by Laura Elliot
‘Since when did you join Hell’s Angels?’ Steve asks.
‘That’s just a practice run.’ Julie sits down and crosses her legs, admires her biker boots. Hannah has obviously made her entire leather wardrobe available to her. ‘Paul is checking out Harley prices on the internet. You should have a go, Lauren. It’s exhilarating.’
‘She’ll stick to the Jag,’ says Steve.
Lauren smiles and dribbles honey over a croissant. She has already been swimming in the pool and her hair, pulled severely back from her forehead, emphasises the weight she has lost since the start of the trip.
‘Did she tell you about the dolphins?’ Julie asks.
Lauren sighs, knowing Julie’s tendency to exaggerate. She regrets confiding in her sisters but the euphoria she experienced with the dolphin flowed from her when they returned to shore. Rebecca had looked sceptical, obviously believing that if dolphins were going to interact with humans, then she would be their obvious choice. Julie, on the other hand, had been totally credulous and, by now, is convinced she was hanging over the edge of the boat witnessing the scene.
‘What about the dolphins?’ Steve asks.
‘We swam with them in Kaikoura,’ says Julie. ‘And one of them actually carried Lauren on its back.’
‘Bareback dolphin riding,’ Steve sounds amused. ‘I find that an interesting if somewhat incredible concept.’
Lauren does not blame him. She feel the experience diminishing with every word Julie utters. She pours fresh coffee and hands a cup to Julie, who remains oblivious of Lauren’s warning glance.
‘Not incredible,’ Julie replies. ‘True. I saw it with my very own eyes.’
‘What I find most amazing is that Lauren did not drown.’ Steve’s amusement is short-lived. ‘Lauren was obviously pulled along on a riptide or a dangerous cross-current. It’s terrifying to think what could have happened while you were being entertained by a circus of dolphins.’
‘Pod of dolphins,’ Julie corrects him. ‘There was no riptide, Steve. She was never in any danger. You’re forgetting she used to be a champion swimmer.’ She swirls a spoonful of sugar into her coffee. ‘I have all your medals,’ she adds in an aside to Lauren.
‘Really?’ Lauren is suddenly transported back to the noisy swimming pool where their father took them every Saturday morning. ‘How many did I win?’
‘You won six gold in the under tens and five in the under elevens. I took them with me when I was clearing out Heron Cove.’
‘Under tens and elevens–that’s not today or yesterday.’ Steve cuts an apple into precise pieces, carves cheese from a platter. ‘But, thankfully, she survived to tell the story. Where’s Rebecca this morning?’
‘Having a lie-in, I guess.’ Julie shrugs and rises from the table. ‘Got to go check my emails. Catch you later.’
Lauren opens Akona’s book. Birds fly like arrows through the morning mist and dive into the trees. Akona uses them as her inspiration, the kea, kakapo, kiwi, kaka: such strange staccato names yet the Maori woman’s poetry has a melodic cadence, a curious almost rap-like beat, which will, Lauren suspects, imitate the rhythm of various birdsongs if spoken aloud. The poems stir her with a once-familiar excitement. The rhythm of words flowing into poetry. Her introverted phase, Steve called it. Everything is a phase that she can overcome. Barren moon…raging…
‘Put the book down, princess.’ Steve leans forward and takes the book from her, lays it on his side of the table. ‘We’re supposed to be enjoying breakfast together.’ Lauren smells perfume, the cheap, cloying perfume that rose from the breasts of the young prostitute in Bangkok. If she breathes any deeper she will throw up. She closes her eyes against the image of the young woman’s face, the sunflower tattoo, the dark almond eyes that compared their jewels, fake and genuine, and made no differentiation.
‘My name is Lauren,’ she says. ‘Please call me Lauren in future.’
He shakes his head, bemused. ‘If you insist, Lauren.’
‘It was not a riptide, Steve.’
‘I thought we were discussing your identity, not your fantasies.’
‘I need you to believe me.’
‘What I believe is that you would have drowned under those circumstances.’
A radio can be heard from one of the chalets. The clang of a rake on gravel hurts her head. Even the clink of cutlery is too loud. ‘You heard Julie. I was a strong swimmer when I was a child. I’ve medals—’
‘And scars. I don’t have to remind you—’
‘Yet you always do.’
‘When do I refer to your unfortunate tendency to self-harm? All I’ve ever done is protect you.’
‘From myself, you mean?’
‘From pain. Is that a crime? Tell me what I should have done differently.’
‘Do you believe me…about the dolphin?’
‘Why should you expect me to believe such a ridiculous story? I’m a realist. As are you, despite your fragility. Forget the dolphins. It’s irrelevant to what we’re discussing, which is the fact that we are arguing after being separated for almost a month. It’s not the welcome I expected from my wife.’
‘What do you expect from me, Steve? Apart from being your precious piece of Dresden?’
‘Don’t overdo it, Lauren. My tolerance will only stretch so far.’
‘Rebecca calls me a trophy wife.’
‘Since when has Rebecca’s opinion mattered to you?’
‘Since I realised she’s right.’
‘So, live with it.’
His laughter breaks across her face. He is right about realism. Her realism is anger and guilt, a potent mix. And pain also, sharp as ice before it thaws.
The note must have been slipped under the chalet door while Julie was sleeping. She had walked past it without noticing, eager to link up with Hannah and borrow her bike. It is only when she returns to the Silvereye that Julie sees the folded piece of paper on the floor. She reads Rebecca’s note with a growing sense of disbelief.
Dear Julie and Lauren,
Please forgive my abrupt departure. Remaining at Havenswalk is impossible. Cathy broke my heart when she ran away and I can’t forgive her. If that makes me sound like a hard-hearted bitch, then so be it. I’m going away with Tim Dawson for the remainder of the trip and will see you at the airport.
The three of us have travelled a long journey together. Despite our differences, I’d like to believe we’ve grown closer over that time. For that reason, I hope you’ll take my advice in the spirit it’s intended. Count your blessings, Julie–and use both hands. Dump your suitcases, Lauren–and all they contain. It will lighten your load.
Until we meet again,
Rebecca
Julie’s anger grows when she reads it a second time. How dare Rebecca believe she has a monopoly on pain? Cathy’s disappearance affected all of them equally. Why does Rebecca find it so difficult to forgive her? Julie hurries to the veranda, but Steve and Lauren have finished breakfast. She continues on towards Havenswalk. Cathy and Rebecca were together on the terrace last night. Something must have been said, an inadvertent comment shattering the fragile harmony between them.
Two kayaks are on the lake this morning, black squiggles on the mirrored surface. She recognises her nephew and Lyle, the gardener, who, according to Conor, is his trainer for some triathlon. They step onto the jetty and secure their kayaks. Conor removes his helmet and stoops to stroke his red setter. He throws a stick and the dog leaps forward in pursuit. The sun shines on his wheat-yellow hair. Lyle shouts something and Conor tosses his head, laughs. The sound floats faintly towards Julie.
She stands perfectly still and flinches, as if a lost memory has risen and slapped her face. The boy and the man draw nearer. The man nods and passes by without speaking. He has a taciturn manner that does not encourage conversation. Conor stops to talk to her. Yes, he is aware Rebecca left earlier. She hates weddings. Bad memories; he shakes his head. Perhaps she’ll change her mind and come back. He grins hopefully
and continues walking with her towards Havenswalk.
At the entrance Julie stops. ‘I need to go back to the chalet,’ she mutters and turns, walks quickly away.
Once inside the chalet, she slumps into a chair. She is too hot; ridiculous weather to wear leather. She kicks off the boots, peels off the leather trousers. She breathes fast, folds over, presses her hands to her stomach. The scene in the forest when she found Rebecca weeping comes vividly to mind. Rebecca never cries, not since their parents’ funeral and Nero’s death. After Cathy disappeared, after Jeremy’s death, no tears. Or if she cried, her tears were shed in private.
Julie runs up the spiral staircase and enters the bathroom. She splashes cold water over her face. The tilt of a boy’s head means nothing. His contagious laughter does not evoke a forgotten echo. It is too ridiculous to consider. Rebecca crying…the image refuses to go away. Crying as if her heart was breaking.
She stands on the balcony and watches Conor emerge from Havenswalk with Mel Barnes. They head towards the swimming pool. Conor takes her beach bag. Mel tries to take it back but he insists on carrying it. They are laughing together. Julie cannot hear them but the flirtatious tableau Conor creates is unmistakable.
How could she have missed the resemblance? She saw what she wanted to see. Superficial similarities: Kevin’s blond unruly hair, her own bog-brown eyes, Rebecca’s sphinx cheekbones, Lauren’s delicate fingers, the shape of his face so similar to his mother’s. But the truth was obvious to those who sought it.
Has Rebecca always known or has she lived for fifteen years with this suspicion? It would explain so much. In the months following Jeremy’s death, Julie waited for Rebecca to condemn Anna Kowalski, rant about her husband’s infidelity. She could not understand Rebecca’s silence, her remote expression whenever Julie tried to broach the subject. If it was Paul…Julie’s skin prickles at the thought. If he was unfaithful, she would wade in, boots and fists flying, and separate them with a scythe. Even his ashes would not be safe from her murderous rage. The longing for home is so intense that Julie almost cries out. Home in her husband’s arms, away from Lauren’s brittle unhappiness, Cathy’s enforced calmness and the raw anguish she failed to recognise on Rebecca’s face when she was introduced to her nephew and recognised the past staring back at her.
The air has a lighter texture since Rebecca left Havenswalk. She can breathe freely again. They speak little as they climb upwards, moving at the same pace, stopping occasionally when Tim points to the distinctive flash of a bellbird or the parrot-like kaka. He is adept at identifying birdsong and naming the alpine plants that flourish on the lower reaches of Mount Arthur. It is a vigorous trek and Rebecca has energy to flail.
Tussocks and forests gradually give way to dramatic limestone structures. Snow is still visible in the chasms, but mainly the track is clear and easy to follow. They stop to eat at the half-way point. Tim unpacks the salads and cheeses, the cold trout and pasta they bought in Motueka. They eat quickly, resting their backs against a slanting slab of limestone, ravenously hungry from the fresh air and exercise.
‘What would you like to do after we finish here?’ Tim asks. ‘Stay a second day or continue on?’
‘Continue on.’
‘Then I suggest we overnight locally. I know an excellent lodge near Motueka.’
‘Sounds perfect.’ Rebecca walks to the edge of the plateau and sweeps her binoculars over the curving brows of Abel Tasman Park. A softer landscape lies below her but up here, the buffeting wind and the barren peaks reflect the turbulence of her heart, the emptiness of her womb.
‘The wind is deceptive.’ Tim joins her. ‘It’s dangerous to stand so near the edge.’
‘I’m being careful.’ She hands the binoculars to him. ‘It’s such a magnificent view from here. Conor says there are llamas in the park. He wanted to show them to me.’
Tim glances through the binoculars, then hands them back to her. ‘You travelled a long journey to run from your sister.’
‘Cathy talks about closure. It’s such a senseless word.’ Her voice settles harshly between them.
‘What lies behind the word is what counts,’ he replies.
‘That’s the problem.’ She touches her stomach, comforting the place where her child should have lain. ‘Cathy had an affair with my husband. Conor is their son…not mine. I knew…all the time we were travelling, I knew what I would find when I reached Havenswalk.’
Tim remains silent, absorbing what he has heard, and she is glad he does not try to offer false comfort.
‘Why did I come here? Why? Why? Before she rang I had a life. I’d moved on. Why bring all this on myself? How am I supposed to live with the knowledge that she deceived me behind my back and that he…I can’t stand it…what am I doing here?’
‘You’re setting yourself free,’ he says.
‘Free? What exactly is that supposed to mean?’ She stares angrily at him. ‘My suspicions were right all along. The truth doesn’t set you free. It traps you.’
She returns to the shelter of the boulder and clears away the remains of the picnic. He kneels down beside her. ‘Listen to me, Rebecca. Before you came here, suspicion was all you had. But it’s gone now. There’re no questions you’re afraid to ask because you know the answers. No signs you’re afraid to notice, or willing to ignore so that you can continue living the life you choose. The truth is a heavy burden. But you eventually manage to carry it. Suspicion, on the other hand, paralyses you.’
His words penetrate her distress, resonate with his own personal experience. She is aware, for the first time since they met, that behind his easy-going personality, he too has a story to tell. She thinks about Olive Moran. Light footsteps on an open road.
‘Are you free, Tim?’ She sits back on her heels and stares at him. He nods and takes her into his arms. ‘We’re on top of the world, Rebecca. It’s a safe place to share secrets.’
She looks upwards towards the formidable summit they have yet to reach. ‘We’re only at the half-way point.’
‘Then we’ll complete the journey when we’re ready.’
Four hours later they descend from the summit and settle into his Jeep.
‘Are you still adverse to complications?’ His tone is noncommittal. ‘No problem booking a two-bedroom chalet.’
‘One will be fine,’ she replies.
‘Sure?’
‘Yes.’
Rebecca’s new dress sways against her knees as she walks towards the balcony where a table for two has been set. She enjoys the feel of the soft fabric against her skin, enjoys the admiration she sees in Tim’s eyes. They watch the sea-veined sandbanks glisten like a mosaic on the outgoing tide and talk about books, music, travel, animals. They avoid the subject of deception. Not that she wants to talk about Jeremy or Cathy, or anything that is not related to the present moment.
They leave the bedroom curtains open and undress, their limbs heavy with the foreknowledge of pleasure. In the embrace of this genial man who has entered her life so unexpectedly, Rebecca is surprised by the rush of desire that comes without effort, without pretence. He lies back against the pillows and watches her undress. His strong arms reach out for her. The broad unfamiliar curves of his neck and shoulders block out all she had left behind at Havenswalk. They moved to the same pace throughout the day and now, when she kneels into the hardness of him, their bodies follow another rhythm, tender yet demanding, impatient yet willing to tease and play, to boldly explore and delicately seek out each other’s pleasure. She arches back and clasps him deep inside her, his hands holding her steady as they urge each other towards the stormy clash of satisfaction.
‘Some complication,’ he says when they are sated and resting together. ‘What say you now, Rebecca Lambert?’
For once, no words are necessary.
Chapter Fifty-nine
Day Four
A lorry turns into the avenue leading to Havenswalk and takes the road to the lake. From the balcony of his bedroom, Conor watche
s the crew of workmen emerge and begin to unload a marquee. His mother joins them and points towards the site where it will be erected. She looks tiny compared to the burly men in their shorts and singlets, but they will obey her instructions. Conor has seen her in action when jobs are not carried out to her satisfaction. That is why her nervousness around Rebecca was so difficult to figure out.
The balcony rail is hot under his hand. The day promises to be glorious. Lyle is already working in the garden. His white roses are beginning to unfurl. They will form a bower at the entrance to the marquee and decorate the outdoor altar. The wedding rehearsal takes place this evening and his parents will be married in four days’ time. Still no word from his aunt, not even a text.
Yesterday, when he mentioned visiting Ireland, his mother nodded dismissively and said, ‘We’ll discuss it when things have settled back to normal after the wedding.’
The look in her eyes quenched his excitement. When he was younger and noticed it, the look that told him she had gone somewhere else in her mind, he threw tantrums. Even when she lifted him in her arms and tried to soothe him, he sensed she was still outside his grasp. He found relief in the ferocity of his tantrums and would continue screaming until Alma–who could silence him with stories about ancient warriors with hurley sticks and hounds–appeared and carried him off.
‘What’s there to discuss?’ he asked. ‘I’ve wasted too many years already.’
‘Wasted?’ Her face flushed. ‘Is that how you see our life here?’
‘I didn’t say that. Trust you to twist it around. I only meant that if things had been different I would have known my relations from the time I was born.’