The Bay Page 2

  Not quite in Queensland, the subtropical paradise was on a peninsula with a sweeping protected bay, surrounded by lush rolling hills that rose gradually to become a steep volcanic range. Everyone had heard of The Bay – its beauty, its tranquillity, its laid-back, alternative population. It had been through many phases. When she mentioned it to Andrew he’d immediately summed it up: ‘Hippies, protestors, beach bums, backpackers. Not my idea of a holiday.’

  ‘I wasn’t thinking of a holiday. It’s becoming very trendy, not too yuppie like Noosa, but interesting. I’ve done some research on the Net and got some stats through the real estate agencies, the tourist boards, the newspapers –’

  ‘What on earth for?’ Andrew had cut in.

  Holly continued as if he hadn’t spoken. ‘I became interested in the history of The Bay and started reading about one of the original companies, the Richmond Whaling Company, which the district was named after. I was put in touch with an old fellow, a local historian, and he told me that one of the original homes was going on the market. There’d been a bit of a fuss as developers wanted to knock it down and put up apartments.’

  ‘That’s life these days.’

  ‘There speaks an architect,’ Holly said, and smiled gently. ‘Anyway, I rang Trudy James, the local real estate agent, and she filled me in on what had happened. So I said I’d buy it.’

  ‘You did what?’ His eyes were suddenly less glazed and he’d started to pay attention to what Holly was saying. She had a folder in her lap. This was most unusual.

  ‘The land and environment people have upheld the heritage value of the old home and it can’t be pulled down, so that’s put paid to the big developers wanting it. We talked quite a bit and I asked about restoration, which Trudy said few people would want to take on.’

  ‘That’d be right. Cost a fortune, never get your money back.’

  Holly took a breath and continued speaking, opening the folder and shuffling papers, avoiding Andrew’s eyes. ‘I had her send me some photos. I thought we could revamp the home into a guesthouse that kept the Richmond name alive, which is what the locals want. So I told Trudy we’d go up and have a look and make an offer.’

  Andrew had gasped at his wife, who had never made any decisions on her own in their entire marriage. ‘What the hell for? It’s a mad idea.’

  Patiently, Holly had run through the reasons why she thought the potential investment was good, the amount of money she would put in from her savings, that it would give her a sense of satisfaction to be in charge of something, and why it would be wonderful for the kids. It would give them a long-term investment and a place they could stay for summer holidays, bring their friends.

  Marcus, their 22-year-old son, was a keen surfer and Melanie, their twenty-year-old daughter, would appreciate the walks in the rainforest. She might even dabble in painting again. She was unsure what she planned to do with her fine arts degree when she graduated, perhaps spending holidays in The Bay would inspire her. And deep down Holly hoped that they could share more family time together, as a group of adults. Since her son and daughter had left home they’d all been leading very separate lives. Holly was the one who’d felt left out – until she’d found the old house in The Bay.

  She’d rushed on, ‘Andrew, I know you can’t put in a lot of time but you’ll be available to back me up. If they accept my offer, I think it could really be something special. I’ll need your advice, of course, but I don’t expect you to move there, just come up every other weekend or something. Here, look at the photos . . .’

  Andrew had ignored the pictures and stared at her. ‘Are you mad, Holly? You’re moving up there? And I’m expected to zip up and down over 700 ks a weekend to help you out of some crazy scheme. You know nothing about renovating, running a business. It’s sheer madness. Nice idea, honey, but, sheesh. . .’ He’d tried to laugh it off but was not prepared for Holly’s steely persistence.

  ‘I had the bank manager look at the deal. He thinks it’s a good idea. They’d give us a loan to lock it in place.’

  ‘You spoke to the bank? Of course they’re going to give you money. They know I’m around to bail you out.’

  ‘I’ll do the work, well, get the right people. At least come and see it.’

  When Andrew hadn’t been able to dampen this fire Holly was fanning, he agreed to fly up with her and look at the house, crazy as it sounded. But when he’d arrived at The Bay, he had been intrigued. It was as beautiful as he’d been told – by someone in Bangkok of all places, only a few months before. The setting was magical, the weather perfect, they stayed in an elegant unit across from the beach, ate a delicious seafood meal at one of the better restaurants, swam in crystal-clear water and made love like they hadn’t in years. A proposal that had been dangled in front of Andrew in Bangkok now assumed more interesting possibilities.

  Back in Sydney he’d rationalised that it had been a nice weekend, they’d flown up with no hassle, rented a car to explore the environs and hinterland and, yes, the old house had potential – if one wanted to get into the nightmare of starting a business from scratch. Gradually, the idea of being a bachelor a couple of weeks a month began to appeal, especially when he worked out that he could play golf on weekends and tennis two nights a week. Things he’d let go because Holly didn’t play and he was always too tired. Andrew decided to get fit again.

  So here they were, sitting at a scenic lookout above The Bay at the start of a new year which was going to bring many changes. Where would they be twelve months from now? he wondered.

  Holly was having similar thoughts. She patted the dog and gave her a slice of salmon then topped up their glasses. ‘Here’s to the best New Year ever.’

  Andrew clinked glasses and leaned over and kissed her lightly. ‘Here’s to you, Holly. And to your big venture.’

  ‘Our adventure, you mean. I think it’s going to be the most important thing we’ve done, Andy . . . apart from having the kids of course.’

  ‘This might turn out to be far more expensive than putting Marcus and Melanie through university,’ he joked. But Holly didn’t look amused, the worry about what she’d undertaken had descended. ‘Hey, come on, don’t fret. You know I’ll rescue you if it falls in a heap.’

  ‘It’s not going to fall over,’ she said crossly.

  Andrew let it go. ‘What are you going to call it?’

  Holly’s face cleared and she took a sip of champagne. ‘I’m going to keep the old name, Richmond House, that was part of the deal – after the whaling company. There’s a remnant of rainforest at the back of the property where a special butterfly still breeds because of the trees and vines. I thought I’d use the butterfly as my logo.’

  ‘Sounds like you’ve thought a lot about all this,’ he said quietly.

  ‘I have, Andrew. You might be surprised. I’m going to make this work.’

  She lifted her chin and he was struck by her almost youthful determination. In the soft light she looked a very young woman. How different would their lives have been if Holly had been this strong minded and independent in the early days of their marriage? He raised his glass and downed it. ‘I think I believe you.’

  They both looked at the dog, one of the few things they had in common these days.

  Curly glanced from one to the other and gave a hopeful wag of her tail, her eyes seeming to say, ‘Tell me we’re not getting back in that car.’

  Andrew read the signal and laughed. ‘Nearly there, old girl. You’re going to like it up here anyway – a whole beach on your doorstep. Scruffy real dogs to play with. None of those poncy clipped and pouffed-up poodlely things like in the old neighbourhood.’

  Holly smiled at her dog. Lazy and fat Curly may be, but when Andrew went back to Sydney she’d feel safer having a dog around. Thinking over Andrew’s comment she said, ‘I wonder if the neighbours are going to be scruffy real people too.’

  ‘You chose The Bay knowing some weird people live there. Attracting up-market visitors to Richmond House
might be a challenge.’

  Holly began gathering their picnic things together. ‘Andrew, I don’t want to hear negatives now. We’re here, we’ve made the commitment. It’s up to me to make it work.’

  Andrew stared at his wife. Why was she suddenly seeing herself as a businesswoman, a proprietor of an elegant, successful beach B & B? He shrugged. He had his own reasons for agreeing to this mad scheme. It would be a tax loss and keep Holly occupied and far from Sydney, which suited him just fine.

  The sunrise was filtered by fingers of milky cloud, like a coy young woman peeping through her hands, half masking her face. The quiet sea was streaked with splashes of pale gold sunlight. Nola Florens glanced down at her matching gold chiffon caftan, now wet and sandy and clinging to her legs. Sitting in a golden sea in a golden dress, she mused, rather pleased with the image. Then she stretched her arm and the light caught the gold bracelets and gold rings. She raised a crystal champagne glass to toast the dawn of the New Year. It was empty.

  She waved it behind her head and heard the clink as the bottle was lifted from the ice bucket by the boy.

  Andre had been nodding off at the picnic table near the sand. It had been a long night. By now he was utterly bored with the antics of Miss Florens, who was capping off the partying with what she cheerfully described as a ‘sit-in with Mother Nature, darling’. It involved enjoying the caressing wash of the incoming tide while sipping a fine French champagne.

  As he walked barefoot in his tuxedo to refill the glass, pants carefully rolled above his ankles, he studied the sea. Might be worth a surf later in the day. A few breaks getting up. How much longer was he on call for? he wondered. Not that he really cared, he was being paid by the hour. Easiest money he’d ever made – after he’d paid for the hire of the penguin suit. He’d driven Nola Florens to a few of the parties given by out-of-towners, posh people from Sydney and Melbourne, and followed her around topping up her glass from her own vintage champagne. He’d then driven her back in her Daimler at dawn to her penthouse overlooking Mighty Beach, thinking that was it. But no, she wanted to ‘soak up the sunrise’. He hoped none of his surfing mates would see him in this gear playing flunky to The Bay’s rich and reclusive Nola Florens. She made curtains or something. What a waste of money. He silently poured the pale gold liquid into the glass and retreated to his seat under the pandanus palms to daydream about how he’d spend such a fortune as this woman possessed.

  Nola Florens took a sip and raised her glass to the sun.

  It was a cruel light that showed the relentless march of time. But this woman in her seventies looked remarkably youthful. Surgery, money, careful living or all three had preserved her well. Her lips carried the remains of bright lipstick, which had been applied with a shaking hand, and like a child’s casually coloured picture, it had gone ‘outside the lines’. This was not the result of the champagne but arthritic hands.

  It had surprised the social world when Nola Florens had retired to this remote coastal town where she knew no one. She had created a business and an image for herself, not only in Australia but overseas as well, and she had ruled the social scene in Sydney for many years. Yet no one suspected that behind the glamorous queen of design there was a lonely and sometimes frightened woman.

  But all that had changed when she moved to The Bay – its lifestyle, the gentle landscape, the live and let live attitude of the locals. She had a good feeling about this year. Ly the clairvoyant had told her she wouldn’t be on her own. Good friends were coming her way. Nola smiled as another little wave slapped over her feet.

  The lights of the Holden station wagon wavered over the dirt road in a valley behind The Bay. The beam was watery in the pearly dawn. The man behind the wheel nodded for a moment, swiftly caught himself and reached for the can of beer between his legs. But his concentration had gone and the car took over, trundling across the road. And while he wasn’t driving more than 50 ks, Eddie was unprepared for the rather graceful nosedive the car took off the dirt and into a shallow canal.

  There was a choking kind of protest from the engine, as the car settled in the mud. Eddie looked down, amazed he was wearing his seatbelt; definitely must be running on auto. He had no recollection of buckling up. Too often he didn’t bother with his seatbelt as he cruised through the back roads around the banana and sugarcane plantations. He turned off the ignition and groped for the can of beer that was now somewhere on the floor of the tilted car. He had trouble opening the door, so wound down the window and thrust his legs through it, congratulating himself on his great foresight in driving an old manual. He would never have got out this easily in a modern car with electronic windows.

  Actually this was all he could afford. A documentary filmmaker didn’t make a fortune trying to raise awareness of the plight of refugees or Aboriginal reconciliation, especially when he lived away from the mainstream. Eddie was also broke because his ex-wife had emptied their savings account and wiped him out with alimony and child maintenance. The demands for money for Alice’s singing and ballet lessons, horse riding and school skiing trips – for God’s sake at ten years old – had run over him in an avalanche of incomprehensible paper. And while he adored Alice and had regarded her as his own for the past seven years, the fact was, she wasn’t his child. She was part of the package – or should it be ‘baggage’ – that he’d acquired when he’d impulsively married Laura.

  Laughing-eyed Laura, who’d swung into his life in Melbourne, motivating and pushing him to give up the photographic studio and get out there and make films as he really wanted to do. She’d pushed him to fill in forms, hassle for funding, persuade a corporate bigwig to back his first project. And it had paid off. He’d won awards, had lots of pats on the back, the documentary was screened on public television and it felt great. Except he hadn’t made a red cent. He was offered a job with one of the networks to work with their investigative affairs unit – regular pay, travel, interesting work. Laura, however, who’d only ever dabbled at jobs, was convinced one day he’d go to Hollywood. He’d told her that was the last thing he wanted, but Laura only seemed to hear what spun around in her own pretty – he didn’t say ‘empty’ – head. She had sulked, withheld herself and looked so hurt that Eddie asked her to marry him. She said yes, but knocked the job on the head. He’d be selling out, he was just starting to follow his dream, she didn’t want to live in the suburbs.

  It had been her idea to move to The Bay . . . creative atmosphere, cheaper living, healthy lifestyle, Alice could go to the Steiner school, they could set up their own mini production company. Eddie had been reluctant, but gave in when Laura had pointed out that here he was, yet again, staying in his comfort zone, afraid to take a gamble. Where was his faith in his abilities, his vision? He could give her no coherent argument that sounded strong enough, and when they drove up and Laura took him to the hills and showed him the farm she’d seen advertised in The Beacon Bugle, he’d had even less reason to protest. She had it all worked out. The property was big enough for Alice to have a horse, they could turn the barn into a studio for him, grow their own vegetables, even revive the neglected avocado plantation. Laura could take a course in ceramics, or spinning – something rustic and rural. What she’d always wanted.

  Eddie had gazed in amazement at his trendy urban wife. It seemed a big jump from caffe lattes with her girlfriends in South Yarra to the green tea and brown rice set scattered in the hills above The Bay.

  Laura had insisted on handling the paperwork of the purchase in case Eddie got cold feet. It was only later they discovered that the creek had been diverted and they’d lost access to ‘natural spring water on the property’. Other nightmares emerged over the following eighteen months.

  Two years later Laura was ‘sick and tired of being stuck in never-never land’. She wanted out – of the hills and the marriage. She was bored, he hadn’t made a successful film again and she had lost patience with the endless waiting involved in getting a film up. So Laura and Alice had moved down to the
beach. She’d found a small unit, Alice went to the public school and took surfing lessons instead of horse riding. Occasionally Eddie brought her back to see her pony at the farm, but Alice announced she didn’t like horse riding any more.

  Far from getting into a small business as she’d planned, Laura drifted around The Bay, having vegetarian lunches with friends – a bunch of women who all seemed to Eddie to be on the dole or living on their ex-husbands’ money. They spent hours prattling over where they were going in life while never moving from the cafe. Or else she talked of ‘finding herself’ by taking courses in healing, weird health practices or spiritual enrichment.

  Eddie sank to his knees in squelchy water and gazed at the wall of green sugarcane on both sides of the road. He got back onto the verge, sat down and reached for a joint in the old tobacco tin in his shirt pocket. Inhaling deeply, he decided this was not an auspicious start to the New Year. Then he reconsidered. No, this was possibly a very good start to the year. He wasn’t dead. He thought back over the evening. Who was the girl he’d been kissing in the laundry up against the washing machine? Did she ever tell him her name? Doesn’t matter, he probably wouldn’t recognise her if he saw her again anyway. Nose ring, green hair with feathers in it. Nothing unusual. He wondered how Laura had spent the evening. He’d collected Alice from school a few weeks back and she’d said that her mother had some nice smart friends visiting from Melbourne to ‘play with’. She’d taken Alice shopping for new clothes.

  Eddie was feeling quite calm now. He knew everyone who lived along this road. Since Laura had moved out he’d become even better friends with the neighbours. They had adopted him and took turns sending over home-grown food and home-made jams and pickles. Eddie figured somebody would come by eventually. He curled up on the damp grass, pillowed his head on his arms and began to drift off to sleep. A last thought came to him – snakes; the cane fields were full of them. Then he recalled they wouldn’t come out till the sun warmed up; late morning. Hours away, it was just past dawn. He dozed off.