Another lie?
She read the article three times, looking for any further information, but the details were sketchy. The only other mention she could find of her grandfather was a snippet from a gossip column in the Ocean Heights Chronicle from 1961 about the Prescott family visiting Banksia Bay.
Richard had been to Banksia Bay!
She jotted a few thoughts down in her notebook for searching Trove tomorrow. She’d used the site many times in her career to look for historical information, particularly old newspapers. Whoever had spent hours upon hours digitising those documents was a saint, in her opinion. Knowing that Richard had visited Banksia Bay gave her something to go on. The date of his death would also aid her search. Knowing that Virginia Gilbert was Gigi, or at least strongly believing it, also helped. She had somewhere to start now. It was amazing what you could do with a few names and dates and some archived newspapers.
She’d dive in with fresh eyes in the morning. She curled up under the doona and closed her eyes. Images of bees buzzed through her mind, along with yellow fairy floss. She rolled over. Virginia’s piercing gaze flashed into her head. She turned again and started counting sheep. One, two, three, a bee sat on a sheep’s nose. Nine, ten, eleven, Heath’s blue eyes and warm smile adorned a sheep’s face.
Oh dear.
In the morning, cup of strong coffee in hand, Laura opened her laptop ready for a full day’s research but a knock on the door interrupted her.
‘It’s only me. Don’t hurry,’ Heath’s voice called down the hallway.
Damn it. She closed her computer. What was he doing here? Laura stepped through the house and let him in.
‘You look like you’re getting around much better. Stitches out soon, hey?’
‘Not soon enough,’ she groaned, and Heath gave her a sympathetic look.
He pointed to the scar on his face. ‘At least it’s not right up front for all the world to see.’
She felt bad for complaining and looked at the floor.
‘It’s okay. It was a surfing accident when I was young and thought I could conquer the world. I stayed out too late when a monster storm came rolling in and I got thrown against the rocks. I barely notice it anymore.’
Laura realised this was the first time she’d noticed it herself since their first meeting on the beach.
‘Do you still think you can conquer the world?’ Laura smiled. All sense had left her. Send him home, Laura. To his wife.
‘Some days. Most days I’m just trying to get from A to B.’
‘Just like the rest of us.’
He nodded. ‘I had a night shift at the hospital, and just finished. I thought maybe we could go for that drive I’ve been promising you.’
‘Are you a nurse too?’ Laura asked. Then why hadn’t he patched her up?
‘No. Pathology. Not quite as glamorous.’ He backed out of the door and led her to his car. ‘Shall we?’
She should have said no. Trust your gut, Laura. But her gut said yes. Her gut was a traitor.
They wound their way along the dirt track that snaked over the hills surrounding Banksia Bay. Heath pulled off the track into a clearing and opened the car door for Laura to get out.
It was a lookout, of sorts, with a view to the south over the town.
‘That’s the caravan park Virginia ran up until a few years ago.’ He pointed to an empty expanse of green grass just south of the beach shack, behind some trees. Laura could just make out a narrow path winding from the caravan park through the bush to the sand at the southernmost part of the bay.
‘It was fun growing up with such a big backyard. I spent most afternoons after school there, instead of heading home.’
Laura turned and looked at him.
‘Oh, nothing juicy. Home was fine. Just not as much fun as a caravan park. Gran grew up there too. It was sad when she had to leave. It just got to be too much for her, especially on her own.’
‘Your grandfather?’
‘He died in Vietnam.’ He shrugged. ‘She’s never really talked about it. And never found anyone else.’
Laura’s mind was buzzing.
Gigi grew up here. Lillian visited. Richard died in Vietnam. So did Heath’s grandfather. Were they friends? Best mates serving together? Were they the same person? No. That didn’t feel right.
Back in the car, Laura wished she’d brought her notebook with her.
Not much further down the track, Heath stopped the car again. This time they were outside an old stone barn, or farmhouse. At least, maybe it had been when it had actual solid walls and a complete roof. Now the old building sat sadly, sagging into the ground as if staying upright was just far too much effort.
‘Now this, this is the most interesting part of town’. Heath led her around the building. ‘Apparently, it used to be an old cheese factory. Like, a hundred years ago or so. But something happened, no one knows what, and it was abandoned.’
‘Surely someone knows. I thought small towns were famous for everyone knowing everything.’
Heath nodded. ‘True. Gossip spreads like wildfire. But when a small town wants to keep a secret, they can bury something so deep and rewrite their own history, until events, even people, are erased from collective memory. Trust me. I’ve tried to find out about this place. Nothing.’
He beckoned her to follow him around the other side of the building.
The view from there was the most breathtaking vista Laura had ever seen. The entire coastline was laid out before them, the rolling green hills framing the yellow sand that bled into the deep blue water. Banksia Bay, lying to the south, was almost hidden by a soft white haze that sat just off the hills.
‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’
Laura was spellbound.
‘One day, I’m going to buy this place. Turn it into an artisans marketplace, where the farmers from around here can sell their produce. Cheese, pies, honey. There’s even an olive farm outside Ocean Heights. You said yourself we could make so much more of the artisanal movement.’
Laura watched Heath as he walked up and down, his face animated.
‘Artists could also sell their work. We’d have a small café in the corner, with a deck, just here jutting out over the cliff, taking in that.’ He spread his arms out wide to indicate the view. He turned to Laura. ‘What? You’re looking at me funny. Oh God. I do carry on like a pork chop when I think about it.’ He bowed his head.
Laura wondered what expression had adorned her face. She hadn’t meant to upset him. ‘I actually think it sounds amazing.’
He looked at her, his face open, hopeful, like a child’s at Christmas.
‘I just wasn’t expecting it.’ He’d painted such a vivid picture, Laura couldn’t help but be swept up in his enthusiasm. She could imagine the transformation of the old cheese factory, and a flutter of excitement tickled inside her.
‘What, from a boofhead surfer like me?’ He raised an eyebrow.
‘I suspect you are anything but a boofhead.’ As the words came out of her mouth, her cheeks burned. Stop that. ‘What does Charlotte think about it all?’
Yes, keep reminding yourself he’s married. Keep reminding him.
‘Charlotte?’ He screwed his face up. ‘She thinks I can’t pull it off. But I’ll show her. She doesn’t think that much of my sculpting, either. I make things out of wood – driftwood, fallen branches, anything I can find.’
Laura remembered her own doorway. ‘Like the wind chime at the holiday house?’
If Laura wasn’t mistaken, Heath’s cheeks reddened. ‘Yes. That’s one of mine.’
‘It’s beautiful.’ He’d made that? She was impressed. And a little taken aback by how much.
‘Thank you. I’m glad someone thinks so.’
Laura felt sorry for Heath, married to someone who didn’t seem to support him. But that didn’t give him the right to make her feel all wobbly and warm inside.
‘Follow me.’ He grabbed her hand and led her through a gap where the stones had fallen
to the ground, leaving a space just big enough to step through. His touch caused her breath to catch in her throat.
There was debris and dirt everywhere and Laura was careful where she stepped. They moved past old equipment and tables, the sun shining spotlights through small and large holes in the mostly collapsed roof.
Heath pointed to a broken cart. ‘That’s where the produce would go.’ He spun around and walked over to what had once, Laura assumed, been a table. ‘Here would be where the art goes. And this copper kettle would be beautiful polished up and used as a display.’
He picked his way over the debris, describing every last detail. His passion was evident, his every word so clear, that Laura could almost see it take shape before her. It wasn’t often in life she was dumbstruck.
‘Oh–kay.’ Heath said. ‘I can see I’ve gone a little overboard and should probably stop now, before you run away.’
‘Ah, but where would I go? I don’t know my way around these parts, remember?’
‘Good point.’ He led the way back out. ‘Still, best not to push things.’
When they got back to his car, Laura stopped and turned to him. ‘Heath. I think it’s amazing. I hope you can build your dream one day. I’d really like to see it.’
‘I’d like you to see it, too.’ He stepped towards her, then stopped.
Was he flirting with her? Damn her useless gut. She should never have come with him.
They headed back to Banksia Bay and Heath dropped her off on the main street so she could pick up some groceries for dinner.
‘Oh, Heath?’ she called before he drove off. ‘Is there a library in Ocean Heights?’
‘Yeah, not a bad one, either. They’re open late tomorrow night. I could take you, if you like.’
The Bodhi Bus wasn’t due for another run till next Monday. And while she had Trove to dig through, local libraries often had quirky collections that proved useful. It wouldn’t hurt to have a poke around.
‘Would you mind?’ It was just a lift. Nothing more.
‘Not at all.’
She waved as Heath’s car pulled away and drove off down the street.
The following day Laura spent the morning pottering around the house, sifting through her questions and notes, trying to find the one thread that, when pulled, would unravel the whole story for her.
She trawled through Trove for hours, but to little avail.
She did find a piece in the Ocean Heights Chronicle about the school’s honour list, 1963, that mentioned a Miss V Gilbert.
As much as Laura loved Trove, it could be slow going when you weren’t sure what keywords you needed.
Stories like this – and she had to think of this as a story – were frustrating. So many pieces that didn’t quite add up to a whole.
She knew exactly what the problem was. It was too personal for her. There wasn’t enough distance for her to find the right perspective. The answer was probably there. She just couldn’t see it.
Charlotte may well have given her strict instructions not to run, in case she burst open the stitches, but surely a jog would be okay. The stitches were due out tomorrow anyway. It would be worth the risk to clear her head.
She walked through town, oh so casually, just in case Charlotte happened to be around and caught her, but once she hit the hills, she picked up the pace. Her knee felt a little tight, but as she lengthened her stride, she got used to it. She resisted kicking into the next gear and did actually take it slow. Slow for her, anyway.
When she reached the hill that had attacked her knee last time, she pulled back to a walk. No point tempting fate. She carefully moved to the edge of the cliff.
With hands on hips, she drew in a long breath. It was a beautiful view, but not as stunning as the one from the cheese factory. If Heath could realise his dream . . .
The thought of him so animated as he told her about his vision made her heart beat faster.
No. Stop it. Think about the story. Always the story.
The sun bathed her face in autumn warmth and she lifted her arms. Was this warrior pose? Remembering her yoga attempt down on the beach, she thrust her arms back down. Falling here again was not a good idea. That blasted rock was still hiding somewhere. She looked around, pushing her foot carefully through the grass. Ah, there was the nasty little sucker.
‘You’re not going to get me this time.’ She bent down to clear away the growth that was protecting it from discovery by unsuspecting joggers. ‘No more stealth attacks for you.’
As she ripped the grass away, a carving appeared. Two sets of initials, shallow, jagged, etched into the rock.
‘V.G’, something that might have been a love heart, and ‘C.T’.
Virginia Gilbert? Maybe. And Costas Tinellis? No. It couldn’t be.
She may just have found one more piece of the puzzle, and she had to add it to her notes. She pulled her phone out of her back pocket and took a photo, before running back to the holiday house.
To hell with the stitches.
Back at the house, Laura waited for Heath to pick her up to take her to the library. She had her notes ready and couldn’t wait to get started. She didn’t know what she’d find, if anything. A small regional library might not have much information going back that far, or maybe it had a wealth of records. Hopefully there would be school archives, or a local history section, at least.
After she’d returned from her jog, she’d taken a quick shower and then started her internet search again. This time for Costas Tinellis. His name circled in the scrapbook, the carving in the rock. She had no idea if he was important or not – who didn’t have a school-aged crush that was all-consuming at the time but insignificant in the grand scheme of life? But her gut was telling her to follow it through. Her instincts may have let her down when it came to Heath, but when it came to stories, rule number three had never steered her wrong.
She’d found an immigration record for a Tinellis family from post–World War Two, and a death notice for a Stavros Tinellis in 1970, in Melbourne. There was also a court report that came up in the search, but it was redacted. She’d never seen that before. She’d made a note of the reference number and would get a printout at the library.
This Costas fellow might not have anything to do with Lillian, but there was definitely something more to his thread.
Of course, the easiest thing to do would be to come straight out and ask Virginia if she’d known Lillian. Ask her what had happened. But every instinct was telling her to hold off on that.
A car horn beeped.
She drew in a deep breath and went out to meet Heath.
The library in Ocean Heights was bigger than Laura was expecting and the librarian was extremely helpful. Once Laura had explained that she was doing a lifestyle series of colourful histories of small towns, including Banksia Bay, she took Laura into a private reading room and pulled out files that had old school archives and a folder with something called The Bay Bugle. Produced by the ‘ladies’ guild’, whoever they were, it wasn’t a newspaper as such – more like a local gossip newsletter.
Bingo.
Heath would be back in an hour to pick her up. She’d better get cracking.
The school archives had reports, Parents’ and Citizens’ Association minutes, and a few interesting articles from the local paper. No mention of a Lillian Woodhouse anywhere. Plenty of references to Gigi Gilbert.
There were some photos of the students, including the same class shot from Virginia’s scrapbook. Costas was there but there was no other mention of him anywhere else in the school archives. Laura circled and underlined his name in her notes.
The Bay Bugle, on the other hand, was a most entertaining read. It went as far back as 1920, and was full of salacious rumours and innuendo. Laura wished she had more time to pore over the publication for purely personal enjoyment, but she skipped the early years and found her way to the sixties.
In the summer of 1961, Dr Prescott, a renowned physician from Sydney, brought his fami
ly to Banksia Bay for the first time, and the ladies of the guild were beside themselves wondering which local beauty would garner the attention of his very eligible son.
By 1962, the guild were distraught that a young lady from Sydney, whose family were regular summer visitors to the Bay, had snaffled the affection of said Master Richard Prescott, and Miss Lillian Woodhouse had apparently broken the hearts of many, some might say more deserving, local girls.
‘Yes!’ Laura let out a loud cry.
‘Are you okay?’ The librarian came into the room.
‘Sorry. Yes. Do you have a photocopier?’
The librarian looked down her nose, but led her to the copy room and set her up with an account.
‘Thank you.’ Laura copied the articles and scurried back to the reading room. It wouldn’t be long now till Heath returned to take her home.
The next few Bugles had all the usual gossip – who was courting whom, how the local businesses were going, a scathing report on the hedonistic nature of the ever-increasing surf culture that was plaguing the Bay each summer, and perhaps Ian Holland would be better off catching more fish to serve a failing industry than teaching these hippie outsiders a pursuit that was, quite frankly, a waste of time.
Ian. Laura jotted his name in her notes, a reminder that she really needed to see inside his studio.
Laura was enjoying reading The Bugle. This Mrs Andrews who ran the newsletter certainly wasn’t afraid to let her opinions be known.
‘How’s it going?’
Laura jumped. Heath was standing behind her, looking over her shoulder.
‘Ah, The Bay Bugle. That’s some interesting entertainment right there.’ He put his hands on his hips. ‘Though I’m not sure how much stock I’d put in the truth of their scandalous stories.’
‘Well, no. I guess not.’
‘Did you find what you were looking for?’ Heath’s brow furrowed as Laura scrambled to put her copied sheets into a folder. ‘Anything I can help you with?’
The Banksia Bay Beach Shack Page 13