Before the Storm

by Di Morrissey

  Ellie stood at a distance and waited until Roly slowly lifted the bow from the strings, his head down, eyes closed. She walked quietly towards him and he looked up and saw her. He leaned back and lifted his bow in a salute.

  ‘Roly. That was beautiful! But so sad-sounding. May I come over?’

  ‘Of course.’ He stood, carefully placing the cello in its case.

  ‘That was a beautiful lament, I must say. And in a beautiful setting.’

  ‘Yes, the tranquillity here is what first attracted me to this place. Social interaction is available when required, but not overbearing. People are here because they truly want to be. They respect the simple and modest attractions of peace, neighbourliness, and a simple lifestyle with fresh air, quietude, and nature’s charm and health.’

  ‘Why did you move here, Roly?’ asked Ellie gently, her curiosity piqued again. ‘Just for the fishing?’

  Roly gave her an amused glance. ‘You are becoming quite the probing journalist! Well, since you ask . . .’

  They both sat down and Roly looked thoughtful.

  ‘Many years ago, I called in here overnight and stayed a day or so for a case I was working on. There had been an incident in which a fishing boat had washed onto the rocks with no one onboard; the owner was missing. It was seemingly a tragic accident. But the family refused to believe it, as their relative was too skilled a skipper. Then his body was found, and gradually some forensic evidence came to light that suggested he had not been alone out on the water. Someone had hidden onboard, murdered him, and then removed the body from the boat. So, as it’s not uncommon for a barrister to visit a crime scene, I came down here to see for myself. In the course of my early morning stroll I walked through the Botanic Gardens and along here.’ Roly leaned back and looked around. ‘I met a fisherman who lived here, and I asked him how he liked it. And he told me he’d never been happier. He said none of his kids could understand why he was here, as he’d previously run a big company and never fished in his life.’ Roly chuckled. ‘I filed it away. Y’know, my kids don’t understand why I’m here either.’

  ‘Did you always have a secret plan to one day just sit in a tinny and fish? Never wanted a yacht, or a flashy waterfront apartment?’ asked Ellie.

  ‘I made enough money to buy one, I s’pose. My father always expected me to be a barrister and do well. Marry well. It’s terrible, the expectations people put on children.’

  For the first time since she’d known the ebullient barrister, Ellie sensed a yearning or wistfulness in him. ‘What did you really want to do, Roly?’

  ‘Be in an orchestra,’ said Roly immediately. ‘And travel, and play in the world’s great concert halls.’

  Ellie stared at the man whose presence could be intimidating, who had a fierce and famous reputation in the legal world, and who had probably never told anyone of his private dream.

  ‘I can tell. Your playing comes from your heart.’

  ‘Some of my neighbours might not appreciate it, which is why I enjoy playing with the trees and the river as an audience. Oh, and anyone who happens by.’ He straightened up, looking a trifle embarrassed. ‘That’s why I won’t be leaving my pleasant green field here to move into some suburban cement box any time soon.’

  ‘Fair enough too, Roly,’ said Ellie. ‘I wouldn’t want to give up this slice of paradise either.’

  *

  Ellie was walking back through the caravan park when she noticed a man standing still, looking around. Her attention was caught by the way he was dressed and because he had his back to the river. She edged towards him, and when he glanced at her, she smiled and asked, ‘Are you one of the residents here?’

  He looked startled and shook his head. ‘No. Not at all.’ He waved an arm. ‘Do I look like I live in a caravan park?’

  Ellie glanced at his tailored slacks, the crocodile logo on his shirt, the expensive loafers and smart blazer.

  ‘Nope. You definitely look like a visitor,’ she said politely. ‘Are you from the media?’ she added innocently. ‘Or the council?’

  ‘I’m an architect. Down from Melbourne. I’m doing some work for a client.’

  ‘Ah. Would the work have anything to do with this caravan park?’ asked Ellie lightly.

  He turned to her. ‘Why would you ask that?’ he said. ‘And you are . . .?’

  ‘Estelle Conlan,’ she said. ‘I’m an IT project manager. From Melbourne.’

  ‘I see. Here on a holiday?’

  ‘Seeing friends here.’

  ‘If you want to build a holiday home, give me a call,’ he said, then pulled out a leather business-card holder and handed her a card.

  Ellie looked at it. ‘This is a very big firm to be doing business in a small town like this one.’

  ‘Money is as good in a small town as the big city,’ he shrugged.

  ‘Of course. You must be good,’ Ellie said.

  ‘Exactly.’

  As she tucked his card away she asked, ‘Have you met anyone who lives in the park? There’re some very interesting people here.’

  ‘I don’t think I need to know them, thanks. I don’t do caravans. I’d be renting a nice townhouse with river views if I was staying here,’ the man said archly.

  ‘I don’t think they “do” townhouses in Storm Harbour,’ said Ellie airily. She waited for a reply, but he just looked at her with a raised eyebrow and a somewhat dismissive expression.

  ‘Enjoy your stay, Estelle.’ He strolled away towards the car park.

  *

  Only a couple of days had passed since their lunch with the mayor, so Ellie was surprised to see her car pull up outside the house when she and her grandfather were sitting on the lawn, basking in the afternoon sun.

  ‘Meredith, this is unexpected, but it’s lovely to see you. Come and enjoy the last rays,’ Patrick called out.

  ‘Thanks, Patrick. Hi, Ellie,’ Meredith said as she closed the car door and walked over to them. ‘I should have called first, I suppose, but I just wanted to see a couple of friendly faces.’

  ‘Are you all right, Meredith?’ Ellie asked, standing up to bring over another cane chair.

  ‘Oh, yes, I’m fine really, but this business with the potential development is getting me down. It’s hard to know who’s telling the truth. Certainly no one is giving me the full picture,’ she said, sitting down next to Ellie.

  ‘You know you can always trust us, Meredith,’ Patrick said, sounding serious. ‘Anything you say here is off the record,’ he added. ‘First, though, can I get you a drink? Tea, wine?’

  ‘I’d love a wine, thank you.’

  Ellie jumped up. ‘I’ll get it, Poppy.’

  As she walked back out with a tray of glasses, a bottle of wine and a plate of cheese and biscuits, Ellie asked, ‘So what is happening?’

  ‘I wish I knew for sure.’ Meredith sighed. ‘What I am fairly certain about is that whoever is involved in this is trying to go around me. Tell me nothing, show me nothing, employ delaying tactics. I sense there’s been a few secret meetings in a local bar where a couple of the councillor chaps go for drinks on Friday nights.’

  ‘And you’re never invited,’ said Ellie. ‘You get cliques like that in all organisations, I guess. Do you know much about them?’

  ‘Oh, they’re like a bunch of silly schoolboys. They even have a name for themselves – The Pineapple Club.’

  Ellie snorted. ‘What a stupid name,’ she said.

  ‘Actually, they’ve been around a while. One of the secretaries told me about them years ago when I was looking for one of them. They leave early on a Friday afternoon. They consider themselves a “golden circle”, so, as that’s the name of the famous pineapple cannery in Queensland, they became The Pineapple Club. I wouldn’t want to be included anyway, but I am concerned there might be some connivance going on as a couple of the council manager
s and directors are in the club.’

  ‘So who’s on your side?’ asked Ellie. ‘Other than truth, justice and a fair go?’

  ‘Thanks, Ellie, for that vote of confidence,’ Meredith chuckled. ‘There are plenty of good people in council, don’t get me wrong. But once this group knew I couldn’t be bought off, I became rather isolated. If it wasn’t for my eagle-eyed assistant, a few shifty things might have slipped past me.’

  ‘Good for you,’ said Patrick. He stood up and handed around the cheese and biscuits.

  Meredith took a biscuit and sipped her wine, then said, ‘Thanks, Patrick. Frankly, I just can’t believe these rumours might really be about the Botanic Gardens land. Apart from whether that would even be possible, legally speaking, why that land? There are other blocks that are much larger. A bit further out, one near the golf course, like you mentioned the other day, Patrick, and the other oceanfront but set back a little up on a hill. It’d be damned windy, but has spectacular views.’

  ‘Seals, salt and sea erosion might be factors against those,’ said Patrick drily. ‘In comparison even a small parcel of riverfront in town is prime real estate.’

  ‘There was a smug architect cruising around the caravan park when I was there,’ said Ellie, suddenly remembering.

  ‘Are you sure that’s who it was?’ asked Patrick.

  ‘Yes. We had a bit of an exchange; he came across as such a snob. But he alluded to how nice it would be to have townhouses with a riverfront view in town.’

  ‘Curiouser and curiouser,’ said Patrick. ‘Well, you’d better do some digging into that Pineapple Club, Meredith.’

  ‘Would Kathryn O’Neill tell either of you anything if you had her on her own?’ asked Ellie thoughtfully. ‘Surely she wouldn’t agree to the Botanic Gardens land being developed, given the Gardens are supposed to be so close to her heart. Would she?’

  Meredith frowned. ‘Depends if she knows about it. My feeling is she’d stop it in a heartbeat if she thought something might happen to it.’

  ‘The family don’t need the money,’ added Patrick.

  ‘Rich people, especially the younger generations, always need more money,’ said Ellie. ‘They’re the generation who either spends it, sinks it, or tries to triple it.’

  ‘Well, I think you’re probably right then, Meredith. If it is the Gardens land, Kathryn likely doesn’t know, and has possibly been kept in the dark on purpose,’ said Patrick.

  Meredith shook her head frustratedly. ‘It’s all supposition at this stage, so let’s keep quiet until we know more,’ she said. ‘It’s still possible we’re jumping at shadows. But I’ll start asking hard questions. If I know that the Chronicle will give an objective account of whatever happens, Patrick, that would be helpful.’

  ‘Well, of course we will. That’s precisely what the Chronicle is for!’ said Patrick firmly, his eyes flashing.

  ‘Look out, Ellie,’ said Meredith, smiling. ‘He’s got the bit between his teeth.’

  Patrick grinned, but got straight back to business. ‘These things always leave a paper trail. Can your assistant look into it?’ he asked Meredith, who simply shrugged.

  ‘Don’t get your hopes up, Patrick: as I said, none of this is official yet. It could just be the boys’ club chatting over drinks. And for anything historical about the Gardens, well, when we went paperless, boxes and boxes of files were dumped, if you can believe it. Some were supposedly stored, but I wouldn’t trust them on that. I wasn’t able to lay hands on anything.’

  ‘Bloody modernisation,’ sniffed Patrick.

  ‘C’mon, Poppy, it’s not all bad as long as every change and upgrade is well managed,’ Ellie said. ‘Everything is supposed to be computerised. It’s actually much safer that way.’

  ‘Okay. I shall defer to your expertise, Ellie, dear. I must admit, what you’ve done so far with our computer systems has been excellent.’

  Ellie looked from her grandfather to Meredith and asked, ‘What’s the next move, then?’

  ‘Well, we can’t do anything till we have a few facts. If this is what we suspect it is, it won’t be long before more rumours and leaks start,’ Patrick said, then paused, thinking. ‘We have to start at the beginning. We have to speak to Kathryn O’Neill.’

  ‘I’m afraid I might have blown that,’ said Ellie. ‘And good luck separating her from that watchdog Susan.’

  ‘Why don’t you front Seamus O’Neill directly, Patrick?’ said Meredith. ‘Or Ronan?’

  ‘Hmmm, yes, perhaps.’ Patrick turned to Ellie. ‘Didn’t you know Ronan when you lived here, Ellie? Maybe you could have an informal chat with him.’

  ‘No,’ said Ellie quickly. ‘I mean, it was Ben I knew, and only a little bit. Ronan went to school in the city, I think. I didn’t know him at all. Plus, I think this is too important an issue to trust to an amateur like me. I might accidentally set alarm bells ringing.’

  The mayor and her grandfather looking a bit startled at this overreaction and Ellie felt herself blushing. ‘Can I pour anyone another drink?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m fine, thanks, Ellie,’ Meredith said. ‘In any case, I agree that Mrs O’Neill is the key. If we can speak to her first, that might be the easiest way to find the answers we’re looking for.’

  ‘And if she won’t talk to us, then perhaps we can build a story around when she first received the land.’ Patrick rubbed his hand across his face. ‘Going back to the histori­cal details can sometimes be a good starting point.’

  ‘Maybe, Ellie, you could put some posts on the paper’s new Facebook page, asking for information about the Botanic Gardens, that sort of thing?’ suggested Meredith.

  Ellie took a large gulp of her wine. ‘Certainly. But you do the schmoozing, Poppy.’ She finished her drink and clutched hold of the glass. ‘I’ll leave you both to it. I’ll just go in and see to Sammy’s dinner. Nice to see you, Meredith.’

  Ellie went quickly inside, but from the corner of her eye she noticed that Meredith and Patrick exchanged a puzzled look.

  *

  The Chronicle website and Facebook page were up and running, and already getting some attention. For the home page, Ellie had chosen some scenic shots of the town and river, some from the old seafaring days, and a montage of early issues of the Chronicle from the turn of the previous century. She also included a welcome message from Patrick as the third and current owner of the paper.

  Ellie published brief profiles of the founder and the first editors, and Jon took a photo of Patrick to go with the paragraphs she’d written about him.

  ‘I’m pleased you’ve showcased Patrick,’ Maggie said as she scrolled through the website. ‘He saved the paper when the last owner had lost interest and money, and Patrick breathed new life into it.’

  ‘Tommy at The Shed said that people in town think of Poppy as a legend, which is lovely to hear.’ Ellie smiled. ‘But they probably don’t realise just how much time and effort he put into the paper when he first bought it, and still does, of course,’ she said.

  Maggie nodded, then clicked on another page and started reading.

  ‘Now,’ Ellie said, looking from Maggie to Jon. ‘We need to post on Facebook a couple of times a day, linking to stories in the upcoming issue, reactions, photos and videos too, if possible. We can write some content in advance and then schedule the updates. We can add things live if they come in as breaking news, and put up a daily post. As the site is public, we need to monitor comments.’

  ‘And take down the bad ones,’ said Jon.

  ‘Let’s hope there’re not many of those!’ said Maggie. ‘I’ll be interested to see what tips and ideas we get that we can follow up on and turn into stories for the paper. Oh, and by the way, we got an invitation to an exhibition opening at the Regional Gallery next week,’ she added. ‘It’s for a local artist who does wonderful portraits, but this show’s a bit different; it’s
an exhibition of her flower paintings, apparently. It’s a fundraiser for the gallery.’

  ‘Do you know much about her work?’ Ellie asked.

  ‘Heather was hung in the Archibald Prize portrait exhibition some years back, which is a barometer of how highly she’s regarded. I know some artists get a one-off in the Archibald and are never heard of again, but Heather has garnered a lot of respect – and commissions, as a result – over the years. This flower stuff she’s doing is new,’ explained Maggie.

  ‘I seem to recall that the gallery here is very good. My mother is a supporter,’ said Ellie.

  ‘What’s happening at the gallery?’ asked Patrick as he joined them.

  ‘An art show by Heather Lachlan, but what I was getting to is that it’s being opened by Kathryn O’Neill,’ said Maggie, handing him the invitation and a press release. ‘It was Kathryn who Heather painted for the Archibald Prize.’

  ‘Mmm. Botanical works aren’t my usual taste in art, but this might be interesting. Ellie, you’ll have to come along,’ said Patrick. ‘This could be a chance to have another try with Kathryn. See what she knows about any family plan for a development. You need more for the profile we’re doing, anyway.’

  ‘We have a little time until her birthday,’ said Maggie.

  ‘To be brutally frank, Mags, when your subject

  is about to turn ninety-five, having the story ready to go is sensible,’ said Patrick.

  ‘Oh, I’ve done my share of obits for people who still haven’t kicked the bucket,’ said Jon.

  Ellie shrugged. ‘It sounds like a long shot to me. Lots of people will want to chat to her, have their photo taken with her. I hope the family isn’t there, or that Susan, her PA.’ Ellie pulled a face.

  ‘You called the PA to try to make an appointment for a follow-up interview, didn’t you?’ Patrick asked.

  ‘Yes, I’ve rung a few times, and when Susan finally called me back she was polite but a little frosty. Said Mrs O’Neill is too busy. Which is a nice way of saying, “Never. Over my dead body.”’