Heart smashing against her ribs, Shannon stared at Charles Green island, less than a mile ahead. Sea boots and all, she felt like dancing. She’d dreamt of this moment for so long. Twice in the years since her first visit she had set out to get back here but each time, at the last moment, she’d changed her mind. Down in the saloon, hopefully not too traumatised by the rough crossing, Lucas Horne had the power to turn her dream into reality or frustrate it forever, but at that euphoric moment Shannon was not prepared to contemplate such a calamity.
JULY–SEPTEMBER 1983
Jess
Two days after Jess had given up on Dermot Black, Gilbert Weiss appeared at the door of her office at half-past eleven in the morning and told her his boss wanted to see her. A chauffeured limousine was waiting.
‘He’ll have to go on waiting for a bit,’ Jess said.
Gilbert looked as though the sky might fall.
‘I’ve a big luncheon party to supervise,’ she said. ‘But I can be at the Peninsula Hotel at two, if that will suit him.’
Gilbert was clearly in uncharted territory; those summoned by Mr Black were not supposed to react in such a way. ‘I’ll let you know.’
‘No need to trouble the chauffeur,’ Jess said. ‘I’ll catch a taxi.’
‘I’ll let you know,’ said Gilbert again. And fled.
Half an hour later he was on the line. ‘The chauffeur will be waiting for you at ten past two.’
If that was how Black wanted it… At least it would save her the taxi fare.
‘I’ll be there,’ Jess said.
‘I admire a woman of spirit,’ Dermot Black said.
He was sitting in the same chair; he might not have moved since she’d seen him last.
‘I’m glad,’ Jess said.
It was more than a trite phrase; she meant it. Black was a strange man, even weird, but he had a charisma she could feel drawing her to him.
‘Come and sit where I can see you,’ he said.
She did so cautiously, still with no idea why she was here.
He did not enlighten her but questioned her – endlessly, it seemed – about her life, how she’d got to the position she now held as manager and chef extraordinaire in one of the finest restaurants in Hong Kong.
‘A Chinese restaurant in a Chinese city with a European woman running it,’ Black said. ‘Truly remarkable. And where do you plan to go from here?’
Jess found herself willing to tell him what she had until now told no one, not even herself. ‘To make it the finest in Asia.’
‘And how will you do that?’
‘For a start, by recruiting the best chefs I can from China.’
‘That may not be easy. Under Mao China was a closed state. Things are easier now but the government still controls everything. It certainly won’t want its finest chefs disappearing into a British colony. You will also have competition from Beijing, Guangdong, Shanghai. Government funding will be provided for your competitors. It will be a question of national pride, you see.’
‘Nevertheless that must be the objective.’
‘The finest in Asia,’ Black repeated. ‘And who will be the judge of that?’
‘I will,’ Jess said.
He watched her with eyes that she saw were a striking blue in the chalk-white face. ‘And if I were to tell you that is nonsense, an impossible dream?’
‘It would be my job to prove you wrong.’
He studied her a moment longer, eyes unblinking, then looked at his watch. ‘Thank you for your time. I would like to continue our conversation. Shall we say at the same time, the day after tomorrow?’ A malicious smile. ‘Or will you once again have a luncheon party to supervise?’
‘The day after tomorrow will be fine,’ Jess said.
‘The car will be waiting.’
Dermot Black came and went mysteriously, but three times in the next few months Gilbert Weiss phoned, the chauffeur would drop Jess off at the private lift that carried her up to the penthouse floor and the shabbily furnished room where Dermot Black would be waiting in the same chair as always.
They talked for precisely one half-hour about Jess’s life – her early days and how she had become a chef – and she told him what she was happy for him to know. His own life and affairs were never mentioned; she had not breached that final wall of his privacy or wished to. Neither did she know why this most private of men had decided to meet her so regularly when Gilbert Weiss assured her that, himself apart, there were many days when Dermot saw no one at all.
Jess thought, but never said, that the mega-rich, mega-powerful Dermot Black might be lonely, although why he should have chosen her to cheer him up – if that was what she was doing – she didn’t know. If she’d been in her twenties she might have hazarded a guess, but Jess was not in her twenties. Jess was fifty-six: not bad-looking for her years, perhaps, but a long way short of the glamour queen she would have expected a man like Dermot to favour. They were friendly but she had no illusions; the relationship was on his terms and he might terminate it whenever he chose. She was sure that one day he would, and every time she said goodbye to him she knew she might never set eyes on him again. So far that hadn’t happened, but one day in September, responding to his usual summons, there was a change. Instead of going to Dermot Black’s private quarters, Gilbert escorted her to an office furnished with a preponderance of chromium and glass. There they were joined by a man in his mid-forties who said his name was Peter Hatch. He told Jess he headed up the Prestige Group’s leisure division, with responsibility for resorts, adventure safaris and tented camps in suitable locations around the globe.
‘We have operations in some of the most inaccessible places on earth. Mr Black believes that people, especially the young, respond to challenge because they know, as he does, that challenge enriches our lives. This concept has been so well received that he has decided to expand it to attract an older demographic, people who require a greater level of luxury but still wish to experience a remote environment. We’ve been examining various possibilities and have come up with what we believe is the ideal location.’ His chin challenged Jess across the desk. ‘Mr Black understands your sister is considering making an offer for Charles Green island. He feels she should be aware that we are also interested in that property.’
Shannon
‘He said what?’ Shannon’s outrage might have melted the telephone.
Jess repeated the message.
‘What have you been telling him?’
‘Nothing. I never set eyes on him until today.’
‘To your friend Dermot Black, then. You must have said something, Jess. How else could he have found out?’
‘I’ve never said a word. Not to Dermot or anyone.’
‘Then how does he know about it?’
‘Dermot told me once that if you have money you can find out anything. People like to talk, he said. Especially if they think there might be something in it for them.’
‘Informers,’ Shannon said scornfully.
‘You use them too. If someone hadn’t tipped you off you’d never have known the island might be on the market.’
Shannon had no intention of going down that route. ‘Just tell me what he said.’
‘He said they have a proposal they’d like to put to you,’ Jess said. ‘But they’re looking for co-operation, not confrontation.’
‘Meaning what?’
‘I don’t know. He wants you to phone him. No doubt he’ll explain then.’
‘Is he straight?’
‘He’s Dermot Black’s man. He’ll be as straight as Dermot wants. Or as crooked.’
‘You’re telling me that unless we know Black’s thinking we know nothing.’
‘Correct.’
‘You’re close to Black. What do you think he wants?’
‘I have no idea. I’ve met him lots of times but I wouldn’t say I’m close to him. I doubt anyone is. He’s a very strange man.’
‘Hermit and tycoon in one?’
> ‘There’s more to it than that. Why would he want to talk to me at all?’
‘Because of the island.’
‘I don’t think so. I never mentioned it but from what Peter Hatch said it’s clear he knew anyway. And the questions he asks… Always personal questions. That’s odd, too, isn’t it?’
‘What sort of questions?’
‘About my childhood. About my mother. Things like that. I mean, why should he care?’
‘Maybe he fancies you?’
‘A nice thought. If I’d been a teenager, maybe, but at my age?’
‘It must be the island, then.’
‘If he wanted the island he’d deal with the Hennessys direct. I think Peter Hatch is telling the truth, that they want to co-operate with us.’
‘Co-operate how?’
‘Speak to Hatch, maybe you’ll find out.’
Shannon thought about it. ‘All right. Ask him to phone me first thing tomorrow. Seven o’clock my time.’
‘That’s only five o’clock in the morning here.’
Shannon did not answer. If Peter Hatch were serious, he’d phone.
He did, too, on the button, and what he had to say was interesting, indeed.
The island was close now. Back in the wheelhouse Joe Broad steered the launch around the headland and towards what remained of the little harbour.
The wind was light, the sea calm – barely recognisable after the tumultuous conditions in the passage – and Shannon hoped what she called the oasis effect would help Lucas Horne get over any trauma he might have suffered during the crossing.
The sound of the engines died to little more than a murmur as Ariadne coasted peacefully into the quiet waters beyond the tumbled stones of the harbour wall, and Shannon’s heart was beating fast as she remembered not only the things that had happened – and not happened – when she’d first set foot on the island but everything that had led, step by step, to her ever being there at all.
1925–31
Shannon
Shannon was seven years old. She’d been visiting a friend on the town’s outskirts. It was February, the white dirt of the road rippling with heat, when she heard the clopping hooves and gusting breath of the chestnut-shiny horse. It drew closer and she saw that the rider was a boy who looked a year or so older than she. She did not know who he was, a bare-headed boy, thin and bony, with blond hair bright in the sunlight. She stood in the fragile shade of a stubby tree, its leaves limp and dusty in the heat, and watched as he rode by. His knee-high riding boots were shiny with polish and he did not look at her or acknowledge her in any way but rode easily, eyes fixed on the white ribbon of the road. She watched him but from a distance. He was not of her world. She did not think about that or resent it but simply knew. Resentment would have been absurd, like resenting the authority of God.
She asked Mum and found out his name was Hal; he was a year older than she and his father was Sir Stoddart Maitland, who Mum, who’d read about such things before she met the small-time sugar cane farmer who was to become Shannon’s dad, said was richer than Croesus.
‘Richer than who?’
‘Never mind.’
‘I’ve never seen him before.’
‘In term time he goes to a posh school down in Brisbane. He comes up here to stay with his dad during the school holidays.’
‘Why doesn’t he go to school up here?’
‘Because that’s what his dad wants for him.’
‘Why?’
‘None of your business,’ Mum said.
Shannon couldn’t see why. A boy with his own horse, not even a pony, and a rich father? That had to make him her business or at least interesting, so she was pleased when, a fortnight later, she saw him again.
Mum had gone to Airlie Beach to see someone called Miss Winks and Shannon went with her. After the two ladies had had their chat Shannon sat with her mother on the grassy bank overlooking the water. It was a Saturday, and they shared a sandwich while they watched the boats racing. The boats were called dinghies and all had the bulging sails in front of them that Mum said were spinnakers. The spinnakers were of many colours: red and gold and blue. The dinghies were graceful as they skimmed the waves, so proud and triumphant. Shannon longed to be on such a boat, to be free, skimming effortlessly…
That was when she saw Hal for the second time. He was aboard one of the dinghies. It was so close to the shore she thought it might run aground, but there was a shout, the dinghy heeled, mast dipping. A crack of ropes and canvas and magically the dinghy changed direction. It surged away, leaving Shannon forever in its wake.
No, she thought. Not forever. When she grew up she too would ride the wind.
Two days later she saw Hal’s picture in the local paper. It said he’d won his race. She was surprised to see it but Mum said Hal’s father owned the paper, which she explained was why it was in the paper at all.
Shannon cut out the picture and put it away in the drawer where she kept her secrets. Sometimes she took it out when no one was about. She studied it. Dreams…
A few days later the school holidays ended and the boy called Hal went away – back to Brisbane, Mum said. Shannon was sad because she knew she wouldn’t be seeing him until the term was over when, hopefully, he’d come north again. He had never spoken to her and she doubted he ever would, but his being there mattered to her.
A month after Hal left, Shannon’s mother was trampled to death by a horse that had been panicked by a sugar-cane trolley.
Proserpine was a small town with a strong sense of community and Bridget Harcourt had been popular, so just about everyone turned out for the funeral. Tears there were and many of them; a forest of flowers, the scent enough to knock the mourners speechless; also sombre faces, black ties and black dresses. Ladies made such a fuss over the poor orphaned child that the poor bereaved widower scarcely got a look-in. Shannon looked at the wooden coffin as it was lowered into the open grave. She knew people expected her to cry, but she felt only emptiness, and a stone in her throat that made it hard to breathe.
The guests came back after the funeral, the house so full it was a wonder the walls didn’t burst with all the people crammed inside them. Their voices stole the air from the little rooms, everyone shouting to be heard. When they went they left crumbs and half-eaten sandwiches and one broken tea cup, and the silence of the empty rooms was harder to bear than the loud voices had been. Shannon and her dad stared at each other and the emptiness ate them up. Slowly it grew dark. A light breeze rustled the head-high cane and eventually Shannon could bear it no longer. She went to her bedroom and lay on the bed in the darkness, staring at the ceiling with hot, dry eyes.
Then at last the tears came.
Bereavement made Shannon’s father reckless and one night a month after Bridget’s death, pissed as a parrot, he once again rode his horse up the hotel steps and into the bar. That exploit earned him quite a reputation and it was in the pub that he met Grace a few weeks later.
Twenty-three-year-old Grace Medley worked for the salt pans company in Bowen and at weekends gave a hand behind the bar at the Proserpine pub. She, too, had quite a reputation for riding, although not horses, but Travis, lonely as hell with his wife in the boneyard, didn’t care about that. He was twenty-five years older than she was but she came on to him in a big way and he didn’t mind that, either. Within a week they were an item; within two months they were wedded and bedded, although the general view was that the bedded part of it won that race by several lengths.
Grace Medley the interloper. Shannon hated her. She had a baby seven months later. Jess was cute and if Grace had been nicer she might have been prepared to forgive her for Jess’s sake, but Grace wasn’t nice. Grace was horrible, slapping Shannon when she thought no one was looking, so Shannon hated her as much as ever.
In October 1929 things got even worse when the Wall Street crash blew the world apart.
Money and jobs dried up. When borrowers couldn’t repay what they owed, the banks move
d in.
Travis had worked his hundred acres all his life, as had his father before him, but in 1929 the sugar market collapsed, leaving him unable to service his debt to the bank. Travis and his family were evicted the following year.
One man, one woman and two children out on the street. As the bank manager said, his hands were tied; the Harcourts were not the only victims of the economic collapse.
Thank God Travis was luckier than most because he had a mate. Emmet Douglas was a foreman at the Proserpine sugar mill and found Travis a place. It was only a labouring job, a huge step down from the cane farming he’d done before, but at least he had a job.
‘Enough to put food on the table,’ he said.
Grace had taken badly to the change in their fortunes. ‘Provided we eat small.’
Very small, as things turned out. They moved into Proserpine, to a two-up, two-down terraced cottage. There was a shed round the back and the dunny across the yard was shared by two other families. Spiteful Grace had never been what anyone could call mates with her stepdaughter; after the bank kicked them off the farm she became as sweet as a taipan and twice as deadly. She made Shannon sleep in the shed. The pub was two doors away and there were nights she hardly slept at all because of the racket.
Noise wasn’t the only problem. The shed had plank walls and a sloping roof, the only light coming through a skylight three feet square which was closed up tight so no air could get into the stuffy room that way. Two of the vertical planks in the wall weren’t long enough to reach the ground, leaving a three-inch gap. Some air could get in that way but other things could, too, like giant spiders. Or mice. Or snakes, hunting the mice. It was a scary place to sleep. At first Shannon was afraid to close her eyes at night and complained like anything, but Dad didn’t listen and Grace didn’t care, so complaining was a waste of time. She got used to it eventually, and if either snakes or mice came in when she wasn’t looking, she knew nothing about it.
Eating was another problem. With Travis’s wages they could never afford as much food as they needed, and not the best cuts, either. It would have been a sad time if Travis hadn’t sometimes been able to get his hands on a lamb or two. Down south folks were living off rabbits, but rabbits didn’t live in the tropics and they had to find other ways to survive. There was a lot more meat on a lamb, too, provided they could get hold of one.
White Sands of Summer Page 3