by Di Morrissey
‘I’m glad, Ben. Well, I’d better keep going – Sam’s busting for a walk. See you later.’
Ellie and Sam headed along the beach, Sam still a little tentative after being confined at home with his injury. In the distance, she saw a figure jogging towards them. After a few moments, the figure grew larger, then lifted an arm to wave to her.
‘Hey, Ellie!’
‘Dave, hi.’
She stopped as Dave, panting and flushed, reached her.
‘This is a nice surprise. Are you okay?’ he said, looking concerned. ‘Bad migraines can leave you feeling drained for days. My father gets them and he has to go straight to bed in a dark room.’
‘I’m okay now, thanks. I’m sorry to mess you around at lunch. Day off?’ she asked.
‘I try to do this every couple of days. I go to the gym in the mornings, but nothing beats running on the beach. Do you have time for a coffee? Bring the dog, we can sit outside. The café is open.’
He chatted cheerfully as they walked up the beach, telling Ellie about some friends of his who had visited recently and were thinking of investing in the area. As they passed the picnic area and crossed the road to the Beachside Café, she could hear Ben’s chainsaw in the distance.
Ellie sat down at an outside table while Dave went in and ordered two coffees, which he brought out a few minutes later. Handing one to Ellie, he sat back, pushing his sunglasses up on his head.
‘How come I haven’t seen you down here before this?’ he asked.
‘I generally go along the river and the other side to the beach, down from our house. This end is nice, but more for the serious surfers,’ said Ellie.
‘It can certainly be more dramatic than the river, when the wind comes up,’ he said. ‘Hey, I was sorry to hear that your newspaper got scooped by the radio station about the development rumours.’
Ellie smiled. ‘We’re not worried. As my grandfather said, we’ll wait till we have all the facts. Tell the true story. That’s what good newspapers do. I suppose you keep on top of money deals, investment opportunities?’ Ellie raised an eyebrow, and Dave didn’t miss her insinuation.
‘Yes, of course, we are always on the lookout for developments, projects to invest in and support, be it a farm or housing, or major infrastructure.’
‘Well, yes, I can see that you’d need to be across everything that’s going on in the area,’ said Ellie. ‘I hope the bank looks at the big picture too, and considers what will help the community as well as the investors.’
‘Naturally. Don’t forget that we’re a community bank, after all, Ellie,’ Dave said, and changed the subject. ‘So what’re you doing then? Working on any hot IT projects?’
‘I could be.’ Ellie grinned.
‘Like what, for example?’ Dave asked.
‘Like, say, a social networking app for the over fifties, alongside a dating app for the same age group,’ Ellie replied, saying the first thing that popped into her head. ‘Might call it “Boomer”. Maybe throw in a slick get fit–style app for those life-experienced individuals with bucks but no bang . . .’
‘What?’ Dave said, laughing. ‘Are you serious? All joking aside, if that’s what you’re working on, we should talk business!’
‘Dave, I’m joking. Sort of. I got the paper into the modern world, and what happened? We got all sorts of comments, some of them not very nice, including one very nasty troll.’
‘Really? That’s bad. Who or what are they hitting on?’
‘The mayor, for starters. The paper. The usual. There was another angry post this morning, actually. I took it down straight away.’ Ellie grimaced as she recalled the ugly words, almost identical to the last vicious warning to the mayor that she’d taken down once before.
‘Have you reported this to the cops? Though Sergeant Lyons might not be au fait with internet threats,’ said Dave.
‘They haven’t been that specific. Like I said, I pull the posts down as soon as I see them. If no one bites back, they’ll eventually lose interest,’ Ellie said, adding, ‘That’s what I’m hoping, anyway.’
‘Yeah, you’re probably right.’ They sipped their coffees in companionable silence for a moment, then Dave said casually, ‘Hey, I might go to Melbourne one weekend. Want to come?’
Ellie glanced across at him. ‘Oh, thanks, but no. I was there a short time ago. That was enough. Though it’s nice to catch up with friends.’
‘Sure is, which reminds me, there’s a big party coming up at the sailing club with all the movers and shakers in town. Would you like to come? Ronan O’Neill will be there, the guy I introduced you to at lunch –’
Ellie was already shaking her head. ‘No. I’m afraid not.’ She drew a deep breath. ‘I don’t mean to sound rude. It’s just, you know how these things are in small towns; the newspaper has to be objective, so I don’t want to upset my grandfather by appearing to take sides . . .’ She leaned down to pat Sam and catch her breath, sure that her excuse didn’t really sound convincing.
‘Oh, sorry, Ellie, I didn’t think of that. I don’t want to put you in an awkward position.’ Dave shrugged, but looked disappointed. ‘Meeting some of the businesspeople from the area has been fascinating – the original families running the big properties outside town, that is. It’s an intriguing insight into another world, which I gather has changed a lot over the past couple of decades. The stuffy old squatters’ rural lifestyle, posh as it was, has been upgraded by corporate movers and shakers. No farming drudgery for them, they’ve made their money from start-ups, the tech bubble, or cashed in on the horns of a bull market.’
‘The old families, hold-outs like the O’Neills, are still a hangover from the days of the squattocracy, though,’ said Ellie. ‘Entitled. Like overpaid footballers.’
‘Ouch.’ Dave winced. ‘Seriously, I agree in part. The first settlers operated under the Doctrine of Improvement, and they’ve been described as small-venture investors with mobs of sheep as their “capital”, who “squatted” on Aboriginal land until their claims to its economic use were recognised by officers of the Crown.’
‘What’s changed then, when rich people use legal loopholes and regulations to manoeuvre their way into taking land they’re not entitled to?’ said Ellie tightly.
‘You’re probably right. But as my father says, “If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em”.’
‘Is that what you’re doing?’ Ellie asked, trying to keep her voice even. ‘Why you’re in banking?’
Dave looked pained. ‘Actually, no. I did choose to work with a community bank for a good reason – to avoid the trap of banking with the big boys, doing as they do or you don’t get to climb the ladder. I might be ambitious, but I’m not prepared to walk over the little people.’ He chuckled. ‘Listen to me! That sounds condescending. I mean, I won’t walk over hardworking, everyday people. Like you and me.’ He reached over and touched her hand.
Ellie found she was letting out her breath. ‘That’s good to hear. Sorry for sounding aggressive. Just so you know, I don’t want anything to do with the O’Neill hierarchy.’
‘Fine. I won’t ask why. Except . . . does that include old Mrs O’Neill?’
‘I guess not. To be fair, I hardly know her,’ said Ellie.
‘No one does. Well, have we settled that then? Are we still friends?’ he asked disarmingly.
Ellie couldn’t help smiling. ‘Of course. Thanks for the coffee. My treat next time.’
*
She took Sam home and on the way she waved to the postman, who gave her a thumbs-up as he drove past her.
She filled Sam’s dish with fresh water, changed out of her walking shorts and then, acting on a hunch, she took out her phone, looked up the phone number she wanted and hit dial.
‘Hello?’ said Heather Lachlan.
‘Hello, my name is Ellie Conlan. You probably know my grandfather, P
atrick, who runs The Storm Harbour Chronicle?’
‘Yes, dear, of course, I know the paper, though I confess to not reading it often. I suppose I shouldn’t say that to you!’ Ellie could sense Heather smiling down the phone.
‘I’m actually writing an article about Kathryn O’Neill for the Chronicle. I was at your exhibition opening and gather that you and Kathryn O’Neill are old friends. I loved the Archibald portrait you did of her, by the way. Even if it was some time back.’
‘Thank you, dear. Well, it was a successful painting, that’s for sure, rather set me up. I always felt that it was one of the easiest works I’ve painted, actually, seeing as I know her face so well. We’ve been friends since we were young women, you know.’
‘Yes, and as Mrs O’Neill said in her speech at the gallery, she treasures your friendship. I’d love to talk to you about her as part of my research for the piece.
In fact,’ Ellie took a punt, ‘I was hoping to have another informal chat with Mrs O’Neill herself, and thought that, once we’ve spoken, you might be able to recommend me to her.’
‘Well, dear, your timing couldn’t be better,’ Heather said. ‘As part of Kathryn’s birthday celebrations, Ronan has commissioned me to do another portrait of her. She’s coming to sit for it in a day or two. Portrait painting can be quite an intimate experience, plenty of time for deep thoughts and discussion: is that the sort of thing you might be interested in?’
Ellie’s heart leaped. This was better than she could have hoped for. ‘That would be perfect. If you think Mrs O’Neill would be okay with that?’
‘I can’t see why she wouldn’t. I’ll ask her and let you know if there’s any problem.’
‘Wonderful, thank you,’ Ellie said. ‘If she agrees, may I come a little early to speak with you, for some background before the sitting?’
‘Please yourself, dear girl. If you don’t mind sitting around while I get paints and materials ready. Of course, we could have a cup of tea.’
‘Sounds lovely.’ Ellie paused. ‘Just one more thing. Mrs O’Neill’s minder that her grandson employs, Ms McLean, will she be dropping Mrs O’Neill at your studio?’
‘Oh, did you want to speak to Susan? She generally just drops Kathryn at the door when Kathryn visits. She seems to be a very busy woman.’
‘Actually, well, frankly, I’d rather not involve Susan. She is very protective . . .’ said Ellie cautiously, and waited.
Heather Lachlan sighed. ‘Oh, I find her obnoxious. Don’t know how Kathryn puts up with her. Don’t worry, we’ll keep it between ourselves.’
Feeling triumphant after the call, Ellie went to the letterbox to collect Patrick’s mail and to her surprise she found an envelope addressed to her. It was a card with a sweet dog who looked a bit like Sam on the front. Inside was a note from Mike.
How’re things going? Let me know when you’re coming back to town. I’ve had a bit of a win, so would be nice to celebrate. How’s the paper going? How are you? Best, Mike.
She phoned him straight away.
‘Hey, there. Thanks for the card. It was a nice surprise to get a real letter in the post! So what’s your win?’
‘Ah, I will explain at length over a long lunch. So how’re you?’
‘I’m good. There’s lots going on with the paper. I’m still monitoring its website and Facebook page, and we still have our troll, unfortunately.’ She told Mike about that morning’s ugly post. ‘Mostly things are going well, though,’ she went on. ‘I’m doing the research for my feature article, which I’m enjoying.’
Laughing, she told Mike about how the day before she’d showed Patrick some of the work she’d done on her article about Kathryn O’Neill. ‘Poppy emailed it back to me covered in comments and questions: “Expand this”, or, “Take this out!” and “Why did she say this?” Jon said they call it Poppy’s famous “blue pencil treatment”, harking back to the old days of subediting, apparently. Jon says he gets exactly the same sort of comments on his drafts.’ Ellie smiled to herself, remembering. Patrick had been proud of her, she could tell.
‘Anyway, enough about me,’ she said. ‘I’m so curious about your “win”. Can you give me a clue?’
‘Not yet! Actually it’s not that major. Just thought I’d like to share it with you in person, but I can tell you that I do have serious interest and some funding for a project, which is great. Now, what are your moves?’
‘Staying put for the moment. Poppy and the paper are all-consuming. But there’s always time to have a long lunch. Why don’t you come down here instead?’ she said suddenly. ‘You’ve never been here.’
‘Great idea! It’s a long weekend this weekend. Can you recommend somewhere nice to stay?’
‘Oh, we have plenty of room . . .’ Ellie began.
‘No, I don’t want to disrupt your grandad’s routine. Yours, on the other hand – I suggest you clear your diary!’
‘Oh, sure. It’s so full of exciting events.’ Ellie laughed. ‘I’m really looking forward to showing you around. And congrats on whatever your project is!’
‘I’m looking forward to seeing you, too. Let me know where I should stay.’
‘I know just the place – I’ll book it right now and send you the details.’
Ellie immediately called Lucy at the Garden Cottage.
‘Sure, thanks, Ellie, Mike will be one of our first guests – the guesthouse has only just opened. I’ll throw in a special big breakfast for him,’ said Lucy.
‘Thanks very much, Lucy. He’ll be down on Friday afternoon.’
When Patrick came in, Ellie announced, ‘Hey, Poppy, we’re going to have a visitor. My friend Mike is coming down this weekend. I booked him into Lucy and James’s guesthouse. But what say we have a dinner party while he’s here?’
‘Well, that’ll be nice. A little gathering sounds good, too. You’ll have to handle the food side of things; I don’t do much more than stews and toasted sandwiches these days.
What did you have in mind? Casual or sit-down? Haven’t done that in a while.’
‘It’s a bit cool for the barbie on the lawn. Let’s use Nana’s good china in the dining room,’ said Ellie. ‘And we’d better decide who we’re inviting.’
*
Ellie found that she was taking extra care with her hair and make-up to meet Mike down at the River Bar where he’d invited her for lunch, having arrived the night before.
It was hard to miss his tall figure leaning on the railing looking out over the river.
‘Hey, you!’ called Ellie as she walked along the boardwalk towards him.
He turned and spread his arms. ‘This is all gorgeous! Why haven’t I been here before?’ He hugged her. ‘Keeping this a secret, eh?’ Then he held her at arm’s length. ‘It agrees with you. You look happy, Ellie.’
She laughed and changed the subject. ‘How’s the cottage? Lucy and James looking after you?’
‘Almost too well – I really overdid breakfast. Let’s go for a walk before lunch. I want to see the waterfront here. Look at all these fishing boats! Are those crab traps?’
Ellie chuckled at his enthusiasm. ‘You bet. My grandfather has a mate who gets the freshest crayfish for us. They do a great cray bread roll and beer down here.’
‘Right. We’ll put that on the agenda. Cute houses, I s’pose they’re all holiday rentals?’ he said as they passed the row of cottages. ‘Well looked after. The whole town is, by the look of it.’
‘Yes, it’s a sweet place and it’s great having a river on one side and the sea on another.’ They headed towards the park at the end of the seawall and Ellie asked, ‘What’s new in the big smoke?’
‘Oh yes, the gossip. You might be pleased to hear that your “friend” Sophia seems to have bitten off more than she can chew. She’s struggling to maintain control and move things along, apparently. The firm lost a big contract.�
�� He grinned.
‘No surprises there. And I don’t care,’ said Ellie.
‘Really?’ Mike stopped and stared at her. ‘Yes, you do.’
‘No, I really don’t. I could never go back there now.’
‘Pleased to hear it. Plenty of other opportunities. When you’re ready.’
They turned into the park.
‘Over there is the track that leads to a little island,’ Ellie said, pointing. ‘It’s a beautiful walk, lots of birds and wildlife. There’s an old lighthouse on it. Are you still surfing? The Main Beach where the surfers go is just on the other side of the dunes.’
‘Yeah. I haven’t had much time lately, though. Like you say, it must be amazing to have a beach on your doorstep. You could take up fishing.’
They circled the park and then Mike headed towards a row of heritage buildings.
‘These’re empty? What a waste.’
‘They’re vacant, but a lot of buildings in town have been restored; the whalers’ bluestone cottages, the old pub and boarding houses, oh, and the council chambers. They are listed with the National Trust. The Historical Society’s in an old stone heritage house, and a lot of private homes have been renovated in keeping with the original building,’ said Ellie. ‘Are you interested in heritage places? I didn’t know that.’
They turned back towards the path to the restaurant.
‘You don’t know half my secret passions.’ He grinned. ‘I’ll explain over lunch.’
*
The white wine was crisp and light and local. ‘Well, it’s from forty kilometres away,’ Ellie said. The salad was crunchy and fresh, the crayfish delicate and sweet, complemented by a tangy dressing and crusty, warm, just-baked bread.
‘Do you eat like this all the time down here? It’s seriously good food,’ said Mike.
‘We try to eat local as much as possible. Lots of people grow stuff and the markets are wonderful. A friend of Poppy’s, Roly – he’s such a character, you’ll enjoy meeting him – brings us fresh fish from his Italian neighbour and amazing lean beef from a friend’s herd of lowline cattle.’