by Hannah Ellis
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Always With You
HANNAH ELLIS
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2017 Hannah Ellis
All Rights Reserved
Cover design by Aimee Coveney
To Arlene, Jess, Lizzie and Mandy,
my Kununurra family.
And in loving memory of my mum,
always with me.
Table of Contents
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Acknowledgements
Other books by Hannah Ellis:
A note from the author.
Prologue
LIBBY TAYLOR
Mum didn’t tell me about my father until she was dying, and by then I felt like it was too late to ask any questions. Growing up, I’d just accepted that I didn’t have a dad. It wasn’t a big deal. As a teenager, I’d asked a few questions and Mum told me that she’d had a fling. By the time she’d realised she was pregnant, she couldn’t even remember his name. It was a mistake, she’d said, with laughter in her eyes, but it was the best mistake she’d ever made. I didn’t push her. It had always been my assumption that tracking him down would have been impossible, even if I’d wanted to – which I never had.
I was twenty when Mum started her descent towards death. It felt so surreal. One minute she was fit and healthy and we were completely unaware of what was taking over inside her. Six months later, she was gone. In those last months, I tried to absorb every detail of her. I hung off her every word, terrified they’d be her last. The realisation that she wouldn’t be around forever stirred a million questions in me. There was so much I wanted to know, and it was all locked inside her. I was terrified that once she was gone, all the questions I’d never asked her would haunt me. From the mundane – did I even know her favourite colour? – to the overwhelming – did she have any regrets?
Strangely, questions about my father still weren’t at the front of my mind. They should have been. If she’d told me everything, it would have made things much easier later.
Mum went from healthy to frail so quickly that I couldn’t bring myself to ask all the questions which danced around my head. It was as though the diagnosis had made her ill, not the disease itself. She seemed fine until they told her she was ill. That was hard to get my head around. What if no one had ever mentioned it? Couldn’t she just have carried on with life until the cancer admitted defeat and went away, tired of being ignored?
So I didn’t ask my questions but waited, sitting with her and telling her all my usual gossip, biding my time until she’d start talking. And she did start talking. Because she was scared too. Not just of dying, but scared of moving on from the world and leaving nothing but me. Just little old me who didn’t even know everything about her.
She started with her childhood, dissecting her relationship with her parents, much of which I already knew. Then, over the months, she talked about her schooldays and her friends; for a while she became obsessed with the ornaments in the house, adamant I should know any stories behind them.
Then one day she mentioned Australia – the outback town of Kununurra where she’d lived when she was twenty-one: the year before she had me. The first time I heard her utter Joe Sullivan’s name, her eyes glazed over, and I knew there was a whole story she’d never told me anything about.
By then it was too late; she was slipping away, and it seemed as though the story would be lost forever.
Chapter 1
EVELYN TAYLOR – May 1994
Travelling alone around Australia was the biggest adventure of my life. Every day brought new people and exciting experiences. My journey started in Sydney and took me north along the extensive coastline to Cairns and then even further north to Darwin. I had a visa for a year, and after two months I already knew my time in Australia would go too fast.
It was in Darwin that I heard people talking about doing farm work to extend their visas. Three months of farm work could add another year. Immediately, I knew that was my next step. With my funds starting to run low, I’d already been thinking about finding a job. This sounded perfect.
I scoured noticeboards in the hostels close to where I was staying in search of others doing the same and offering a ride. Three days later, I found myself in the back of a Ford pickup, travelling the bumpy road from Darwin to an outback town called Kununurra. I was with a couple of British guys and a French girl, whose names I forgot as soon as we parted. When we finally arrived in Kununurra after a ten-hour drive, my companions were underwhelmed by
the small rundown town and decided straight away they would only stay for a night and then continue further west to Broome. I, on the other hand, was charmed. I’d become used to life on the main tourist track where things were well maintained and everything began to look the same. Kununurra was rough around the edges.
We arrived at the Walkabout Hostel on the edge of town and were told they could only offer a communal room for one night. After that, they were fully booked. The girl in charge told me there was another hostel in the middle of town which I could try if I wanted to stay longer. She curled her lip as she warned me that it wasn’t the nicest place.
Early the next morning I walked into town. My fate lay in the hands of the hostel in the heart of Kununurra. If they had rooms, I’d stay; if they didn’t, I’d continue on to Broome while I had the chance of a ride. The town was quiet, but I still felt it had a buzz about it. It was hard to put my finger on why, when the place was so sleepy, but somehow the ramshackle little town seemed to be talking to me and drawing me in. The hostel was easy to find: slap bang in the centre, opposite a pub called Kelly’s Tavern. I ventured through a rusty archway where a weathered sign announced the Kununurra Croc Backpacker Resort. It didn’t really have a resort feel, I thought as I meandered along the path through the overgrown gardens. A building finally came into view. It certainly wasn’t anything like what I was used to. The lizard that ran across my path startled me, and I said hello to it when it stopped to look at me.
“G’day,” a gravelly voice replied as the lizard scuttled away. The voice belonged to an old guy with tanned, leathery skin and a slow but sturdy gait.
“Hi,” I said as he opened the door to the office and wandered inside.
“You’re a bit early for check-in,” he called over his shoulder.
“I just wanted to see if you had any rooms available,” I said, following him into the cramped office.
He introduced himself as Stan. “I’ve got rooms,” he said, gesturing to the price list which hung on the wall behind him.
I studied it for a moment. “That’s reasonable,” I remarked.
His eyes glinted in amusement. “It’s pretty basic.”
“You know, I think I’ll treat myself and get a single room.” It was the same price for a single as it was for a dorm room in the other hostel.
“Go crazy, little lady, you only live once. How long you staying?”
“I’m not sure,” I said, looking around and feeling somehow at home. “I might stay a while.”
“Wait until you’ve had a look around!” he said, a cautionary tone to his voice.
“I think I’m gonna like it here. I feel it in my bones!”
“You’re very cheerful,” he said, shaking his head.
“Oh, I’m very sorry,” I said, attempting to frown dramatically. He was right, though; I felt unusually happy for so early in the morning.
“Room two,” he said, throwing me a key. I fumbled to catch it. “Next to the kitchen. Bathrooms are at the end. I’m writing you up as an indefinite stay, but I reckon you won’t last a week.”
My eyebrows knitted together. He was an odd character, but he wasn’t unlikeable. “I heard there are fruit-picking jobs around here . . .”
His whole body vibrated through his throaty chuckle. “You’re not built for fruit-picking. It’s hard labour, you know.”
“I’ll manage,” I said, my steely glare challenging him to argue.
“Register over at the Job Shop. There are pick-ups daily, and they take you out in the morning and bring you back in the evening.”
“Thanks!” I left to go in search of my room.
“I’ll buy you a drink if you manage more than a day on a farm,” he shouted after me.
“You’re on,” I said, reaching the door of room number two and stepping into my new home.
He was right; it was basic. I held the door and moved aside as a speedy little lizard shot out from under the bed. Closing the door after it, I checked to see if he had any friends around the place, but the coast was clear. A room to myself was a luxury, and I lay for a while staring up at the ceiling fan. The room contained a bed, small wardrobe and a desk. The flooring was terracotta tiles, which were cool beneath my feet. It wasn’t spectacular, but I liked it. Not having to listen to other people snoring and people coming and going at all hours would be a treat.
After dragging myself up, I set off to explore and sign myself up for fruit-picking.
Chapter 2
EVELYN – May 1994
It was early the next morning when the minibus rattled over uneven ground and on to Jenkins’ Farm. My fellow passengers were mainly male. In fact, out of ten of us, only two were female. I’d introduced myself to Tina as we waited to be picked up. She wasn’t particularly friendly, but I sat with her on the minibus regardless and found that she’d been fruit-picking on and off for six months at different farms scattered all over Western Australia. That explained her muscular physique. Tina looked down her nose at me and although she didn’t say it, I was sure she thought I wouldn’t last a day. I was slightly concerned about being out in the open fields and melting in the heat, but the work didn’t scare me; I was fitter than I looked and was sure that lugging my backpack around for the last two months must have built up some muscle tone.
I wasn’t prepared for the slave driver who owned the farm. Len Jenkins was a big man whose face was set into a cold, hard frown. He was waiting out in the field and glared as the minibus came to a halt. I’d been surprised by the lack of conversation on the drive. Whenever I tried to chat, I was met with shrugs and odd looks. I’d expected a camaraderie between the workers and hoped they would warm up as the day went on. Maybe it was just too early. The sun was only just rising.
“You’ll hate pumpkins by the end of the day,” a low voice whispered in my ear. We’d disembarked to join another group of workers standing around three tractors. The tall, blonde Dutch guy introduced himself as Johan. I was happy to have someone to talk to.
“I was starting to think I’d come out with a bunch of zombies,” I said.
“Once we set off, you’ll have to learn ventriloquism if you want to chat. Talking is not allowed.” I waited for him to laugh, but his tone was serious. “Len’s always watching.” He pointed to a nearby lookout post – a tall wooden frame with a shaded seat at the top, similar to a lifeguard’s chair. There were more spread out at regular intervals across the fields. “He spends all day up there with his binoculars. If you talk too much or take too long for a break, he’ll fire you, just like that.”
We were split into three groups and each given a pair of secateurs. The rough-looking guy who’d driven the minibus gave me brief instructions on picking out the bad pumpkins and good ones.
“Find the good ones, cut them at the stem and throw them up to me,” Johan said as he climbed onto the contraption behind the tractor and stood among the huge plastic bins.
“Sounds simple,” I said.
“It is simple,” he agreed. “But it’s not easy.”
I was cheerful enough for the first hour. Walking behind a tractor throwing pumpkins up to Johan wasn’t so bad. There was something satisfying about it. An honest day’s work, I’d say. The swing of my arms as I launched the pumpkins up to Johan was a good workout, and it soon became clear how he’d gained his athletic build and surfer-dude tan.
By 8a.m., sweat poured down my body, and I wondered how I would cope at the hottest part of the day when the sun was high overhead. With every pumpkin thrown, I managed a smile for Johan. It wasn’t so bad, I told myself repeatedly.
At the end of the row, water was handed around and we had a ten-minute break, which seemed to be timed to the second.
“How you doing?” Johan asked as I leaned against the massive tractor tyre and gulped down water.
“I’m okay.”
“Hard work, isn’t it?”
“It’s pretty much what I expected,” I said, loath to admit that I was exhausted after just a couple o
f hours. I flexed my fingers, which ached from the effort of cutting through the stubborn pumpkin stems.
“Well, the good news is that you get to be up on the tractor now!” He grinned at me as our group was rallied back into action. The tractor turned and I clambered up to take Johan’s spot. I was happy to give my back a break from all the bending and lifting.
Catching pumpkins wasn’t the easiest thing in the world either, though. Johan worked fast; I’d barely placed one pumpkin into a bin when another was launched at me. He had a good throw, and it took a while for me to get used to the force of the heavy pumpkins being fired at me. Flies tickled my skin and I barely had time to waft them away. The temperature became gradually less bearable, and my thirst rose by the second.
“Can I have some water?” I shouted to the guy in charge.
“At the end of the row,” he told me in no uncertain terms.
“Is it legal for them not to provide water on demand?” I asked Johan.
“Probably not,” he muttered as he tossed another pumpkin my way. It was a large one, and the weight of it almost knocked me off the tractor.
“How long have you been working here?” I asked him a little while later. A bit of chat might take my mind off my aches and pains, which were developing at an alarming rate.
“I’ll talk to you at lunch,” he said. Everyone took the no talking rule very seriously. The mention of lunch perked me up a little bit at least.
As the sun got hotter, the pumpkins got heavier and the flies more persistent. Time slowed and my body began to scream at me: for water, for food, for a rest. The field stretched out and the end of the row seemed to get further and further away.
“Still okay?” Johan asked when we finally reached the end of the row to be rewarded with more water. It struck me that he took amusement in watching me being gradually worn down by the gruelling work.
“I’m okay,” I said, trying my best to sound convincing. All I wanted to do was sit in a cool bath and then curl up in a dark room.
“Lunchtime,” he said cheerfully. I followed the crowd onto the minibus, which drove us the short distance to the house. A table was laid with sandwiches, fruit and soft drinks. Everyone tucked in with gusto.