So grab a torch and go.
Outside the wind had eased to nothing, and the night-time view was so amazing it took my breath away. The moon was intermittently exposed as wispy clouds scudded past, and beyond were stars as I’d never seen them before. I’d never realised the sky was so close.
I should have savoured it, but it was all a bit scary. Foreign. Lonely. I walked through the long, soaking grass of the garden, taking giant steps, hoping that I wouldn’t hit a viper, or whatever poisonous creature lived here. Then, just as I reached the shed, I paused.
I could see the beach only fifty yards away, down the path by the shed. The moon had come out from behind the clouds. The wet sand sort of shimmered in the moonlight.
There was something down there. A mound, vaguely moving.
Was I imagining it? It was a dark, rounded shape, like a rock. It was past the high tide mark, almost at the neck of the path, and it was definitely moving.
A turtle?
Yes! I shone my flashlight down and there she was, a great, lumbering creature, her flippers splayed out around her. She looked …
Like she was laying eggs! She turned towards the source of the light, as if annoyed at my intrusion. Awed beyond belief, I flicked the flashlight off and walked slowly forward along the sandy track until I was about ten feet away from her. Stooping, I watched her.
Once the flashlight was off she ignored me. She was in the throes of birthing, and as long as I wasn’t getting in the way, she had better things to do than say hello.
My jet lag forgotten, I knelt on the damp sand and watched.
Each egg, the size of a normal hen’s but softer, squished a bit as it fell on top of its predecessors. Each was brilliant white and perfectly round.
I wanted to go wake Muriel. I wanted to ring Richard and say get here now. I did neither. I felt small and overwhelmed, but … honoured. It was almost the same feeling as standing back after a delivery, watching a mother with a newborn.
A miracle.
It’s why I do what I do.
I watched on, staying as still as I could, until she seemed to run out of eggs. Then she stared up at me as if I was interfering with what she wanted to do next. Clearly she wanted me gone. Which was fine by me. My butt was wet and I was bordering on shivering. I bade her a congratulatory goodnight, and made my way back up to the house, still feeling awed. When I reached the top of the path and looked back, she’d started scraping sand on top of the eggs.
Baby turtles on my beach. My beach. My sand. How cool was that?
I even thought about composing a text to Isabella: There’s a turtle laying eggs on MY beach!
Grinning, I turned and walked into the shed where I’d parked the buggy. There was grass right into the shed and my feet were soggy. I shivered—and then I stopped.
A vehicle was coming along the track towards the house. Fast.
I was in the dark in Grandpa’s wet pyjamas. Someone was coming. This was suddenly scary again.
It was too late to bolt for the house. I squashed close against the ancient woodwork and tried to look invisible. Tried to stop my heart hammering.
The car stopped not ten yards from me. Hinges squeaked. I heard a door slam, followed by the sound of someone running past my shed towards the beach.
I didn’t want to be here.
I gave it a minute and then peered cautiously around the shed door. It was a van, with its back doors open, and it looked abandoned in the moonlight.
Let’s go, I told myself, even though my feet didn’t want to move. But somehow I made them. I ran towards the house, but as I ran, I glanced back at the beach.
My turtle had turned back to the sea, but the intruder, a big, powerful-looking guy, had reached her. He stooped over and lifted her, grunting with the effort.
The turtle was seriously big but he hauled her back up the beach towards the path, staggering a bit but heading for the van.
He heaved the turtle into the back of the van and slammed the doors shut.
And something inside me snapped.
‘Put her back!’ I yelled before I even realised I’d intended opening my mouth.
He swung around like he’d been shot.
He looked … like a pirate.
As a first impression it was ridiculous, but I was past making sense. It was night and it was dark and it was frightening. He was wearing some sort of bandana. There was no eye patch and there was no wooden leg—though come to think of it I hadn’t checked his legs—and there wasn’t even a parrot on his shoulder, but I wasn’t concentrating on details.
‘Put the turtle back!’ I yelled again, and launched myself forward between him and his van, superwoman personified. Which was maybe not the best move in the dark when I wasn’t actually superwoman. I stubbed my foot on a rock and lurched sideways, heading for the ground.
He moved fast. He caught me by the shoulders and held me, stopping my fall. I hauled back. He didn’t let me go, but I was high on adrenaline.
‘Don’t you dare hurt my turtle!’
In the moonlight I could see the low-life was smiling. It was a crooked, devil-may-care, bad-boy smile, but it was enough to give me pause. I stared at the man’s eyes like I was caught in headlights.
I wrenched back and he let me go. Then I should have run, but the urgent need to clutch my pyjama bottoms stopped me. This didn’t make for a good start. I still had my flashlight in my hand. I flicked the switch and nearly blinded him.
He was lean-jawed and unshaven. He had matted brown hair that looked like it hadn’t seen a brush for months, and his eyes were incredibly blue.
This was good, I told myself, my brain operating at a level somewhere between stunned and hysterical. At least I could give a description of my turtle-smuggler-and-maybe-axe-murderer. He looked like a pirate, officer. Ragged clothes, muscled chest, tall and rangy with dangerous eyes …
‘Um … hi,’ he said. ‘Nice to meet you, too, fair lady.’
The guy seemed to be expecting some sort of response.
Come on, Jennifer, you can do this.
‘Put the turtle back,’ I said again, feeling as weak and stupid as I must have sounded.
‘No,’ he said. Then he looked at me—really looked at me— obviously seeing the fading adrenaline and the fear. His blue eyes softened. ‘Hey, there’s no reason to get your knickers in a twist. I’m not interested in turtle soup. I’m organising a spot of carapace surgery.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Shell repair,’ he explained, like he was talking to a three-year-old. He tilted his head to one side, smiling, watching me with interest. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you. I’ve been watching for her for the last few nights, checking whenever I could. I’ve been out on a call tonight and nearly missed her. I’m very glad I didn’t.’
His voice was deep and rich and accented. Scottish? A little. Mostly Australian.
‘Who are you?’ I managed.
His smile faded. Maybe he was a bit shocked himself. Maybe the sight of a Manhattan obstetrician in her grandpa’s pyjamas was a bit out of left field.
‘I’m John McLachlan. Jack.’ He placed his hands on my shoulders again. I flinched, but his hands stayed put. ‘I told you, there’s no need to look terrified.’
‘I’m not terrified,’ I lied, and pointed the flashlight into his eyes again.
He was maybe in his mid-thirties. His deep brown hair was bleached to almost gold at the ends, tangling and curling to his collar. He was wearing heavy, scuffed boots, jeans with frayed knees, and an unbuttoned flannel shirt.
He put his hand on the flashlight and manoeuvred the beam from his face.
‘What do you mean, shell repair? And what are you doing here anyway? This is private property.’
‘I work here.’
‘You work here?’
‘I work in the garden,’ he said. And then he paused. From the house came a streak of white fur. It was Drifter, head down, a torpedo heading straight for him. She got within six fee
t and launched herself into the air. Somehow he held out his arms and caught her— not bad for a big dog—and the next minute they were bonded. The dog was a bundle of canine ecstasy, and Jack had a great, goofy smile which totally transformed his face.
‘Drifter.’ He was burying his face in her thick coat. ‘You’re home, girl. Eh, lass, I’ve missed you.’
The feeling was obviously mutual. I was left with nothing to do except wait until bonding rituals had been completed. Which took a while.
But finally they were done. Drifter was set down. She wriggled at his feet, prostrating herself before him, quivering with delight.
‘You brought her home,’ he said at last, with deep satisfaction. ‘I can’t tell you how grateful I am to see her again.’
‘Was it you who sent her to me?’
‘Yes, but reluctantly.’ He shoved a hand out and took mine, whether or not scared-and-insular-me was comfortable with his rough, broad hand. ‘Let’s do the introductions again. As I said, I’m Jack McLachlan. I’m your closest neighbour.’ He hesitated. ‘That is, if you’re Dr Kelly?’ He glanced at my hair, which with this humidity had reverted to its natural untamed riot. ‘With that hair I guess you can’t be anyone else.’
‘I’m Jennifer Kelly. But how did you know?’
‘Your grandpa told me you had the same hair as his. His hair was like yours, almost to the end.’
My grandpa had known more about me than my name?
‘You sent me the dog?’
‘Henry’s will was unequivocal.’ He stooped and faced Drifter nose to nose. ‘I hated letting you go, girl, but Henry seemed to think she’d be more likely to come if he sent you as an envoy.’
What the … ‘So you just sent her,’ I stammered. ‘Without warning. She just arrived. Anything could have happened to her.’
He straightened and faced me, impassive. ‘There was nothing I could do about it,’ he said laconically. ‘The lawyers from Sydney arrived and took her away. They asked if I’d keep an eye on the place until you came, but Drifter was Henry’s dog. He’d even trained her to protect the nesting sites. It seemed cruel to send her away, but her fate was his decision.’
There was so much about this I didn’t understand.
The turtle was in the van. That’s where I’d go, I decided. The turtle seemed the easiest thing to focus on. ‘So … what are you doing with the turtle?’
‘She has a cracked shell. She has a tracking number—you can see it on the edge of her shell—and apparently she’s been coming here for years. Bridget calls her Tootsie. I live up on the headland—Henry’s place and ours have the only access to Turtle Bay and I check most nights. If you look along the beach tomorrow you’ll see markers. I try to mark every nest so we can get onto it fast if anything’s disturbed. I was on the beach three nights ago when she laid the last lot of eggs and saw the crack in her shell, but I can’t carry turtles up our steps. I thought she’d take longer but by the time I fetched the van she’d gone. They often come ashore more than once to lay all their eggs so I’ve been hoping she’d come again. I almost missed her this time, too.’
I thought about this, filtering what seemed important. ‘You can fix her shell?’
‘I have a mate who can. There might be a problem at the base of the crack. It could be infected, but if it is, Ewan’ll fix it. He’s a vet but he makes the occasional surfboard so he’s not bad at fibreglassing. Hopefully she’ll keep coming back to lay her eggs so we can check it year to year. He’ll have her fixed and away in no time.’
‘Really?’
‘Really. She’s a green turtle, endangered. She’s pretty special.’
‘But …’ What else to focus on? ‘You drove down my driveway. You’re on my property.’ It sounded feeble, even to me, but I’d been scared. Feeble was pretty much how I was feeling. Luckily he didn’t seem offended.
‘Needs must,’ he said cheerfully. ‘But I’m out of here now. Things to do, places to go.’ He turned towards the van.
But he didn’t get far. Drifter launched herself at him like she was drowning, desperation in every inch of her body.
‘Hey, girl,’ he said, softening, crouching again. ‘You have a new mistress now.’
‘She’s not mine.’
‘She was your grandpa’s. She goes with the farm.’
‘I don’t want … I can’t …’
There was a long pause. Finally he shrugged. ‘You’ll need to sort it with the lawyers but if you don’t want her, I’m happy to keep her. That’s probably what your grandpa expected anyway—that you’d come and get rid of everything. Which is fine by me. I told the lawyers I’d keep taking care of the place until you came. Henry’s veggie patch is second to none, but I hardly have time to keep it in order.’
I’d walked through the vegetable garden. It was the only well-tended area in the place. In this subtropical climate it must be a huge task to keep it productive.
‘That’s … good of you.’ Without thinking, I swung the flashlight towards him again. He took my wrist and gently removed the flashlight from my grasp.
I looked up. Which was maybe a mistake.
Jack McLachlan was about six-two, which meant he towered over me. I was wearing Grandpa’s flip-flops and too-big pyjamas. My stupid hair was coiling crazily around my face. When it was wet it did a Shirley Temple spiral which might have been cute when I was seven.
I felt totally intimidated. I felt very, very small.
‘I’m sorry I yelled at you,’ I managed. ‘If you want to keep taking vegetables or rescuing turtles, you’re very welcome. But I need to go inside. I’m … I’m in my pyjamas.’
‘You’re in Henry’s pyjamas.’ His left eyebrow hiked—was he teasing? ‘You found his stash?’
‘Yes, I …’
‘He liked buying in bulk, did Henry. He bought online through Carrie, and he liked a good deal. He’ll be glad they’re not wasted. If you don’t mind me saying, they look a whole lot better on you than they ever did on Henry.’
I flushed—how stupid was that?—but he didn’t appear to notice. He stood aside to let me move away.
But for some reason I didn’t. ‘I’m cold,’ I said.
He nodded again, his face thoughtful as he checked out my feet. ‘You’ll be needing something more substantial if you’re night wandering. Not that I’m criticising your footwear. It’s very fetching.’
My flush was turning into a full-on blush. Luckily he was looking at my flip-flops.
‘My bag’s somewhere between here and New York.’
It wasn’t just a bag; it was my brand new Gucci suitcase, but I looked at Jack’s disgusting boots and I knew he wasn’t going to sympathise. Sure enough, he didn’t.
‘You arrived from the US today?’
‘Yes. We hired a car in town.’
‘Harold’s beach buggy?’ He beamed. ‘You’re a brave woman. Don’t flick the wiper switch, whatever you do. Harold wedges wipers in to make it look like there’s still a windshield. The last hirer almost lost an eye.’
Despite his smile I had the feeling he was assessing me. ‘I didn’t mean to disturb you,’ he said, and his tone was suddenly apologetic. ‘Clive told me you and your grandma were arriving soon, and if I hadn’t seen Tootsie come to shore I’d have kept my distance. But speaking of Tootsie, I’d better get her to turtle hospital.’
‘Okay. But give me my torch back. I need to fetch my phone from the buggy. From the shed.’
‘Your buggy’s in the woodshed?’
I stared across at the rickety shed supporting the surfboards. The boards looked as if they’d been there forever. Ferns were growing up around them as if they belonged, with vines tying it all together. The only new part of the whole thing was the paint on the sign. The buggy was inside.
‘It was raining when we arrived,’ I said. ‘I didn’t want the buggy to fill with water. The shed was empty and I thought it was a garage.’
‘Henry didn’t need a garage. Your grandpa walked and surfe
d. He didn’t do much else.’
‘Did he really run a surf school?’
Jack hesitated. ‘He thought about running a surf school,’ he said at last. ‘Sometimes.’ His voice was suddenly cold.
Why the change?
This man had known my grandfather. The knowledge was unsettling. Until now Henry Kelly had seemed a vague shadow from Grandma’s past. He’d been a man I’d never met and who had nothing to do with me.
But this man had known Henry well enough to recognise his pyjamas. To know about his routine and his hopes for the future.
It was weird, but as I stood by the vegetable garden Henry had tended, speaking about him with a man who’d known him, it was like a gentle ghost had drifted from nowhere.
I stared down at the dog. Drifter. Grandpa’s dog.
I’d just given her away, and all of a sudden it felt wrong.
What was I thinking? I was too tired for all this.
‘Whatever you call the dump holding the surfboards, that’s where my buggy is,’ I said, trying to sound efficient. ‘And my phone, too. I’ll fetch it and then I need to go to bed.’
‘Woodsheds are havens for nasties.’
Nasties. That was a word to make a girl pause. ‘What sort of nasties?’
‘Joe Blakes.’
‘Joe Blakes?’
‘Sorry. Snakes. That’s Aussie speak.’
‘You sound Scottish.’
‘A lot of us islanders have Scottish heritage. It’s a tough call to breed it out of us, but returning to snakes…’
‘Let’s not.’
He grinned. ‘Lady, you need to think about them. As long as you’re noisy they’ll normally scadoodle. I have a repertoire for woodchopping and by the time I launch into “Auld Lang Syne” the snakes are scadoodling for their lives. But tonight’s rain has cooled things off, which means our snakes will be slow and the woodshed’s a favourite place for them to shelter. Not even “Scotland the Brave” on a bagpipe will move them tonight.’ His brows wriggled expressively, and I knew he was laughing at me. ‘Until you stand on one, of course. Then they’ll move. Goodness me, will they move.’
‘Then I don’t need my phone,’ I said, distilling what was important and coming to the only conclusion possible.
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