Lulu dredged up a smile. Dolly never stayed glum for long, but the endless quest for pleasure was beginning to wear her down. The weeks at sea had proved claustrophobic at times; Dolly’s energy and enthusiasm for the shipboard parties, the dances and cocktails making Lulu yearn for some peace and quiet and an early night or two. She had taken to slipping away during the day with a book or her sketching materials, leaving Dolly to her flirtations, hoping the time spent apart might ease the tensions that had begun to show between them.
‘Actually,’ said Dolly, as she looked at the elegant Victorian buildings in the tree-lined the street, ‘it’s all very English, isn’t it? Not at all what I imagined.’
Lulu’s smile was genuine, her tone teasing. ‘I bet you thought it would be flat, dry and dusty red, with kangaroos hopping about and drovers herding mobs of sheep and cattle into town?’
Dolly grinned. ‘Something like that.’
Lulu laughed. ‘I suspect the mobs are delivered to the markets by train now, and no self-respecting kangaroo would be seen within miles of all this traffic. But out there –’ she pointed north – ‘are thousands of miles of bush – and that’s where you’ll find them.’
‘It’s a pity we have so little time here,’ said Dolly, her critical gaze following a fashionably dressed woman who was hurrying past. ‘I would have loved to explore the bush.’
‘No, you wouldn’t,’ teased Lulu, ‘there aren’t any shops, and you couldn’t wear those shoes for a start.’
Dolly eyed the red leather high heels and chuckled. ‘Maybe you’re right.’
They fell into companionable silence, and Lulu breathed a sigh of contentment, for although the weather had been abysmal, and Dolly’s behaviour less than demure, nothing could alter the fact that she was in Australia again. Melbourne had been a hazy childhood memory stirred back to life by the tan waters of the Yarra River, the rattling trams and the pale yellow sandstone and red brick of Flinders Street Station.
She and Dolly had made the most of the short time they had in Melbourne, and had visited the old jail where the notorious Ned Kelly had been hanged, seen a show at the baroque Princess Theatre, shopped in the Royal Arcade and taken a boat ride along the Yarra past acres of parkland and formal gardens. And yet, through it all, Lulu could not repress the excitement that bubbled inside her from the moment she woke each morning. She had mentally ticked off each day until at last there were only hours to go before they sailed for Tasmania.
She looked out at the rain with a flutter of excitement. ‘This time tomorrow I will be home,’ she murmured.
‘Let’s hope it isn’t raining there as well,’ said Dolly with a grimace. ‘I shall have webbed feet soon.’
Lulu decided it was not a good idea to comment on Tasmania’s weather, for although her childhood memories were of sunshine – as are everyone’s – she could also recall days of heavy rain and the freezing-cold mornings huddled over a fire as she dressed for school. Clarice had commented once that the island’s single saving grace was that the climate was similar to England’s and therefore unreliable. It was her only praise – and a dubious one at that.
‘I say,’ hissed Dolly, giving her a nudge, ‘I’ve just seen my first cowboy.’
Lulu followed her gaze. He was ambling towards them, boots splashing in the puddles, rain dripping off his broad-brimmed hat. He had a saddle over one shoulder and a dog at his heels, and seemed cheerfully oblivious to the downpour.
‘G’day, ladies,’ he drawled, touching his hat, his very blue eyes taking them in as he passed.
Dolly clutched her arm. ‘Now I know I’m in Australia,’ she breathed, ‘and if all the men in Tasmania look like that, then I’m going to love it.’
*
‘Good grief,’ breathed Lulu, as they arrived at Melbourne’s Port Philip and gained the single deck of the Rotomahana. ‘I swear it’s the same ship Clarice and I were on sixteen years ago.’
‘Certainly looks ancient enough, but she’s rather grand, don’t you think?’
Lulu took in the single funnel and the high masts that stood at bow and stern. The Rotomahana was the most elegant of ships despite her age, and certainly different to any other vessel in the port, and as if to prove her unique personality, she even had a bowsprit and figurehead. To the romantic Lulu it was like stepping back in time to the days of the ocean-going galleons that carried pirates, explorers and pioneers.
Their cabin proved to be small, but as comfortably furnished as the one on the Ormonde. Lulu pulled a warm sweater over her shirt and slacks, slipped on a soft pair of flat boots and gathered up her sketchbook and pencil. She had already filled two pads with drawings of the interesting places and people they had seen during the long journey south; now she wanted to capture the bustle and energy of the port.
‘Are you coming up on deck?’ she asked, tying her hair back with a scarf.
Dolly was repairing her make-up. ‘I’ll stay here in the warm, fix my face and get on with writing some letters.’ She smiled at Lulu, who was clearly impatient to leave. ‘Go on. You’ve been on tenterhooks all day, and it’s your homecoming, not mine. I’ll see you at dinner.’
Unable to mask her excitement, or her relief, Lulu hurried outside. It had finally stopped raining, and she leant on the railings to watch the stream of passengers climb the gangways as cars, cargo and livestock were loaded into the hold. The noise of the docks and the screaming gulls seemed to bring everything into sharp focus, and she opened her sketchbook.
Her pencil flew across the page, each line swiftly catching the movement on the quay and the great warehouses that loomed over the scene. It wasn’t as exotic as Port Said, Singapore or Ceylon, but held a magic of its own – for this was the final leg of her long journey home.
Her pencil stilled as the ramps were drawn away with a clatter and the sailors untied the ropes. With a deep blast from her funnel, the Rotomahana’s engines rumbled into a roar.
Lulu’s gaze was drawn to a man on the quay. He was standing apart from the bustle, his very stillness marking him out as he looked up at the ship. Lulu frowned, wondering where she’d seen him before. Then, as their eyes fleetingly met, she realised that although he didn’t carry a saddle and there was no dog at his heels, he was Dolly’s cowboy. ‘How extraordinary,’ she breathed.
He tipped his hat brim and turned away, pushing through the crowd until he was lost among a hundred others who looked the same.
Lulu came to the conclusion she was being fanciful, and swiftly forgot him as the ship laboriously drew away from the quay. The stretch of water widened as the great iron-clad steamer ploughed southward, and Lulu’s pulse quickened. She loved being at sea, with the scent of salt in the air, the ever-changing colours of the water and the flotilla of gulls that hovered overhead whenever they approached land.
It was a love easily rekindled after the years of living in the heartland of Sussex where seaside visits were rare, for the solace she had found as a child in the sound of waves lapping at the shore and in the warmth of sand beneath her feet had remained with her. And soon, soon, she would see that beach again, feel the sand, smell the pine trees and wattle and dip her toes in the chill waters of the Bass Strait.
She closed her eyes against the prick of tears. The image of that beach was so clear; she prayed it hadn’t changed.
The jostle of people around her made her feel rather foolish, and she opened her eyes and looked up. A break in the clouds revealed a patch of blue and the promise of sun. It was an omen, she decided. An omen that her homecoming would be all she had hoped and dreamed for.
*
‘I’ll be out when you get back,’ said Molly. ‘There’s food in the meat safe. She can eat down at the cabin.’
‘Why not up here with us?’
‘I’ve agreed to her staying,’ she replied tersely, ‘but I won’t have her in my home. If she needs anything, Dianne can run it down.’
Joe eyed the girl, who was pretending not to listen to this exchange as sh
e did the washing-up. Dianne, fourteen, small, skinny, and with a lazy eye and a nose for gossip, would no doubt relay everything she heard to her gossip-hungry family. ‘Miss Pearson probably won’t stay long anyway,’ he said evenly.
Molly shrugged and attacked the freshly laundered sheet with the flat-iron. ‘Shouldn’t you be on your way?’ she muttered.
He looked at his watch and snatched up his hat. ‘What time are you planning on getting back?’
‘Late,’ she replied, slamming the iron on to the range’s hotplate and picking up another. ‘Dianne’s in charge of tea. So you won’t starve.’
Joe turned away so she wouldn’t see the laughter in his eyes and hurried out to the utility. His mother was a tough nut to crack – but he could see she was beginning to struggle with her natural curiosity, and suspected it wouldn’t be long before she sneaked a peek at their visitor.
As he drove along the narrow dirt tracks, his thoughts went round and round. His mother had obviously been badly hurt by the Cole woman, but as she refused to expand on why and how, he could only surmise the obvious. His dad must have had an affair with her – but had that been before or after he’d married Molly?
He grimaced as the truck jolted over the uneven ground. Gossip was rife, the long memories, harboured grudges and over-active imaginations fuelled by Doreen’s eavesdropping at the exchange. That was the trouble with Tasmanians – if they didn’t know the whole story, they made up the rest – and it was amazing how close to the truth they often came. His island home might be the same size as Switzerland, but the population was small and close-knit – a prime breeding ground for minding other people’s business.
The track ended and the wheels hummed on the tarmac as he increased the speed. He was as guilty as the rest when it came to speculating on Miss Pearson, for although her imminent arrival had brought forth an avalanche of grievances against Gwen, it seemed no one was prepared to talk about her daughter – and that intrigued him.
‘Probably because they know nothing about her,’ he muttered, as he entered the outskirts of Launceston and headed for the port. ‘No doubt that will change the minute they clap eyes on her.’
He parked the truck in its usual place beside the harbourmaster’s cottage and turned off the engine. There was no sign of the Rotomahana, so he climbed down and wandered towards the shore to stretch his legs. It was a perfect spring day, with a bright sun, clear skies and crisp wind. If the weather stayed like this for the rest of the month, and there weren’t any overnight frosts, then the going at Hobart would be perfect for Ocean Child.
His smile was wry as he gazed out at the sparkling water and bobbing plovers. At least the weather was welcoming, but he hoped Miss Pearson was thick-skinned enough to cope with the curiosity and hostility she was about to encounter.
*
There had been little sleep for either of them as the Rotomahana dipped and rolled through the rough seas of the Bass Strait. Lulu’s wakefulness hadn’t been caused by the turbulent passage or by Dolly’s seasickness, but by the excitement of knowing that each dip and roll carried her closer to shore.
Dolly hadn’t fared at all well, but when she eventually fell into an exhausted sleep, Lulu quickly dressed and went outside. The fresh air hit her and she breathed in great gulps of it to dispel the fetid aroma of the cabin. It was still early and she was the only passenger on deck, but the sun was already up, promising blue skies and a beautiful day. It was fitting weather for a homecoming.
She crammed her hair under a soft woollen beret, pulled her coat collar to her chin to ward off the chill wind and considered waking Dolly. The fresh air would do her good after being so sick, and the seas were running more smoothly. Yet it was a fleeting thought, and she wondered if she was being selfish by leaving Dolly to sleep so she could experience her first glimpse of Tasmania in solitary contentment.
Selfish or not, Lulu remained where she was. She didn’t want to share this moment, for there on the horizon was the distinctive smudge of land she hadn’t seen for sixteen years. Her heart thudded and she gripped the railing, the tears making it almost impossible to see as the Rotomahana ploughed southward and the smudge grew clearer.
Seabirds came to greet her with swirling white wings and mournful cries that drifted on the wind as stretches of yellow sand were revealed. Lulu drank in the sight of tiny coves and inlets sheltered by soaring bluffs of dark rock and wooded hills. She breathed in the scents of wattle, eucalyptus and pine, and watched the drift of woodsmoke coming from the chimneys of the white wooden houses that were perched on hillsides among the trees. Her gaze devoured the huddle of small towns, the piers and wharves where the fishing fleets bobbed at anchor and the vast timber-yards that smelled so sweetly of freshly cut wood. It was all so wonderfully, miraculously familiar, and she could hardly believe it was real.
But it was – it was – and her breath was a sob as the love she’d dared not express until now swelled and broke through the resistance of many years. She was home.
*
Joe watched as the ship dropped anchor and was tied up. The Rotomahana was due to be retired from service in a few weeks’ time, and he realised he would miss her, for she was one of a kind. His gaze trawled the quay, noting many familiar faces among the farmers, shopkeepers and stockmen who were waiting there. The twice-weekly crossing from the mainland was a lifeline for the island, and a swifter, larger boat would bring greater trade in livestock and visitors.
He was feeling unaccountably nervous, and wished he was elsewhere as he leant against the bonnet of the ute and surveyed the bustling quay. He was about to refocus on the Rotomahana, when he caught sight of the one face he didn’t expect to see. His spirits plunged. His mother had been right. Gwen Cole hadn’t been able to resist taking a look at her daughter.
She was sitting behind the steering wheel of a utility parked off to one side of the quay, the smoke from her cigarette drifting out of the open window, her attention fixed on the boat. Her expression gave nothing away, and Joe wondered how she felt about her daughter’s imminent arrival. Would there be a tearful reunion – or a slanging match? Or would she simply stay put and just watch? He hoped it was the latter, for he was ill-equipped to deal with catfights and tears.
He watched her light another cigarette from the butt of the first and blow smoke, her fingers rapping a tattoo on the steering wheel. It was obvious she was on edge, but was it nerves that made her restless – or something more deep-rooted?
Looking away, he realised too late that he was not the only one aware of her presence. There were muttering huddles of onlookers casting sly glances and knowing smirks across the quay. The atmosphere was electric and uncomfortable, but Gwen seemed unaware of it as she continued her scrutiny of the ship.
‘G’day, mate. Looking forward to the fireworks then?’ The farmer was a neighbour, his wife one of the biggest gossips in town.
Strewth, that was all he needed. ‘Let’s hope there aren’t any,’ he grumbled.
‘I reckon they’ll come sooner rather than later, knowing Gwen,’ the farmer muttered with a knowing wink. ‘The missus will be fair hopping out of her skin that she’s missed this.’
Joe hoped profoundly that there wouldn’t be anything to miss, and turned his attention to the alighting passengers. If he could work out which one was Miss Pearson, he might be able to whisk her away and avoid an embarrassing scene.
‘I say, do be careful with that. Those cases are frightfully expensive, you know.’
The cut-glass accent was unmistakable and Joe eyed the young woman as she berated the hapless porter for dropping a piece of her luggage. He had to admit she was attractive, but she reminded him too much of Eliza, and his low spirits sank further.
‘Flamin’ hell,’ he groaned. ‘Here we go again.’ He pushed away from the truck, and hurried towards her, uncomfortably aware he was the focus of attention of everyone on the quay. ‘Miss Pearson?’
Hand on hip, and clearly angry, she spun to face him. ‘Yo
u must be Reilly,’ she snapped. ‘Do something about this chap, will you? He doesn’t seem to realise how valuable those cases are, and I simply couldn’t bear it if anything got damaged.’
Stung by her manner, he took in the wide brown eyes, flawless skin and petulant mouth. ‘The name’s Joe,’ he said quietly, ‘and I am not your servant.’
She stared back at him, clearly shocked by his plain speaking.
‘Close your mouth, Dolly – you’ll catch flies.’
Joe turned at the sound of this voice, and was robbed of speech. She was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen, with cornflower eyes and the most glorious hair drifting about her face in swirls of spun copper and gold.
She smiled up at him as she held out her hand. ‘Lorelei Pearson, but you must call me Lulu. This is my friend Dolly Carteret. Please excuse her – she isn’t in the best of humour after the rough crossing. I’m guessing you’re Joe Reilly?’
He realised he was staring at her like some dumb idiot in full sight of everyone on the quay and pulled himself together. ‘G’day,’ he managed.
‘G’day, Joe.’ Her blue eyes twinkled. ‘If I could have my hand back … ?’
He dropped it like a hot coal. ‘Sorry,’ he muttered, red with embarrassment and flustered by their presence. He hadn’t expected her to bring a friend, and the logistical problems this presented simply added to his worries. ‘I’ll sort out the luggage for you, and then we can get going.’ He picked up two of the cases and shot a glance at Gwen Cole, who thankfully had remained in her ute. The need to escape those prying eyes was paramount, and he couldn’t stack the bags on the wooden trolley fast enough.
*
Joe Reilly was much younger than Lulu had expected, and obviously shy – probably due to the terrible scars on his face – but his handshake had been firm, and there was honesty in his dark brown eyes she found reassuring. But she did wonder why he seemed to be in such a hurry to get their luggage stowed away.
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