She walked past the post office right next door, small and quaint with bricks painted white and a bright red wooden door, and then a general store that took up half the block. It was called The Saddler that Laura thought a strange name as she didn’t get a sense this was a horse-type town. Next was a surf shop, which did make sense, with boards and wetsuits displayed in the window, and an ice creamery boasting forty flavours, which seemed to be tacked on to the surf shop. In the window of the ice creamery a hand-written sign hung: ‘Open again December 1st’.
On the beach side of the street, right up the north end near the car park the Bodhi Bus had come in to, was a lone fish and chip shop, the walls painted in wide blue and white stripes, also not open until December. Charlotte hadn’t been kidding. They really didn’t get tourists here outside of summer. Laura put her hands on her hips and drew in deep breaths. She’d run hard. Fast. From behind the fish and chip shop she could hear the crashing of waves on sand.
She pulled out a drink bottle from her backpack and took a long sip. She was also carrying a notepad and pen inside the small running bag. Perhaps she could sit on a dune and formulate a plan.
The top of the deep-orange sun kissed the horizon as it climbed ever so slowly into the morning. The sea was cast in black and indigo, streaked with slivers of liquid-fire reflection. The rocks that framed the north end of the beach were dark and foreboding and the banksias reaching up from the hill behind them were just touched by the morning light.
Laura turned around and headed south along the beach. With only a few steps taken, she pulled her shoes off, tying the laces together and slinging them over her shoulder. The sand was colder than she’d expected, but it was soft and laid out before her like a plush carpet that had never been walked on. She had the whole beach to herself.
With feet bare, she inched closer to the water’s edge as she ambled along. She breathed in a heady mix of salt and misty water, and the only sound was of the dark waves breaking white on the shore, their rushing in and slow retreat a haunting song of age and renewal.
Halfway down the beach she stopped and stood facing the sunrise, her ankles lapped by the cool water, and she took in a deep breath. What was the pose they’d been taught at work that time Maher had brought in a yoga instructor to increase productivity? Sun solution, warrior downward pony? Something like that. She hadn’t really been listening. Yoga was for people who were stressed, and stress was for people who weren’t in control of their lives. And she was always in control. Well, except for her decision to come here.
Laura stood on one foot, her other leg tucked up against her knee. That was right. Maybe. She straightened up, her hands above her head. Yes. That was it. And then a twist wasn’t it? With a lean?
She overbalanced and, before she could stop herself, fell into a crumpled mess on the sand, splashed by the water, which seemed to be crawling further and further towards the dunes.
Laura laughed so hard tears fell down her cheeks. As her composure returned, she was left with salty teardrops at the edges of her mouth. She wiped them away, but more came. Was she crying?
She picked herself up and brushed the wet sand off her legs. Rash decisions and tears. When would grief be done with her? She didn’t like it one bit. Focus. You’re here to do a job.
Yes, think of it as a story, stay focused. She turned around to find a spot to sit and make some notes.
Walking towards her was Aiden’s dad, a wetsuit covering his lower half only, surfboard under his arm.
‘Morning,’ he greeted her.
Up close she couldn’t help but stare at the scar running down his face.
Move your eyes, Laura. Look somewhere else. Anywhere else.
Her eyes fell to his chest. His bare, broad chest.
Not there.
She looked up to his eyes, the palest blue she’d ever seen, the broad smile he wore reaching the corner of his gaze. Kind eyes. Knowing eyes. Eyes that looked into hers with a calm intensity she didn’t know was possible.
Stop staring. Hair. Look at his hair.
He was a tall man – six foot, if she had to guess – the first hints of grey speckled in his black hair
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Do you speak English?’
‘What?’ Oh dear. What an imbecile she must have appeared, staring at him like that. ‘Yes. Of course.’
He held back a laugh.
‘Did you . . . see . . .’ Laura couldn’t bear to ask.
‘Not if you didn’t want me to. I’m Heath.’ He held out his hand. ‘And you’re the lady who came in yesterday on the Bodhi Bus.’
‘Yes.’ She shook his hand.
He raised his eyebrow.
‘Oh. Yes. Sorry. Laura. My name’s Laura. Nice to meet you.’
‘Nice to meet you, Laura. Do you surf?’ He pulled the top half of his wetsuit up and wriggled into it.
‘Me? No. Not even much of a swimmer, actually.’
‘That’s a pity. One of life’s true pleasures.’ He strode off into the water, leapt onto his board and paddled out beyond the waves.
Laura watched him a moment, bobbing in the swell. She couldn’t very well sit here and pull out her notepad now. She wandered further up the beach and found a series of dunes shaped almost like a horseshoe, which would protect her from view if anyone else joined Heath for a surf this morning. She nestled into the sand and started jotting down thoughts and questions.
Why is there a photo of Lillian and Gigi in the house? Does Yvonne know something? She underlined Yvonne’s name and added two question marks. The woman had looked at her in the rear-vision mirror on yesterday’s drive. A lot.
Laura looked up from her scribble and watched the waves rolling in and out. The longer she looked, the more colours she could see as the sun rose higher, lightening the morning. Black melted into grey, indigo blurred into teal, bright orange softened into lemon.
And she watched.
Voices dancing across the sand broke the silence and Laura realised she’d been staring into the ocean for half an hour. Heath was walking past with Old Salty, both of them carrying boards under their arms. Laura sank into the dunes, hoping they wouldn’t see her.
A rumble in her stomach alerted her to the fact that she hadn’t had a coffee yet this morning. Did surfers drink coffee after a morning in the waves? Maybe if she followed the men, they’d lead her to an open café. She slipped her sunglasses on and headed down the beach after them.
At the south end the men stopped at what looked to Laura like nothing more than a run-down wooden hut. But as she got closer she could hear voices, happy voices, coming from inside, and as she moved to the front of the shed, she could see a deck.
On the small deck were a couple of white metal tables and chairs. As Heath and Old Salty sat there, an old woman dressed in tattered denim overalls came out of the shack with a cup of coffee for each man. The front wall of the two-storey beach shack was painted blue, one side of the building was red, another yellow. All of the paint was flaking.
Inside, the shack was lined with shelves and Laura just had to take a closer look.
Heath waved to her as she passed inside, but she didn’t respond, captivated by the sight before her. Against one wall, painted red, the same as the outside, the shelves were covered with books, second-hand books of all descriptions, from Tolkien to Jackie Collins, from instructional guides on building wooden bird houses to an unauthorised biography of Hugh Jackman.
Against the back wall, painted blue, the shelves were cluttered with knick-knacks – ceramic owls, glass ashtrays, carved wooden masks. There was also an impressive collection of shells, more than Laura had ever seen in one place before.
Hidden among the trash, Laura could see a few pieces of antique jewellery that looked like they might actually be worth a bit. In between the shelves was an old, comfortable-looking armchair and a small wooden coffee table covered with a pink cotton doily.
On the yellow side of the shack, a worn sofa sat in front of a counter stacked h
igh with mismatched coffee mugs, some in bold plain colours of blue and red and green, some with brightly hued patterns. The woman who’d brought Heath and Old Salty their cups stood behind the counter watching Laura move around the shack.
‘Can I help you with something?’ She looked at Laura over her lime green glasses.
‘Oh. No. I was just . . . Actually, a coffee would be good. Thank you.’ Play nice with the locals, Laura.
‘Well, first, you’ll need to be taking those sunnies off. I don’t like serving people if I can’t see their eyes. You can tell a lot about someone by their eyes, you know.’ The woman turned to the coffee grinder and set about making Laura’s drink.
Laura pushed her sunglasses up her forehead and rested them on top her head. ‘I’m Laura. I’m renting the holiday house one street over.’
‘Welcome, Laura. I’m Virginia, owner of this little sha—’ Virginia turned to hand Laura her cup and stopped, staring at her.
All the colour drained from the woman’s face.
Virginia’s heart beat fast, her breathing quickened. What type of wizardry was this? The woman standing in front of her was the spitting image of Lily. Maybe she was having a stroke. Women her age did that. Had strokes. Or aneurysms. Did you hallucinate with an aneurysm?
‘Hey, Virginia. You all right in there?’ Ian called out from the deck. ‘Are you going to give our visitor her coffee, squirt, or make the young lady beg for it?’
Okay. So if that old relic of a surfer could see the girl, then maybe she wasn’t hallucinating. Though, given his misspent youth taking any number of hallucinogenic substances, coupled with the fact he was even older than her, maybe he couldn’t be trusted either.
She turned to glance at the old man and saw Heath standing up.
‘I got this.’ Heath put his hand on Ian’s shoulder and walked towards her. ‘Gran? Is something wrong?’ He took the mug from her hand and gave it to . . . what did she say her name was? Lauren? Laura. He gave it to Laura. The woman really was there in front of her, now staring at her with a rather quizzical expression on her face. Virginia and Ian might be so old they imagined things, but not Heath. If Heath saw her too, she was real.
The young woman took the coffee with the slightest hesitation and stepped out of the shack, looking back once.
‘Sorry, dear.’ Virginia turned to Heath. He was a good kid. But not very adept at hiding his emotions and she could see concern looking back at her. ‘Yes. I’m fine.’ Find your composure, woman. ‘I skipped breakfast this morning is all,’ she lied. ‘My blood sugar must be a bit low.’
Heath handed her a muffin from the glass cake stand. ‘Why don’t you sit down?’
‘Oh, stuff and nonsense. I’m fine.’
‘Sit.’ Heath’s voice was firm but his eyes were soft, and Virginia did as she was told. When that boy got something in his head he was as stubborn as they come. Just like his dad. Oh, how she missed her son, still, after all this time. There was no point arguing with Heath. She’d sit and eat her muffin and play her part, convince him she was fine, then he’d leave her alone.
Easing into the armchair, Virginia watched Laura out on the deck as she sipped her coffee, chatting with Ian. Who was she? And what was she doing here? Was she a mere coincidence, or was she an echo of the past?
Virginia would have to raise her guard. Not that she’d let it down in the last sixty years.
Not once.
Not ever.
She was always so careful.
It was only a matter of time, though, she supposed, that the ghosts of her buried yesterdays would come back to haunt her.
Not that they ever left.
Not once.
Not ever.
December 1956
Gigi looked at the girl standing on the dune, a floral summer dress with a wide full skirt dancing around her ankles. Her long brown hair stretched down her back, straight and sleek. Gigi raised her hand to the nest of sandy-coloured curly straw that crowned her own head and she wished she’d worn a hat to cover it up.
All her life she’d lived in Banksia Bay with its store workers, fishermen and, more recently, surfers. And none of the people in her tiny town were as glamorous as the girl standing on the dune. She was maybe two years older than Gigi, but she looked like she belonged to another world.
Gigi stepped towards the girl, mesmerised by the perfect smile that seemed to make her pretty face look sad. Well, no one should be sad when they were at the beach. Especially not her beach.
Marching up the sand, Gigi dug her hands into her overall pockets, the old pair with cut-off legs she’d been handed down from her mother. Not the best outfit to make a new friend in, surely. Especially a glamorous new friend. But, judging by the look on the sad girl’s face, she needed a friend like Gigi, and needed one now.
‘Hello. I’m Gigi.’ She held out her hand. Did city girls shake hands, or should she curtsy?
The girl looked down the dune at her. ‘Hello. I’m Lillian.’
Lillian didn’t take Gigi’s hand. Maybe she should curtsy. Or bow. Lillian looked away, so Gigi blurted out the first thing that came to mind. ‘Are you here on holidays?’
Lillian nodded, but didn’t say anything. She did look back at Gigi, though. And that gave her the courage to spill out more words.
‘Have you seen the rock pool? It’s just up there. I can show you. Have you ever seen a blue-ringed octopus?’
Lillian looked positively horrified.
‘Come on.’ Gigi stepped forward and took a shocked Lillian’s hand. ‘It’ll be fun.’
‘I’m not really dressed for . . .’
But before Lillian could finish, Gigi was dragging her down the dune and along the beach.
When they got to the rock pool, Gigi slowed down and dropped Lillian’s hand. ‘Be careful,’ she whispered, and picked up a piece of driftwood shaped like a stick. ‘They’re pretty, but deadly.’
She poked around in the rock pool with the driftwood and found the tiny little octopus hiding under a rock. ‘Watch this.’
She touched the top of the octopus very gently with the tip of the stick, and its skin changed from beige all over to beige with the brightest blue rings everywhere, like a polka-dotted skirt.
‘But . . . how . . .’ Lillian’s disbelief seemed to be pushing her reluctance aside.
‘They only colour when threatened. Don’t touch it.’ She pulled Lillian away just in time before her new friend reached out. ‘Deadly, remember. Blue often is in nature.’
Lillian looked at her. ‘Really?’
Gigi led her up to the granite rocks that overhung the beach and they sat down together. ‘My grandpa, he loved nature. Taught me everything there is to know,’ she said.
Lillian seemed interested, genuinely interested, so Gigi kept right on talking. About the octopi; the banksias that grew all around these parts – she thought the red ones that grew in other parts of the country were prettier, herself, but the yellow ones that grew here, with their soft spikes and silver leaves, were okay, she supposed; about the tides that came in every twelve hours, filling up the rock pools; about anything she could think of. She was a little worried she would talk Lillian’s ear off – Mum was always warning her about that – but the more she talked, the more Lillian seemed to relax.
‘You are a very strange girl, Gigi,’ Lillian said when Gigi finally drew breath, but there was a smile on her face that Gigi was pretty sure was warm, not mocking. She’d been on the receiving end of her fair share of mocking from the kids at school – the girls who teased her for being a tomboy, and the boys who made fun of her when she tried to do the same things they did, like fish and climb rocks and jump off the jetty.
‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘I think.’
Lillian laughed. It was the most angelic sound Gigi had ever heard. ‘In this instance I definitely mean it as a compliment.’
The girls walked down the beach back towards the shack Gigi’s dad and the other fishermen used to clean their catc
h in. Slowly Gigi angled her new friend towards the water. There was nothing like the fresh cool feeling of waves lapping your feet and she figured maybe Lillian might like it too.
The first wave kissed the girls’ toes and Lillian let out a tiny squeal and ran up the sand. Gigi stayed put and started dancing in the shallow water. Lillian stepped closer. Gigi kept on dancing, splashing her small feet in the waves. Lillian inched towards her.
When the next wave hit her feet, Lillian didn’t run away. She took in a bracing breath and did a little pirouette. Gigi had never seen anything as beautiful as that twirl.
Together the girls danced in the shallows and giggled and clapped their hands and the sun moved slowly across the sky. And they didn’t stop until Lillian’s mum appeared at the top of the sand dunes, calling for her daughter to come in for supper.
‘Lillian,’ Gigi said. ‘Do you think maybe we can play again tomorrow? If you want, that is.’
‘I’d like that.’ She walked towards her mother, but turned back after a couple of steps. ‘You can call me Lily.’
She ran up the sand.
It was a memory Virginia had pushed from her mind so very long ago. She stared past Heath and Ian and Laura and watched the waves tickle the barnacle-clad pylons of the small wooden jetty. Watching the ocean always helped calm her nerves. She was imagining things, surely. It was bound to happen, she supposed. As one passed into one’s twilight, one’s mind retreated to its dawn.
She just hadn’t thought she was there yet. She’d become old without even noticing, it seemed.
Still, it was no excuse. She couldn’t let her past encroach on her now.
It was buried for a reason.
She shook her head, hoping this nonsense would fall out of there somehow. Whoever this Laura was, she had nothing to do with that summer so long ago.
The Banksia Bay Beach Shack Page 4