She would put her momentary slip into chaos – if you could call a week ‘momentary’ – behind her and not allow grief to plunge her into any more rash decisions. She had something to focus on now. She would investigate Lillian’s connection to Banksia Bay, the photo and the pendant. She would find answers and then get back to her normal life.
A very loud horn tooted through the silence as a vehicle came rumbling down the road towards her. It stopped right in front of her – a burnt-orange and white kombivan, in excellent condition, with the words ‘Bodhi Bus’ in the shape of a bright yellow wave emblazoned along the side. That was what the bus driver had said: Bodhi Bus. Was someone having a joke? Laura knew it wasn’t going to be a big bus to take her to Banksia Bay. But she’d been expecting a minibus at least. Not some fifties relic named after a criminal surfer from a nineties movie.
The door swung open and out stepped a diminutive woman with a grey pixie haircut, wearing board shorts in a blinding swirl of psychedelic colour and an old T-shirt that looked like one more wash would probably send it to T-shirt heaven. Behind her Laura could make out the silhouettes of other passengers. The woman’s eyes were kind and a smile spread across her face as she looked at Laura.
‘You must be our pick-up.’ She reached out her hand and shook Laura’s vigorously. The slightest flash of something – recognition perhaps – crossed the bus driver’s face. ‘Um . . . I’m Yvonne. Let me help you with this and we’ll be on our way.’
‘Oh, no, it’s heavy.’ Laura went to stop the woman, but Yvonne was obviously stronger than she looked. She was at least 10 centimetres shorter than Laura, who only stood at 164 centimetres, but when Yvonne hoisted the suitcase onto the roof rack atop the van, Laura could see there was strength in the woman who she suspected was well into her late sixties. With one smooth movement Yvonne secured the case with an occy strap.
‘Hop in, love,’ she said, making a sweep with her arm. ‘There’s room in the middle. It’s Laura, isn’t it?’
‘Ah, yes.’ Laura waited for Yvonne to mark her name off a passenger list but there didn’t appear to be one.
‘Welcome aboard the Bodhi Bus, Laura. Next stop, paradise.’
Laura stepped into the kombivan and was greeted by the other passengers. The old guy up the back – bald head, white beard, skin like leather, no shirt – gave her a broad toothy grin and a welcoming hand wave (at least, she assumed it was welcoming). The middle-aged lady in the front seat – blue full-length kaftan smattered with sequins, long brown curls peppered with grey – said ‘G’day’. The lady in the middle who looked around Laura’s age, maybe just past thirty – long blonde hair, deeply tanned skin, small child asleep in her lap – nodded slightly in acknowledgement.
Slipping into the seat opposite the blonde, Laura leaned against the wall of the kombi and stared out the window.
‘And away we go.’ Yvonne shifted the van into gear and with a jolt they took off down the road at a speed Laura wasn’t sure was exactly safe.
The music coming from the dashboard was loud and Yvonne moved her shoulders in time with The Beach Boys, singing along during the chorus. Yvonne might have been stronger than she looked, but she definitely couldn’t sing. Kaftan and Leatherman talked across the empty space to each other, and Laura wondered why they just didn’t switch seats.
The young boy in the blonde’s lap sat up – no one could sleep through Kaftan and Leatherman’s conversation – and Laura noticed the boy was older than she had first guessed. Six or seven perhaps. He was small, and his face still held some of the puppy fat that lingers in young children. His skin was the same olive colour as his mother’s – she assumed they were mother and son – but his hair was jet black.
Laura pulled out her phone. Still no coverage. Damn. She’d been hoping to check her emails, read a text, anything to connect her with the civilised world back home.
Instead she pulled out her notebook and favourite pen and tapped lightly on the blank page. Yes, grief-imposed rashness had led her here but that didn’t mean she couldn’t prepare herself. If she applied rule eight – start with one simple question and that will lead to others – she might just have a chance of making this trip worthwhile.
Her pen floated across the page. Who was Gigi? What was she to Lillian? Was Banksia Bay a large part of their lives?
She didn’t like not having even an inkling of what she might discover. What made her such a good reporter was her ability to research a story so thoroughly she often knew the answers before she asked the questions. How could she do that here? Small towns were often wary of outsiders, especially ones who hit the scene hard interrogating everyone. Many of her colleagues had told her that. If there was anyone in Banksia Bay who could help her, she didn’t want to scare them off.
‘Writing home?’ the blonde asked, leaning slightly towards Laura.
‘Ah, no.’ Laura closed her notebook. ‘Just doing a bit of work.’
‘And what do you do? Not many people come to Banksia Bay for work, I can tell you.’
The question was bound to come up. Luckily, this was one thing Laura had prepared for, coming up with a cover story on the bus out of Sydney.
‘I’m a travel writer. I’m doing a piece on city escapes.’ When you have to lie to protect yourself for a story, it is always best to remain as close to the truth as possible – rule number two. Trying to pass herself off as a brain surgeon on holiday was too far from the truth to pull off. A travel writer chasing a story, on the other hand – that she could do.
‘Nice to meet you, travel writer. I’m Charlotte.’ She put her hand to her chest. ‘Are you here for the Bee Festival? Outside of summer, that’s the only time we see tourists.’
‘Yes,’ Laura lied. She’d never heard of their Bee Festival – it hadn’t turned up in her Google search – but if there was something going on here that would help her cover story, she’d take it.
‘It’s not for another week, though, you know?’ Charlotte narrowed her eyes.
‘Yes, but that gives me time to check out the town properly.’ Not a lie. ‘A friend told me about this quiet little place and that it was a nice getaway.’ Also not a lie, if you considered a mysterious old black-and-white photo of your grandmother on a beach a ‘friend’.
‘Does your friend visit often? Perhaps we know them?’
Oh no. Don’t stray that far from the truth, Laura.
‘Oh, Charlotte,’ called Yvonne from the front. ‘Leave the poor lass alone. We don’t want to give her a bad impression, do we?’ She looked in the rear-view mirror and winked at Laura.
‘Sorry.’ Charlotte raised her hand in apology. ‘It’s just unusual to have strang— tourists this early, as I said. I’m sure you’ll love it. How long are you staying for?’
‘Just a few weeks.’ Not a lie. Not the truth. She had no idea how long her search would take. Or if there were even answers to find.
Yvonne looked in the rear-view mirror again but said nothing.
Laura had booked the holiday house she’d found online for a month, using her mother’s maiden name, Hamilton. She wasn’t planning on staying that long. But if her hunch was right that there was something to Lillian’s past lurking in this nowhere town, then who knew how long it would take to discover the truth? And even if the black-and-white photo turned out to be nothing, Maher had insisted she take some time off. The cost of the accommodation was pretty reasonable, so an extra week or two wouldn’t matter.
‘How was the shopping in Ocean Heights, Charlotte?’ Yvonne twisted in her seat quickly to look at the blonde woman and then turned back to the road. ‘You didn’t come back with many bags.’
The boy in Charlotte’s lap wriggled and she stroked his hair from his brow. ‘Couldn’t find what we were looking for, could we, Aiden?’
‘Oh well, maybe next week they’ll have new stock.’ Yvonne turned her head round quickly to look at Laura. ‘I run this route with the Bodhi Bus every week to Ocean Heights. The bus stop where we picked you u
p gets pretty busy next week and in the summer.’
‘And thank God you do, Yvonne,’ Leatherman shouted from the back seat. ‘An old salty like me would never get into Ocean Heights without you.’
Laura liked that – old salty.
‘You’re a blessing.’ Kaftan reached forward and squeezed Yvonne’s shoulder.
‘All right, you lot. Now you’re making me blush.’ She turned the music up and started singing at the top of her voice.
Old Salty joined in the singalong and so did Aiden, who seemed to know all the words to ‘I Get Around’, and Laura wondered how many times the young boy had heard the song.
Trees flicked by the kombi windows as the van careered along the road. Laura stared out at the green flashing past her, unwilling to go back to her pen and paper for fear of being watched or questioned further by Charlotte.
It wasn’t long before the road they were on melted into a narrow ribbon of undulating curves that hugged cliff edges jutting into the blue sea. Yvonne didn’t slow down and Laura clutched Lillian’s pendant hanging on a chain beneath her shirt, hoping her grandmother was watching over her at this moment, delivering her safely to Banksia Bay.
The road straightened as they started a steep descent and Laura began to relax. Below them the ocean crashed in a steady rhythm, pounding onto the long stretch of yellow-white sand that seemed endless from where Laura sat. She’d only ever been to the beach a few times as a rebellious teenager, defying Lillian’s wishes for her to stay away from ‘those devil traps of immorality’, and only ever at a friend’s urging. She’d never seen the appeal of beaches herself – stinking hot, crowded with noisy people, sand that invaded every crevice of your body, all for a few moments of cold relief only to return to your towel and find your wallet had been stolen. Okay, so she’d never actually had her wallet stolen at the beach, but she’d heard stories and was always worried that it might happen to her whenever she gave in to persuasion and headed to Bondi.
The beach they drove beside now, though, was deserted. No seething throng of barely clad humanity running in and out of the water; no radios blaring out rock and pop and hip-hop in competing disharmony; no brightly coloured umbrellas or tents dotted along the sand. Laura thought maybe she saw a lone figure in the waves, but it could have been a trick of the light.
She drew in a deep breath.
‘Pretty, isn’t it?’ Yvonne smiled at her in the rear-view mirror as she slowed the kombi right down.
‘Pretty’ didn’t even begin to describe it.
‘I always know I’m home when we hit this stretch of road,’ Yvonne said.
Aiden sat up straight for the first time all trip and stared out his window. Charlotte rubbed his back and Laura noticed the subtle tension the blonde had been carrying leave her shoulders. Kaftan started to apply lipstick and Old Salty raised his arms behind his head, leaned back and started to hum softly to himself.
They pulled into what Laura supposed was a car park – a large area of flattened grass alongside the beach. Aiden leapt out of the kombi and ran towards a tall man coming up from the sand dunes, surfboard under one arm. As the man rested his surfboard against the kombi, the boy threw himself into his arms. Charlotte got out of the van and the man gave her a hug and a kiss on the cheek. Laura guessed that was where Aiden got his dark hair from; the resemblance to his dad was uncanny.
Kaftan lowered herself out of the vehicle, spread her arms out wide and spun around three times. If she’d sung ‘there’s no place like home’, Laura wouldn’t have been surprised.
As Laura stepped out, Yvonne started unloading the luggage with the help of Aiden’s dad. He had a scar that ran down the left side of his face, a red gash stark against his dark complexion. He handed Old Salty the surfboard that was on the roof rack and the old man thanked him.
‘Be home by seven,’ Kaftan called out. Laura hadn’t picked Kaftan and Old Salty as father and daughter. Old Salty saluted his agreement before jogging towards the water with the longboard tucked under his arm.
‘The place you’ve rented is just a short walk away.’ Yvonne stepped up beside Laura. ‘I’ll just lock this old girl up and then I’ll show you the way.’
‘Thanks, but that’s not necessary. I’m sure I can find it myself.’ Laura picked up her bag.
‘I’m sure you can too. But I have the keys, so I may as well.’
One street back from the beach, Yvonne led Laura through a picket fence and up the creaking wooden steps of an old house. There was a verandah out the front, painted a pale shade of blue, and the weatherboard that clad the walls of the small place was painted lemon yellow. It was peeling in places, but looked otherwise well-kept. A wind chime hung directly overhead as they climbed the steps – a piece of grey driftwood dripping with small glass surfboards, each a different colour of the rainbow.
Yvonne opened the front door and stepped back to let Laura in. The living room was open and filled with an eclectic mix of furniture: an old whitewashed cane sofa covered with floral cushions of red and pink and lime green; a modern mirror, sleek and simple, hanging on the wall; a rattan sideboard covered with trinkets. Laura could see a tiny glass flamingo, a green glass vase full of small mixed flowers, a stuffed elephant made of blue batik, a wooden sign saying ‘Home sweet home’, mismatched old photo frames.
‘Are you the landlord?’ Laura asked.
‘Oh, gosh, no. An investor in Ocean Heights bought this place years ago. I do a few odd jobs around town. Managing this place is one of them. I decorated it myself.’ Yvonne puffed out her chest. ‘All the linen is fresh. The shops are just a short walk that way.’ Yvonne pointed out the south-facing window. ‘They’re closed for today, but I’ve put milk and a few essentials in the kitchen for you.’
It was only five o’clock, but Laura supposed she couldn’t really expect the same midnight opening hours she was used to in Sydney.
Yvonne turned to the sideboard behind her and fussed with the flowers and rearranged the knick-knacks and photos. ‘There’s a number I’ve written down here, in case you need anything tonight. Sleep well, love.’
‘Thank you.’ Laura walked her to the verandah.
Yvonne took her hand and squeezed it, smiling, though there was a touch of sadness in her eyes. ‘Okay, then. Bye.’ The little old lady waved as she headed down the path.
Alone in the house Laura made herself familiar with her home for the next . . . well, however long she’d be here. She found the bathroom first: small but serviceable. There were two bedrooms, a queen bed with a cheap surfboard doona cover in one, two single beds in the other. She put her suitcase in with the queen bed. There was a nook at the back of the house set up as a study and Laura put her laptop and notebooks on the old cedar desk. She ran her hands over the dark wood and the deep-green leather inlay. Laura knew her writing desks and this was a beautiful antique.
Yvonne had left some pasta and chicken in the fridge, and Laura took it out for dinner. As she passed the sideboard on her way back to the living room, her eye was drawn to the collection of photos on display. At the front stood a couple of small wooden frames with pictures of tree-filled hills and long stretches of beach, which Laura assumed had been taken locally. Behind them were some black-framed photos of what she assumed was the town centre, with various blurry figures in them, and a few shots of surfers bobbing in the ocean. She was about to head to the sofa when she noticed a small silver frame pushed to the back of the sideboard. She picked it up and her hands began to shake.
The photo, framed so beautifully by a silver filigree design, was of a group of people standing by a bonfire. A very short girl stood off to the side, as if she was watching the older kids, not quite sure she should be there. A group of boys stood near the fire, beers in hand, smiling, laughing. And just on the other side were two girls arm in arm. After studying her own photo so much in the last few days, the faces, though slightly older, were unmistakably familiar.
There in front of her again were Gigi and Lily.
But she’d have to be careful. Lillian had come here more than once, it seemed, and had kept a mysterious postcard from Banksia Bay hidden under her bed with other special trinkets. Maher’s rule number three, always trust your instincts, was one she never broke. And her instincts were telling her this story was more than just a few photos. How was she going to find the answers to questions she didn’t know to ask, though? And how would this tiny town react to her probing?
With the morning sun just beginning to rise, Laura gave up on the hope of sleep. She crawled out of bed, got dressed and bent down and tied up the laces of her trainers. Pounding the pavement was just what she needed right now. She headed out the door and ran.
Half an hour later she’d pretty much taken in the whole town, as far as she could tell, and she slowed as she came back to the main street. At least she figured it was the main street, as it was the only one she had come across in her jog with any shops on it.
Wider than any road she was used to in Sydney’s inner city, the west side was lined with small wooden and brick buildings protected from the elements by corrugated-iron awnings. There was a pub, of course – The Pioneer – rather grand for a small town, with its two storeys of taupe-painted rendering and upstairs verandah wrapped in a lacy white wrought-iron balustrade. Laura suspected you could see the ocean from up there. It was closed on Tuesdays. Shame. She’d been hoping to maybe start snooping there today. She figured all she had to do to begin with was find a quiet spot in the pub, settle in with a drink and just watch and listen. It might not give her anything specific, but if you paid attention, it was amazing what you could learn in a pub. Alcohol loosened tongues and often people believed they were hidden in dark corners that weren’t as dark as they thought. A word here, a stolen glance there, a touch when you thought no one was looking, gave away so much.
The Banksia Bay Beach Shack Page 3