The Banksia Bay Beach Shack

by Sandie Docker

  Banksia Bay Bush Tracks was the name of the book. Laura flipped through the pages, which were full of stunning photos of landscapes, peppered with maps and notes about bush trails in the area.

  ‘I’ll just take down your name in my lending book, and you can return it once you’ve had a look. Laura, isn’t it? And a last name?’

  ‘Hamilton,’ Laura lied, using her mum’s maiden name again. ‘Thank you. That’s very nice of you.’ Laura watched Virginia write her name in the book. There was a whole list of names and dates in there and Laura wondered if Virginia ever sold any books, or simply lent them out.

  Ian stood up. ‘One of our gems, is Virginia.’ He went to pat her on top of her head, but she ducked skilfully out of the way.

  ‘Get out of here, you salt-encrusted old buffoon.’ She pushed him back, but Laura could see the kindness in the woman’s eyes.

  ‘On my way, squirt.’ Ian scuttled down the sand just out of reach of the shoe that came flying after him.

  ‘I’m off too.’ Heath hugged Virginia. He turned to Laura. ‘I’ll walk you up the beach, if you like?’

  There was no other word than ‘awkward’ for the silence as they walked side by side. Laura had no idea why Heath wanted to accompany her. It wasn’t night-time. It wasn’t far.

  She stopped and turned to face him. ‘Is there something I need to know about walking by myself in broad daylight?’ The words came out harsher than she’d meant.

  Heath stopped and lowered his eyes. ‘Sorry. No. I was just being neighbourly. I didn’t mean to upset you.’

  The sun, now well on its ascent, sent shards of light through the clearing clouds, casting a shadow across half of Heath’s face – the side with the scar. He frowned slightly, his pale blue eyes shading grey.

  ‘No. It’s me.’ She shook her head. So much for making friends with the locals. She wasn’t very good at this at all. ‘This is a bit different to what I normally do.’ Not a lie. ‘So I’m a bit on edge, I guess.’ Also not a lie.

  ‘Ah.’ He nodded. ‘No worries. I have just the thing that might help with that.’

  ‘If you’re going to offer me surfing lessons again, you’d better have a pretty damn good argument. I don’t do –’ she waved her hands towards the water – ‘the ocean.’

  Heath’s eyes lit up. ‘Well, firstly, there’s this incredible peace that comes over you when you’re out there in the waves . . .’

  Laura tilted her head. ‘You did see my feeble attempt at yoga this morning, right?’

  Heath laughed out loud. ‘Yes. I mean no, remember? Okay, so the spiritual angle isn’t going to sway you. What about health? It’s a great work-out and exercise produces endorphins and they make you happy.’

  ‘I run. Every day.’ She could see him trying to come up with another reason, and if she hadn’t been as entirely stubborn as she was, she would have admitted she was enjoying the challenge as much as he seemed to be.

  Heath took a few steps back and forth, rubbing his chin. ‘Hmmm.’

  A cool breeze floated off the sea, sending a shiver up Laura’s spine.

  ‘How about fun?’ Heath spun around and stopped just in front of her, so close she could feel his breath dance over her head. ‘Surfing is fun. Surely you can’t argue against having a little bit of fun.’

  Stepping back, Laura drew in a breath. For the life of her, she couldn’t think of any kind of coherent comeback. So she just looked at him. Possibly stared.

  ‘Uh-huh. There you go.’ Heath did a little victory dance and Laura’s heart may have skipped a beat. ‘At least think about it?’

  ‘Okay. I’ll think about it.’

  With that, Heath bowed, shot her a grin and continued up the beach.

  Back in the holiday house, Laura quickly checked her emails, the living room giving her the best reception. Nothing. Maher really meant it when he said take a break from the world. She sank into the soft sofa with the coffee-table book Virginia had lent her.

  Green hills were accented with the yellow, red and pink of native flowers; small dirt roads wound their way through thick vegetation; deep-blue water framed the white coast line. The maps and bush trails held little interest for her. Wandering around the wilderness wasn’t going to help her find the answers she sought. Though taking up Heath’s offer of a drive would perhaps help her making-friends-with-the-locals plan. But then, so would learning to surf, and she wasn’t too keen on that idea.

  She turned over to the next page. There were photos of the town, tones of sepia and black-and-white predominant. From what Laura had seen on her run, things hadn’t changed much. The streetscape remained the same – shops lining one side of the broad road, their corrugated roofs, the sign across The Pioneer exactly the same then as today. There were two photos in faded colour on the next page. One was a shot of eight men standing in a line at the water’s edge, their surfboards rising tall beside them. The caption read, ‘Banksia Boys, 1963’.

  The other colour picture was, if Laura wasn’t mistaken, of the holiday house she was staying in. She looked more closely. There was a family standing out the front with suitcases beside them. A short paragraph on the opposite page, above the washed-out photos of the town centre, gave a brief history of the village that had grown into a town after the war, with the influx of migrants and people looking for a better life out of the city. The word ‘influx’ was some pretty heavy creative licence, as the population only increased by a dozen or so at that time. The author talked about the importance of the surfing culture in the early sixties and the summer tourists who flocked to the Bay every year. Including the Woodhouse family from Sydney.

  What?

  No.

  It wasn’t an altogether uncommon name. But . . .

  Rule number six, the extended version. A coincidence is just a connection you haven’t discovered yet.

  Laura pulled out her phone and opened the magnifying glass app.

  The picture looked to be a few years earlier than the one she had of Lily and Gigi, but Laura was certain the young girl standing rigid and glum in front of her serious parents was her Lillian. She couldn’t have been much older than eleven or twelve, and though the photo was blurry and faded, in her gut she knew it was her grandmother.

  Right. Time for some positive action. She grabbed her pen and notebook.

  What did she know? That Lillian came here for summer holidays. That her family rented this very house at least once for their stay. That some girl named Gigi was in a photo that Lillian had kept hidden until Laura’s dad had found it and it was a source of tension between them, according to her mother.

  What didn’t she know? Well, that was an endless list. Rule number eight was important here: start at the beginning with a simple question. What was the simplest question she could ask in this mystery? How often did Lillian’s family come here?

  She turned to the back of the book. On the very last page were the photo credits. She looked for the listings for page ten. Most of the early photos of the town had been taken by the same person, a Mr J Taylor, spanning a period from the nineteen-twenties to the mid-sixties. The shot of the Banksia Boys was credited to an I Holland, and the picture of Lillian’s family was taken by . . . who? Laura dropped the book and the corner dug into her thigh. Really? She looked at the name again. Mrs D Duncan. She let out a long breath. Mrs Duncan’s reaction to the photo of Lily and Gigi, to the pendant, and now her name in this book. No. This was no coincidence at all.

  She took note of the date: 1956. Yes, Lillian would have been twelve.

  She pulled out her photo of Lily and Gigi on the beach: 1961. Lillian would have been seventeen. So, two photos of Lillian in Banksia Bay aged twelve and seventeen, and the photo on the sideboard with an even older Lillian in Banksia Bay, too. Was it reasonable to assume that Lillian’s family had come here every year? Or at least frequently? And this house, was it significant too? The earliest photo taken out front, by Mrs Duncan no less, and the latest sitting inside on the sideboard, suggested i
t was.

  Laura’s pulse raced. Her instinct had been right. There was most definitely a story here.

  She paced the living room floor. The photos, the pendant, this house. Yvonne had said this house was an investment property for someone in Ocean Heights, but she’d decorated it. That meant she’d put these photos here. Wait a moment. When she’d let Laura in, she’d moved the photos on the sideboard, hadn’t she? Yes, she was sure of it.

  Yvonne! What did she know?

  Laura stopped and wrote the question in her notebook. She loved that feeling when one question led to the next.

  Her phone rang and she smiled when she saw Maher’s caller ID.

  ‘Hey, Prescott. How’s the holiday going? Or are you too busy snooping around?’

  ‘A little.’ Laura filled him in on everything so far, not that it was much.

  ‘I thought you were supposed to be taking it easy.’

  ‘I am. In fact, I might be learning to surf.’ That was a lie. She had no intention of taking surfing lessons.

  ‘You? Surf? He better be cute.’

  Laura rolled her eyes. ‘He’s married. And has a child.’

  Maher fired back, ‘But you didn’t deny it.’

  ‘He’s . . . all right. Nothing special.’ Except when he smiled. Then his whole face lit up.

  ‘Well, for what it’s worth, I reckon you should still take him up on lessons. Might be fun.’

  ‘That’s what he said.’

  ‘Well, he might not be cute, but he sounds intelligent.’

  Laura could hear the smirk in Maher’s voice.

  ‘Prescott. Promise me you’ll relax while you’re away. I want my top reporter firing on all cylinders when you get back.’

  ‘I promise.’ Lie or truth? Laura didn’t know.

  She hung up and a sound from the front yard made her jump. Shit. Charlotte was here. Laura had forgotten to make herself scarce. She really didn’t want to have to talk to her.

  Peering through the curtain, Laura watched Charlotte weed around the lilly pillies and hydrangeas that hugged the front fence.

  There was a look of contentment on Charlotte’s face as she worked, humming to herself. Laura could hear the sweet tune floating towards her on the cool ocean breeze that had just started up. Maybe she should make a peace offering. She didn’t know what she’d done to offend Charlotte, but the look the woman had given her both times they’d met spoke volumes.

  Laura went into the kitchen and prepared a tray with iced tea and the chocolate-chip cookies Yvonne had left her.

  Stepping onto the verandah, she cleared her throat. Charlotte looked up, her face falling from its happy countenance into the expression Laura was already getting used to.

  ‘I thought you might like a tea break.’ Laura held up the tray.

  ‘Thank you. That would actually be lovely.’ She came up the steps and sat next to Laura at the white metal table. ‘These are good.’ She took another bite.

  ‘Yvonne made them.’

  Charlotte finished off the cookie. ‘That makes sense. She’s the best baker in the Bay.’

  ‘A baker, a bus driver and a property manager?’ There was more to Yvonne than met the eye.

  ‘Yes, well, we all do what we need to, to make ends meet. Speaking of which . . .’ Charlotte looked to her gardening tools lying in the grass. ‘I should get back to it.’

  Laura suspected there was more to everyone around here than met the eye.

  As evening settled over the old house, Laura threw together a simple dinner of cold chicken and cheese and crackers. She would take a long bath and then go through the photo book once more. Just in case she’d missed anything. Rule number nine, you never know where an answer will come from.

  Virginia sat in her tiny living room perched above the shack, Yvonne watching her from across the dining table.

  ‘You saw it too, didn’t you?’ Virginia looked at her old friend.

  Yvonne closed her eyes briefly.

  ‘And you didn’t think to warn me?’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘I nearly collapsed in the shack, right in front of her. A heads-up would have been nice. More than nice. Necessary, wouldn’t you say?’

  Yvonne got up and walked towards her. ‘I’m sorry, Gigi.’

  Virginia shot her a look that would silence any mention of Gigi.

  ‘Virginia, really. I thought maybe my eyes were playing tricks on me. I’m not as young as I used to be. I would have told you if I thought it was something.’

  ‘Something? Something! This isn’t something, Yvonne. It’s everything.’ She took a breath, trying to lower the pitch of her voice, which was far too high for her liking. ‘What is she doing here?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Yvonne got up from the dining table and poured them both a stiff drink. Virginia kept the good single malt hidden in the top cupboard behind the biscuit tin but her friend knew where to find it. And when.

  They only ever shared a glass together one day in January, every year in silent memory. But Virginia was glad Yvonne had pulled down the bottle today. She certainly needed it.

  ‘Maybe it’s just a coincidence,’ Yvonne said. ‘She just happens to look like . . .’ Her voice trailed off.

  ‘Just happens to look like her? And is here? And is staying in the holiday house? And has the same mannerisms?’

  Virginia downed her whisky and poured another. ‘She knows something.’

  Yvonne sipped her drink slowly. ‘How can she? You and I are the only two people who know the truth about that night. She couldn’t possibly be here for that.’

  ‘Then what?’ Virginia didn’t know, and she wouldn’t be able to rest until she did. Her cheeks felt moist. Were those . . . tears? She hadn’t cried since . . . Well, since. And she wouldn’t have a bar of it now.

  ‘Oh, sweetie.’ Yvonne wrapped her hands around Virginia’s, but Virginia slipped free and walked around the dining room, four paces taking in the entire space.

  It was silly calling it a dining room. There weren’t any actual rooms in the loft above the shack. There was an open kitchenette, a dining table in front of that, and a single bed behind a bamboo and rice paper partition screen at the eastern end. Washing facilities were downstairs in the shop.

  She’d moved in here once the caravan park had got too much for her. Maybe she could have bought a small place with the money she’d got from selling the holiday house, but what would she be living off now? The pension? A pittance. What she made from the shack? A labour of love. Not that she minded. She’d always loved the shack. It felt more like home than anywhere else. Even though it was filled with memories.

  So many memories.

  ‘I don’t know why she’s here.’ Yvonne stepped closer to her. ‘Or who she is. But I have to believe it is an innocent coincidence.’

  Poor Yvonne. She’d kept Virginia’s secret for so long. This whoever-she-was who’d hit town would affect her life too. And that wasn’t fair. Virginia had to hold it together for Yvonne’s sake. Whatever this girl was doing here, Virginia wasn’t going to let it undo her. Nothing had undone her in sixty years.

  Nothing could after that day.

  This wasn’t an innocent coincidence. It couldn’t be. This Laura woman was connected to Lily somehow. She felt it in her bones.

  They drank one more whisky in silence before Virginia put the bottle away and Yvonne washed up the glasses.

  ‘Do you want me to stay?’ Yvonne asked.

  ‘No.’ What good would that do? ‘Thank you, though. You go home and rest. We’ll talk more tomorrow.’

  Yvonne stood at the door. ‘Virginia. Listen to me. Even if Laura is . . . somehow related, which I doubt, we will face this together.’

  Virginia rushed over and hugged Yvonne tightly, quickly, then pushed herself away.

  ‘Go.’ Her voice was gruff as she held back the flood of tears she’d been keeping inside for so long.

  Ever so long.

  Under the cover of darkness, Virginia
slipped through the night. She wasn’t going to sit back and wait for coincidence or fate or whatever was at play here to come crashing through her life. If Laura was connected to her past, to Lily, then she had to know – know why she was here, what she wanted, what she knew. If she knew something, anything at all, Virginia had to be prepared. But how? She’d buried that summer in the darkest reaches of her mind so long ago, nothing could help her if it resurfaced now.

  She slunk along the beach, her breathing becoming heavy as the holiday house came into view. There was a light on in the living room, the curtains were open.

  Virginia snuck along the side of the house until she was under the smaller of the two living room windows. She inched her head up, stealing a look inside.

  Laura was sitting on the sofa, her back to the window. In front of her was a laptop, the screen ablaze with light. Virginia was too far away and her eyesight too bad to make out what was on the screen.

  Who was she kidding? What could she possibly discover peering through a window at night-time?

  Silly old fool.

  Laura stood up and Virginia dropped down into a crouch. Her heart beat heavy against her chest.

  Gentle mumbling reached her ears. Was there someone else inside?

  She had to risk another look, so she popped up. Laura was still facing away from the window. No one else was there.

  Virginia stretched up to see better. The girl was scribbling something on paper, her shoulders slouched over. She stopped, threw a pen onto the coffee table, and tore the page out of her notebook. With a quick flick of her wrist, she flung the piece of paper behind her and Virginia fell to her aching knees as the flash of white flew towards her.

  She held her breath. If Laura fetched that piece of paper, she’d be discovered. If Virginia ran, she’d be discovered.