of the hairdresser’s tints and highlights that most women found essential.

  She might have been rather ordinary looking if her brown eyes hadn’t shone with unexpected warmth and intelligence. Wonderful eyes, really. And weren’t eyes the windows to the soul?

  She’d brought him aspirin. Without any accompanying comment or lecture, she’d simply set the packet on his desk beside his coffee and after that, miraculously, between them, he and Dolly had put the paper to bed.

  And Finn couldn’t deny she was observant, which was an important requirement in a journo. She’d already noticed that the bakery was closed and had wanted to ask questions.

  In other words, she hadn’t been quite as hopeless as he’d feared, although he still had grave doubts about her long-term usefulness.

  With another heavy sigh, Finn threw off the covers. He now had Buckley’s chance of getting back to sleep, so he might as well go through to the kitchen, make himself a cuppa and read for a bit in the lounge room.

  Soon he was settled in a corner of the sofa with a steaming mug of well-sugared tea and a page-turning crime thriller. Ian Rankin was one of Finn’s favourite authors, a master storyteller who could always be relied on to draw him in to a world of mystery and intrigue and adventure.

  Okay, man, relax. The worst is behind you. Let it rest now. Let it go.

  Finn took a deep, scalding sip of tea, picked up the book and turned to the first page, ready for the opening lines to work their magic.

  It was only when he turned over to the third page that he realised nothing had sunk in. His eyes had been skimming paragraph after paragraph without absorbing a single detail.

  Annoyed, he went back to the start and tried again. The book was Even Dogs in the Wild and two villains were about to bury someone. Finn winced at this, but he told himself he could deal with a burial scene. The setting was the Scottish countryside and Inspector Rebus would soon be on their trail. An intriguing mystery would unfold at any moment. He just had to concentrate.

  Tonight, however, the author’s magic simply wasn’t working. Finn’s mind drifted again. Shrinking from the threat of more sadness, he allowed himself to think about Bree. His daughter loved reading, too, and he wondered if she’d started any of the books he’d sent her for her birthday. He wondered how she’d survived the past twenty-four hours and with that thought came a fresh slug of guilt. He hadn’t rung her last night. And now it was too late.

  Poor kid. She deserved so much more than he was able to give her.

  Draining his mug of tea, Finn was aware that he was in perilous danger of losing it again, of sinking into maudlin misery and self-flagellation. Like a drowning swimmer, grasping for a lifesaving, outstretched hand, he fought off the despair, forced his thoughts away from the dreaded southern Thai city of Betong.

  Far better, surely, to comfort himself with recollections of happier days. He looked about the humble lounge room of his rented cottage, decorated with bits and pieces he and Sarah had collected during stints overseas. The red and beige floor rug was from the Congo, as was the collection of African water jugs on the dresser. The silk and batik cushions scattered on the sofa and armchairs were from Cambodia. Each piece carried a fond memory. His marriage to Sarah had been a very happy one.

  From the start, they’d both been adventurers.

  Not that Finn had realised this when he’d first met Sarah Hughes at a swanky party held in the grounds of a mansion overlooking Sydney’s glittering harbour. A lovely, elegant blonde, Sarah was the daughter of a highly successful merchant banker and Finn had been invited to the party by one of his mates, a financial journo who hobnobbed with the big end of town.

  Finn hadn’t expected the glamorous beauty to notice him, let alone engage him in conversation, but Sarah gave every appearance of being genuinely interested in him and his work. When he’d told her he was on leave from an overseas posting in Africa, she’d seemed quite excited by the idea.

  As he started to relax and to feel more confident, he might have even puffed out his chest a tad, until he learned that Sarah wasn’t merely a beautiful heiress, she was also a highly qualified doctor. At that point, her stunning combination of beauty and brains had seemed a hurdle too high for a little-known journalist who had scored a job as a foreign correspondent because he was young and cheap and prepared to go anywhere.

  Looking back, Finn couldn’t actually remember how he’d found the nerve to ask Sarah out. Of course, he’d expected an automatic knock-back, but to his astonishment, this beautiful woman had accepted his invitation.

  Not only had she gone out with him, but three months later, after a dizzying whirlwind romance and a flurry of phone calls and email exchanges between Sydney and South Sudan, she’d also accepted his rash proposal of marriage. Without any apparent reservations.

  By then, of course, Finn had glimpsed the real Sarah. He knew she was so much more than a society darling who happened to have a degree in medicine. The girl he’d fallen in love with was a gritty woman with a sense of purpose, who had already worked overseas. In Ethiopia, in fact, and not in the relative comfort of Addis Ababa, but in rural villages where she’d lived in tents or mud huts with thatched roofs.

  Dealing with weather extremes without the aid of fans, air conditioners or heaters, and coping with long-drop toilets and bucket showers by candlelight had amounted to a grand adventure for Sarah, rather than her worst nightmare. In that regard, Finn and Sarah had
been kindred spirits. They’d shared a yearning for adventure, a need to step out of their comfort zones and to make a difference.

  And there could be no doubt, Finn had loved his work as a foreign correspondent. He’d relished the adventure and the opportunity to be in the thick of big stories.

  In those early days, he’d been a solo video journalist, carrying his own kit, including a camera, tripod and microphones, plus a laptop and personal backpack. Sometimes he’d also had to lug a tent and sleeping bag, as well as a fold-out satellite phone for sending stories back to Australia.

  No matter. Finn had found the experience empowering, taking off into the African wilderness, knowing that the success or failure of his project depended on his own resourcefulness.

  It wasn’t too long after their marriage, however, that he’d been promoted to travelling with a team. The downside was that with a cameraman, a producer and interpreter in tow, he’d been required to travel further afield, which had meant more time away from Sarah, but she had never complained.

  His team had reported on the frustratingly drawn out border conflict between Ethiopia and Eritrea. They’d also been on the spot when a huge locust plague invaded Senegal and Mali, destroying precious crops. And they’d balanced the horrendous news of the genocide in Dafur with the good news that eighty million African children were being immunised against polio.

  Finn had been based in Nairobi, where Sarah had found work in several hospitals, sometimes voluntary, sometimes paid. She hadn’t really minded. She’d always claimed to be happy as long as she felt useful, and as long as Finn came back to her.

  They’d both been sensible, though. When Sarah realised she was pregnant with Bree, they’d returned to Australia and Finn had settled to work in Melbourne. Here, he and Sarah had lived in a brick suburban house with a red-tiled roof, in a quiet, tree-lined street with level, concrete footpaths. They’d enjoyed visits from their families, and weekend barbecues and dinner parties with friends.