Bungalow on Pelican Way

by Lilly Mirren

  He wasn’t going to like it, but there wasn’t much she could do about it. She hadn’t prioritised Nan the way she should’ve while her grandmother was alive. She certainly wasn’t going to make the same mistake after her death. The least she could do was to give Nan’s final wishes her full attention.

  “I see, well you know I need a chef in my kitchen, Kate. So, I’m going to have to put you on unpaid leave so I can hire a temporary replacement.”

  Her breath caught in her throat. “It’s only for a week or two, Marco.”

  “That’s fine, Kate. Take the time you need, but I have to replace you, the kitchen can’t keep operating without someone in charge. I’ve been stepping in, but it’s been a long time since I managed a kitchen and I’m a bit rusty. I need a pro in there.”

  She nodded silently, her eyes blinking. “I understand.”

  “Give me a call when you’re ready to come back,” he said.

  When he hung up the phone, Kate lowered her pounding head onto the cool desk. After five years of loyal service, she’d expected more from Marco. Though knowing him as well as she did, she knew she shouldn’t have. He was as cutthroat in business as he was pedantic. She’d never seen him show an ounce of sentimentality, why would she think he’d start now?

  5

  August 1995

  Cabarita Beach

  The waves in the cove chuckled as they drove and bubbled to shore. Sheltered by the outcropping of rocks at each end of the cove, and Castle Rock, they were never as rough or wild as the waves along Cabarita Beach itself. Those were waves that dragged in from the depths of the ocean and rushed at the sand as though launching an attack.

  Kate watched them for a moment, the bottoms of her pants still damp from where she’d waded only moments earlier. This was one of the things she missed now that she lived in the city — early morning walks along the beach. And today she’d walked for hours.

  It was mid-morning, and she’d taken her time, pushing herself until her breath came in hard, short bursts, then stopping to admire shells on the waterline, or dig up pippies with her toes in the wet sand. She’d shoved the pippies into her pockets, their wet, black shells rubbing together. When she got back to the inn, she’d put them in a bucket and set them aside for later.

  She felt an overwhelming urge to go fishing, something she and Nan had often done together when she was a kid. Nan loved to fish in the cove. She’d stand on the rocks at the end of the beach in her gumboots, or scramble to stand atop Castle Rock, and cast the line out as far as it would go. Then whistle or hum, while she waited for a fish to bite, casually dragging the line back in, one slow turn of the reel at a time.

  Casting one last look at the ocean, Kate headed for the sandy, winding path that would take her from the beach, through the dunes and up to the incline to where the inn perched, overlooking the cove. Pop had built a set of custom, timber stairs for the last part of the climb, the steepest part that took the path up an embankment to the grassy hill beyond. He hadn’t been the most talented craftsman. Still, the stairs were sturdy and perfectly aligned. He’d boasted they’d outlive him, and they had. Kate paused, puffing hard, on the second to last step, to run a loving touch over the handrail. She missed him, though it’d been so long she’d grown used to the feeling. Besides, there were so many more people to miss now, the ache had become familiar.

  On her way back to the inn, she passed the chook shed. No one had let the chooks out yet, and they crowded the wire-mesh door, heads darting, feet strutting as they crooned and clucked in her direction.

  “You want to get out, huh?”

  Kate released the latch on the door, flicked it open and stood aside as the crowd of about two dozen chooks hurried out and set off around the yard to find things to peck. A bucket hung on the outside of the door, and there were a few remnants of chook food in the bottom. She reached in a hand and flung the seeds over the patchy ground. The hens darted in every direction, working frantically to consume as many of the seeds and grains as they could before they were gone. Kate hummed a quiet rendition of “Tenterfield Saddler”, one of Nan’s favourite tunes, under her breath, then laughed at herself. She didn’t have Nan’s steady alto voice, but the chooks didn’t seem to mind.

  They strutted around, the hen in charge chasing a few of the others away from a nice sized haul of seeds that’d all fallen together in one place. Kate watched them with a grin. Some things never changed.

  Inside, Kate took a shower, washing off the sweat and salt from her beach walk. The hot water felt good against her skin, and she scrubbed her hair with shampoo, before standing in place to let the water pummel the aching muscles around her shoulders and neck.

  She’d tried calling the restaurant the previous evening but hadn’t been able to get a hold of Marco. When she called Davis, his assistant had told her he’d left the office for the day. Yet his home number went straight to the answering machine.

  She felt so cut off from the rest of the world in Cabarita. The inn had a computer and dial-up modem, but she didn’t know her grandmother’s logon, so hadn’t progressed far in her attempts to send emails. The stress of the funeral, living in the inn with her sisters, and not having contact with anyone from her life back in Brisbane was manifesting as tension in her shoulders. She massaged them with her fingertips and rolled her head from one side to the other.

  Her plan for the day was to spend time in Nan’s room in the hope of finding some photographs for the funeral, and possibly a copy of her will.

  She dressed in a pair of black, stonewashed jeans and a long-sleeved blue and white flannel shirt, with her standard caramel Doc Marten boots. Then she ran a brush through her wet hair and headed down the hallway to the staircase. The second and third floors were crowded with guest bedrooms, but Nan’s room was downstairs on the ground level. As the master suite, it was the only bedroom on that level, apart from the small room that jutted from one side of it, and the spacious suite had its own bathroom and walk-in closet.

  She peered up toward the empty third floor, thought she heard a scratching sound in the roof, then with a frown of irritation skipped down the staircase to the ground level.

  Nan’s room was dark. The door was shut, and when Kate inched it open, it creaked, sending a pulse of adrenaline through her veins. She’d never spent much time in Nan and Pop’s room. It’d always been something of a mystery to her and her sisters.

  She’d snuck into the room once when she was playing a game of hide and seek with Bindi and Reeda. They’d searched everywhere for her and hadn’t thought to look in the large, draughty room. It was so quiet and dim in there that she’d huddled, wide-eyed in the bottom of their closet. When a tree branch scratched against a windowpane, she’d leapt to her feet and run from the room screaming. When Nan found her, she’d buried her head in Nan’s apron, wailing until finally she relayed what’d happened. Nan had laughed softly and stroked her hair until everything felt better. But she hadn’t been back to Nan’s room since.

  Inside, it smelled musty. No one had cracked open the curtains since Nan passed, and it was colder than the rest of the inn, being located in the back, away from the sunlight that streamed through the windows on the other side of the building.

  She stepped through the door and scanned the room, taking in the dark, timber, king-sized bed on one side, the small sitting area against the windows, with two armchairs and a round table between them. Nan’s knitting hung over one arm of the chair, the latest shawl, scarf, or blanket she was working on. Kate couldn’t remember a time when Nan would sit with idle hands, she always had something to do — knitting, crossword puzzles, reading the latest mystery novel, or scratching words in her unmistakable elegant cursive handwriting, into one of the black bound notebooks she carried around with her.

  Kate’s throat tightened as she walked to the armchair and fingered the rows of wool. Knit and purl, knit and purl. She remembered Nan’s soft voice, as she’d sat once with Kate, patiently explaining the process to her. Ka
te hadn’t taken to it, instead preferring to go outside and ride Janet. But Nan hadn’t minded. She understood, she said. Little girls were meant to ride horses the way old women had to knit. She didn’t make the rules, she’d said, she only followed them. Then she’d grinned and offered Kate a knowing wink before ushering her outside.

  Next, Kate peeked into the bathroom. It hadn’t been remodelled in at least twenty years. Bright orange curves looped over brown circles on wallpaper that Kate found difficult to focus her gaze on. She scrubbed both eyes with her fingertips, then wandered over to the bed. There was an armoire beside the bed, maybe she’d find something useful in there.

  She tugged open one of the doors on the armoire and found a stack of photo albums, of all shapes, colours, and sizes, side by side, wedged into two of the shelves. Bingo.

  She pulled one of the albums free, then two more, and carried them in a bundle back to the bed. Seated on the floor with the bed behind her, she opened the first album and began to thumb through it. There were photographs of her and her sisters when they were teenagers, living at the inn together.

  Her on Janet’s broad, bay back in a swimsuit and a pair of shorts, her hair wet against her scalp and Janet’s coat dripping with sea water.

  Reeda, sprawled and fast asleep in Pa’s hammock, a book open on her chest, her eyes shut. Kate smiled — Reeda always had a book in her hands back then. She’d been more interested in reading than in outdoors adventures, something they hadn’t seen eye to eye on.

  Bindi, soaked to the bone, her wetsuit half shucked and hanging around her waist. Her yellow bikini top, tiny and without much to hold onto, bright against a backdrop of squat pandanus trees. Directly behind her, the brilliant red flowers of Nan’s waratahs stood out. Bindi had a surfboard under one arm, and the other hand wrapped around the stem of a waratah flower. A grin lit up her young, freckled face.

  Kate’s chest tightened, and she bit down on her lower lip.

  Memories washed over her, filling her throat with a lump. She inhaled slowly as the lump grew. When had she let herself forget about these moments? She’d gone on with her life, determined to make something of herself, and let the past stay where it was.

  She rarely thought about that life, the one she’d left behind when she moved to the city all those years ago. And when she did, the nostalgia was tinged with so much pain that she’d pushed the thoughts down, squashed them until they were hidden deep in the recesses of her mind. But there’d been good times too, times like the ones in these photographs. She should remember them, hold onto them; the good times with Nan and her sisters. A season when life was a simple sequence of activities, instead of the ever-turning wheel of responsibilities, duty, and confusion that adulthood had brought.

  Tears wound down her cheeks and she didn’t stop them or wipe them away. Another page turned, more memories to jolt her away from the present and back to the past.

  This time with Mum and Dad, and the old Ford Falcon station wagon they’d driven up from Sydney that one time over the Christmas holidays. They’d stayed for a whole month that year, one of the best times of her life. She traced the outline of Mum’s face with the tip of one finger, tears still leaking from her eyes.

  There was a knock on Nan’s bedroom door and she glanced up in surprise to see Reeda’s face poking through the gap. She wiped her tears with the back of a sleeve and forced herself to smile.

  “Hi,” she whispered.

  Reeda grinned. “We wondered if you’d like a cup of tea with your snooping?”

  The door swung wide and Bindi stood beside her, carrying three empty china cups, and a plate of Tim Tams. Reeda held a teapot and a potholder to set it on.

  Kate chuckled. “That would be perfect. Thank you. And I’m not snooping, well not exactly. I’m looking for something to use at the funeral, some photographs or home videos. I thought I might see if I can find a copy of Nan’s will, as well.”

  Bindi and Reeda joined her beside the bed. Reeda sat next to her and curled her long legs up beneath her. Bindi sat across from her, cross legged.

  “Good idea,” said Bindi.

  “What’s this?” asked Reeda, peering over Kate’s shoulder.

  “I found these photo albums. Look at this one of you eating an ice cream with Dad, it’s run all down your chin.”

  Reeda laughed. “Wow, I’d forgotten all about that trip. That was a good holiday.”

  “It was the best,” agreed Bindi.

  “The last one at Cabarita with Mum and Dad before…” began Kate, then swallowed the rest of her words when her voice broke.

  “Before the accident,” finished Reeda, a muscle in her jaw clenching. She sighed and reached for one of the unopened albums.

  “Let’s see if we can find photos of Nan to use. I thought we might have one enlarged to set up on the beach, and maybe another one to print on the Orders of Service,” Kate used her brisk, business voice to change the subject.

  Reeda hated talking about the accident, it sent her into a mood. For the two years she lived at the inn with them after Mum and Dad died, if anyone brought up the topic of car accidents or anything to do with their parents, she’d disappear into her room and not talk to anyone for weeks at a time.

  “You don’t have to do that, you know,” snapped Reeda, her eyes flashing.

  “Come on, let’s not…” began Bindi, in a conciliatory tone.

  “I’m sorry,” replied Kate, “I didn’t mean to bring it up.”

  “I’m not going to break down,” Reeda insisted. “I can talk about it.”

  “Okay. That’s good to know.” What could she say? How about the fact that every time they’d discussed it in the past, Reeda had disappeared into a haze of grief and anger?

  “We all know why it happened, and after so many years, I think I can face it, face up to my part in it.”

  Bindi poured them all cups of tea with her eyes fixed firmly on the task at hand.

  Kate’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean, your part in it?”

  Bindi handed around the teacups. “Aren’t these cute? Look at mine with the aqua-coloured flowers, and yours is pink.”

  Kate and Reeda ignored her, their gaze connected.

  “I mean, the part I played in the accident. It was my dance eisteddfod. My fault we were out on that road at that time of night.”

  Bindi’s gaze travelled from the cup in her hand to find Reeda. Kate’s mouth fell open. “What?”

  Reeda’s voice broke. “Come on, everyone knows it, I know it. Let’s talk about it like adults. It wouldn’t have happened if it wasn’t for me. They’d still be here, and everyone would be happy. You’ve both hated me for it ever since, don’t pretend you haven’t.”

  Bindi and Kate exchanged a horrified look.

  “I don’t hate you,” began Bindi, her voice soft.

  “How can you say that?” Kate’s voice was full of tears.

  A tear rolled down Reeda’s cheek and she pushed out her chin. “It’s true.”

  “You were seventeen years old, Reeda. It wasn’t your fault, it was an accident,” Kate sniffled.

  Reeda rubbed the back of her hand over her cheek. “I know it was an accident, but if it wasn’t for me…”

  “And you were injured too,” added Bindi. “You were there, you had to go to the hospital.”

  “I know. I remember,” spat Reeda.

  “It wasn’t your fault,” continued Bindi, laying a gentle hand on Reeda’s arm.

  “Definitely not,” agreed Kate, looping an arm around her big sister’s shoulders.

  Reeda swallowed.

  “I don’t blame you for it. I worry about you…” said Bindi, her words soft.

  Reeda blinked. “Really?”

  “Yes, really,” added Kate.

  Bindi picked up another photo. “Do you remember this? We all rode our bikes to Coolangatta to see a movie, and you forgot your glasses, Reeda. You had to wear your sunglasses inside, since they were prescription.”

  Bind
i held up the album and Kate laughed at the sight of the three of them, young, thin as rails and standing beside three beat up bicycles with wide grins splitting their faces in two. They’d asked a stranger to take the photo and had been relieved to see it wasn’t blurred when they got the processed pictures back from the chemist.

  “That was so fun,” Kate said, remembering the feel of the wind on her cheeks and the honk of horns as cars passed them on the highway. “And dangerous.”

  Reeda tugged a tissue from the box on Nan’s bedside table and blew her nose. “I remember. I couldn’t see a thing. The movie theatre was so dark, and with sunglasses on, I only saw a flash of light every now and then. It was ridiculous.”

  They chortled together.

  “That was right before you moved to Sydney to go to uni,” added Kate.

  Reeda inhaled slowly. “Yep.”

  “Everything changed after that,” said Bindi, nodding her head.

  “Again,” confirmed Kate.

  “Yes, everything changed again.”

  “Do you ever think that maybe we should’ve held on a little longer, a little harder?” asked Kate. How had they all moved on with their lives so quickly and forgotten about what they’d had together? Was the pain of their loss too much to look back on, or had they simply been excited to get started on a new adventure?

  “All the time,” whispered Bindi.

  Reeda nodded. “I guess I wanted to make a clean break. To put the past behind me. I couldn’t go back and change anything. I felt responsible, whether it was right or wrong. I needed to move forward. And I haven’t stopped since… always moving forward.”

  Kate’s stomach clenched. What did Reeda mean? Sometimes she felt as though she didn’t know the woman seated beside her at all, and other times she’d flash back to their childhood and feel a sense of complete understanding, as if they each knew everything about the other.

  Behind Kate something sharp poked into the small of her back. While Reeda and Bindi continued scrawling through photographs, bent over an open album, she spun about to look under the bed. She pulled the patchwork quilt that covered the bed high enough to peer beneath. There were two squat lockable boxes shoved in there, and one small timber one. She tugged the timber box free and was grateful to see it didn’t have a lock. She pulled up the lid to reveal three notebooks, like the kind Nan carried around in her apron pocket or scribbled in when she had some spare time in the breakfast nook.