by Helene Young
‘That’s good. He needs fattening up.’
‘He works so hard. Guess he can’t remember to feed himself as well.’
‘You give him a big smoochy kiss from his Aunty Rosie.’ The older woman’s dark eyes danced and she chuckled at her own joke.
‘You can do that yourself next time you see him, Aunty,’ Darcy retorted. ‘We’re not on smoochy kissing terms.’
‘More’s the pity. I’m finished. I’ll see you Tuesday, love.’
‘Yeah, night, Rosie.’
As she drove home Darcy remembered how Rosie had adopted her one cold afternoon outside what used to be the BCC supermarket in the main street. Darcy had been waiting patiently for her mum to reappear, swinging her legs in their canary yellow tights with her hands tucked tight under her bottom. The cold had seeped into her chest and she was sniffling.
Rosie had plonked herself down on the bench and rested her shopping bags at her feet. ‘Hey, love, you look a bit nippy,’ she’d said. ‘Put this on.’ She’d rummaged through a stripy bag and produced a rainbow-coloured knitted poncho. It smelt of woodsmoke, but it warmed her instantly. ‘Better, eh? I’m Rosie and you’re little Miss Darcy, the teacher’s girl. I remember your dad comin’ here to play footy a few years back. Before you were born, I reckon. You warmin’ up now, eh? ’
Darcy had nodded, struck dumb by the kindness in the dark-brown eyes looking down at her. She’d never sat so close to someone who wasn’t white skinned.
‘So what’s your totem, eh? Mine’s a whale, a big old whale like used to sing around here before they hunted them. You’d be somethin’ pretty, I reckon. Maybe even a goanna.’
‘Goanna?’ Darcy was a little scared. She’d seen a goanna run up a tree once.
‘Maybe? Maybe something like a waterlily that grows in that pond behind Ruby’s place.’
The doors of the supermarket had swung open and Beverley sailed through, her arms full. She’d stopped dead and Darcy could still remember the look of horror on her mother’s face before the polite mask was drawn down.
‘How do you do?’ she intoned as she approached the bench. ‘I’m Mrs Fletcher. Thank you for talking to my daughter. Darcy, give the nice lady back her . . . shawl. Time to go.’
‘No, she’s right, love. She can keep that. I don’t need it no more and she’ll get a cold if you’re not careful.’
‘No, thank you.’ Beverley was firm. ‘Darcy.’ The tone was imperious, but something in the dark face beside Darcy made her clutch the poncho tighter and she smiled at her new friend.
‘Darcy. Come on.’ Beverley turned to walk towards the car, certain her obedient daughter would follow.
‘Thank you,’ Darcy whispered to Rosie.
‘You and me friends, see. It’s what friends do.’ With that Rosie had heaved herself to her feet, gathered her bags and walked up the street humming.
Beverley had tried to wrestle the garment from Darcy’s clutches, but in the interests of not creating a scene had finally given in. It still lived in Darcy’s bottom drawer, a reminder of a simpler time.
The friendship between Darcy and Rosie was more like that of sisters, despite the age difference. Rosie’s childlike innocence was at odds with the harsh reality of her life growing up in a settlement with poor facilities and few opportunities. For Darcy, visiting Rosie’s community for the first time was like finding herself on a different planet. Rosie’s home with its broken cupboard doors and bare floors was full of warmth and mismatched crockery. Nothing had changed since then.
Darcy turned into Fenwick Road. With minimal street lighting the horse paddocks on the left were shrouded in inky darkness. A light was on in Muriel’s house, but nothing else moved. The headlights from Darcy’s car shone over the squad car parked outside her front fence. Noah had obviously found the key on the back porch. Music drifted in the air, something Latin American, guitar. Darcy was no expert, but Noah played the guitar and it was his passion. He had talent in those supple fingers. She shook off the wave of desire and headed inside.
Gypsy was already bouncing, her tail sweeping the floor with each leap.
‘Hey guys, missed me?’ She closed the door and the music stopped.
‘In here, Darcy,’ Noah called.
Two large men, plus a snoring Major, filled her tiny living room. ‘Gentlemen, I have food. Hope you’re hungry.’
‘Lucky I brought some beers. Your bottle of wine was lonely in all that shelf space.’ Noah placed the guitar on the ground beside him, the dimple in his cheek appearing. His teasing smile always made her heart a little softer.
She ignored his jibe and smiled at Tyrone, who’d sat forward in his seat, looking uncertain. ‘Welcome to Ruby’s place. I trust Noah gave you the grand tour.’
‘He did, thank you.’ Out of hospital and dressed in an old T-shirt, he looked even more masculine. Darcy felt lightheaded.
‘I’ll get some plates or are fingers okay? It’s only fish and chips and some salt and pepper calamari. We had a good day today. Ate me out of stock.’
‘Saves on washing up, works for me.’ Noah took the boxes from her. ‘Tyrone?’
‘Sure. Fish and chips are comfort food – tastes better eaten with fingers and washed down with beer. ’
He frowned and Darcy wondered what memory that had invoked. ‘Another drink?’ she asked.
‘No, I’m fine,’ Noah said, nodding at a glass of Coke. Tyrone shook his head. A half drunk beer was on the table beside him.
She heard the crinkle of paper ripping and smelt the familiar scent of chips as she headed to the kitchen where her coffee jar was minus its lid. The boys had made a dent in her supply and, typical Noah, a stack of unwashed cups filled the sink. He must have taken the whole afternoon off. A rare day indeed.
A burst of laughter made her pause for a moment, leaning on the sink. Noah was serious more often than not and she’d forgotten the rich warmth of his laugh. Tyrone’s was a smoky rumble that made her think of dark booths and smooth whiskey. She tapped her temple. ‘Maybe you got hit on the head, woman. One’s a friend and the other’s a star boarder with identity issues. Behave.’
She poured a glass of wine, then went and changed into trackpants and a long-sleeved T-shirt. She didn’t need Noah noticing the state of her arms.
‘We left you some.’ Noah spoke through a mouthful, waving his hand at the almost empty boxes as she joined them.
‘This is great.’ Tyrone smiled. Gypsy sat adoringly at his feet with telltale crumbs on her whiskers.
‘If you’d told me you were starving, I’d have brought more. You’re both high on coffee.’
‘Oh, sorry. I’ll tidy up before I leave.’ Noah looked anything but contrite.
‘When did you guys get here?’
‘They discharged him at two, officially into community care. I figured since I was accompanying him here it was my duty to stay until you arrived.’
‘Since when did you take an afternoon off?’
‘Exactly. Long overdue. I flexed off and we’ve done a bit of googling to see what Tyrone could unearth.’
‘And?’ Darcy had been meaning to do that herself but hadn’t found the time.
‘And nothing,’ Tyrone said, the frustration just beneath the surface. ‘The name doesn’t bring up anything but some Facebook pages and Twitter accounts. And none of them are me.’
‘Oh. I’m sorry.’ Darcy didn’t know what else to say.
‘Makes it more puzzling, really.’ Noah reached for another chip.
‘Oi! Those are mine,’ Darcy said.
Noah’s grin was unrepentant. ‘Another beer, Tyrone?’
‘Two’s enough, thanks.’
‘Can I top up your wine, Darcy?’ He draped an arm across her shoulder and she frowned. He rarely got this close without a damn good reason.
‘No, I’m fine. But you can do the dishes.’ It hadn’t occurred to her that Noah might feel the need to put her off limits. Did he really think she’d fall into the arms of a man sh
e barely knew?
‘Right.’ He didn’t look happy but he went.
‘Find everything you need?’ she asked Tyrone. ‘Noah loaned you a shirt, I see.’
‘He did. I feel almost human again. The work gear your mother brought in was a bit scratchy.’
‘How are you doing?’
His smile was wan. ‘Your man’s been keeping me busy all afternoon.’
‘My man?’ Darcy coughed as the mouthful of wine went down the wrong way. ‘Noah?’
‘I just . . .’ Tyrone looked embarrassed. ‘Sorry, I just assumed you two were an item. He’s clearly at home here.’
‘We’ve been friends for years.’ She was annoyed with Noah, but the strength of her irritation surprised her.
‘Childhood sweethearts, then.’
Darcy knew he didn’t deserve her ire. Exhaustion was clear in the blue shadows underscoring his eyes and the hollows in his cheeks.
‘BFF, actually,’ she said with a light laugh. ‘He could be gay, for all I care.’
‘Really?’ Tyrone’s smile reached his eyes. ‘I’m just grateful the two of you have rescued me yet again. I hope I can repay you.’
‘You’ll be right.’ She reached across and patted his arm. ‘You’ll wake up tomorrow and the world will be a better place.’
‘Take more than a good night’s sleep to achieve that.’
‘Yeah, probably, but don’t rush out of bed. I’ve got to go shopping in the morning. I don’t eat at home all that much, but there’s milk and eggs in the fridge, cereal in the cupboard, bread and bacon in the freezer. I’ve got a labourer turning up tomorrow to help me prep my garden so you’ll hear us rustling about.’
‘You’re gardening?’ Noah rejoined them. ‘Since when? I could have helped you.’
‘You’re not known for your green thumb, but lucky you offered. I was thinking you could drop in for lunch. It’s Zeke. Rosie brought him along today. Seems he’s having girl trouble.’
‘I know. It’s what kept me awake most of Saturday night. Silly bugger needs to get the hell away from that dead-end family.’
‘Get the hell out of the dead-end situation yes, but dropping out of school? Rosie’s not happy and neither am I. He’s working with me tomorrow and you’re stopping by to reinforce whatever good stuff I can work into his head.’
‘Hey, I did try and convince him to stay at school until he finished Grade Twelve, but his grades were lousy.’
‘Just be here. I’m not providing a drop-in centre without some help.’
‘You’re a drop-in centre?’ Tyrone looked confused.
Darcy shook her head. ‘It’s a long story. I was a wild child once. I know some of what they’re going through. I give them work, sometimes here, sometimes at the shop, try to make a difference. I probably have a fifty-fifty strike rate. He, on the other hand,’ she jerked her chin at Noah. ‘He has an excellent program at the PCYC. They listen to him because he’s got muscles, and a gun. I’m just a girl.’
‘With attitude. Don’t forget you can swear as well as they do.’
She laughed. He was right, she could. ‘Just be here.’
Tyrone’s attention had drifted and she saw him touch the guitar as if testing the temperature of the strings. ‘Do you play?’ she asked and he almost jumped.
‘He does.’ Noah answered instead. ‘Better than me.’
Tyrone shook his head. ‘But I don’t remember playing. I just picked up the guitar and the music was there.’
‘That must feel strange. What kind of songs did you play?’
‘Ballads, it seems.’
‘Would you?’ She gestured at the guitar.
‘Sure.’ Tyrone settled the instrument across his knee and strummed. His hands knew the way. Darcy didn’t recognise the music, but his talent was obvious.
Tyrone’s hair fell forward over his forehead as he played. If she had amnesia would she be able to cook like that, Darcy wondered? Instinctively, without conscious thought or effort? Perhaps Tyrone was an artist, a musician.
She closed her eyes as he played, the joy of the music, the mellow notes, a balm after the busy day. Her muscles ached in all sorts of strange places and the armchair was soft and warm. For the first time in a while she relaxed.
The last notes trailed away and she opened her eyes. Noah was watching her, the expression in his grey eyes unreadable, but the set of his jaw was unmistakable. He’d gone into protective big brother mode again.
‘Darcy’s just about out of it. I’ll get going. Drop back around tomorrow.’
She glanced across at Tyrone whose head was still bowed. She thought she saw a tear glistening on his cheek.
‘I am shattered. It feels way later than nine. Been a big day.’ She stood up and stretched her lower back, hands on her hips. ‘I’ll see you out.’
‘Right.’ Noah hesitated. ‘I’ll leave the guitar. Thought it might help.’
Tyrone looked up, still holding the instrument. ‘Thanks . . . for everything.’ His voice was pure gravel, raw with emotion.
‘No worries. Catch you tomorrow.’ The two men gripped hands and for once it didn’t look like a power struggle. Darcy looked away. Stirling had never shown emotion when she was growing up and she still struggled with men who did. Noah could wear his heart on his sleeve at times and she’d never known how to deal with it.
She followed Noah to the car. ‘You don’t need to worry,’ she said. ‘He’s safe from me.’
‘Ha. He’s an interesting guy. Made me envious listening to him play. It was effortless, but he still has no idea who he is. I hope we get some answers tomorrow from the New South Wales boys. I’ll need to check in with him every twenty-four hours until we get this sorted out.’
‘Ring if you need me, or him. I’m not planning on doing anything more than a shopping run tomorrow. I’ll just be here digging garden beds with Zeke. It’d be good if you dropped around while he’s here. Rosie sounded desperate. She’s never got over how close that nephew of hers, Elijah, the one who’s a fireman now, came to ending up in the gutter after his footy contract was cancelled.’
‘Okay.’ Noah nodded, then briefly cupped Darcy’s cheek. The gesture took her by surprise sending a wave of warmth right down to her toes as he dropped his hand to his side. ‘Sleep well, Darce. Do me a favour and lock your door. Just in case. He wouldn’t be here if I thought there’d be trouble but . . .’
She snorted ‘I’m guessing it was all part of your strategy to make him think you’re my man, right?’
His grin disarmed her anger. ‘But I am your man. Always have been, always will be. See you tomorrow.’ He didn’t give her time to protest.
She stood for a moment on the front steps and looked up at the dark sky, the chiffon swathe of the Milky Way studded with diamonds. She’d missed it when she lived in Sydney. Here the stars felt closer, three dimensional and bright. Life seemed like that as well: luminous, simpler, less complicated. It had taken six months, but she was becoming more certain with every day that she’d made the right decision to come home. She might not ever be a high-profile chef again, but she’d be making food that she believed in rather than juggling a partner like Dylan, playing footsie with the bank and trying to stay one step ahead of food fads.
A sound in the paddock on the other side of the road made her turn. The horses were whickering, disturbed. She peered into the darkness seeing the blurred shapes of the animals as they moved, restless and agitated. Wild dogs? She hoped not, although there were no foals in the herd at this time of the year so little chance of them attacking mature horses. The wind blew an eddy across the field and lifted her hair in a ruffle. The horses settled again and she turned and went inside. The lock snicked and she shoved the old bolt across as well.
The guitar was resting beside the armchair and she could hear Tyrone in the kitchen. He turned as she walked in, a tea towel in his hands. ‘In my house we never let the dishes dry.’
‘You remember that?’
‘Not exact
ly, but like the music it’s a compulsion.’
She nodded. ‘Give it time.’
‘That’s what Noah said.’ He nodded, then turned, walked away, grace in the set of his back, Noah’s shirt hanging loose from his shoulders. The guestroom door closed with barely a sound. Gypsy padded up next to her, pushing in for a pat. Absentmindedly Darcy scratched the dog’s long soft ears.
‘Hey, baby girl. I think you two can stay inside tonight. I could do with some sleep.’
Half an hour later, with the dogs ensconced in their beds by her door, she turned the light off and slid between the cool sheets. Her door didn’t have a functioning lock, but she wasn’t about to tell Noah that.
The wind had picked up and something on the roof rattled in a gust. Normally she wouldn’t notice. She turned on her side, facing the window. Was Tyrone doing the same thing on the other side of the weatherboards – gazing at the night sky with those deep dark eyes and wishing he knew who he was? Surely hands that played so beautifully couldn’t be capable of harm?
9
Noah scanned his office one last time before heading through the door to his home. Having the office as a front room of his house had taken a little bit of getting used to, but the convenience made up for the lack of privacy. As with most community police stations, the budget was pretty thin, so he was tucked away in a cul-de-sac on the opposite side of Banksia Cove from Darcy. The low-set three-bedroom house sat in the middle of a low maintenance block with patchy lawn and a gravel pathway. He’d added his personal touches inside, including an impressive sound system. His prized guitar usually rested on its stand in the corner of the living room. Photographs of his family jostled with sports magazines and books on the built-in shelves. A memoir about the Kokoda Track was face down on the dining table.
He snagged a beer from the fridge. After a long couple of days he was finally off duty, if you could ever call him off duty.
He picked up his laptop and flopped onto the dark leather couch, propping his feet on the coffee table. The first mouthful of amber fluid slid down his throat and he almost sighed with the satisfaction of it. Heaven. He wasn’t a big drinker, never had been, and the events surrounding Grant’s death made damn sure he never went down that road.