The Driftwood Dragon

by Ann Charlton

  'Nothing that I can see,' Sam said.

  The fish were wrapped in foil, suspended over the fire by a grate. A faint, delicious smell wafted from them occasionally to mingle with the tang of wood-smoke and sea-salt. Locke expertly uncorked the wine, poured it with a flourish.

  'Your stint as a drinks waiter?' Dru raised her brows at him.

  'Just so, ma'am.' There was a glint in Locke's eyes as he brought her the glass. His face was dramatically lit by the fire, the sculptured nose throwing a dark shadow, the beautiful mouth curved and generous. It was two days since he had shaved.

  'I see that look in your eye. You're going to reprimand me for not shaving aren't you?' he said.

  'It would be nice. But I suppose at least you're dressed tonight. One out of two isn't bad.'

  Locke chuckled. Sam's head popped up like a bird alert for trouble.

  'I'm growing a beard as a disguise. So I won't be attacked by my devotees when we go shopping tomorrow.'

  'We?'

  'You and Sam and me,' he grinned. 'We thought we might help you with the shopping seeing as you've invited us to dinner tomorrow night.'

  'Oh, did I? And did I tell you just what I'd be cooking for you?

  'Don't believe you did. Did Dru mention the menu, Sam?'

  'Close as a clam about it, she was.'

  'Well, if you're game, I am,' she said cheerfully. 'You both know I'm a lousy cook.'

  The fire's embers glowed scarlet. The fish were pronounced ready.

  'Sam, this is delicious. It tastes like being a kid again. Remember when—' It was the first of a dozen 'remember when's'. Locke heard about her maddest escapades with Barry and Gillian, heard about the silver teapot and of the cereal packet plastic coin Dru discovered and took to Sam, babbling of Spanish doubloons.

  'I was only about ten.'

  'And a dreamer,' Sam smiled gently at her across the fire, '—always thinking to find treasure on a junkheap, always the one to see visions in the fire. The one to take risks.'

  'I grew up, Sam,' she said drily, a little embarrassed at this unusually flowery speech from him.

  'Aaagh. Pity.'

  He fell silent after that, content to watch them and the fire and listen to Locke's stories, taking for granted the names of cities he would never see, the names of the famous who were nothing to him. The two men had some odd affinity that defied their vastly different backgrounds. Only days ago Dru had found Sam's approval of Locke irritating. Now she was warmed by it. Glad for the old man whose taciturn nature admitted so few. Glad for Locke too.

  It seemed natural that they should sing as the fire glowed down to its last embers. Under the stars with the moon swinging slowly over in her arc, they sang the songs that Dru remembered from other childhood campfires on this beach. Locke was only stuck for words once. His voice joined robustly with Sam's wavering tenor and her own reedy sound. Binding them.

  Sam became introspective again when they fell silent, then said goodnight.

  'Sleep well, Silla. Locke will see you home.' It was a command. She smiled and waited obediently by the dying fire while Locke followed Sam inside with his barbecue tools and rug. She heard their voices, low from the house as a window showed light. It seemed a long time before Locke came back. The fire had gone out and she stood up and stamped her feet in sudden chill. Then he was there, gathering up the basket with the plates and the glasses. He kicked some sand almost angrily over the dead ash of the fire, and took her arm.

  The sea shushed and shattered. The shadows were mauve-grey on the sand as they followed the marks of their footsteps that curved around the beach to the dunes. Locke's arm slipped about her shoulders and he pulled her close against his side. Dru knew this was the moment for some light-hearted witticism but her throat was dry and no words would come. On the dunes near Sea Winds, Locke muttered something under his breath and dropped the basket to the ground with a rattle of china and glass. He spun Dru around to face him, looked down at her while the moon moved a little on its arc and the sea rushed once, and again to the shore.

  Then he kissed her and the earth itself was moving beneath her feet. His lips were tender and Dru felt a pang of longing. He drew her close against him, his hands searched the width and length of her back. Her mouth parted. What was tender and sweet became sensuous… and she was lost. Moonlight and indigo closed in. She held Locke tight in her arms and new, painful knowledge burst into her consciousness. Their breath mingled as they drew apart and looked at each other. Locke smiled at her and there seemed to be compassion and tenderness in it. Compassion? She stared into his eyes and saw it was true. Pity was there.

  Abruptly she stepped back. She was so angry that she could have hit him—so angry that tears were stacking up behind her eyes and tightening her throat. So the ordinary girl-next-door had been given a thrill had she? A real life love scene in the moonlight featuring Mr Wonderful himself.

  Dru picked up the basket and the plates clunked.

  'You might have shaved first,' she said.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  In the morning they went shopping in lieu of the usual line rehearsal.

  'It doesn't matter,' Locke said about the lost time. 'Rehearsals don't begin until the end of July. I'm being very conscientious starting on my lines so soon.'

  They bought the groceries, packed the refrigerated goods in the portable icebox and had lunch at a pub, sitting under an umbrella in a courtyard of tubbed palms and banana trees. No one recognised Locke. They lazed and laughed their way through meat pie and three veg and drove home again in the same closeness that they had achieved last night. It was Locke, Dru thought as she drove. He was sprawled in the back seat looking out the window and she watched his mirror image with a dry feeling in her throat. He had stumbled into Sam's life and hers and in an odd way, bound them together with him. Even with the memory of that charity kiss, she couldn't resent it. The closeness that she and Sam had always shared was enhanced, magnified by Locke's presence. And whatever faults he had, she wanted it to go on. Another week. That was all there was. Dru watched the road turn from macadam to rutted dirt as she took their turnoff. It would be a week to remember and after that? She bit her lip. Just—a week to remember.

  Correction, Dru thought as they reached Sea Winds. Today was the beginning of remembering. A natty, white hatchback was parked in the road. Shelley had come back.

  'Your friend is here,' Dru said brightly to a drowsing Locke. He sat upright and saw the car. 'Now don't forget, her name is Shelley and you had a simply wonderful time when you were last together.'

  He took off his sunglasses and sent her a withering look.

  'See you later, Sam.' He touched the old man's arm briefly and got out. Shelley appeared from the seaward side of the house and waved gaily to Locke. Her gleaming lips moved in greeting and she reached up and kissed his cheek, winding her arms about his neck. Locke put his arm around her waist and took the blonde inside with unseemly speed.

  'Well,' Dru said briskly, 'That's the last we'll see of him today by the look of it.'

  Sam narrowed his pale eyes at her as she got out of the car and slammed the door.

  'Aaagh.' He looked closely again as he helped her take the groceries inside. The fridge door flung shut a few times as she emptied the portable cooler. 'Silla,' he stilled her jerky movements with a touch to her arm. 'Come over and have a cup of tea with me.'

  'You like him,' he said as he poured from the silver teapot.

  'Don't you?'

  'Aaagh. That's different.'

  'We had a lot of fun last night,' she said, trying to keep it general, 'And today. Just the three of us.'

  Sam had been working on a new piece of driftwood. It was the head of a unicorn. The wavy cracks in the wood looked like a curly mane. She picked up the dragon that was still unfinished. Sam had worked a little more on it, so smoothly that the mark of his knife was not visible. It could be, even now, just a piece of driftwood.

  'Decided how you'd like it to be yet, Silla?
' the old man asked, watching her.

  'No,' she said and looked from the window over towards Sea Winds.

  'Thought you might have,' he said drily. Dru looked sharply at him and put the dragon down.

  'Leave it as it is, Sam. Neither one thing or another.'

  'I'll keep it for you. Put your name on it, Silla…'

  When she walked across the dunes, Locke was waiting for her, arms folded across his chest. The white hatchback was gone.

  'What are we painting this afternoon, ma'am?'

  'Where's Shelley?'

  'She was a bit put out when I showed her the inside of the place—didn't fancy staying here.'

  Dru looked sceptically at him. 'Even with you as a bonus?'

  He shrugged, turned his mouth dolefully down. There was a sting of salt in the air. The sky had clouded over and a breeze lifted sand into powdery flurries. Dru tried to crush the rise of her spirits.

  'Did you tell her there were clean sheets every day?'

  'She wasn't impressed.'

  'You could have gone up to one of the high rise resorts with her.'

  'I could. But what the hell, I can have luxury anytime. It's refreshing to live shabby for a change. Besides,' he grinned at her indignant face, 'I have a dinner date tonight.'

  Her face was pink. Locke wanted to stay here with them. He had alternatives and chose to dismiss them. Suddenly she felt like singing again.

  There were several dinner dates for the three of them that next week and another beach barbecue outside Sam's place. Dru woke every morning with an eagerness she hadn't experienced for years and slept dreamlessly each night. Only one night did she wake and then she paced around in helpless frustration as she heard Locke cry out twice then stop. In all his humourous tales of location work and Hollywood parties, she never heard mention of Eva or any event that could give him nightmares. Not once again in that week did he kiss her or even put his arm around her. But he reached out to her in a hundred ways with words and smiling eyes—as a friend, though she knew by the end of their time she was taking his friendship and wishing it more than that.

  Locke's beard was a disreputable, bristling growth by the time he had to leave. They had a party the night before. Sam played his harmonica and its nostalgic strains gave all their songs an air of Auld Lang Syne. But he was coming back Locke said.

  'In November—I'll get Eric to arrange it—' he grinned, 'Or rather, Eric's dopey secretary who made such a lucky mistake with my booking—'

  'Told you,' Sam grunted to Dru. 'Paint the place and film stars start clamouring to stay here.'

  She didn't believe a word of it. Locke Matthews would never come back here. Would never have come here but for a mistake. If she wanted to see him again it would be in the row of a movie theatre or in front of a television set.

  'I'll get in extra sheets,' she said.

  Sam was with her when Locke wheeled the bike from the shed in the early morning. There had been some rain during the night. The sand was pitted with the drops, the mango tree was still shaking down small flurries of rain with the breeze. It was the first week in May and the air was crisper.

  The two men shook hands, holding the clasp strongly. 'Remember what I said,' Sam grunted. Locke nodded.

  'Remember what?' Dru looked from one to the other.

  'Man talk,' Sam told her.

  'I'll remember.' Locke was casual. Came over to Dru and took her by the shoulders for a quick peck on the cheek. His beard scratched at her skin but he straightened away all too soon. She didn't even have time to touch him.

  'Good luck with the play,' she said lightly.

  'Thanks,' he smiled at her. He raised a hand in unsmiling salute to Sam, held it a moment. 'Goodbye, Sam.'

  'Bye son.' The words were lost in the roar of the bike. Locke put his helmet on and looked at them through the shaded visor. Then he was gone. A trail of dust rose behind him. When it dispersed on the breeze, Sam took her back to his house and gave her tea from his beachcomber's teapot.

  'I hate goodbyes,' she said to explain her watering eyes. Sam took her hand and held it tightly.

  'So do I Silla,' he said. 'So do I.'

  She had another day of her holiday left and woke to the sound of the gulls bickering over Sam's fish trimmings. At the window she saw him listing across the sand with his fishing rod a-tremble and the shadow of the gulls flickering hopefully over him.

  When she locked up the house that afternoon and packed her car, there were a couple of Sam's morning catch in her icebox.

  'I'd like to see you happy Silla,' he said, when everything was done.

  'I am, Sam. This has been a marvellous holiday.'

  'Things change,' Sam said cryptically. 'You had to grow up some time. Getting rid of that Michael was good. You're too old for a security blanket.'

  'Security blanket—Sam!'

  'That's all he was to you, Silla—with your parents gone and your family tied up, you wanted guarantees for the future. Aren't any. If you go for what you want there's no guarantee at all—but don't ever settle for second best.' He gruffed, 'I love you girl.'

  She had always known that. Even when her parents were alive, Sam had been there for her. It was rare for him to tell her though. He could sense her need right now. She hugged him. 'And I love you, Sam McGinley. I'll come down soon for the weekend and we'll sing your songs again.' 'Aaagh.' said Sam.

  But there would be no more songs for Sam.

  She had been back at work a month, restless and unable to concentrate. Her nights were restless too. She had exchanged one kind of loss for another. And the third loss… the third was a quiet, educated voice on the phone.

  'My name is Desmond McGilney, Miss Winters.'

  'McGinley?' she repeated. 'Sam's brother?' A kind of chill set in, starting at her feet.

  'He left instructions with me, Miss Winters. Asked me to call you to let you know when…'

  The funeral was simple. The sun shone and a few gulls flew over the cemetery which was near the coast. Sam would like that, Dru thought. There were just six of them apart from the minister. Barry and his wife Jan, Gillian, Desmond McGinley and his wife. Dru couldn't cry. It didn't seem real to her. Sam was still in her mind as she'd last seen him, waving goodbye to her as she drove away.

  'I love you girl'—that and a dozen other things should have given her the clue. But how easy it had been to ignore clues to something she preferred not to face.

  The minister's voice was a fuzzed background noise. There were footsteps on the gravel path behind them and she felt the others turn their heads. After a moment she looked around. Her eyes were lost, grieving and she thought she was imagining the man who stood there. In two more strides he was at her side, an arm around her and the strong feel of it loosed her tears at last. A handkerchief appeared in front of he and she used it, was still using it as they walked back along the gravel paths from the dead, grey words and the flowers bright against the stone.

  'I couldn't get here any sooner. The plane was late into Coolangatta,' Locke said in a low voice and kept on talking until her tears stopped. 'Did you drive?' he asked her and she shook her head, suddenly remembering the others. 'I came with Barry and Jan—' she looked up to find them all staring.

  'I see you never mentioned me,' he murmured and performed the introductions himself. Quietly he talked with each of them, thanked Desmond for 'phoning him with the news. Everyone, even Gillian who was normally articulate whatever the occasion, was dumbfounded.

  'I've hired a car. I'll drive you home.' Locke took Dru's arm. She kissed her brother and Gillian goodbye. Her sister whispered fiercely, 'What's going on' but she just shook her head.

  As he turned the car on to the highway, Locke began to talk, softly as he had before, telling her all that Sam had kept from her. He had been to Brisbane in his ancient suit that day not just to see his brother, but to hear confirmation of medical tests. Cancer. Three months at the very most they told him without treatment. He elected not to have it because h
e didn't want to gain extra time only to spend it in a hospital. Quality, not quantity Sam had wanted. His own tiny house, his fishing, his beach for the time he had left. When Locke said he would come back in November, he knew that Sam might have seen his last November.

  'But why didn't he tell me?' she cried.

  'Because he knew it would change the way you talked to him, make you feel guilty if you couldn't spend time with him…'

  They fell silent, remembering.

  When they reached Brisbane she gave him directions to her Annerley flat.

  'What we both need is a Scotch,' Locke said when they went inside. She poured two. Locke tossed his back. There were pale patches around his mouth and lines beneath his eyes. 'I only knew him a couple of weeks but I feel as if I've lost an old friend,' he growled. 'Why the hell does life play such lousy tricks? Letting you meet someone like that so damned late—' He poured another drink and urged her to swallow some scotch.

  'It must have been hard for you to get away,' she said.

  'I was out of town. Only got the message this morning. But thank God I got back in time. I wanted to be here. Besides I prom—'

  Dru sat up straight. 'You promised Sam?' She felt that sting again. The sting of pity. 'Did he ask you look out for me?'

  'I'd like to see you happy,' Sam had said. And he'd guessed how deeply she'd grown to feel about Locke.

  'Not in so many words,' Locke said.

  'I'm twenty-three, Locke, and I will grieve Sam of course but I need nothing more than you've already offered. Your arm and your handkerchief back there. I'm grateful for those. I'm glad you came. But don't imagine that I'm so poor spirited I can't help myself— or that I have no one to lean on. I have.'

  'Your family? Or have you patched things up with this Michael?' he asked, eyes narrowed. Dru tried to think what Sam might have said. He had warned Locke at first until he felt he could trust him. Had he then extracted some promise from him to keep tabs on her? And how could a nice man like Locke refuse the promise to a dying man? Sweet, loving Sam. But it cast her in the humiliating role of pitiable ingenue and Locke as reluctant guardian.