by Lucy Gordon
‘Bessie’s lucky he did,’ Mardie said roundly. ‘How could he not try to miss her? And he didn’t risk his life. He was driving a tank.’
‘A Mercedes isn’t a tank,’ Mrs Connor said, shocked, as she handed clothes over the counter. ‘A tank’s what you drive.’
‘My truck’s not a tank. It’s practically luxury,’ Mardie retorted. ‘Isn’t that right, Blake?’
Blake glanced outside to where they’d parked the truck. It was an ancient Dodge, built, he suspected, to withstand the Huns.
Definitely tankish. Though most tanks didn’t have rust.
‘Um … pure driving pleasure,’ he managed and he was rewarded by Mardie’s smile. It was a truly gorgeous smile.
It always had been a gorgeous smile. He hadn’t realised how much he’d missed it.
‘It’s definitely classy,’ Mardie declared, eyeing Blake’s pile of sensible clothes with approval. ‘Like these. Jeans and T-shirt, pure class. What about boots, Mrs Connor?’
‘Work boots or nothing,’ Mrs Connor said.
‘Excellent,’ Mardie decreed. ‘We have twenty-four hours before we head to Sydney and I intend to put him to work. You want to change here, Blake, before we head to the nursing home?’
‘We’re going to the nursing home?’ He wanted to go straight back to Mardie’s. Actually, he wanted to go straight back to Sydney but it wasn’t happening. It was Mardie who was giving orders. He was on her turf, doing what she wanted.
The nursing home it was. Her mother, Etta.
‘I need to see Mum,’ she said. ‘I need to organise a few days away, and we also need to see Charlie, to explain that you found his dog and you’re going to save her. Mum will love to see you.’
‘It might be better if you go alone,’ he said diffidently, and she looked at him as if he was crazy.
‘Better for who?’
‘For your mum.’ Etta had been so good to him. He should have kept in touch. Why make her remember what a stupid kid he’d been? ‘I’ve been no part of your mother’s life for a long time now,’ he said, almost to himself. ‘It’s best to leave things as they are.’
She looked at him for a long, considering minute. Looked as if she was about to say something and then thought better of it. Reconsidered.
‘Fine,’ she said at last. ‘Stay in the truck. Stay nice and uninvolved, like you have for fifteen years.’
Mardie checked in at the nurses’ station first. She worked here three days a week. She needed to organise time away.
Liz, the nurse administrator, greeted her with unconcealed curiosity. She was practically vibrating with her need to know. ‘So the rumours are true. Blake Maddock’s back.’
‘I hate this town.’
Liz giggled. ‘We’re fast. I hear he’s hot. You guys were such an item …’
‘Fifteen years ago,’ she retorted. ‘Will you cut it out?’
‘You’re not the least bit interested?’
‘No!’ That was a lie, but the guy was sitting out in the truck being uninvolved. It’d pay her to be uninvolved as well. Very uninvolved.
‘Yet you’re going to Sydney with him.’
‘I really hate this town. Yes, but I’m not staying anywhere near him. I’ll stay at Irena’s. He’s organising the operation on Bessie’s eyes, that’s all.’
Liz’s smile faded. ‘Bessie. Raff told Henrietta you found Charlie’s dog. You really think the operation will work?’
‘Blake’s an eye surgeon. He says it will.’
‘It’ll be the best gift you could give to Charlie. Did you bring her with you?’
‘I wasn’t sure if I should.’ She hesitated. ‘Would it be kind?’
Liz considered and then grimaced. ‘Maybe not. He gave her to the pound, and it nearly killed him. If the operation doesn’t work … For him to say goodbye again …’
‘You think I shouldn’t tell him we’re trying?’
‘He already knows she’s been found. This is Banksia Bay, after all. Tell him what’s happening, but it might stress him too much to see her. Operations sometimes fail, regardless of what your Blake says.’
‘He’s not my Blake!’
‘Regardless of what anyone’s Blake says,’ Liz retorted, her smile returning. ‘Get her better and bring her in then. Meanwhile, don’t worry about your mum; you know we’ll look after her. And even though we love your craft classes, we all know how long it’s been since you’ve had a break. Take a real holiday. Have some fun. If anyone deserves it, you do.’
And then she paused. Someone was strolling past her window.
Her eyes widened. ‘Oh, my …’
Mardie followed her gaze.
Blake.
Jeans. T-shirt. Work boots.
Body to die for.
‘Oh, my,’ Liz repeated, mocking fanning herself. ‘If I’d known he was going to turn out like this I would have snagged him in grade school. Only, of course, you got in first.’
‘I did not!’
‘You did, too.’
‘Yeah, well, if I did it’s all in the past,’ Mardie said hotly. ‘He wiped Banksia Bay from the map when he left.’
‘Yeah, but a woman could forgive a lot of a guy who looks like this.’
‘Not this woman,’ Mardie retorted. ‘I have a long memory.’
‘Boyfriend-girlfriend fights from fifteen years ago?’ Liz chuckled. ‘With that package in front of me I’d get over it fast. People change.’ But then Liz held up her hands as if in surrender. ‘Okay, sweetie, if anger’s needed to keep you safe, then stick to your anger. But don’t let it mess with fun. Say goodbye to your mum and then go to Sydney—and you keep an open mind.’
Then she glanced again at Blake and fanned herself some more.
‘A very open mind,’ she repeated. ‘A girl’d be a fool not to.’
Mardie’s mother was playing solitaire. She glanced up as Blake opened the door and her eyes grew huge. She recognised him in an instant.
‘Blake Maddock. Oh, my boy …’ Somehow she pushed herself stiffly to wobbly feet and held out her arms.
It took a moment to respond. He stood in the doorway, looking at the woman who’d been practically a mother to him. She’d been far more a mother than his own.
She’d been burdened with arthritis for all the time he remembered, but he’d never seen anything but cheer. She’d lived surrounded by chaos, the radio always on, her kitchen table always laden with her next creation. Her cooking trials had been truly scary. He and Mardie would appear for lunch, Mardie’s dad would be looking terrified and Etta would be saying firmly, ‘You can eat it or not, there’s always eggs on toast, but give it three bites first.’
Chocolate pudding with chilli. Duck à l’orange, only: ‘We can’t afford duck so I shaped a duck with mince instead. Do you think it looks like a duck?’
Crazy stuff.
Wonderful. Fun.
He’d loved it.
He’d loved Etta. And Bill.
And Mardie.
He should have stayed in touch. He’d been a stupid kid, he’d long accepted his reasons for leaving, but still he felt bad.
Regardless, here was Etta, wobbly on her feet, standing with open arms. Tears were slipping down her cheeks and she was smiling and smiling. ‘Blake,’ she said again and he walked forward and hugged her.
Mardie walked in the door and her mother was hugging Blake. No, her mother was being hugged. She’d been lifted right off her feet, and she was crying, laughing and railing against him, all at once. ‘Put me down, you silly boy. You’ll do yourself a damage. Ooh, put me down.’
Blake and her mother …
She stopped short in the doorway and she felt as if the earth had shifted.
Her mother adored Blake. From the time he’d first been allowed past the boundaries of his great-aunt’s property, Etta had welcomed him with open arms.
‘You ring your aunt and ask if you can stay for lunch,’ she’d say, and Blake would look at the crazy experiment on the kitche
n table and jump right in.
‘Yes, please. That looks … really yummy, Mrs Rainey.’
Now … It was as if she was welcoming home a long-lost son. But Mardie had watched her mother wait for news from Blake, as she herself had waited. She wasn’t feeling so welcoming.
If she let herself be as welcoming as her mum … Dangerous territory. She felt as if she were teetering on the edge of some kind of abyss and she needed to step back fast.
She needed to be happy. Bouncy. Impersonal. She pinned on a smile and forced her voice to brightness. ‘Isn’t it great he’s here? Did he tell you he crashed his car last night?’
‘No!’ Her mother sank back into her armchair, looking at Blake with such an expression …
How could Blake walk away and come back and still be loved? Mardie thought.
He hadn’t expected it. He didn’t want it. She could read Blake’s face and she could see regret and dismay.
He didn’t show it in his voice. Instead, he told Etta about the crash, making it funny. He told her about Bessie, making the story sad but hopeful. By the end Etta was demanding they bring her in.
‘We can’t,’ Blake said and told her about Charlie.
‘Oh, of course. So you’ll fix her and bring her back to visit him all better?’ Etta’s eyes were shining.
‘We’ll fix her and then Mardie can bring her in.’
‘You come in,’ Etta said, suddenly stern. ‘I bet Charlie remembers you. He’d love that.’
‘My life’s in Sydney. And overseas.’
‘People only go overseas for visits, and Sydney’s a two-hours drive away. If you can go overseas you can come here.’
‘Bessie will be Mardie’s dog,’ he said, gently but inexorably. ‘I don’t have a place here any more.’
‘There’s a place in Mardie’s spare room, any time you want,’ Etta said with asperity. ‘That’s fine with you, Mardie, isn’t it?’
Maybe not. But Mardie didn’t say so. She gave her mother a reassuring smile, she said of course Blake could always stay, and she knew that Blake intended nothing of the kind.
He’d walked away. He was home by accident, but it wasn’t his home.
He couldn’t wait to get away from Banksia Bay. Nothing had changed.
* * *
They left Etta, and walked silently to Charlie’s room.
Blake was feeling disoriented, as if shadows of the past were reaching out to touch him. Mardie was silent by his side.
She’d been angry with him—she was angry with him. He’d forgiven himself, he thought. He’d figured why his teenage self had acted as he had. Justifying it to Mardie seemed harder.
Justifying it wasn’t necessary. He didn’t need to tell Mardie …
Maybe he did. Maybe that was the whole reason he’d come home.
Not home. Banksia Bay.
Regardless, now wasn’t the time.
Charlie Hunter had once been a big man. No longer. He’d shrivelled with age, and his last stroke had left him paralysed down his left side. He lay motionless, surrounded by memorabilia. Trophies and ribbons. Photographs of dogs. A gorgeous enamelled plate showing Charlie—with dogs. Leads, collars, framed Australian Championship certificates. A lifetime of dogs.
‘My Bessie,’ he whispered as Blake told him what had happened, what they hoped to do. He could barely get the words out.
‘If you don’t want …’
But where there’d been apathy and defeat, suddenly there was fire. ‘Are you dreaming?’ he demanded. ‘If I’d had the money, her eyes would have been fixed two years back.’ Charlie’s words were distorted with paralysis, but he said them loud and strong so they couldn’t be mistaken. ‘But these last two years, since my first stroke … well, a blind dog wasn’t what I needed. It wasn’t fair on her, though. She spent her life at my feet, never whining, just there for me. But when she was a pup … the joy of her …’
He paused and fought for breath. Fought for strength to go on. ‘It would have been kinder to put her down,’ he whispered. I just … couldn’t. So finally I sent her to the pound instead. What a cop-out. If you could cure her …’
‘No promises,’ Blake told him. ‘But we’ll try.’
‘You’re a good lad,’ Charlie whispered. ‘I remember my Hilda talking about you, saying she had no idea how such a miserable old grouch as your aunt deserved a kid with such a good heart. And happy. You were happy as a kid.’
Happy. There was that word again. It caught Blake like a faltering of the heart.
Happy was for childhood. Not for now. Now was for keeping promises.
Without going back to Africa?
It wasn’t the time to think of that now. Get out of Banksia Bay and then think it through.
‘Bessie’ll be back here soon,’ he told Charlie. He was sounding too brusque but there was nothing he could do about it. ‘Mardie will bring her in as soon as she gets back from Sydney.’
‘That’s a promise,’ Mardie said and he caught another edge of anger. Fair enough. He was promising Mardie’s time. He was promising Mardie would see things through.
She would, though. She was the dependable one.
She was the one who stayed at home while he moved on.
Mardie had things to do for the rest of the day. It seemed leaving the farm for over a week involved organisation and she didn’t want his help.
‘Find a book and give your head a rest,’ she told him. ‘Lie by the fire and think how lucky you were last night.’
She headed out to see someone called Lorraine, who’d look after the place while she was absent.
He was left with the dogs.
He was tired.
He picked up a copy of the Farmers Weekly and tried to read.
The dogs lay in front of the fire and tried to settle.
They were all doleful.
Enough. Yes, his head was aching; yes, there were bruises which hurt; the aches from dengue were still with him but lying around made him think of them more.
He had proper clothes now. He could do proper stuff.
He put on his boots and both dogs were alert and at the door in an instant. Together they had it figured; Bounce maintained contact with Bessie as if he realised how much she needed him.
Smartest dogs in the world. Bonding with each other while he watched.
It’d be a joy to give Bessie back her sight, he thought, a joy for Bounce as well as for Bessie.
It’d also be a joy for Mardie. A gift he could leave her with.
The thought was a good one. He headed outside, a dog at each heel, feeling better.
He intended to go for a walk over the farm. He did for a bit. Things looked the same. There was a new shed out the back, seriously big, that had him intrigued, but it was locked.
Was this a guy’s shed, he wondered, locked after Hugh died? The thought of Hugh left him feeling strangely empty. Sad that he hadn’t kept in touch. That he hadn’t been here for her. That there was a part of Mardie he didn’t know?
He didn’t want to walk any further, he decided. He didn’t want to end up at his aunt’s crazy mansion which, according to the guys he’d talked to at the reunion, was now boarded up, after the spa operators who’d bought it had gone bankrupt.
Despite the hour, he was tired. Dengue had left him with residual fatigue that was taking months to recede.
But to sleep seemed impossible. Instead, he headed for the massive pile of ruined tree.
They’d cleared a path down the driveway, but heaped on either side were mounds of splintered timber yet to be moved.
How long since he’d played with a chainsaw?
This was a man’s job. Fatigue receded in the face of a plan. He grinned and practically felt his chest expand. ‘We can do this,’ he told the dogs and he felt their quiver of excitement, responding to his enthusiasm. Man with chainsaw.
‘So chainsaw, tractor, trailer. I hope she’s left the keys. Let’s see how much we can get done before she gets back.’ It was a small en
ough token of his thanks, he thought.
Chainsaw. Excellent.
He found the chainsaw in the unlocked shed by the house. On close inspection it seemed a truly excellent power tool. He’d been frankly jealous of Mardie wielding it this morning. ‘Nothing to this,’ he told the dogs, who both gave rather dubious wags of their tails.
‘Okay, you guys can stand back,’ he told them. ‘You count the logs as I stack ‘em for firewood.’
Bounce looked at Bessie and whined. She moved in close and both dogs headed off to the bottom paddock.
Getting some exercise, or abandoning the Titanic?
‘Dumb dogs,’ Blake said. He heaved his chainsaw across his shoulder and headed for the tree.
She hadn’t meant to be away for so long, but Lorraine was aching to show her a vase she’d created and to demonstrate a technique she felt could take her in another direction.
Lorraine was a potter. Mardie was an enameller. Together they’d just invested everything they owned and a bit more into a state-of-the-art kiln—a kiln to die for. They could both do so much now they had it.
Lorraine’s enthusiasm was infectious, and at home was … Blake. It was worth talking enamelling, talking potting, so she didn’t have to go home to Blake. Blake, whose mere presence had her discombobulated.
But she couldn’t stay away for ever. Finally she said goodbye to Lorraine. She headed home.
She turned into the drive and slowed.
They’d cleared the driveway this morning, but there’d been a mass of timber left on either side.
Blake must have worked like a man possessed. The pile of logs beside the woodshed was four times what it had been this morning.
And the remains of the trunk … She was close enough to see. Close enough to …
No!
For what was left of the trunk, still standing tall this morning, had now crashed to the side of the driveway.
And worse …
Behind the massive trunk she could see … Blake on the tractor, slumped over the wheel. Unconscious?
She was out of the truck before she knew it, screaming without words. Or maybe there were words, just the one.
No. No. No.
Running.
‘Blake …’