Home to Turtle Bay

by Marion Lennox

  You pay for thinking like that.

  I’m paying with the rest of my life.

  So much for searching for happy.

  Muriel was still paying, I thought.

  And I still wanted Drifter.

  It was almost eight. I was due at Jack’s but I needed head space. I had a decent torch so I decided to walk.

  The sea was beautiful in the glimmer of the waning moon. I’d be back on the beach tomorrow. Bridget had decided I was allowed to call myself a grommet—a learner surfer.

  Life was complicated, but I was a grommet.

  ‘It’s not all bad, Grandpa,’ I said aloud.

  And then I thought of Muriel.

  How could I make her feel the same?

  And why did I feel like something was missing beside me? Drifter?

  It wasn’t until I reached Jack’s that I stopped thinking about Henry and Muriel, but as soon as I knocked, I got my happy.

  Jack opened the door, smiling a greeting. I could hear Bridget laughing in another room. The place was shabby, cluttered, familiar. And Drifter was here, bouncing a welcome.

  I had a sudden flashback, a sliver of memory. A hut or maybe a big tent. Nepal? A battered table covered with flour and a huge bowl. Sticky hands covered with cake mix. People laughing. Someone lifting me, swooping me high and chuckling. Flour dropping into bright red hair.

  Home?

  I was nuts. There was no connection. This house was nothing like I’d seen before. But still I felt …

  But it seemed there was no time to feel.

  ‘Come in.’ Jack was grabbing my hand, towing me through the house while I was still getting my head together. ‘We have turtles. A mob of turtles. A school of turtles? I need to look it up. Come and see.’

  Helplessly, I let myself be towed.

  The house was big and old, furnished with stuff that looked comfortable, squishy and faded. But I hardly had time to see as I was tugged through into what looked like a self-contained apartment. Carrie and Bridget were there, studying a computer screen.

  Carrie called a welcome over her shoulder. ‘Hello again.’ She obviously didn’t believe in formalities. In fact, formal seemed the last way to describe Carrie. Her caftan was scarlet with gold and purple embroidery. Her explosion of silver curls was tied back with a purple ribbon. Her spectacles were low on her nose and her smile was one of open friendship.

  Bridget was right by her in her wheelchair. She was dressed in pink pyjamas with a pink ribbon in her hair, and she was beaming.

  I smiled back. How could I not?

  Jack was still holding my hand.

  I needed to focus. I needed to put weird memories and unwanted sensations aside. Focus on … what had Jack said? We have turtles? Where?

  I turned my attention cautiously towards my feet.

  ‘Myrtle was found upside down on the beach,’ Carrie was saying, indignant. ‘Someone or something must have flipped her over. Can you believe that? She’s recovering now but it’s been touch and go. Do you think we should adopt her? I’m tempted. But we can pay a bit more and adopt turtle number 32645. Then we can name him ourselves.’

  ‘Um … where exactly is Myrtle?’

  ‘Doing laps off the coast of Florida,’ Jack said, and chuckled. He must have seen me look down. ‘This is an Adoption To Support Turtle Preservation project, so no, she’s not about to bite you.’

  ‘I never thought—’

  ‘Aye, you did!’

  ‘She has a tracking device on her shell,’ Carrie explained. ‘But she needs adopting.’

  ‘Isn’t Tootsie enough?’

  ‘We’ve helped Tootsie,’ Jack said. ‘She’s back in the sea with her shell magnificently mended. But that’s not to say we can’t help more.’

  As a trained doctor, I was used to changing circumstances. Triage. Priorities. But I was struggling here. I cast a sideways glance at Jack and then looked away again.

  The priority here was turtles.

  But … his hand …

  I attempted—with dignity—to figure out the preceding conversation. Okay. We were choosing between adoption of two turtles. I could handle that. ‘What happens to Myrtle if you adopt—what did you call him?—turtle 32645?’

  ‘Jack needs to adopt Myrtle,’ Bridget told me. ‘32645 needs us more. He can’t be Turtle 32645 forever.’

  ‘I see.’ I thought about it some more. Jack’s hand was a definite distraction. I yanked it away and then tried not to think about the loss of warmth.

  The distraction grew stronger.

  Think about turtles.

  Myrtle had been found upside down? Dying?

  ‘Can I adopt her?’

  I blinked. Had I said that? What about my mantra of not getting attached?

  ‘Hey,’ Jack said, aggrieved. ‘I think I want to. I’ve decided I like Myrtle.’

  ‘You’ve already bonded? To a turtle in Florida?’

  ‘I’m a fast bonder.’

  ‘Shut up, Jack,’ Carrie told him, quite kindly but homing in on my offer. ‘What if we get four turtles between us? We’ll be donating funds for the preservation of turtles, and we can watch where they are via the internet.’

  Great. This was the kind of pet I could deal with. In fact it was just what my life needed, I decided. Distant attachment.

  I took a cautious step away from Jack. A fast bonder? That I could do without!

  ‘I don’t have to clean up litter trays, chop liver or polish shells?’ This sounded great.

  ‘Do turtles eat liver?’ Jack demanded.

  ‘I shouldn’t think we’ll need to do a whole lot in the way of domestic duty.’ Carrie wriggled her glasses up her nose. ‘It’ll be much better than a real pet.’

  ‘All care and no responsibility,’ Jack said. ‘Better and better.’

  ‘So can I adopt Myrtle?’

  ‘I still want Myrtle.’ Jack was suddenly belligerent.

  ‘You can be Myrtle’s godfather,’ Carrie told him, pacification personified. ‘I’m giving Myrtle to Jenny.’

  ‘Hey!’

  ‘It’s my computer.’ Carrie was already typing in my details in the adoption line, and I gave Jack a smirk.

  ‘So I’m mother to a turtle named Myrtle.’ The thought made me feel immeasurably better. At last. One tiny part of life I could control.

  After we adopted Myrtle for me, we checked out others.

  We found Floozy for Carrie. Floozy was already named as well, but when we found her there was no hesitation. ‘How can I abandon a turtle named Floozy?’ Carrie demanded and there was no answer.

  32645 became Casanova for Jack. He had to pay more for the privilege of naming, but he didn’t mind. ‘He has the look of a guy out for a very good time,’ Jack explained. ‘Maybe he’ll be zooming over here to introduce himself to Tootsie with her sparkly new shell. You just have to look at that glint in his eyes to know he’s up to no good. Your Myrtle had better watch out.’

  ‘I’m holding you responsible,’ I told him. ‘There’s such a thing as paternity suits.’

  Laughing, we then helped Bridget choose, but instead of deciding on another unnamed one she found one called Fluffy.

  ‘How about that?’ I told them as we scrolled down and found her. ‘Fluffy. All my pets were called Fluffy.’

  ‘And your pets were?’ Jack queried.

  ‘Goldfish. I had Fluffy One to Fluffy Twenty-Three.’

  ‘That’s great.’ But then Jack thought about it. ‘Twenty-three goldfish. Whew!’

  ‘I’m not a good mother,’ I admitted. ‘Bridget, are you sure you want him? I’ll swap you Myrtle if you like.’

  ‘I like Fluffy,’ Bridget said. ‘Fluffy, Fluffy, Fluffy.’

  So Fluffy it was, and feeling sillier and sillier I got carried away and chose another turtle called Horatio and adopted him for Muriel, even though she’d be horrified. Or simply uninterested. No matter. I handed over my credit card details and thought Muriel should like it. Mother to Horatio. How splendid!
>
  ‘With a name like Horatio he has to be a grand turtle,’ Jack said, echoing my thoughts. ‘Muriel will fall for him.’

  ‘Probably not.’ I thought back to Muriel’s tearful face. ‘She doesn’t like getting attached.’

  ‘There’s not a lot of hugging involved in this relationship,’ Jack said.

  ‘Then maybe it’s worth giving it a shot.’

  And then, because I was feeling very silly indeed, I adopted another turtle. Turtle number 47621. I named her Silver Toes and put her adoptive parent down as Isabella Clayburgh.

  Why? Who knew?

  Isabella was my patient. Isabella and her horrible husband could still be about to sue me.

  How dumb can one person get?

  14

  rinse cycle n. tumbling in a mass of white water after a wave breaks, often fighting for air.

  After the formalities of turtle adoption, we left Carrie to tuck a happy but sleepy Bridget into bed. We retired to Jack’s study. It didn’t quite fit with my chaperone plans, but objecting seemed dumb.

  ‘Carrie’s great,’ I said as the door closed behind us. I’d have preferred the door to stay open but the fire was crackling in the hearth, the sea air was making the farmhouse chilly and it made sense to close the door and warm the room.

  Drifter was by the fire. Drifter would just have to do as chaperone.

  ‘She is,’ Jack said, heading over to the desk to sort folders. ‘We’re lucky to have her, but she thinks she’s lucky to be here.’ He hesitated. ‘You might see it in the files,’ he continued. ‘She’s way overdue for med checks so I might persuade her to see you while you’re here. She’s pretty scarred. She married young, to a guy who was charming and violent. He bashed her so hard one night that he nearly killed her. She was in hospital in Sydney for months. When she recovered my grandmother persuaded her to return to the island as housekeeper, and she’s stayed on to help me care for Bridge. We’re blessed to have her … and life has compensations.’

  ‘What compensations?’ What could compensate for such a tragedy?

  ‘Internet shopping.’ He grinned. ‘She’s taken to the internet with joy and there’s hardly a day when mysterious parcels don’t arrive via seaplane mail.’

  ‘What sort of parcels?’

  ‘Never anything huge. Her finds have little to do with money. She’ll order things like a corset catalogue from the nineteenth century that has us appalled. How thin can waists be without cracking bones? There’s been a Mexican Jumping Mosquito fishing lure that Carrie thought my grandfather would love—and she was right. Or more recently a pair of socks with rabbit ears for Bridge. Bridget’s hardly taken them off. Battery-operated jumping grasshoppers, faded comics, knickers with smiley faces … You name it. And the islanders use her now. Very few islanders have decent internet connection. My grandparents needed it for medical information though, so they paid for a satellite, and Carrie loves it. We use her to find things online: clothes, gifts, all sorts of things. She organises bulk postage which saves us all heaps. We’ve persuaded her to charge five percent commission and she’s looking forward to an old age rolling in money.’

  ‘She sounds fabulous.’

  ‘She is fabulous,’ he said and his smile faded. ‘But she still has shadows. I’m glad you’re here. She needs a female doctor. So many of the islanders do.’

  ‘You can’t be everything to everyone.’

  ‘No,’ he said, and there was a hint of anger in his response, but he handed me some of his files. Moving on. ‘Do you want to share the desk?’

  ‘I’m happy by the fire.’ Distance was good.

  ‘Fine. Let’s see how many of these we can knock over so I won’t be missing more problems than I must.’

  So we worked, but what had gone before had me distracted. Carrie.

  And then … Myrtle and Casanova?

  ‘What are you thinking?’

  I glanced up and Jack was watching me.

  ‘That Mrs Coplins is overdue for a pap smear.’

  ‘That makes you smile? Aye. I can see that.’

  ‘And also …’

  ‘Also what?’

  ‘If your Casanova really is attracted to my Myrtle then that makes us in-laws. Family. That’s truly scary,’ I said quickly, and buried my nose in the next history.

  We read for an hour or so. We had a growing pile of folders that had been checked and found okay. A much smaller pile of histories were put aside for action—a patient who’d had high blood pressure two years ago with no recent notes, overdue pap smears, patients who were on medication who should have been back but hadn’t been seen …

  ‘Tell me about Sarah,’ I said suddenly out of nowhere and I couldn’t believe I’d asked.

  ‘You don’t want to know about Sarah,’ he said and kept on reading.

  ‘Try me.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Would Sarah have adopted a turtle?’

  ‘No. Would Richard?’

  Point taken. I bent again to my histories.

  We read on. The fire crackled gently in the grate. Drifter snored.

  ‘Sarah was my partner,’ Jack said at last. ‘We were together for three years.’

  I sorted on, not looking up. As if it didn’t matter. I should not be asking anything more. But suddenly the need to know was too great to ignore. ‘Bridget said she died in the same accident as her parents.’ This was not my business. Not. But still I was asking. It was like another person had taken control of my stupid head.

  ‘She was driving the car.’

  I winced. ‘I see,’ I said but it sounded inane.

  ‘You don’t see anything.’ The anger in his voice was practically an explosion.

  ‘No,’ I agreed and read another history. Shut up, I told myself, but I—the real Jenny?—wasn’t listening. ‘You want to tell me?’

  ‘No.’

  More histories. The pile grew.

  ‘We went out to dinner,’ he said, his voice without inflection, speaking as if this was something he’d read in some foreign newspaper and not something that concerned him. ‘Dave—my brother—rang me and said they wanted to do something special for Bridget’s birthday and their tenth wedding anniversary. It was so special they’d decided to leave the island and come to Sydney.’

  ‘To visit you?’

  ‘Yes. That’s where I was working. I had a great job. All the bells and whistles. Huge salary.’

  ‘So?’ I prompted as his voice tailed off. He looked at me blankly. I wasn’t even here, I thought. He was talking to himself.

  ‘So they did the highlights of Sydney and then, on the night of Bridget’s birthday, they asked if we’d go out with them to a fancy restaurant overlooking the harbour. Sarah and I were good at fancy restaurants. She was a radiologist and I was doing further training in vascular surgery. We were up and coming young doctors who enjoyed expensive entertaining. Professionally successful. Moneyed. Everything Dave wasn’t.’

  ‘But Dave had chosen to be a farmer?’

  ‘Oh, aye. And I pitied him.’ He shook his head as if he couldn’t believe his own stupidity and then he fell silent.

  I waited.

  ‘You know my parents are successful?’ he said at last. ‘Successful in the eyes of the world. They couldn’t wait to get off this island and they never looked back. Dad’s a lawyer with international connections. He’s in Switzerland now, doing something important with the World Bank. I haven’t seen him for years. My mother’s a professor of medicine at one of Australia’s most prestigious universities. I see my mother more often than I do Dad—or I did. When I was achieving, Mum was proud of me. When I was achieving she even wanted to know me.’

  It didn’t make me wince. I knew all about relatives who didn’t want to know me.

  ‘Their marriage lasted only long enough for Dave and me to arrive, and then we were parcelled back here to our grandparents. We got in the way of our parents’ lives.’

  ‘That’s tough.’

  ‘Tough?’ H
e set the histories down, as if what he was about to say needed reinforcing. ‘No,’ he said at last. ‘It wasn’t. Because Gran and Pa were great. They were everything our parents weren’t. Growing up here was great, too. As the grandkids of the local doctors—doctors the community valued more than gold—we were given the run of the place. We fished. We surfed. I made friends with your grandpa. I’d guess I spent more time with Henry than anyone else. He was wonderful. We had fun.’

  For some reason the thought that he’d been a kid with Henry was hugely disconcerting. Even hurtful. Where had I been while Jack was sharing his childhood with my grandfather?

  Finding things out was like biting on a bad tooth—but I had to do it.

  ‘How did you have fun with Grandpa?’

  ‘He taught me to surf.’ Jack’s mouth curved into a smile. ‘It was the one time your grandpa could forget how damaged his body was. He’d catch a wave and the force would belt him towards the shore. The power … You have no idea. You have to learn. It takes you out of yourself.’

  ‘It was fun today.’

  ‘You could learn a lot by the time Muriel’s fit to travel.’

  ‘Enough to feel how Henry felt?’

  ‘Maybe not.’

  And for some reason that made me feel bleak. Career wise, the weeks ahead seemed an eternity, yet here I was thinking they weren’t enough.

  ‘We’ll get you standing all the way to shore before you leave,’ Jack said, watching my face. ‘Maybe you’ll be able to hang a photograph in your consulting room of you cracking an epic wave.’

  ‘Epic? I can hardly handle a six-inch swell. How anyone rides a ten footer without a priest on hand for the last rites is beyond me.’ I stretched my legs towards the fire and stared at my toes. I’d kicked off my sandals—Tory Burch, cute as!—and my toes were tanned and bare. The tan was beginning to be a mix of fake and real. Sort of like me, really. I grinned. There’s introspection for you. I was feeling … weird. ‘These toes are never going to hang ten,’ I told him. ‘Even if they did, my colleagues would never believe it.’

  ‘Hanging ten may be beyond the scope of a few weeks,’ he conceded. ‘But cracking a three footer isn’t, and that makes a decent photo. Your colleagues will see the picture and be so jealous they’ll spit.’ He hesitated and then shrugged. ‘I imagine most of your colleagues would have made a life decision, just as I did.’