Without a word they turned east, making their way towards the bottom of the paddock through knee-length rye-grass. Patches of lush green paspalum grew in abundance and would have seriously tempted Monnie but Tim could spot no signs of recent grazing. ‘See, there’s plenty of feed here,’ he said, as though desperate to convince himself as much as to reassure Rachel. ‘She’ll probably step out from a clump of bushes any minute now, plodding towards us and chomping on a mouthful of grass, snickering at us and wondering what all the fuss is about.’
‘At least I know she hasn’t strayed,’ Rachel said as though buying into Tim’s desperate attempt at optimism. ‘The fences are all good this side.’
‘Let’s follow the northern fence back to the top,’ Tim said.
‘She wouldn’t go that way. It’s too steep,’ Rachel replied, cupping her hands around her mouth. ‘Monnie. Monnie. Where are you beautiful girl?’ They simultaneously inserted their fingers into their mouths, their piercing whistles sending countless corellas flocking from the pines to the skies to vociferously scream their annoyance at this blatant disruption to their feeding session.
When the northern fence line came into view, a single electrified wire along a moonscape of sloping shale and rock, Tim knew immediately that Rachel had been right when she had said Monnie would not have had any inclination to climb in that direction because of its sheer steepness and lack of enticement.
They stopped and looked around, purely because there was nowhere else to look. Nowhere else she could possibly have gone. Tim did not know what to do next. Taking a deep breath he hoped for a miracle. Shielding their eyes they peered into the setting sun. Even under the border of pines and gums the rye grass had grown to knee height after the rain they’d had. Shadows and boulders created distortions, especially in the distance. So what they saw to the west of where they stood, did not immediately register with either of them.
When it did, Tim immediately threw his arm across Rachel to stop her from running forward. But she pushed it aside and ran towards Monnie who must surely have fallen asleep in the long grass. Tim caught up to her. Pulled her back, but once again Rachel punched him aside. ‘Hello, Monnie. Hello, beautiful girl. What are you doing there?’ she said in a maniacally joyful voice, staring down at the golden bulk of her beloved horse lying still and silent in the grass. Nothing moved, nothing tweaked, not even her ears. The only movement was a black mass of flies which lifted and swarmed away like a buzzing sheet to reveal one cloudy lifeless eye staring up at them as if to say, ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Monnie,’ Rachel chuckled. ‘C’mon girl, up you hop.’ She took the halter from her shoulder and bent down to harness her.
‘Rach … she’s gone. Monnie’s dead,’ Tim whispered.
‘No, she’s not. She’s just resting. Aren’t you, girl?’ C’mon — it’s time for your tea.’
Suddenly, Rachel fell to her knees, and tried to lift Monnie’s neck. Buried her face in the soft part behind her ear and howled like Tim had never heard a human howl before.
Tim waited for as long as it took for Rachel to accept that Monnie was dead … that today there would be no miracles.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Steve’s first text arrived merely two hours after Mia had left his hotel. She stopped to read the short message, which had arrived when she was on her way to Declan’s office. It was brief, but it brought a smile. Mm, mm xxx. Still smiling, she tapped out a single word in reply, Ditto, before slipping her phone into the pocket of her lab coat and continuing on her way.
Declan looked up briefly as she stood at his doorway, smirked and dropped his eyes to resume clicking away on the computer keyboard. ‘Good news?’ he murmured, without pausing.
‘Only that I am beginning to believe there may be life beyond Eric,’ Mia said, gliding into his office and dropping onto the high-backed seat opposite.
‘That wouldn’t have anything to do with our former colleague, would it, Mia?’ he said looking up from his computer and studying her expression over the top of his dark-rimmed glasses. ‘Bloody hell, Mia! You didn’t!’
‘Declan, don’t be so suspicious. Steve and I had a lovely chat. And thanks to both of you, I now feel a whole lot better. Just saying …’ She rose, walked to the door and turned. ‘I’m going to the beach house for the weekend. Do you want to come?’
‘Yes, great. But what about Eric? Shouldn’t you two take some time out together?’
‘What for? Even if he comes back from wherever it is he has gone, and even if by some sort of miracle he wants to be alone with me — he is not welcome.’
Declan lifted one eyebrow. Made a face. ‘Well, in that case count me in. I have a dinner commitment Friday night, but I can join you Saturday morning.’
‘Great. We’ll have a long lunch and you can stay the night,’ Mia said, turning to leave.
‘That means I can have a couple of wines … oh, Mia,’ he called as she was about to step into the corridor. ‘Did you make that appointment with Debra Illingworth as you promised?’
‘Declan, I didn’t promise anything. Give me a break for Pete’s sake.’
‘I’m out of here,’ Mia said to Ellen at the nurses’ station at precisely three on Friday afternoon. She shoved her pen into the pocket of her scrubs and tossed the pile of signed case notes into the basket at Ellen’s side. ‘I do not want to miss a moment’s daylight at Ackland Bay. And the very first thing I am going to do is take a long leisurely stroll along the beach.’
‘I’m so jealous.’ Ellen whined.
Twenty minutes on the expressway was usually more than enough to send Mia into spasms of restless boredom, but her spirits invariably soared once she drove from the exit and entered the Fleurieu Peninsula’s countryside.
The ribbon of asphalt dipped between hills and wound past cliff-faces and over lakes. She glanced to her right at the Mediterranean-blue of the sea, realising at once how much she had missed it. The patchwork landscape stretched before her like a living painting: emerald-green pasturelands of every shape and size, separated by broad sweeps of dark-green olive groves and interspersed with dollops of lime-tinted vineyards which would eventually produce some of Australia’s best reds. And, at this time of year, almond groves glowing white with blossom appeared to have been sprinkled across the panoramic expanse like fairy dust. Every time she drove this stretch, no matter the season, no matter her mood, she secretly celebrated owning a small corner of this astoundingly beautiful part of the world.
'I love it here,’ she murmured, turning onto the magic section of road that opened up to reveal Ackland Bay, an expanse of blue that stretched as far as the eye could see. This idyllic place had been a constant in her life ever since her parents scraped and saved to buy it as a weekender during her pre-school days in the seventies.
Their fibro cottage on the beach was small by today’s standards, indeed not much larger than the expanse of decking she and Eric had added to its frontage 10 years ago. She cruised into the gravel driveway, reliving childhood memories of countless children congregating on the front lawn or spilling from the house to enjoy the unique energy and fun that spontaneously combusts when hordes of barefoot kids are drawn to each other during holidays at the beach. Then there were more recent memories of the long lunches she and Eric frequently held on the deck … stretches of white linen-covered tables loaded with wonderful food and wine under huge umbrellas and surrounded by good friends and joyful music. And for Adam this little fibro cottage had brought rich friendships and memories similar to those of her own childhood. ‘And that is how it will be for my grandchildren, too,’ she muttered climbing from the car and slamming the car door closed. ‘You can go to hell, Eric, if you think you can take this away from me,’ she added, climbing the few stairs up to the deck.
She closed her eyes and breathed in the gentle push of cool air that met her from inside the front door. It was always like this. The house had been situated perfectly by the old couple who’d built it, expertly positioning it t
o catch the morning sun in winter and the sea breezes in summer. She cast her eyes around at the white walls, straw ceiling, polished pine board flooring and the matching striped lounge chairs and plump blue settee squatting comfortably around the sisal rug. Dropping her overnight bag onto the floor she raised the blinds, exposing the wide expanse of window and the endless gulf beyond, white caps budding its surface with gentle encouragement from the offshore breeze.
She stepped into the bedroom, feeling strangely confronted by the sight of their striped bed cover, which usually brought joy because she had her best sleeps in this bed … but this time she felt an unexpected stab of sadness. For just a moment. ‘Forget it, Mia. It’s in the past,’ she muttered, heading for the window as a distraction from so many memories. The last time she and Eric had made love, before everything changed, was in this room, in this bed. She opened the blinds and surveyed the view, wondering again why she did not come here more often. Things are about to change, she thought. Outside it was still light, but the sun was low. She knew that within an hour the brilliantly blazing circle would drop behind the horizon to throw streaks of pink and gold across the fading sky. She stared out at the gulls wheeling above the sea, sometimes pushing against the breeze, other times allowing it to sweep them along for just a moment before reclaiming flight. ‘I’ll walk in the morning,’ she muttered, deciding instead to stay indoors and build a fire. She would grill a steak for dinner.
Later that night, she watched her reflection in the mirror above the white vanity basin as she stood alone and brushed her teeth — pondering how different, how strange it seemed, to be enjoying time here without Eric at her side, without Eric to talk to. Without Eric to share what had always been extra-special times no matter how mundane.
The ringing of her mobile broke into her thoughts and lured her into the kitchen where ‘Steve Wheeler’ flashed determinedly on the screen. Panic mingled with guilt swamped Mia’s gut. She and Steve had exchanged text messages over two or three days after they had spent what could only be described as a magical night together. But the increasing frequency and urgency of his contacts only confused and panicked her — like invisible walls slowly but surely closing in on her shambolic life. She could not fathom her feelings, but she knew she was not ready for anything definite. So for the past two days she had stopped responding to his texts, had ignored his phone calls and had deleted his emails without opening them.
Yet here and now, in the seductive peace of Ackland Bay she berated herself for her self-centred thoughtlessness. It was only decent and right, she thought, to take this call and explain her confusion. But how could she explain feelings she did not understand? She felt blinded by uncertainty and it was dangerous to believe this was the time to be open with him. Steve’s call rang out and robbed her of choice about whether or not she should answer. She deleted his message without listening to it.
Sleep did not come to her easily that night, despite the mantric pummelling of the waves on the sand. But when she was woken by the carolling of the magpies in the melaleucas outside her bedroom window it felt as though only minutes had passed since she had crawled into bed. She opened her eyes to a bruised sky punctuated by heavy grey clouds, the sea wearing its khaki winter shroud. She jumped out of bed and pulled on a tracksuit, grabbed her jacket and scarf, and ran from the house. Nothing could stop her from walking this morning.
The sand’s stippled crust, a sure sign light rain had fallen overnight, fractured under her runners as she walked. Not a single footprint marred the beach stretching ahead like a deserted paradise. The sea lapped at the sand, not quite capable of forming real waves despite the force of the wind biting into her face. She hurriedly raised the collar of her jacket and wound her woollen scarf tighter. Lowering her head she ploughed through the sand, intending to walk the entire length of the bay before having a leisurely breakfast. Her only company was a pair of albatross who stood sedately among daubs of seaweed, seemingly unaware she was moving quietly towards them, until they finally scuttled into the shallows, spreading their wings and soaring as elegantly and as soundlessly as kites towards the clouds. And as they became tiny specks in the sky, Mia felt a sudden aching sense of being alone.
She completed her walk, pleased that Declan’s visit occupied her mind, then made her way through the dunes to the house, finally deciding a late and leisurely lunch of slow-cooked lamb shanks in front of the fire was called for, given the weather. She broke into a run, anxious to get the shopping over with and the shanks simmering in the oven as soon as she could.
Ackland Point’s narrow main road connected to Shepherdsville, two kilometres to the north, and Ackland Bay one kilometre to the south. An eclectic collection of shops either side of the road — one supermarket, the local butcher, a bakery and, more recently, a gourmet food shop and a handful of cafes and restaurants — impressed as having grown there by coincidence rather than solid planning. But Mia’s view was that each trader injected their own unique character and brand of service which was relevant to the area, so locals and tourists alike did not want for much.
Her arms laden with groceries, Mia made her way out through the sliding doors of the supermarket. Parking parallel to the kerb was the only option available, which meant shoppers travelled mere metres to complete their purchases. Humming Ravel’s ‘Bolero’, she loaded the grocery bags onto the back set of the car alongside the parcel of lamb shanks from the butcher’s, the fresh bread and croissants from the bakery, and a range of locally grown vegetables, fresh herbs and olives from the gourmet food shop, before surveying the sky and slamming the car door closed, anxious to get home before it rained for the second time that morning.
Mia was no stranger to the frustration and, often, acute embarrassment, at coming across a face she knew without being able to connect it to either a name or place. So, when she spotted the tall guy with the reddish-brown hair and exceptionally broad shoulders as she was about to climb into her car, she was compelled to pause and study his face, his mannerisms, desperately searching her mind for a hint of where she may have met him before. Thankfully, he seemed oblivious of her attention as he walked towards her.
‘Hello, Tim,’ she called, stepping onto the footpath to intercept him.
‘G’day, Dr Sandhurst.’
Mia found Tim’s smile disarming — so beautiful that her eyes could not immediately leave it. She hoped he hadn’t noticed. ‘Your family live here, don’t they?’ she said, regaining her composure.
‘Yeah, about 10 kays north. What about you? Are you passing through?’ he asked, slipping his hands into the front pockets of his jeans, his large thumbs pointing inwards.
‘I have a little fibro on the beachfront at Ackland Bay. I haven’t been here for a while. Every time I come I wonder why I stay away for so long.’ She smiled up at him.
He nodded, but Mia could not fathom his expression.
‘Um. I work a couple of days a week in the cabinetmaker’s along there in Smith Street.’ He pointed to the closest corner. ‘I’m just on my way there now to say g’day to Laurie, my boss. I guess I’d better get going.’
‘Before you go, how’s Rachel?’ she said, laying a hand on his arm and instantly withdrawing it, but not before being made aware of the size of his bicep through the thin cotton of his checked shirt.
Tim sighed. ‘She’s okay, I guess. Well, actually, she’s not too good at all. Her horse died suddenly a couple of days ago. She hasn’t been to school since.’ He took another deep breath and straightened his shoulders. ‘Monnie was a great horse … anyway, I’d better get going.’
Mia refused to be put off. ‘Rachel is having a really rough time. You should encourage your parents to get her some help from a counsellor, or even your local GP,’ she said softly, aware of his pained expression and not wishing to burden him further.
Tim turned to watch two guys his age approach, gave them a half-hearted smile as they passed and waited until they were at a safe distance before saying quietly, ‘You probably kn
ow that the welfare visited. They said the same. I think Mum’s finally got the picture.’ He looked around as though about to be struck down by lightning for his disloyalty.
‘Great, that’s a good start,’ she said. ‘Well, if all else fails, give me a ring. I may be able to help. You have my number.’
‘Thanks.’ He nodded and continued on his way.
Mia climbed into her car and studied his wide, straight shoulders as he made his way towards Smith Street. What the hell is wrong with you, Mia? He is a patient’s brother — and, even worse, he is not much older than your own sweet son.
Mia spread the white cloth on the small round table, set out the brightly striped crockery, cutlery and over-sized wineglasses. She was standing back to examine the effect at a few minutes before midday when she heard Declan’s car door slam. She hurriedly placed a flat dish of coloured candles in the middle of the table and turned to watch Declan climb the few steps up to the deck before making his way to the front door, a bottle and plastic shopping bag in one hand and his overnight bag in the other. He had dressed warmly in jeans and a dark fine-knit polo shirt.
‘Come in, Declan,’ she called. His head peeked through the doorway before he strode over with the relaxed smile that came easy at Ackland Bay and landed a big smacking kiss on her cheek, handing her the bottle, a particularly good red, and the bag, which turned out to be holding a wickedly tempting collection of cheeses and chocolates.
‘How are you?’ Declan said, his smile slightly fading as he studied her face.
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