Tasmania, Australia
The highway wound between hilly paddocks that were dotted with newly shorn sheep. As the coach rumbled past, one or two of them lifted their heads, but the rest went on feeding on the lush spring grass. Stella looked out at the landscape slipping past. Beyond the fencelines grew tall stands of blue-grey gum and wattle. They hid the coast from view, but she could sense the ocean there: a cold presence lurking just behind the trees.
Shifting in her seat, she looked across the aisle. Steep wooded hills stretched inland to a bank of craggy mountains. On the horizon, sheer slabs of stone rose up – dark pillars pressing against the grey sky. The scene looked ominous and bleak. Stella turned her gaze back to the roadside.
As the next farm drew near, she recognised a large dam and a derelict barn surrounded by shearers’ huts. Round the next bend, she knew, the paddocks would give way to a stretch of untouched bush – and soon after that she’d see the turn-off to Halfmoon Bay. Picking up her bag, she walked along the aisle and waited in the doorway.
The coach slowed down as a narrow gravel road appeared ahead, forking off to the left.
‘Here we are,’ the driver said.
He pulled over to the side of the road, near a wooden signpost. Stella looked out through bleary glass doors at the line of black letters painted on white – the ‘H’ for Halfmoon blotchy with bullet holes.
‘Sure you don’t want me to drive you down?’ the driver asked.
Stella looked back at him over her shoulder. She saw him taking in her unbrushed hair and crumpled, travel-worn clothing. She forced a bright smile onto her face. ‘No thanks – I’m happy to walk.’
The man stirred in his seat, reaching for the gear stick. ‘Better you than me. It’s blowing a gale.’ He shook his head. ‘I hate spring weather. Can’t trust it at all.’
The doors hissed open. Stella waved behind her and then stepped down onto the gravel. A cold wind whipped her face and beat in through her thin jacket. She slung her bag up onto her shoulder and set off, wrapping her arms close around her body. Behind her, the coach accelerated away, spitting back loose stones.
The road was a narrow ribbon of pale grey, leading in through the dense bushland. Boobyalla shrubs and banksia bushes grew right up to its edges; their leaves were pale with dust thrown up by passing vehicles. Stella walked steadily along – down a hill and round a long corner. Then the road emerged suddenly from the trees.
She stood still, staring ahead over open heathland. The sea lay spread before her – a wide expanse of heaving grey, faintly flecked with white. The leaden hue was mirrored so closely by the sky that the horizon could barely be seen. Sky and sea were one – a vast, cold realm. She felt a slow shiver travel up her spine.
The wind carried the smell of churned seaweed and salt. It entered her body with each breath that she took. Stella hurried on, barely noticing the patchwork colours of the bushes that she passed – the familiar shades of green, brown and red. Before long, the road veered right and dropped down towards the sea. In a few minutes she would see the wharf, the pub, the shop. Everything.
Rounding the corner, she looked down. Her step faltered as flashes of bright orange leapt out at her. They were dotted around the car park beside the wharf. Orange people, orange vehicles … It was a sight she recognised from scenes of disaster that she’d witnessed around the world – earthquakes in Turkey and Japan, floods in Bangladesh, a bomb blast in Ireland. She bit her lip, her hands clenching in her pockets.
They were still searching.
He was still lost.
Images of broken timbers flashed before her. Splintered boards tossed in the surf. Tangled ropes. Shredded canvas. Questions tumbled through Stella’s head. Had they found the boat? The life-raft? Anything …
She wanted to run straight down and find out, but she forced herself to stop. It was important to be ready first. She sought Daniel’s voice in her head. ‘It’s like the boy scouts. Be prepared. Before you go in, warn yourself of what to expect. Steel yourself. Then hang back, look and listen, gather all the facts.’
She began with the sea. Closer up, she could now see the swell – waves coming in long and steep. They broke right over the rocks that sheltered the fishing gulch from the open water and spattered the air with white foam.
Small fishing boats were moored along the wharf, nudging one another as they rocked in the waves; but all the big tuna boats and deep-sea vessels were out – taking part in the search, Stella guessed. The only exception was Joe’s derelict ketch Grand Lady. She was there in the middle of the wharf, where she always had been – right in everyone’s way.
Stella saw Mick’s old blue dinghy tied up at his mooring buoy, bucking in the waves. She pictured the fisherman standing on the sturdy steel decks of his tuna boat, combing the sea for some sign of the Lady Tirian. But it was fifteen years since she was last here, Stella reminded herself. There was nothing to say that Mick was still working out of the bay. Fishermen sometimes became farmers, or got jobs in St Louis. Boats got bought, sold; they got broken up and lost. After all this time she could not be sure of anything …
Shifting her gaze from the water to the land, Stella saw that there were about two dozen of the orange-clad figures – perhaps more. They were mixed with a smaller number of men in khaki workclothes. Here and there the yellow oilskins of a fisherman stood out. At the sight of them, Stella felt a sharp stab of pain. Each one looked as if he could have been her father.
At the centre of activity was a caravan with a whiteboard set up outside it. A police car was parked nearby. Next to that was a trestle table bearing large cooking pots set on portable gas burners and stacks of bowls and mugs. A group of women were gathered there – hair blowing in the wind, skirts flapping, faces turned towards one another as they talked. Amongst them a tall slender figure caught Stella’s eye. There was something about the way she stood – alongside the others, yet holding herself apart. Stella drew in her breath. It was Grace.
The sight of her mother – here, at the wharf – made the whole situation seem suddenly more real. Stella broke into a quick walk, heading down towards the car park.
She aimed for the caravan, passing unnoticed between the groups of Search and Rescue volunteers. But then, suddenly, she found herself encountering people she knew. Familiar faces appeared in front of her – looking older but otherwise unchanged. There was Mrs Barron, her hair still a flaming red. Joe, with his weather-wizened face. Laura’s parents. Lenny. Ned … As each of them recognised Stella their eyes widened with surprise. Then came looks of sympathy and concern – backed by keen interest. Stella returned their greetings but kept walking on.
Suddenly a hand grasped her shoulder.
‘Stella! It’s me.’
‘Pauline.’ Stella barely had time to utter the name before she found herself pulled into an embrace. Soft arms drew her in.
‘Come here, love.’
Stella breathed the powdery fragrance of the woman’s bosom. It was the cozy, safe smell of a mother who kissed squashed fingers, who made messy plates of fairy bread, and who never told children to put on their shoes.
Jamie’s mother.
Stella stiffened and pulled away, but Pauline’s hands stayed on her shoulders. Stella felt their weight, resting there. She saw that the woman had wrinkles now, following the pattern of her smiles.
‘They’re doing everything they can,’ Pauline said. ‘We all are. Brian’s been out every minute of daylight. Jamie’s not here – he’s still in the Northern Territory …’ Her voice trailed off. She sniffed, but then managed a smile. ‘It’s so good to see you, pet. I’ve missed you all these years.’
Stella tried to smile in reply. She searched the woman’s face, but she found no hint of reproach there for all the pain Stella had caused her.
‘Come here. I want to talk to you.’ Pauline tugged Stella’s elbow, leading her round behind an orange van. When they were alone there, she spoke again. ‘I’m worried about Grace. Everyone is. She stands out here in the weather all day. Then she goes home and – judging by what she brings down in the morning – she must be up half the night cooking. Of course, we’d all do the same in her position. It’s just that Grace has been so unwell.’
Stella looked at her blankly.
Pauline appeared embarrassed. ‘Mrs Barron says you write, now and then. So I thought you’d have heard.’
Stella shook her head.
‘It began with that back injury she had – when you stayed home from college to nurse her. One thing led to another. Her health’s been poor ever since. We hardly see her. A lot of the time she’s not well enough to leave Seven Oaks. Poor William. He’s been a saint …’
Stella studied her hands. She could think of nothing to say. There had been so many lies told that last summer. Grace’s back injury had been one of them. Stella and William had spread the story around – that Grace was bedridden, that she needed her daughter home to care for her. When all the time she had been as strong as an ox.
Perhaps, Stella thought, a lie once told was like a seed planted in the earth. It grew bigger, stronger, over time. And then, finally, it became real …
‘At least you’re here now,’ Pauline said. ‘Grace’ll be so glad to see you. She’s over there, serving out soup.’ She pointed Stella in the direction of the food table, and gave a gentle push to her back.
People moved out of Stella’s way as she came near them – as if she were either fragile or dangerous, and should not be touched or made to alter her path. Before long, she found herself standing in front of the table. She recognised the three other women working there. They exchanged nods with her, but said nothing. Stella sensed they did not want to greet her ahead of her mother.
Grace was bent over a pot with a ladle in her hand. She was stirring soup, moving the spoon round and round in slow, steady circles – oblivious to the attention focused on her. She looked as though she might just stand there stirring all day.
The woman’s blonde hair was now streaked with grey. Knotted veins had appeared in her hands. But her face was still smooth and almost free of lines – the legacy of the deep stillness that had so often inhabited her features. Even now she looked calm, serene. She didn’t look unwell.
Stella reached out and touched the hand holding the ladle. Grace jerked up her head, startled. She stared at the figure before her. The realisation of who it was, standing there, seemed to reach her slowly, as if filtering through layers of gauze.
Then, suddenly, the last veil was drawn aside. Grace looked into Stella’s eyes. For an instant, nothing was hidden. A spark leaped between them. Stella caught her breath as joy surged through her. She was here, with her mother – after so long … But then came the pain and the anger bursting up. Stella saw the same turmoil reflected briefly in Grace’s eyes before her mother tore her gaze away. Grace’s face became a mask – polite and distant. Her daughter might have been a visitor who’d arrived unexpectedly for tea.
Stella stepped back, letting her hand fall to her side. Grace leaned the ladle carefully against the side of the saucepan. She wiped her hands on a tea-towel and straightened her skirt. Then she stepped round the table and walked towards her daughter.
Stella put down her bag. She braced herself for her mother’s touch – for the feel of Grace’s thick hair brushing against her skin. And the smell of tea-rose talc – the only perfume William liked …
Grace hovered just out of reach. Her face was pale but for two smudges of pink on her cheeks.
Stella pushed her hands into her pockets. ‘I got the fax,’ she said. ‘I came straightaway. I was lucky to get out.’
Grace looked at her in confusion. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Everything’s on the brink of collapse over there – where I’ve been …’ Stella broke off. Her world seemed impossibly far away from the place where she now stood.
‘It’s good that you’ve come,’ Grace said. ‘William will be pleased.’
There was a short silence. The words – framed by Grace’s refined English accent, still unchanged after decades of living in Tasmania – seemed to echo in the air, confident and sure. The other women turned awkwardly away.
In the moments that followed, Stella glimpsed something through the crowd: the blue of a policeman’s uniform. Moving to get a clearer view, she recognised Spinks’ grey hair and upright stance. She felt all the questions held at bay during the journey clamouring inside her. She left Grace standing there and strode towards him.
When she reached the man’s side, she touched his arm. ‘It’s me. I just got here.’
At the sound of her voice, Spinks spun to face her. He searched her face briefly. ‘Good to see you, Stella.’
‘What’s happening? Please – tell me,’ Stella said.
Spinks frowned gravely. ‘We need to talk.’ He led her back to where her mother was still standing by the food table. He lifted a hand towards Grace, but then seemed to think better of touching her. ‘Come into the caravan, both of you,’ he instructed.
He walked towards the metal steps, glancing back over his shoulder to make sure that the two women were following.
The caravan smelled of fried muttonbird, cigarette smoke and wet wool. There was a sense of well-worn holiday comfort, out of keeping with the presence of a uniformed policeman.
‘Take a seat, ladies,’ Spinks said.
He stood stiffly aside from them. As far as Stella knew, the policeman – along with his sister, who shared his home – was one of her parents’ closest friends, even though they only met socially a few times a year. But Spinks had always prided himself on being professional. Even in the privacy of the van, he was carefully neutral.
He waited while both women squeezed in behind a table littered with paper cups, maps and drawing pins. A folded newspaper lying amongst the chaos caught Stella’s eye. She froze. There was an image of William’s face staring up at her. Her heart clenched with pain. He had the proud look that she knew so well – the one he’d always worn when he walked his daughter into the schoolyard on the first day of each new term … She looked into his eyes – his gaze trapped in black and white. The photograph was blurry, as if it had been snatched long-lens by a stranger.
‘William Birchmore,’ the caption read. ‘President of the Halfmoon Bay Fishermen’s Association.’ Stella scanned the text that followed. ‘Prominent member of the close-knit coastal community … reported missing four days ago … air search called off …’
The image slid sideways as Spinks took the paper and folded it away. He tucked it under his arm and went to stand in the small space between the door and the stove.
‘Two days of air search have been conducted. Nothing found, I’m afraid. No sign of the Lady Tirian or the life-raft.’ He looked at Stella. ‘I had to call it off yesterday.’
Stella nodded slowly. She was aware of Grace sitting beside her, twisting a biro tensely in her hands.
‘We’re concentrating on the land search now,’ Spinks continued. He pointed towards a map pinned onto the wardrobe door. Black lines were drawn in the sea, angling out from the bay and pointing south. Stella recognised them immediately: William’s regular fishing runs – the routes he chose from, depending on the weather, for each voyage. The coastline was marked out in sections, with shaded areas of different colours.
‘I’ve got people in all sectors,’ Spinks said, ‘checking inland as well. The trouble is, we’ve known all along where to look. Starting with his runs, we’ve plotted out drift zones – taking into account wind and current. And there’s just nothing there.’
Stella sat perfectly still as the meaning of his words sank slowly in. ‘What happened?’ she asked finally. ‘What went wrong?’
Grace put down the biro and looked intently at the policeman’s face, as if hoping to hear something new.
Spinks shook his head helplessly. ‘I wish I had an answer for you. There was a storm. Gale-force winds up and down the coast. Nothing out of the usual, though. The other boats made it in okay, or took shelter behind the islands. But you know how the sea is down here. You can get a freak wave that smashes one boat and leaves another untouched. Whatever went wrong, it must’ve happened suddenly. There was no May Day call. No flares. And your dad never went out without everything in good working order. Not like some …’
Stella eyed Spinks in silence. He was talking too fast – keeping the air full of words, she sensed, to hold the grim reality at bay.
‘What’s the window of survivability – that’s the question,’ Spinks went on. ‘Well, in these conditions, it depends. If he was in the sea, then I’m afraid …’ The man let his voice trail off. ‘Of course, if he was in a life-raft it’s another story altogether. They should have spotted it from the air, but it’s much harder to see things in the water than people think – you can miss a sizeable vessel in a big swell. Even so, we think the best hope is that he’s made it to shore. I have to be honest, though, and say the situation is very serious.’
‘He’s not dead.’ Grace’s voice cut the air, sharp and clear. A sudden gust of wind rattled the door of the van.
Stella turned to look at her. The woman’s chin was lifted defiantly.
‘He’s not dead,’ Grace repeated. ‘I’d know if he were.’
Stella looked at Spinks. He nodded faintly, as if acknowledging that her mother’s words might be true. After all, everyone knew how close Grace and William were. They were almost like one person.
‘Remember those other boats,’ Grace continued. ‘The ones in the photos at the pub …’
‘Yes. Miracles have certainly happened,’ Spinks agreed. ‘There was the Briar Rose in 1974. Three survivors walked into a bush - walkers’ camp after ten days. Then there was the wreck of the Ella Jane. And old Joe out there – we’d given up hope of ever seeing him or Grand Lady again.’
Stella looked down at her fingers tracing circles in the fake wood pattern printed on the tabletop. The man was reeling off local history as though she were an ignorant stranger – when she’d been right there at the wharf when news of the Ella Jane came in. Had he forgotten? Or did he want to remind her that she no longer belonged here – that she’d stayed away too long, turning her back on them all?
Spinks stepped forward to peer through the window. ‘I think they could do with your help out there,’ he said to Grace. He quietly signalled for Stella to remain.
Grace eased herself out from behind the table. She looked relieved to be going – like a schoolgirl released from the headmaster’s office. When she’d gone, carefully shutting the door behind her, Spinks leaned against the stove. He seemed to be weighing up what to say next.
Stella stared out through the window. Up near the pub she caught the bright flash of a neon sign: words in looping letters, shining red against the grey sky. HALFMOON BAY HOTEL.
‘I need to talk to you about Grace,’ Spinks said. ‘I’m concerned about her.’
‘Yes, I know,’ Stella broke in. ‘Pauline’s already told me. Surely it’s up to Mum to decide what she can manage.’
‘It’s not just that,’ Spinks said. ‘She’s been driving herself down here in the ute.’
Stella frowned at him in disbelief. Her mother had never been able to drive. The Birchmores lived way out on the point and Grace had always had to rely on her husband for transport to and from Halfmoon Bay.
‘When did she learn to drive?’ Stella asked.
‘She didn’t,’ Spinks stated. ‘I watched her arrive this morning – she can hardly change gears, and she almost hit a boat trailer trying to park. It’s got to stop.’
‘Okay,’ Stella said. ‘I’ll talk to her.’ She could feel the weight of responsibility gathering around her.
‘Good girl,’ Spinks said. ‘Now, you go out there and help your mother.’ As Stella took a step towards the door, he held up his hand. ‘Wait a minute. I just want to say something. I know you’ve got a very important job working for that magazine. My sister Mary’s got all your cuttings in a scrapbook. Two scrapbooks. But you’ve done the right thing – coming home.’ He paused and looked into Stella’s face. ‘I’m sorry it’s taken something like this to bring you back. Don’t take this the wrong way, Stella, but I think it’s long overdue. When someone stays away for years – doesn’t come back even to visit – something must need fixing.’
Stella looked down at the ground. He doesn’t know, she told herself – he can’t know. William and Grace would never have told. But she felt a thread of doubt. Spinks had always seemed able to discover things he was not meant to know. It was like a sixth sense that he possessed.
Stella lifted her face and looked the policeman in the eyes. ‘I won’t be staying long,’ she said firmly.
Spinks made no response for a moment, then he reached into his pocket. ‘I took the liberty of removing this.’ He held out a single key. The end that fitted into the lock was shiny, but the rest of it was corroded with salt. ‘It’s from the ute,’ he explained. ‘I had a job getting it out.’ He pushed the key into Stella’s hand. ‘You keep it, from now on.’
Stella felt its shape printed on her skin. The key was a symbol, she knew. A transaction had taken place. It was her job to look after Grace now – and it would remain so until … until William was found.
He might never be found.
Stella breathed in sharply. Beneath the pain of that thought lay a stream of questions – about what it would mean for Grace; for her … Stella could see similar concerns reflected in the policeman’s face. She shoved the key deep into her pocket and walked past him, out the door.
A team of volunteers had gathered around the food table, almost hiding it from view. Stella began pushing her way in through the crowd, towards the place where Grace had been standing. But as the woman’s grey-blonde head came into view, Stella’s step faltered. Suddenly she felt unable to face her mother again. She felt a twist of sickness at the thought of what lay between them – the potent emotions that were being held at bay. She needed some time alone, she knew – to take control of her feelings and prepare herself for what was to come.
Veering off in the opposite direction, Stella strode back up through the car park, dodging vehicles and boat trailers. She kept her eyes fixed ahead to give the impression that she was on an urgent mission and should not be interrupted. She was aiming for the sandstone ruins of the old whaling station. She knew it offered a place that was sheltered from watching eyes. Teenagers used to smoke and kiss there. They scratched their names in the soft stone. Stella’s own name was there. ‘Jamie loves Stella 1972.’ Or was it ‘Stella loves Jamie’? She could not remember.
Reaching the gaping doorway of the old building, Stella ducked inside. The seaward end of the building was gone, and the wind blasted in unchecked. It beat against Stella’s face as she stood with her back to the wall, resting her head against the sandy stone.
She stared down over wind-stunted grassland towards the boulders that edged the sea. The waves crashed hard against them and then reared up into the air. Her gaze was drawn across to the headland, jutting into the strait – and on, out to the islands, squatting like animals on the horizon.
She found herself tracing the outlines of distant rocky hills. Their shapes were so familiar to her that they might have been imprinted on her soul. She knew all the smells, the sounds and colours as well. It was as if she had been here only yesterday.
Too late, she saw that it had been a mistake coming in here, leaving herself alone with the sea …
She stood still, her body pressed against the wall, as though she were trying to disappear inside it. The wind battered her face, flinging the ends of her hair into her eyes. Her lips were whipped dry; her hands ached with cold.
But she didn’t notice. She was lost in the sound of the gulls and the scream of the wind blowing in from the west. It held her in its grasp, powerless, as it wrapped itself around her – and carried her back …