Home to Turtle Bay

by Marion Lennox

  ‘I’m not doing what I want. Muriel needs me.’

  ‘Damn it. I need you! There’s nobody else!’ And I heard her starting to cry.

  Pre-birth nerves? She was so close to term.

  ‘There is somebody, Isabella. You have your home with Lionel and you have a new doctor. Lizzy’s wonderful.’

  It didn’t help. There was nothing I could say to stop the sobs. Isabella was on the other side of the world. She wasn’t even my patient anymore.

  Lizzy would look after her. Isabella would be fine.

  But I ended the call feeling bad. She seemed so alone and was still ringing, despite her anger.

  I wasn’t supposed to care. Not like this. Where were my boundaries?

  The ghosts were playing with my head.

  Luckily she’d rung during a break in patients. There was medicine to distract me—my constant fallback.

  Ewan McAlister with his psittacosis confirmed—Sally had been right!—had proved tricky to treat. He’d refused to leave the island, so I’d been forced to brush up on exotic diseases. I’d talked to Jack about it but he let me do the leg work. For an obstetrician, I figured I was doing okay—Ewan wasn’t dead yet!—and I was enjoying the challenge.

  For someone who spent her life dealing solely with the challenges of pregnancy and childbirth, this was a whole new world. I was having to dredge up my basic training and concentrate.

  And try not to ask Jack too many questions.

  Because that was the biggie … What was between me and Jack … I couldn’t handle it. To do a quick handover when Jack arrived at clinic now seemed imperative, even though I didn’t need to rush back to Turtle Bay. Fraser had taken over on the home front, and there was another source of diversion.

  ‘You have no reason to be here.’ I heard her try to dismiss the old fisherman again and again, but Fraser simply smiled his agreement and took himself outside to sit in the sun. An hour or so later he’d wander back in. ‘Want a cuppa?’ he’d ask and Muriel would snap a refusal. He’d smile again, make two mugs, put one on her bedside table and go outside to wait some more.

  Two weeks after our night at sea, I came home to find Muriel sitting with him in the garden. Not close, mind you, but close enough. Then two days later I pulled up in the driveway at midday and two surfboards were missing from the shed.

  No one was home.

  Astounded, I checked the beach, and there they were. Surfing. Wobbling a bit. Struggling to stand up. Fraser, too, mustn’t have been near a board for years, but both of them seemed intent on regaining skills.

  I stood and watched as they whooped like kids. Rode little waves. Tumbled and tried again. Egged each other on.

  Muriel was laughing. Laughing! Looking gorgeous. Fraser looked a bit like a walrus in his baggy board shorts, but his body spoke of a lifetime at sea. The pair of them seemed to have dropped twenty years.

  ‘You surfed!’ I said when she finally returned to the house, flustered, flushed, covered with salt and sand.

  ‘So what,’ she snapped and headed for the shower. ‘It’s none of your business.’

  That felt okay, too. I wasn’t ready for my world to change too much.

  But for now my world had changed somewhat, and I needed to fill it. With Fraser here so much, I wasn’t needed at home. It was almost a relief that I was needed at the clinic.

  ‘The locals appreciate a lady doctor,’ Sally told me. ‘They love it that there’s a female for gynie exams, for talking to the teenagers about girl stuff … If you could stay …’

  What was she on about? Me? Stuck on this island forever? It’d be like jumping out of a plane without a parachute. How Jack could face it …

  He had no choice. The island had a greater hold on Jack than it did me. I had Muriel to worry about and soon she’d be able to leave.

  He had Bridget.

  For now, though, so did I. Bridget’s routine incorporated me. Every morning she swam with Jack, and after lunch she did a couple of hours of school work. There was an island school, but for now she was working with Carrie at home. Late afternoons found her lying in the shallows again, instructing me in the elementary rules of surfing.

  ‘Knees bent. Further! Your feet are too close together, that’s why you’re falling! Move one foot further back on the board. Back! You can do it!’ Drifter barked her agreement as kid and dog drove me out to try, over and over again.

  Finally the day came when I managed to ride a wave all the way to the shore. Upright! Okay, it was a very small wave, but I’d done it. Flushed with success, I sank into the shallows and grinned at the little girl and her soggy canine companion. Our soggy companion. Drifter had started dividing her time between our house and Jack’s. ‘You’re slavedrivers, the pair of you.’

  Bridget grinned right back. She seemed as proud of me as I was of myself. ‘You’re a surfer.’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘You will be. Are you going to take your surfboard with you when you go back to New York?’

  ‘There’s not a lot of places to practise in Manhattan.’

  ‘Ugh.’ Bridget wrinkled her small nose at the idea of such deprivation. ‘That must be awful.’

  Awful? Really?

  This was almost an out of body experience—to be lying here in the sun while on the other side of the world someone was seeing my patients. Someone was sitting in my office. Someone was building their career on the foundations I’d laid.

  I should be furious.

  Right now I was finding it hard to care.

  ‘You’d make a great surfing teacher,’ I told Bridget, more to fill the strangely threatening silence than anything, the thoughts I didn’t have the courage to face.

  ‘How could I be a surfing teacher?’ Bridget demanded. ‘I can’t stand up.’

  I rolled over and looked at the little girl. Really looked. ‘I might be able to help,’ I said diffidently—and waited.

  The response was definite. ‘I don’t want help.’

  ‘Why not?’

  She didn’t respond.

  ‘Why don’t you want to walk?’

  ‘I can be by myself in my chair,’ she whispered.

  ‘Are you thinking that if you stay in a wheelchair then you don’t have to go back to school?’

  And she nodded, her misery apparent to the most casual onlooker. ‘Uncle Jack says I should go back to school at the end of summer, but school has steps.’

  ‘All the more reason for you to start walking again. You must miss your friends.’

  ‘I don’t.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘They just leave.’ Bridget stared up at a solitary cloud scudding over our near perfect sky. ‘Becky McConachie is my best friend. She comes and talks to me sometimes when her dad’s milking our cows. But even she’s leaving now, because you’re selling the cows and her dad needs to get a job somewhere else. So everyone goes. Mum and Dad went. Becky’s going. You’re going.’

  Whoa. Guilt.

  ‘You know, you’ve been horribly unlucky,’ I said, selecting and discarding words like they were potential hand grenades. ‘Becky and I are leaving, but that’s minor. We can send you emails and phone you and come back to visit. But your parents’ death was major. That’s the real horrible thing. It happened to me and it was the pits, and like you I decided I was better off being by myself forever. But you know what? No one’s died since. No one that I cared about. No one at all.’

  Well, that at least was the truth. Mostly because I made sure I didn’t care about anyone. Not that deeply.

  But this conversation wasn’t about me. It was about Bridget.

  ‘Everyone’s leaving,’ she muttered and turned her face away.

  ‘Not everyone. Only me, and that might be good. Maybe a lovely family will buy Henry’s farm and maybe they’ll employ Becky’s dad so he can stay. Maybe they’ll have kids, so there’ll be more friends. Life can be good again, Bridge.’

  ‘You don’t know for sure.’

  I thought abo
ut that for a while. I was taking my time, lying back with my hands clasped behind my head as our lone cloud drifted towards the horizon. ‘You know I can’t make any promises,’ I said at last. ‘I’m only speaking from my own experience. But I know that you could make yourself happy. You could become the best surfer on the island for a start.’

  ‘I can’t stand up.’

  ‘But you can dog paddle, and you’re getting stronger.’

  ‘I can even swim a few strokes again,’ Bridge admitted.

  ‘There you are then. And there’s nothing stopping you getting on a board.’

  ‘But I can’t stand up.’

  I eyed her sideways. ‘Not yet. But what if I carried you out to waist-deep water and we tried there? You could put your legs down and only put as much weight on them as you want. The water will do the rest.’

  ‘But if I can stand up I won’t be different anymore. I’ll have to go to school.’

  Hmm.

  I made myself pause. I was no psychologist and this took thought. And care. Luckily we seemed to have time for both.

  ‘Everyone’s different,’ I ventured. ‘And you know what? To be the world’s best surfer would be so different it’d blow me away. I can’t do that, no matter how hard I try, because how can I practise in New York? But you live on the world’s best surfing beach. Wouldn’t it be great to be different for something as terrific as being a champion surfer?’

  ‘I might not like it.’

  ‘It could cause problems,’ I conceded. ‘For a start the sign might have to be repainted.’

  ‘What sign?’

  ‘The surfing school sign. We could repaint it to “Bridget McLachlan’s Surfing School” and put you in charge. Would that be a good type of different?’

  Bridget stared. ‘Really?’

  ‘Really.’

  She thought about it. ‘Maybe it should be “Bridget and Jenny’s Surfing School”,’ she said at last, and then, as Drifter splashed through the water to present us with a huge piece of driftwood, she giggled. It was a child’s giggle—with all the hope for the future in the world. ‘How about “Bridget and Jenny and Drifter’s Surfing School”?’

  I’ll be back in New York. You can leave the Jenny out of it. But I didn’t say it. ‘That sounds fantastic,’ I said instead, in a voice that I couldn’t keep steady. ‘Can we start now?’

  ‘If you think so.’

  ‘I think so.’ I tossed Drifter’s driftwood out into the waves and, as the dog bounded out to retrieve it, I lifted the little girl into my arms. ‘Wow, Bridget McLachlan, you must have been eating like a horse. Let’s get you walking before I sink under the strain.’

  I arrived back at the house after the session, pleased beyond belief. She’d put weight on her legs. Not much but enough. It was our secret, though. ‘Don’t tell Uncle Jack,’ she pleaded and I had to agree.

  More secrets.

  And it seemed there was more stuff going on behind people’s backs. I should start closing windows. As I reached the side of the house Fraser’s voice wafted out.

  ‘She’s doing great with the kid.’

  After the first couple of days, Fraser hadn’t left at lunchtime. He’d stayed on. He worked in the vegetable patch—which was starting to look like a vegetable patch that could win international awards. He planted peas and radishes and watermelon. He sat on the bench outside Muriel’s window and chewed his empty pipe when she decreed she wanted to sleep. He gazed into the middle distance. He was simply … there.

  If I had to describe their relationship I couldn’t. Now, as I heard them talking, I unashamedly listened.

  ‘The little un’ll be walking in no time,’ Fraser was saying.

  ‘Before we go home?’

  I heard Fraser suck some more on his pipe. ‘Maybe. Depending how soon.’

  ‘As soon as they’ll let me. It’s time I went back.’

  ‘Is that right.’

  ‘The developers came yesterday to value the place,’ Muriel told him.

  ‘So it’s for sale now?’

  ‘It’s for Jenny to organise but her life’s in New York.’

  ‘Like yours.’

  ‘That’s none of your business.’

  Fraser nodded, unfazed by her brusqueness. ‘The farm’ll be worth a bit,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘With the only flat access to Turtle Bay and flat land behind, the resort guys’ll buy it in a heartbeat. They’ll build a hotel here, I’d be guessing. A big one, maybe with a golf course.’

  ‘Mm.’

  ‘You don’t mind that the farm’s cut up?’

  ‘Why should I?’

  ‘I guess you can give the surfboards to the little girl. Once she’s standing I’m thinking she’ll be a champion.’

  ‘She’ll hardly need twenty surfboards.’

  ‘We could keep a couple.’

  ‘Us?’ I could hear Muriel’s incredulity. ‘I’m going home as soon as I’m allowed. Three more weeks at most.’

  ‘Yeah?’ I heard his chair scrape back. ‘Where’s home, Muriel?’

  ‘Not here.’ She sounded panicked.

  ‘Is that right? You know damned well it shouldn’t be Jenny’s surfing school. It ought to be yours. Or maybe you can share. You and the kiddy.’

  And then, astonishingly, his pipe flew out the window at my feet. ‘Time I gave this the flick,’ he said. ‘Come on, Muriel. We’re only young once. Right, then. If we only have three more weeks of surfing left to us we need to make the most of it.’

  Three weeks …

  I stopped eavesdropping and carried my board back to the pile against the shed.

  Three weeks.

  Once upon a time three weeks had seemed endless.

  I had sand between my toes. My nose was peeling. Bridget was weight bearing and Fraser and Muriel … Who knew?

  Why did three weeks suddenly feel not long enough?

  19

  radical adj. risk taking, extreme surfing.

  Two days later Bridget walked. Properly walked. In public.

  Carrie had asked if I could bring her home—apparently an online auction of garden gnomes was nearing its climax and she needed to be nose to screen. Jack was working, so I’d got her into the buggy, wheelchair and all, and driven her home by myself. We were getting good, Bridge and I.

  Not only that, she’d been walking for me, a little, in the surf, getting a feel for what she could and couldn’t do. She was still demanding I didn’t tell Jack.

  Back at Jack’s place I started lifting her out of the buggy and she hesitated.

  ‘Jenny, will you put me down?’

  So I did. She stood on the gravel and took a tentative step forward. Then another.

  I caught her before she fell.

  ‘Let me do it again.’

  I did. Four steps this time.

  ‘It’s time,’ she said, sounding smug but breathing hard as I settled her back into her chair. ‘Don’t put the footrest down.’

  There was a smile starting deep inside. Bridget had been adamant that Jack and Carrie not know what we’d been doing in the surf, but our weight-bearing lessons had become more and more productive. I’d wondered how long it would be before she cracked.

  Tonight it seemed Bridge had decided herself.

  ‘Bridge!’ Carrie emerged from the front door, waving in triumph. ‘I got them. Snow White’s dwarves. Grumpy’s minus a nose but otherwise perfect. I reckon Ewan will be able to fix him. Margie McFarren will be beside herself. She’s wanted gnomes for ages but for the cost of bringing them here she could have ordered real ones. These can be shipped in the same container as Debbie Campbell’s new stove. The seller lives right by the oven place and for an extra five bucks she’ll drop them off. How’d you go, Bridget love?’

  ‘Good,’ Bridge told her, and then Drifter started barking—she’d ridden back in the buggy with us—and Jack’s truck was heading up the track. ‘Great,’ Bridge added, starting to smile.

  So we waited while Jack parked the truck and
greeted an exuberant Drifter. I believe I was holding my breath. Had Bridget meant what I thought she meant?

  And it seemed she did. ‘Look at me, Uncle Jack,’ she called as he set Drifter aside and headed for his niece. I’d seen him greet her before. He usually scooped her up and hugged, but now she held her hands up in a stop signal. ‘Look at me. I’ve been waiting and waiting. Jenny said it was up to me when I decided to tell anyone and now … Uncle Jack, look what I can do!’

  My grin was practically splitting my face. Drifter started barking, like she, too, realised the enormity of this moment.

  ‘What can you do?’ Jack asked, though maybe he guessed. Maybe he could see the great, goofy smile I couldn’t conceal. But he sounded cautious.

  Maybe he wasn’t used to happy endings. Me, I’d seen Muriel back from the dead. I was practically an old hand.

  ‘I’ve been practising and practising and practising!’ Bridget was practically squealing her excitement. And nervousness? ‘I didn’t want to show you until we were really, really sure. And now I am. Watch.’

  She looked up to make sure we were all watching—we were surely watching!—then she gripped the armrests of her wheelchair. She steadied. And then she pushed herself to her feet.

  I moved to stand beside her—just in case—but I didn’t hold her.

  ‘Watch,’ Bridget whispered again. She was watching her feet herself, like they had a mind of their own. ‘Watch.’

  ‘I’m watching,’ Jack said.

  And then she was standing without holding on. Wavering a little. Steadying. She stuck her tongue out between the gap in her front teeth, concentrating hard, and then she looked at her feet some more.

  She lifted her left foot. One step. Her other foot dragged forward afterwards. Then two steps. Three, four and she nearly reached him. She grinned and giggled and then she lost her concentration. Her last two steps were wild and she might have fallen, but there was no need to worry because Jack lunged forward and caught her. He lifted her and whirled her round and round, and Carrie was crying and I was crying, and Drifter barked like she’d just spotted forty cats. Jack looked like he’d been given the world.