David had once set me on fire, and there had been a time when we seemed very good together. We’d even talked about getting married. I eventually realised the months I’d waited for him to propose to me were, unfortunately, being replaced by an increasing number of months when such a proposal would be deeply unwelcome.
I’d been shocked two years ago when my mother’s death forced me to understand I’d unconsciously fallen into a pattern of behaviour with David modelled on her own unsatisfactory relationship with my father. Luckily I’d recognised it in time.
I took stock of my situation. I wanted more from life than David would ever understand, and our expectations and ambitions were increasingly divergent. Finally, I gathered my courage, confronted him and severed the relationship. David, predictably, had no idea what I was talking about and blamed the whole debacle on mysterious ‘women’s issues’, which rather proved my point.
I looked along the airstrip to the north. Still no sign of Jorge. I decided to follow the other track that led through the sand dunes down to the beach. Greville Harbour’s particular geography means the beautiful crescent of the bay is separated from the airstrip by a wide stretch of dunes. The only chance I had of getting cell phone reception was to climb to the top of one and hope I picked up a signal. I plodded down the track, found a likely hill and climbed to its summit.
I phoned Jorge’s mobile; it went straight to answerphone. Either he had it switched off, or more likely, he was out of range and already walking towards the plane. I shrugged and called Paraparaumu Aviation.
My boss answered, and I filled him in on FOG’s presence on the strip. He sounded surprised at first, then amused.
“Crafty buggers,” he commented. “No, I’m not worried about their competence, but they certainly didn’t tell me they were planning to end up on D’Urville. I’m surprised they even found the strip. It’s not that easy to spot from the air unless you know where it is. Ah well, no harm done, but I’ll have a word when they get back.”
He confirmed there had been no message from Jorge warning me he would be late. I sighed, hung up and looked round. Off the headland at the southern end of the bay I could see a small boat in the water. Matt and his family out fishing, I guessed.
I began the walk north along the sand towards Jorge’s bach. I was in a catch-22 situation. I couldn’t see the airstrip from the beach, nor could anyone on the strip see me, but if Jorge arrived he would at least see the plane ready, and realise I had gone searching for him.
If I hadn’t felt pressured by the need to be back in Paraparaumu in time for my date with Sam, I would have enjoyed the exercise. Greville is a lovely curve of sand, and I walked its length in solitude, the silence only broken by the calls of the seagulls.
I had reached the northern end of the beach, at the foot of the steps that led to the terrace and Jorge’s bach, when I heard the roar of FOG’s engine as she took off from the strip. I stood, gazing up, shielding my eyes from the setting sun, as the little Cub climbed out of the harbour and up over the sea. I could see her making the eastward turn which would bring her up over the range towards Cook Strait, and then a direct path back to her home airport.
I grinned. I’d missed seeing the pilots. They must have come back via the landward track.
I climbed the steps. Jorge’s bach lay to the left. Ahead was the ‘mystery house’. I had been flying into D’Urville for two years or more, and this house was always deserted. I had no idea who owned it.
With a shock, I saw the house was occupied. Windows and the front door were flung wide open, and a young couple were sitting on the deck, legs dangling over the edge into the tussock grass, while the man fed driftwood into their brazier. I reached up to wave.
The man gave a perceptible start when he saw me but replied with a tentative gesture of his own. His companion, whom I saw was very young, registered my presence with a sort of horror, sprang to her feet and bolted inside. She was a little too far away for me to be certain, but I got the impression she had been crying.
I shrugged, nodded again to the man and made my way to Jorge’s.
He wasn’t at home, which was fine if he was already at the strip waiting for me, but it was soon obvious to me that he hadn’t locked the house up. I tried the back door, found it open and went in. The backpack Jorge normally carried was propped against the wall. With insufficient baggage to fill out its interior it had collapsed in its mid-section with a sad, sagging look of a failed fighter about it. The straps were undone and trailed loosely across the floor. I picked it up to check. Jorge had made no attempt to even begin packing.
I looked around. Jorge was a writer, and if what he said was true, he spent his days on D’Urville either wandering the hills or writing his novels. Early on he had discovered I was a reader – in that broad sense of the word that describes a person who reads everything from Victorian novels to the writing on cereal packets.
We had discussed books and explored our mutual interest in words during our flights to and from the island. It had become a game – a challenge between us, for each to bring a new and unusual word to the conversation every time I ferried him to the island. Today I had chosen ‘solipsistic’. I was reasonably certain he wouldn’t know the word, but sometimes he surprised me. Like many people for whom English is a second language, his vocabulary was considerable and eclectic.
A year or so back he’d shown me the cover design he’d chosen for his latest novel, featuring a man heavily clad in some space-age type of armour with a scantily dressed blonde, bound in chains, at his feet. I gathered the story was set in some dystopian future, was ultraviolent and possibly pornographic.
He had laughed at the expression on my face. “Trust me, Claire, there’s a market for my books. They’re very popular and sell particularly well in Japan and Germany.”
It wasn’t the kind of book that appealed to me, but I could see his life at the bach would be congenial for whatever muse inspired his work. With no Wi-Fi, television or phones to distract him, he could, as he said, churn out a couple of thousand words a day, and frequently more.
The sink was full of dishes, and his laptop sat open on his desk, a book beside it. With the automatic habit of a recidivist bibliophile I checked the title. Horowhenua: its Maori place-names & their topographic & historical background. I flicked through the pages. It looked interesting but didn’t get me any nearer to finding Jorge. He wasn’t the tidiest of men, but I had never known him leave the house without cleaning up and packing out the rubbish.
I wondered whether, by some bizarre series of errors, I had come on the wrong day. I pulled out my phone to call Roger, but there was no signal. I cursed, shoved the phone back into my pocket and left the bach.
The man at the mystery house was still tending his fire, which had now caught and was burning merrily in the grate. I waved again as I passed.
Feeling grumpy, I took the inland track back to the airstrip. The path led deeper into the dunes before emerging on the landward side of them, on the shores of the lagoon. This brackish store of swampy water was home to a wide variety of fowl, the most numerous and dramatic being the black swans. Flax, bulrushes and sedge lined the edges. It was an attractive spot, protected by the seaward dunes from any coastal breezes, so the temperature remained warmer than average all year long. This late in the season the Department of Conservation campsite here was empty. It was getting too cold at night to tempt punters in a tent. Even in high summer there were rarely more than two tents pitched on the site.
I strode along, in equal part perturbed and annoyed. Either I had got the wrong date, or something had happened to Jorge. I tried not to worry, but D’Urville is a bush-covered island of steep, mountainous terrain. A lot could go wrong for a middle-aged man, inexperienced in bush craft, who ventured unwisely into territory he couldn’t handle.
I had swung past a series of sand dunes before I stopped, realising something in the recurring pattern of marram grass, tussock and sand
looked odd. I traced my unease to a huddle of material half-visible in a bowl amongst the dunes and walked over to see the anomaly more clearly.
Jorge was lying sprawled in the hollow at the foot of a dune, just off the track. He was motionless, his head half turned away from me.
DEAR READER,
Thank you for reading Helen Had a Sister (previously published as Princess of Sparta). I hope you enjoyed it.
Nestra’s story was one I always knew I would write. I have been fascinated by Ancient Greek myths and stories since I was a child. My father, who loved Classical Greek culture and literature, told me many of the myths as bedtime stories. When I was seven, my parents took me to Greece on holiday, and I vividly remember going to Delphi where the oracles were delivered; Crete, where the Minotaur was slain; and Delos where Apollo was born. The physical historical evidence of these sites made the stories even more compelling to my childish imagination.
At some point in my teens I was rereading The Odyssey and realised how interconnected the tales were. The Trojan War provided a focus around which other myths were massaged to make a coherent narrative. Generations of storytellers adapted the tales to fit this pivotal event. Thus Theseus, famous for slaughtering the Minotaur, is brought into the story as the first abductor of Helen of Sparta. The house of Atreides with its terrible history becomes Agamemnon’s heritage. My own namesake, Penelope, the long-suffering wife of Odysseus, is cousin to Helen of Troy and her sister Clytemnestra.
These three women, with their vastly different reputations and fortunes, intrigued me, and I knew then it was a story I wanted to tell.
As an author and teller of stories I love feedback from my readers. You are the reason I write, so tell me what you liked, what you loved and what you hated. I’d love to hear from you.
You can write to me at [email protected].
Finally, I need to ask a favour of you. If you’re so inclined, I’d appreciate a review of Helen Had a Sister. As you may know, reviews can be tough to come by. If you have the time, leave a review at Amazon.com, Goodreads or on my page. You, the reader, now have the power to make or break the book.
Thank you so much for reading Helen Had a Sister and for spending time with me.
In gratitude,
Penelope
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
To each of you who helped me write Helen Had a Sister, some in small ways, others hugely, my heartfelt thanks.
First in line are those tolerant souls who read the earliest drafts and guided me into forming the whole into a coherent narrative. Renee van de Weert once again provided support, encouragement and suggestions. The wonderful team in the office, Kelly Pettitt and Ruth Holman, were pressed into service as beta readers, and I owe an inestimable debt to Kelly in particular for her frank but constructive criticism during the various revisions of the original draft. Kelly is also responsible for the cover artwork, the photograph of me inside the back cover and was a godsend as my personal IT division every time I ran into problems with the computer or with formatting.
Sue Reidy and Tina Shaw provided invaluable criticism and guidance during the draft process. They were patient and helpful in the advice they offered. I also owe thanks to Debbie Watson for early proofreading. Finally, my deepest thanks to Adrienne Morris who proofread and edited the final manuscript.
My gratitude to my husband Cavan who sustained me, helped in a thousand ways and never failed to encourage me.
My thanks to Reilly for spending the long hours with me, and wagging encouragement, Pascal who lay on my lap as I typed away at the keyboard, and Cash, on whose broad back I cantered away from the frustrations inherent in the creative process.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Penelope came to New Zealand as an eleven-year-old after a childhood spent in India and Pakistan. As an only child, reading was her hobby – she read everything that came her way, a habit which has continued throughout her life.
On leaving school she trained as a nurse, without fully considering that a brisk default attitude of ‘pull yourself together and stop whining’ might not be an ideal prerequisite for the industry. Conceding, at last, that nurturing was not her dominant characteristic, she changed career path and after graduating with a BA (Hons) in English Literature, moved into management consultancy, which better suited her personality type.
After some years of family life she worked as a commercial pilot and flight instructor, spending her days ferrying clients into strips in the Marlborough Sounds and discouraging students from killing her as she taught them to fly.
Penelope lives with her husband, dog, cat and horse in Otaki, New Zealand.
Death on D’Urville is the first novel in her Claire Hardcastle series.
Straight and Level takes place some three months after Death on D’Urville.
Penelope is currently working on Stall Turns, the third in the series.
Her first novel, The Lost One is available in various formats from Amazon.com.
Paperback editions can be purchased within New Zealand from Paper Plus, Unity Books and other reputable book stores and suppliers. Alternatively, they can be ordered from Penelope’s website, and you can visit Penelope on Facebook.
Contact Penelope:
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Helen Had a Sister Page 25