by Helene Young
Almost . . .
Darcy Fletcher had been a constant companion in his life. He still remembered the day her family arrived in Banksia Cove. The beginning of the year had brought a new teacher to the local school. The Fletchers had arrived in a car too posh for a teacher. The woman and small girl who had emerged from the air-conditioning into the dusty main street were definitely too well dressed for Banksia Cove. Noah had been attempting to balance on a skateboard outside the post office waiting for his mother to finish running her errands. The little girl with her solemn eyes and wavy toffee-coloured hair stopped in front of him. She looked about the same age as his little sister, Grace.
‘G’day,’ he said.
Her smile was shy and she didn’t answer.
‘What’s your name? I’m Noah.’
She’d giggled then and stuck her thumb in her mouth before whirling to follow her mother inside. As the door closed, the mischievous smile she cast his way stole his heart with a rush, the skateboard forgotten.
Twenty-eight years later Darcy still evoked a strong reaction in him, but she didn’t need his protection or his love. She’d made that very clear when she was seventeen. She’d made her choice and he could live with that. Just. But what if she knew the whole story?
His mobile rang and he hit the button on the control column. ‘Sergeant Moreton, Banksia Cove Police.’
‘Noah, it’s Rosie. I think you need to get out to the Larsens’ place. There’s trouble brewing.’
‘Right, I’m on my way.’
The Larsens were a large extended family that had lived in the district for many generations. The family land had been carved up so many times to make room for each new wave of offspring that none of the farms were really viable anymore. There was always some sort of dispute going on, but since Rosie’s divorced daughter, Merle, re-married into the family he now had a better insight into the dysfunctional nature of the whole clan.
He’d need all his dispute resolution skills at ten a.m. on a Saturday morning. He did a U-turn in the main street. Fish R Biting was still closed. Further along past the post office a knot of people gathered on the footpath outside the IGA, huddling in their sweaters and coats. They waved in unison as he cruised past. Roger was holding court. The gossip about the dramatic rescue would have reached titanic proportions by now. The windows on the hairdressing salon were steamy from the warmth inside. The scattering of other shops were all open for business. The coffee shop had a phalanx of shiny road cycles parked outside. It was a popular stop off for weekend warriors out for an early ride. He occasionally joined a group himself. The median strip of grass and gardens up the middle of Banksia Cove added a charm that had visitors cruising through on their way to 1770 further up the coast pulling over for a coffee and a stroll. The Visitor Centre’s bright blue sign waved in the soft breeze. To the right the water looked like liquid sunshine as its mirror finish reflected the hulls of half-a-dozen boats of various sizes bobbing at anchor. Further around the cove, the jetty at the old whaling station stood out, even though the buildings behind it faded into the trees.
Noah smiled fondly. No crime wave, no rapes or murder, no danger. All was well in his world.
5
The hospital room was quiet and the rescued yachtsman lay back against the pillows with his eyes closed, but he was listening to every sound. The queasy roll in his stomach wouldn’t settle. He knew he should be afraid, that he had to be on guard. He knew his name wasn’t Tyrone Hillsmith, but he couldn’t remember anything before coming to in the arms of a woman while being pulled through the water by a speeding boat. His first thought had been that maybe he was being tortured and perhaps he deserved it.
He remembered the voices of his rescuers as they stripped his wet-weather gear off him. Barely conscious, he was aware that his head hurt, his body ached and his lungs were awash. He now knew the man from the boat was the local policeman. Noah. It seemed appropriate that a man by that name had rescued him from the water. But the cop hadn’t mentioned a woman, only a Darcy and a Roger.
His thoughts drifted back to the mystery woman and the warmth of her breath as she’d leant over him, fingers touching, testing, like a lover’s caress. He felt his body react and moved his thoughts on.
The name Phoenix meant nothing to him. He looked at his hands. Callouses on his fingers and the fleshy part of his palms suggested hard work or at least time spent hauling ropes. In the bathroom mirror this morning he saw he was deeply suntanned, the lines around his eyes settled into white creases. There was silver in his dark hair, uncertainty in his brown eyes. Yet his voice was cultured, educated. He understood the medical discussion around him. What was he? A doctor? He wore no wedding ring yet his thumb unerringly touched a callous at the base of his ring finger. At some time he was sure he’d worn a band. His nails were short, clipped. Two were ripped but probably from battling to survive the storm.
He crossed his arms over his chest, his muscles aching rather than screaming. His head still pounded and he didn’t need to touch the bruising on his temple to know why. Would his memory return? Would someone claim him? A brother, a father, a mother? Did he have a lover, a child?
The frustration rose up, choking him, and he was embarrassed to feel the prickle of tears. He fought them off. He felt sure he wasn’t the kind of man to cry. The phone beside his bed rang.
He hesitated before answering. ‘Hello?’
‘Oh, hi. Are you the guy from the yacht?’
He recognised the lilt of the voice, the husky timbre. His rescuer.
‘I am,’ he replied, his voice croaky.
‘Oh, that’s great. I helped bring you ashore. I’m glad you’re okay.’
‘Then I owe you my life. Thank you.’
‘Oh no, nothing that dramatic,’ she laughed, but he heard a catch in her voice.
‘It’s not dramatic. Without you I’d be floating in the currents. Thank you.’
‘Hey, all part of the Banksia Cove service.’
‘Hell of a way to welcome visitors, then.’
‘We don’t do it for everyone. So how’re you feeling? I’m sorry we couldn’t stop your vessel foundering. You must be sad to lose her.’
‘Sad?’ He almost laughed. ‘I can’t remember her. Maybe when I do I’ll mourn her.’
‘Nothing? You can’t remember anything?’
‘I can remember you hauling me from the water and most things since. Before that? Nothing.’
‘Oh, hell. That’s hard. Don’t they have details from AMSA, the people who picked up your beacon?’
‘A name. Tyrone Hillsmith.’ It sounded unfamiliar on his tongue.
‘Do you feel like a Tyrone?’
‘No, no I don’t.’
‘Was there . . .?’ She hesitated. ‘Were you alone?’
‘I don’t honestly know.’ Uncertainty slammed home again, guilt that he may have abandoned someone. His throat tightened along with his voice.
‘You had a personal EPIRB as well. That’s how we found you. There were no other contacts on the rescue boat’s tracker.’
‘Right.’ He was silent. ‘It would be good to know for sure.’
‘It would, but I’m glad you’re okay. I’ve got to go now. I’ll check up on you later.’
‘Your name – what’s your name?’
‘Darcy.’
He heard the smile in her voice.
‘My father wanted a son.’
‘Darcy. It’s a good name.’
‘Thanks. I’ll try to come to visit, but work’s a little crazy right now. Take care.’
And she was gone, although he kept the receiver pressed to his ear a moment longer. ‘Darcy.’ A strong name for a strong woman. He felt a surge of old grief. A strong woman who’d died . . . But there was no context for the fleeting thought in his memory. The urge to move, to walk, was impossible to ignore and he threw the cover off, swung his legs over the side and stood on the cool lino tiles. The room swayed as though he had sea legs. Maybe he’d been afl
oat awhile. It would explain his lean body, toned muscles and the length of his hair. The hospital gown didn’t reach his knees and he clutched the back where it gaped open. He could hardly walk the corridors like this.
He shuffled to the door of the room. The nurses’ station was a short distance down the corridor. He didn’t want to cause a fuss, but he needed to walk, to burn off some of the restless frustration. Surely they’d have something else he could wear?
He had no money, no wallet, so it wasn’t even possible to buy something. The nurse with the cute smile noticed him and hurried over.
‘You okay?’
‘I need to walk, get out.’ He knew he sounded strained.
‘Sure. I’ll get you another hospital gown to put over the top. No shoes, though, I’m sorry.’
‘That’s okay.’
She grinned and passed him another gown. ‘Here you go. Healing Garden’s inside the front gates, but take it easy, hey? You’re still under observation. I’ll come get you in half an hour. ‘
‘Thanks. I appreciate it.’
‘You’re right. You’re something of a celebrity here. Not every day we get a tall, dark, handsome stranger who doesn’t know his name.’ Her hips swayed as she walked away, but he felt nothing, no attraction.
The garden was a haven in the sterile hospital. Lanky lilli pillis shaded raised beds full of pruned shrubs. A wall covered in a creeper whose profuse orange flowers filled the air with a heady perfume stretched down one side. He stepped onto the grass and revelled in the spongy softness beneath his feet. It felt familiar but not from recent memory, a forgotten pleasure. He avoided several clusters of people; he was too restless to sit. It felt good to stretch his muscles, breathe in the air and turn his face to the sun. The breeze drifted in from the southeast. He didn’t question how he knew the direction. Some things were just there.
For half an hour he prowled the perimeter, conscious of other people’s curious looks. Questions raised more questions that he couldn’t answer. He didn’t need it. The gate into the garden clanged and he spun, half crouched, his hand reaching to his hip. What the hell? It was the nurse and he forced himself to straighten, hoping no one had noticed him. Reaching for a weapon? Maybe he’d watched too many movies. He flexed the fingers on his right hand. No, there was definitely the memory of a gun there.
The nurse approached, her eyes running up and down him.
He smiled. ‘It’s okay, I’ll come quietly.’
‘Oh, you’re funny. I’d like to see you try and resist me.’ Her eyes sparkled. ‘It’s okay, love, I’m engaged to be married. Even you can’t turn my head.’
‘Congratulations. When’s the big day?’
‘Easter, next year.’
‘Nice. A ring?’
‘Yeah, but I don’t wear it at work.’ She rolled her hand over.
‘Of course.’ Another moment in time rose in his memory. A ruby ring? A candlelit dinner? He couldn’t see the other person . . . He groaned.
‘You okay?’ She held his arm and he nodded as she ushered him through the door.
‘Yeah, just wish I could remember things.’
‘You will. It will come with time. Now, I hope you don’t mind, but I rang the CWA for some clothes. Someone’s dropping them by soon. They’ll be new.’
‘Thanks, that’s very kind of you.’
‘Can’t have you walking around in a nightgown. With those legs, you’ll be driving the mothers mad.’ With a chuckle she left him by his bed and sashayed out. He felt melancholy, but maybe that was understandable. He stood looking out the window towards one of the other buildings and flexed his right hand. He could hardly ask Noah if he could handle his service revolver to see if it evoked any more memories, but he sensed it might.
He climbed back into bed and picked up the newspaper. Nothing but doom and gloom. Half an hour later he was snoozing with the paper slack in his hands when he heard a small cough.
An attractive woman in her fifties, dressed head to toe in white, stood in front of him with an armful of clothes.
‘Hello, I’m Beverley. From the CWA. Lovely to meet you.’ He shook her outstretched hand.
‘Hi, Beverley. They tell me I’m Tyrone.’
‘Tyrone, what a lovely Irish name. It suits you.’
‘Thanks, I think.’
‘Here you are. I brought two different sizes of everything. There are work trousers, shorts and four shirts. Sorry about the fluorescent patches, but it’s standard mine issue. We get a lot donated when people change jobs. Take what you like and the nurses will see the rest is returned to the CWA.’
‘CWA?’
‘Country Women’s Association. We’re Australia-wide. Helping people through tough times. I think you qualify, don’t you?’
‘Tough times? Maybe. Thanks for this. I appreciate it.’
She smiled at him and it warmed her face
‘The least we can do for you. It was my daughter who helped rescue you last night. She’s very capable.’
‘Your daughter? Really?’
‘Yes, Darcy.’
‘Well, I wouldn’t be here without her. She’s an amazing woman.’
The yachtsman wondered just how old Darcy was. She’d sounded mature on the phone, but the way Beverley spoke her daughter could be a teenager. He didn’t know many teenagers who would have done what Darcy did last night.
‘She’s a fighter, that girl of yours.’ He smiled and her face lit up, a proud mother.
‘She is. Always has been. She lost a friend sixteen years ago in a boating accident. His name was Grant. May I?’ She gestured at the visitor’s chair.
‘Of course. Please.’
‘He was sweet on Darcy, but her father and I didn’t approve. They’d gone sailing on the river, and then decided to venture out into the ocean, for some stupid reason. It was a horrible day at the end of March; an ex-cyclone had built monstrous seas. No one should have been out on the water. Noah was in the Volunteer Marine Rescue and took their distress call. He went after them in the old rescue boat with Roger. It was touch and go. They managed to get Darcy off, but they couldn’t save Grant. They searched for hours. Darcy was the one who finally found him several days later washed up on a beach.’
The yachtsman didn’t interrupt, didn’t show that something was stirring in his memory as she talked on.
‘I don’t know why I’m telling you this; maybe because I think she’s incredibly brave to go out there and volunteer again. It must have hurt her so much. I thought we’d lost her in the aftermath of Grant’s death. She went wild, completely out of control. You’d never know it now. I’m very proud of my girl. She’s my greatest achievement.’
She stood, the chair legs scraping across the tiles.
‘You should be proud of her. It was tough out there last night. And thanks for the clothes and the chat.’ He didn’t know what else to say. There was more to the story but he didn’t want to know. Too much of a burden right now. The door to his memory had slammed shut again.
‘My pleasure. It’s the least we can do. Take care.’ She left with a wave of her hand.
The room was silent in her wake. Wonder how Darcy would feel if she knew her mother told complete strangers about her teenager trauma? He didn’t think he’d have done that to his daughter.
Daughter? The word stirred something in him. It was too strong to be imaginary. So he had a daughter, a girl of his own. How old was she? A teenager, probably, if the touches of grey in his hair were anything to go by.
The feeling of melancholy hardened into anger. Were they estranged? The blast of white-hot rage flashed before his eyes, blinding him. No. Something bad had happened to his daughter, something he needed to avenge, to put right.
He ground his hands into his eyes and his shoulders slumped. What was it? Please god let him remember.
6
Darcy woke feeling bleary eyed. She’d sat up late last night watching Salmon Fishing in the Yemen for the umpteenth time. She’d resisted the te
mptation to drop by the hospital after work. It had been too late. She was sure to run into Noah at the markets this morning. He considered attending them a vital part of his strategy in community policing.
She had a quick shower then rifled through her wardrobe, ignoring the designer clothes she’d worn in Sydney, before choosing a favourite pair of three quarter length cargo pants and a softly draping shirt. The chill in the morning had her reaching for a loose cardigan she tied over her shoulders. She ran her fingers through her hair, smoothed tinted sunscreen on her face, added mascara to her long lashes and finished with a swipe of lip gloss.
‘Done.’ She blew a kiss at Gypsy. ‘See you guys in a couple of hours.’
On the drive into Bundaberg by the back roads she left the windows down, enjoying the smell of fertiliser, ploughed earth and wet bitumen. Last night’s rain hadn’t woken her, but it had raised the dogs. She’d heard them bark around two a.m and then lain in bed listening to the gentle drumming on the roof.
She swung past the newsagency and grabbed a copy of the Sunday Mail. Her yachtsman was front-page news. She skimmed down the story. Talk about making something out of nothing. They’d made him sound sinister and a grainy photo made him impossible to identify. The quote from Noah was typically diplomatic. It hadn’t stopped the journalist speculating about criminal activities.
Maybe she should go and say hi to the yachtsmen, take him something from the markets. Hospital food might just do what the ocean couldn’t.
It still took almost an hour to do the rounds of the market, stopping to chat with friends and acquaintances. Everyone had an opinion on the sailor. Poor bloke, Darcy thought. He’ll be inundated with curious visitors soon. When they weren’t talking about the rescue they were asking about Whale Song. Most of them seemed to have already made the drive to check out the site and since she’d used local tradesmen there weren’t too many secrets about the furnishings or the design. Opinion was divided on the feasibility of whale watching tours, but there were plenty of volunteers to show visitors around the remaining buildings and share the district’s whaling history.