The Bay Read online

  Di Morrissey is one of Australia’s most successful writers. She began writing as a young woman, training and working as a journalist for Australian Consolidated Press in Sydney and Northcliffe Newspapers in London. She has worked in television in Australia and Hawaii and in the USA as a presenter, reporter, producer and actress. After her marriage to a US diplomat, Peter Morrissey, she lived in Singapore, Japan, Thailand, South America and Washington. Returning to Australia, Di continued to work in television before publishing her first novel in 1991.

  Di has a daughter, Dr Gabrielle Hansen, and her children, Sonoma Grace and Everton Peter, are Di’s first grandchildren. Di’s son, Dr Nicolas Morrissey, is a lecturer in South East Asian Art History and Buddhist Studies at the University of Georgia, USA.

  Di and her partner, Boris Janjic, divide their time between Byron Bay and the Manning Valley in New South Wales when not travelling to research her novels, which are all inspired by a particular landscape.

  www.dimorrissey.com

  Also by Di Morrissey

  Heart of the Dreaming

  The Last Rose of Summer

  Follow the Morning Star

  The Last Mile Home

  Tears of the Moon

  When the Singing Stops

  The Songmaster

  Scatter the Stars

  Blaze

  The Bay

  Kimberley Sun

  Barra Creek

  The Reef

  The Valley

  Monsoon

  The Islands

  The Silent Country

  The Plantation

  First published 2001 in Macmillan by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Limited

  First published 2002 in Pan by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Limited

  This Pan edition published 2008 by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Limited

  1 Market Street, Sydney

  Reprinted 2009, 2010 (twice)

  Copyright © Lady Byron Pty Ltd 2001

  Illustrations © Ron Revitt 2001

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted by any person or entity (including Google, Amazon or similar organisations), in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, scanning or by any informational storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher.

  National Library of Australia

  cataloguing-in-publication data:

  Morrissey, Di.

  The bay/Di Morrissey.

  9780330424486 (pbk.)

  A823.3

  Typeset in 11.25/13.5pt Sabon by Post Pre-press Group

  Printed in Australia by McPherson’s Printing Group

  Papers used by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Limited are natural, recyclable products made from wood grain in sustainable forests. The manufacturing processes conform to the environmental regulations of the country of origin.

  The Bay is a work of fiction. The story, events and most of the characters in it are fictitious, although some people have kindly allowed their names to be used in the book.

  These electronic editions published in 2001 by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Ltd

  1 Market Street, Sydney 2000

  Copyright © Di Morrissey 2001

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  All rights reserved. This publication (or any part of it) may not be reproduced or transmitted, copied, stored, distributed or otherwise made available by any person or entity (including Google, Amazon or similar organisations), in any form (electronic, digital, optical, mechanical) or by any means (photocopying, recording, scanning or otherwise) without prior written permission from the publisher.

  This ebook may not include illustrations and/or photographs that may have been in the print edition.

  The Bay

  Di Morrissey

  Adobe eReader format 978-1-74334-883-3

  EPub format 978-1-74334-884-0

  Online format 978-1-74334-885-7

  Macmillan Digital Australia

  www.macmillandigital.com.au

  Visit www.panmacmillan.com.au to read more about all our books and to buy both print and ebooks online. You will also find features, author interviews and news of any author events.

  JIM REVITT . . . who has always watched over me and with his brilliant wordsmith skills, improves every book I write by making me think harder, do better and reach higher.

  MY FAMILY . . . my mother Kay Warbrook, who cares and fights for her coastal community; my children Gabrielle and Nick Morrissey, whose love, support, advice and humour make every day worthwhile.

  BORIS JANJIC for his devotion and for smoothing the wrinkles out of every day starting with a morning flower.

  IAN ROBERTSON, loyal legal friend, for soothing the scratchy bits of life.

  JAMES FRASER and all my family at Pan Macmillan – thanks for all the love and encouragement over the past decade.

  RON REVITT for his delightful sketches and being, along with Jim, a ‘Big Brother’ uncle.

  Special thanks to my friends and the community of Byron Bay.

  Along with all those other special bays around Australia – like Lovett Bay where I grew up – I hope they will always remain treasured and protected places.

  Contents

  Cover

  About Di Morrissey

  Also by Di Morrissey

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  My Journey to The Bay

  The Southern Ocean of Australia, 1878

  THE OCEAN SLEPT. ITS SUNSET-MIRRORED SURFACE RISING and falling in a gentle swell. The men in the small boat were silent. Smoothly, quietly, the long wooden oars stroked into the golden sea.

  The man in the bow stood, legs planted apart, knees flexed to maintain his balance as he searched the water for some indication of their prey. The six other men, some mere boys, also studied the glistening ocean, knowing that somewhere beneath them slid the mighty leviathan, which they had glimpsed what now seemed like aeons ago. It was a rogue individual.

  On the steam barque Orion, anchored to the south, the crew remained hopeful that their men in the small whaleboat would capture the humpback that was cruising steadily north.

  Jergen Strom, the harpooner, was among the best – fearless like his Norse ancestors, strong, swift and deadly accurate. He had an instinct; they said he could think like a whale, knowing where the giant creature might rise up and blow. And it was this intuition that made him now turn and look around.

  ‘Ahoy, blow astern. Come about, pull to the port.’ The men had the double-ended boat retracing its wake in seconds, surging forward to meet the oncoming shape that was cleaving the ocean just below the surface.

  They charged towards each other, the boat suddenly seeming so fragile, the massive bulk of the lone bull whale looking so formidable.

  The man in the bow was poised, his thigh braced in a niche cut in the decking. The headsman grasped the twenty-foot steering oar and stood ready for ‘the change’.

  ‘It’s sounding!’ A young seaman shouted what all hands knew. But in the instant that the whale arched its back, elevating the big tail flukes to
throw itself sideways and plunge to the depths, Jergen lunged and released the harpoon. It flew in a low arc, its tail of rope spinning behind it, then fell as the whale dived. The steel fluke thrust into the back of the beast, searing into the soft layers of blubber.

  Then, according to ancient custom, the steersman moved from the bow oar to the aft and the headsman, in command of the craft, exchanged places with the harpooner. To the headsman fell the honour of the kill. Picking up the lance he waited for the whale to surface.

  The maddened creature rose, shuddered, then disappeared beneath the churning sea, the thread that joined it to the boat whirring so fast around the loggerhead it began to smoke. The men waited, their oars resting horizontally above the water. The rope played out then stopped. They tensed and watched the sea.

  It was an explosion of many sounds – the great gasping breath from the blowhole, the eerie high-pitched call, the crunching of oars, the splintering of wood, the shouts of the crew. It was the nightmare they all feared most.

  The whale rose under the boat, its angry bulk lifting the wooden peanut out of the water before the vessel tilted to one side and began to slide down its body. But in those seconds the steersman threw his weight behind the lance, sinking it into a vital section of the spine. One of the men, frantically grasping for some support, felt his hand graze over the thick rubbery hide before he was in the foaming water with the other men and the upturned boat.

  With a mighty flick the whale’s flukes came down, splintering the small boat, dangerously close to the men doing their best to swim away from the monster. The young seaman, afraid this was the end of him, turned to see the whale blow once more – a gushing of spluttering air. But this time the milky vapour rushed red. And the whale began its agonising flurry, shuddering, shaking, shivering in bewildered pain, a prelude to death.

  As it slowly rolled onto its back, breathing its last, each man was fighting to save himself – from sharks, from drowning, from his companions struggling to hang onto any debris from the shattered boat. None had noticed that Strom had caught his leg in a loop of the rope and been ripped into the sea, tangled beneath the dying hulk where his drowned body now floated, trapped.

  By the time a rescue boat launched from the Orion had recovered the shocked survivors, the whale carcass had sunk into the deep reaches of the ocean, towing with it the umbilical cord that joined the hunted and the hunter.

  As night fell on the silent sea and drifting debris, darkness softened the floating red mantle of death.

  The Bay. Dawn, New Year’s Day

  The moon and sun blended, their paths over lapping in the rising of a new day and the relinquishing of the night hours. The gold and silver sisters glided past each other in a pearly sky, and in that moment worlds and time briefly touched.

  From the gleaming white lighthouse adorning the headland like a spun-sugar decoration atop a wedding cake, another light signalled mechanically from prismatic crystals, winking seaward to the dawn and misty horizon.

  And in that distant mist there suddenly appeared a shimmering boat of another age. It had two masts, square-rigged, and six whaleboats suspended from davits. On the deck were two glowing brick fireplaces, each supporting a huge black metal cauldron of whale blubber and boiling oil.

  On the heavy wooden stem beneath the bowsprit was the carving of a woman, full breasted and proud faced, with waves of flowing hair painted gold. Behind the figurehead and on port and starboard bow planks, red letters proclaimed this brigantine to be the Lady Richmond.

  When the light next winked at the eastern horizon, the vision had disappeared.

  Dawn, New Year’s Day

  HOLLY STIRRED IN THE PASSENGER SEAT, GLANCING AT her husband who was driving with his usual grim concentration. His profile lit by the dawn light showed a faint shadow of stubble and the beginning of a slackening of his jawline. But Andrew was still a handsome man in his late forties. Holly was forty-five. Did he think she was still as attractive as she had been when they’d met? She had been pretty enough at twenty-two to be offered a modelling contract overseas. Andrew had proposed when she told him about it. So she’d chosen Andrew. It was many years before she realised he had given her no choice.

  She’d dabbled at things, but two children quickly came along and there had never been time for her to consider a career. A devoted mother and the wife of a successful architect, she had spent her days running a beautiful home and garden, and smoothing out the wrinkles in her family’s lives.

  Now it was time for a change – a decision she had made and gently orchestrated. She was still amazed Andrew had agreed to the whole Bay idea. Although, he had made vague remarks about ‘perhaps doing some business with people from up that way’. She knew Beacon Bay was regarded as a gem for anyone in the building, design and development arena. Just as it was for those dedicated to preserving its tranquillity and natural beauty.

  ‘Happy New Year. Where were we at midnight?’ Holly stretched as best she could.

  ‘No idea. I didn’t bother to wake you, seemed a bit pointless. We must have been around Kempsey. Saw a few fireworks in the distance. We’re nearly there, I might stop and stretch my legs soon.’ Andrew yawned.

  ‘It’s been a long drive for you,’ she said, ‘but I think it was best to drive through the New Year’s Eve madness and leave them to their parties. Much traffic?’

  ‘Um, some in local pockets, but the freeway has been pretty clear. I’m ready for breakfast though. Not that I’ve seen much in the way of places to eat. Petrol stations are about it. Last McDonald’s was at Grafton, must be due to hit another.’

  ‘Not in The Bay. They stopped the fast food people and the big hotels.’ Holly sounded approving.

  ‘Bloody madness. The place is taking off, that’s what tourists want. You’d be better opening a smart takeaway food joint than a dinky B & B.’

  Holly was calm. ‘It’s not a dinky bed and brekkie, it’s a guesthouse. And it’s going to be charming when I’m done. Now, find a place to stop, I have a surprise in the back.’

  ‘Yeah? Well, there’s one in the seat behind you. The dog threw up some time ago.’

  ‘Oh, poor Curly.’

  ‘It didn’t sound too horrendous. But she probably wants to pee. What’s the surprise?’

  ‘Pull off the road somewhere pretty. I have a New Year’s picnic in the Esky. I thought we could start the new year with champagne and orange juice, smoked salmon and cheese on pita followed by sliced mango. And there’s coffee in the Thermos.’

  ‘Sounds good,’ Andrew said, trying to be enthusiastic. Typical of Holly – always the nurturer, full of thoughtful gestures. A cutesy picnic was so her; never mind that it had been raining and was a grey dawn. After eight hours driving all Andrew wanted was a feed, a cold swim, a hot shower and a soft bed. He hoped this homespun, rustic, back to nature trend that Holly seemed bent on was only a phase. How long was she going to last in some rundown old house on two overgrown acres, even if it was near the beach? Soon enough she’d be glad to get back to their mansion on Sydney’s North Shore with its luxury and convenience. But he’d agreed to this plan of hers of starting up a guesthouse. It suited him very well, in fact. Not that he could ever imagine seeing out his days in some small beach resort. He had a business in Sydney that was expanding into Asia and taking up all his time. But property values were going through the roof in The Bay so it would be a good investment and give Holly an interest. They both knew their marriage had hit a stale patch, and he wanted to show his wife of twenty-three years that he was supportive and prepared to make an effort – though he considered it more like indulging her whim. She’d put up all of her inheritance and what she’d saved for her ‘old age’ to buy the place, so it was her money she was playing with, not his.

  It was ironic that he, too, was quietly embarking on a new project that was linked to The Bay. But Holly was completely unaware of this. He’d let her continue to think their involvement in the area was all her idea.

  ‘T
here, look, isn’t that lovely?’ said Holly.

  Andrew pulled over and parked in a cleared area with a small shelter that faced the distant ocean. It was the turn-off to a scenic drive that skirted the hills above The Bay. ‘Come on, Curly,’ he said, trying to make amends with the dog. ‘Stretch the old legs and take a look at your new home.’ He clipped the leash on her collar as Holly pulled sheets off a roll of paper towels to mop up the dog’s blanket.

  Andrew stared at the few twinkling lights that were shining in the small town which clung to the fringe of the crescent-shaped bay. The moon was still visible as the first dawn streaks lit the clouds. Suddenly a flash of light pierced the sky. The lighthouse. The beam swung around, and in its wake Andrew felt his spirits lift. He turned to Holly. ‘So here we are, kid. The world is at your feet.’

  ‘Bit late for me to conquer the world. And I smell burning bridges somewhere back there.’ She gave him a faint wry grin. ‘It will be all right, won’t it?’

  Andrew dropped his arm awkwardly around her shoulder; affectionate gestures did not come easily. ‘Let’s hope so. Happy New Year.’

  She leaned against his chest, feeling a rush of love for him. This had been her idea, she knew she’d never get him to slow down and make time for her, for them, unless there was a good financial reason. She hated to admit it, but unless there was a profit in something Andrew didn’t see any sense in being involved. Ever since she’d turned forty, her frustration at having never done anything on her own, to be someone, had grown till she was at a point where she felt she had ceased to exist. The children were at university and out of the nest, Andrew had become more involved with expanding the business and spent even less time at home or with her, and when he did he was tired and not interested in what she had to say. And Holly had realised she had little to say. She went to lunch with her friends, who always seemed to talk about the same things. And she had taken to going on her own to the movies during the day several times a week, and found herself telling the plots to Curly. She fretted about her looks, her stagnant marriage, her future. Then, leafing through a lifestyle magazine she’d come across an article about The Bay.