Stella stood in the doorway to the sea room. The space looked bigger and lighter. The newly exposed floorboards – freshly waxed – gleamed in the late morning sun that reached in through the long bank of windows.
Most of the furniture was gone – the couch with its row of cushions, the covered stool, the television, the standard lamp and bookcase. They had all been moved into Stella’s old room, which was to become a private lounge. Stella had prepared the space by packing up her childhood possessions – filling a box with toys, books, dolls, old clothes … The last thing to go into the box was the doll, Miranda. Stella had dusted off the naked plastic body and nylon hair, and then dressed her in the little fisherman’s jumper. She laid the doll in the box, smoothing the red hair down over the narrow shoulders. After closing the lid, she’d taped it down. Then she’d carried the box out to the shed.
The sea room was beginning to look like a café dining room. The table, with all its extra leaves in place, filled the middle of the space. Ten chairs were set out along each side. Only four of them were alike – they were the ones the family had used. The rest had come from Joe’s shed – rescued by the man over decades from doctors’ waiting rooms, people’s kitchens, the church hall, as well as the pub. The mismatched collection looked right, somehow. It seemed to hint at the varied characters that would soon be sitting there.
Stella heard footsteps coming down the hall. Seconds later, Grace wandered in. Standing beside Stella, she looked approvingly over the room.
‘The chairs are perfect,’ she commented. ‘I’ve had an idea – about how we can repay Joe. I know he won’t take any money, but we could give him something.’
‘What did you have in mind?’ Stella asked. She imagined a quantity of cakes, or the promise of a month’s worth of pies. But Grace took her arm and pulled her round to face the far side of the room. She pointed a finger towards the one piece of furniture – apart from the table and chairs – that was still left there. It looked heavy and dark, a dominating presence in the liberated space.
Aunt Jane’s sideboard.
Stella glanced at her mother in surprise – then followed her over to stand in front of it.
‘Are you sure?’ she asked. ‘Perhaps we should store it in the shed.’
‘I don’t want to keep it,’ Grace said firmly. ‘Joe can sell it to a dealer. He’ll get a good price for it.’
Stella nodded slowly. She liked the idea, too, she realised, of removing forever this link with Aunt Jane. It seemed to suit the beginning of a new venture.
The polished top of the sideboard still bore the framed photograph of William as a medical student – along with his last newspaper, the Victory mug, the candlestick, and the other pieces of memorabilia dotted across a large lace cloth.
Stella and Grace looked at the display in silence. Then Grace picked up the photograph and handed it to Stella.
‘We’ll keep that on the mantelpiece,’ she said. She lifted the cloth by each of its corners, gathering up everything inside – and carried it all away.
When she returned, the two women squatted side by side, emptying the contents of the sideboard. First, they packed up the special plates that had belonged to William’s family. Then they turned to the piles of embroidered napkins and tablecloths.
‘We won’t use any of these,’ Grace said. ‘I’ll cut up a sheet to make napkins. Plain white ones. And we’ll leave the table bare – it’s such beautiful wood.’
Lastly, they carefully transferred the weather journal – and all the other things from William’s private drawer – into a carton.
The sideboard was now completely empty. With its doors hanging wide and drawers pulled open, it appeared smaller, somehow – stripped of its authority.
Stella and Grace took an end each, and lifted up the heavy piece of furniture. They tried to move it towards the doorway, but found they could only manage a short distance before they had to put it down and rest. Stella had already tried to lighten the sideboard by removing the drawers, but she’d discovered they were designed with catches that prevented them being slid out too far. There was no choice but to just continue as best they could – stopping every few metres for a break.
It took a long time to manoeuvre the sideboard out to the driveway. Then they had to build a ramp out of two planks and push the bulky weight up it in a series of short bursts. When the object was finally in place on the tray of the ute, Stella and Grace sighed with relief.
Stella drove carefully away up the track, with Grace sitting beside her looking over her shoulder to check on the load. Stella glanced into the rear-vision mirror as well. The sideboard rocked slightly with each bump that they met.
As they turned onto the gravel road, the ride became much smoother. Grace gave up watching behind her, and Stella let the ute pick up some speed.
Grace scanned the edges of the road as they drove. Following her gaze, Stella saw the usual dark furry mounds appearing at regular intervals.
‘I’ve never noticed before,’ Grace commented after a while, ‘how much roadkill there is. There must be a lot of wildlife about.’
The bush gave way to an open, marshy area with mudbanks and tall reeds. They peered up through the windscreen as a pelican flew over – a huge bird that looked much too heavy to be able to stay in the air.
Stella slowed down as Joe’s boathouse appeared ahead of them. She turned off onto a short driveway – bringing the ute to a standstill as close as she could to the building. The door was wide open, wedged back with the broken end of an oar. As Stella climbed out, she called Joe’s name – but there was no reply. He was probably at the wharf, she guessed.
She peered into the gloomy interior of the shed, in case the old man was in there – but there was no sign of him. The air smelled of diesel and tar, faintly backed with stale fish. The place was a maze of old furniture, fishing gear, tools, washing machines, bikes, building materials, prams – junk and treasure, all mixed together. The wooden spines of a half-built boat rose up amidst the chaos, looking like ribs of a long-buried whale emerging from the sand. She noticed a large stack of white dinner plates and bowls – the solidlooking crockery often used in hotel dining rooms. Moving closer, she saw that the top plate bore a small insignia. Southern Ocean Line. She pictured the crockery laid out on the long dining table, in the room with windows that gave an unbroken vista of sea and sky. It would be like dining on a ship.
She turned to see Grace standing behind her, pulling on a pair of gardening gloves.
‘We’ll just leave it inside,’ Stella said.
Grace gave a small wave of agreement and went round to the rear of the ute. As she opened the back, Stella jumped up and stood next to the sideboard. Working together, the two shifted the object to the edge of the tray.
‘The next bit is tricky,’ Stella said. ‘We need to slide it down. Not too fast.’
Halfway off the tray, the sideboard began to tilt. The drawers began sliding out, hanging on their catches.
‘Push it back!’ Stella yelled at Grace.
‘I can’t!’ Grace shouted.
Grace jumped out of the way as the sideboard fell, crashing to the ground. There was a sound of splintering wood as the drawers were smashed off under its weight.
In the quiet that followed, the only noise was the peeping of water birds.
Stella climbed down and stood beside Grace, staring at the broken drawers. It was a shocking sight – in the past, the discovery of even a small scratch on Aunt Jane’s heirloom used to send Grace scurrying for her tin of special restorer’s wax. But as Stella stood there looking, she had an urge to laugh. Glancing at Grace, she could see that her mother felt the same. Grace was pressing her lips together, trying to look grave.
A smile spread across Stella’s face – then a laugh broke out. A few seconds later, Grace joined in – first covering her mouth guiltily, then tipping back her head and laughing freely. The bright sound echoed between them, dancing in the quiet air before finally dying away.
Stella was about to ask Grace what they should do with the sideboard now that it was worthless, when something caught her eye amongst the broken timber.
She bent to look more closely. There was the corner of a brown manila envelope poking up from inside one of the damaged drawers.
‘I thought we emptied everything,’ she said.
Grace watched as Stella dragged the drawer out from under the corner of the sideboard. It was William’s drawer, Stella realised – she recognised the marks she’d made with the poker. There was a false back on the tray, and the envelope was lodged in an extra compartment hidden behind it.
Pulling the envelope free, Stella paused for a second, looking at it. She glanced questioningly at Grace.
‘Open it,’ Grace said.
Stella ripped open the top and reached inside. She pulled out a thin bundle of smaller envelopes, held together with a rubber band. Her gaze travelled over the top envelope, brushing the red and blue airmail pattern printed around the edges, touching briefly on a big, coloured stamp – then fixing on the handwritten address.
Stella
Halfmoon Bay
Tasmania, Australia
Flipping through the other envelopes, she saw the same address repeated. There were five letters. Only the last one was addressed any differently. It said:
Stella
Daughter of a crayfisherman
Halfmoon Bay
Tasmania
PLEASE FORWARD
Grace leaned over Stella’s shoulder. ‘They’re to you!’
Stella bit her lip as she shuffled back through the envelopes. Each had an identical stamp – an image of a kiwi, with New Zealand written above its head.
‘From Zeph,’ Stella said slowly.
As the knowledge settled in her head, her heart began to beat faster. She lifted the bundle closer, picking out the mailing date on the first envelope. It was stamped in the fuzzy purple of a post office ink-pad.
25 JAN 1976
She checked the dates of the others: FEB FEB MAR APR
‘I was still here!’ Stella said. The words were wrung from her throat.
She looked up at Grace then, mute with disbelief.
The woman frowned in confusion. ‘Zeph is Robert? Is that what you’re saying?’
Stella clutched Grace’s arm. ‘Did you know about these?’
Grace shook her head. She struggled with her emotions – ripples of anger and distress passing over her face. ‘William must have kept them from you.’ She stared into her daughter’s eyes.
Stella gasped, remembering with sudden clarity the moment – down at the wharf – when she’d asked William if a letter had come for her.
If it had, I’d have given it to you.
Those were the words he’d used …
For a few seconds Stella was overcome with shock and outrage. Then she dug one finger behind the flap of the first envelope and pulled it open. She spread out a flimsy sheet of airmail paper.
As she skimmed the page, words and phrases jumped out at her.
There was a storm off the South Island … the self-steering gear broke again …
We were almost wrecked … the mast is gone, two sails lost …
I have to earn money to pay for repairs.
It will be at least another month before I can come back …
But I am coming. I will be there.
Leave a message at the Memorial. Tell me where to find you …
Think of me. I’ll be working night and day and saving every cent I can – to come back to you …
I love you.
I love you forever.
Zeph (and Carla) xxxx
Stella stared at the letter as the meaning of the words fell slowly into place. Waves of emotion washed through her. There was amazement at the discovery of the letters. There was a burning anger towards William, for keeping them from her.
But, riding over both was something even stronger. A wild, bright hope.
She looked up at her mother.
Grace nodded, as if she understood everything. ‘Take the car,’ she said. ‘Find him.’
Stella ran to the ute, jumping in and turning on the ignition in one movement – pumping the accelerator with her foot. She swung the vehicle round in reverse. Then she sped off, throwing up a spray of gravel behind her.
A ragged sarong, faded to pastel tones, fluttered on a washing line stretched out between two trees. Pinned beside it were several pairs of socks, two T-shirts, a new pair of jeans, stiff and dark. And there – in the sagging middle of the line – was the blue linen shirt Zeph had worn the day he came to work on the kitchen. As Stella ducked under it, heading towards the house, the sleeve brushed her cheek.
She looked out past the boundaries of the garden, searching in all directions for a glimpse of the red station wagon. It had not been in the turning circle at the end of the track, but she had not given up hope that it was parked here somewhere. She already knew it was not at the wharf, or near the shop or the pub – she’d checked those places on the way from Joe’s boathouse.
Stella stood by a curve-fronted door, made from a section of hull cut from an old wooden boat, framed with huon pine. She knocked quickly before she could begin to form words, make plans …
The sound rang out into stillness. The wind had dropped, Stella noticed. Rain was coming, but had not yet arrived. Everything seemed poised on the brink of action – waiting.
She knocked again. As she listened for a response, she peered in through the window. She could see part of the kitchen. It was as neat and carefully designed as Tailwind’s cabin, but the orderly impression was softened by the presence of some bush flowers in a jar; a bowl of walnuts; and a bottle of red wine, half-drunk and recorked. Beside the sink, the utensils of the last meal had been left to dry – a single dinner plate, wine glass, knife, fork and spoon. She studied the rest of the space that was visible – noticing the rich dark tones of the floor. It was made of old wood bearing the imprint of many past lives – nail holes, burns, stains … Suddenly, she leaned closer, cupping her hands around her eyes to cut the reflection. Between two chairs, she could see – on the floor – something yellow, dotted with tiny spots of light. She drew in a sharp breath, recognising one of Tailwind’s mirrored cushions.
A long, dark shape – a tail – draped over one edge.
The heavy door swung open as Stella turned the handle. She crept in, her gaze fixed on the cushion as she crossed the room.
She smiled at the sight of the creature stretched out there – a cat with a coat of striped orange and black. Carla’s kitten, perhaps …
But then, as she came close, she saw that the brindled fur had been invaded by grey. And the left ear was torn – caught on a fishing hook … Her eyes widened with delight.
She knelt down. ‘Carla?’ she whispered. ‘It’s me. Stella.’
The cat opened green eyes clouded with age. Then she lifted her head, with effort. A loud purr erupted from her throat.
Gently, Stella gathered Carla into her arms. Beneath the soft fur she felt the creature’s body, bony and thin. Closing her eyes, she rested her cheek against the furry head. Carla nudged her with a wet nose.
Stella stood up with the cat, cradling it against her breast like a child. The purring was an engine firing inside the frail body. Stella smiled. Carla, the little cat. Now as old as a cat could be – yet still brave and strong at heart.
She turned in small circles, rocking the cat gently in her arms. When she looked up, she found herself facing an open doorway leading to a narrow flight of stairs. Before she had time to consider her actions, she was climbing up them, treading lightly on each step. She guessed where they would lead – and told herself she should not trespass on private space. Yet she kept on …
The first floor consisted of a single room – an airy study with a drafting table and an easel set up by the window. Stella let her gaze move over it quickly, glimpsing books, maps and stacks of photographs. She walked on, up another set of stairs.
As she reached the top step, the domed roof curved away above her. It was painted the same cornflower blue as the exterior of the minaret. To mirror a summer sky, Stella thought.
She stopped on the threshold. If she crossed to the double windows, she knew she would be able to look straight down into the coves. If the sea was clear, she’d see the fish as they swam by …
She allowed herself only to look from the doorway – at the double bed with its one pillow. The doona had been thrown back, as if the morning had been welcomed with vigour. A sarong draped onto the floor. The room was pleasingly bare of anything that might distract from the views of the sea. As she glanced around the space, Stella saw only a few small pieces of furniture – and one picture …
She froze, staring at it. Carla wriggled in protest as the woman’s arms tightened around her.
The picture was a large pastel drawing of a girl standing on the deck of a boat. Long, dark hair fanned over her slender shoulders. She wore a shirt hanging open, and a brown striped bikini top underneath. She had been caught by the artist in the moment of tossing back her hair – a bold, carefree gesture. Yet her eyes looked vulnerable – as if she could see into the future and read the pain that waited there …
Strong light fell across the girl’s features, making the image dramatic. At the same time, the colours were soft, evoking the sense of a dream.
Stella’s lips parted in wonder. It was so like the girl she had been. Yet it was unlike her as well. She glanced down at the signature, a tiny scrawl in the bottom corner.
Zeph.
It was his memory of her, she realised. A vision that had accompanied him over all the long years …
Something else drew her attention then. A blur of yellow on a small table set beneath the picture. Stepping closer, she saw that it was a bunch of everlasting daisies. They were old and faded, the petals all ragged. The stems were tied together with a piece of fishing line. Stella remembered how she’d wound it round and round; and how she’d tied the knot – a fishing lure knot – tight and strong. The flowers had looked so bright and welcoming, standing up in their driftwood frame …
Stella stared down at the little bunch of daisies. They could not have survived, she knew, for more than a few months out in the open. Warm joy flooded through her. They were the final proof – he had come back to her, just as he had promised.
Stella turned away, looking out through the window to the sea. She pictured Zeph arriving at the Halfmoon wharf after his long voyage. He’d have gone straight to the Seafarers’ Memorial to look for her message – and would have found nothing. He’d have asked people how he could find her. They’d all have said the same thing. She’s gone to England – to school. Lucky girl … When he sailed into the coves and saw the flowers, he must have hoped for a note, hidden there with them. But the flowers were the only message. An apology. A farewell. An ending …
Stella carried Carla downstairs, and laid her on the yellow cushion.
‘Wait for me,’ she said. ‘I’m coming back.’
As she headed for the door, she thought of the other place where Zeph might be. Tailwind. She tried to remember what Mrs Barron had said about where the yacht was moored. A private slipway somewhere …
Joe would know.
As Stella drove along on the edge of the wharf beside Grand Lady, the old fisherman emerged from the wheelhouse. He rested one hand on a newly timbered roof. In the other he held a wide brush, dripping with red paint.
Stella opened the door to speak to him, but remained in her seat, the engine running. ‘Can you tell me where Zeph’s got his yacht?’ she asked. ‘I think I might find him there.’
‘You won’t,’ Joe said. ‘I just came from the slipway. I went to get the paint.’ He waved his brush towards Stella. A drop of red flicked onto the car door. ‘Zeph was there. Then your mother turned up with Spinks in the cop car. Looked like she gave him something – nothing big, it was in her hand. She spoke to him – just for a minute or two – not long. Then he got in his car and drove off.’ He frowned. ‘Made no sense to me. He was supposed to be coming back here, to help me paint.’
‘Which way did he go?’ Stella asked.
Joe swung an arm away towards the coast road. ‘Out your way.’
Stella let the clutch out and the ute bumped away over the wharf decking.
Joe called after her. ‘Don’t you drive too fast! There’s rain coming!’
The red station wagon was not parked but rather abandoned in the middle of the track, near the shed. The driver’s door hung open.
Stella brought the ute to a standstill next to it. As she jumped out, the wind stirred, bringing the first light spots of rain. She hurried towards the house – up the path, through the garden. The wind grew stronger – a cold west wind. It tugged at her clothes and snapped her hair against her cheeks. She turned her face away from its icy touch.
The garden was a place of wild waving plants. Over on the Sea Wall, loose rope-ends and pieces of netting all leaned out sideways as they were caught in the gust.
Stella paused mid-step. It was as though the garden, the Wall, were dancing for her – wanting to draw her gaze …
Then, beyond the lattice of grey wood she saw a splash of foreign colour. She traced the outline of a figure standing there.
She walked straight towards it, her boots sinking into the soft soil of garden beds.
Nearing the Wall, she faltered, but the wind was at her back, nudging her on …
As she stepped into the lee of the wooden screen, the air was suddenly still.
Zeph stood with his back to her, looking down at the little cross surrounded by the first pale spikes of new-sprung seedlings. In one hand he held the bundle of letters that he’d sent so long ago. The other hand was clasped stiffly at his side.
He turned, as if sensing Stella’s presence there. He did not speak, but just stared into her eyes – a long, searching look that seemed able to reach deep inside her, to where all the secrets were hidden.
She felt, in that moment, that he could see – and feel – it all.
A girl alone in her room, watched only by the distant eye of the moon. Her cries heard only by the sea.
A row of tiny furled fingers pressed against a filmy sac.
A wedding gown made for a doll, smeared with blood.
A perfect, peaceful face with sealed-shut eyes.
A mother showing off her child to the stars.
Everything …
Zeph was still for a few seconds – then he spread his arms wide.
Stella took a step towards him. She was weak, suddenly – her legs barely able to hold her up. She felt the walls inside her beginning to crumble as a force stirred within her: a tide of tears – surely as wide and deep as the ocean. It rose up and flowed out, cleansing and pure.
Stella sobbed freely – not an anguished cry, but one that gasped out long-held pain.
Tears ran down Zeph’s face, too – over his cheeks, onto the bow of his lips.
He reached out for Stella, pulling her against him. She let her face fall on his shoulder as he wrapped his arms around her and held her close to his heart.
The rain fell, mingling with their tears.
A blessing sent by distant clouds – or angels.