The Bay Read online

  ‘They really work?’ she asked, as if struggling for an opening line.

  The woman smiled. ‘Of course. It’s the only way to stay in business, particularly up here.’

  ‘You study botany at uni?’ Andrew asked, barely masking his scepticism.

  ‘Nope. But I’ve got a couple of friends clued up on all of that. As I mentioned, one’s a pharmacist and she’s brilliant at analysing what’s in some of the big name commercial products. Horrifying stuff really. And then there’s a mate who’s a botanist. Spends most of his time hunting around the forests here trying to find something new in the way of herbs and other plants. He reckons we are only just beginning to learn the value of plants for health and beauty. He’s been given a grant by the uni here.’

  ‘First steps in a long journey,’ commented Andrew as he sniffed a bottle of tea tree oil-based aftershave lotion.

  ‘Hey, you’re talking like a local,’ laughed the girl.

  Andrew grimaced. ‘The labelling isn’t very good,’ he said in a bid to regain the high ground.

  ‘Prefer to put the money into the contents,’ she responded a little sharply.

  Holly stepped in to the conversation. ‘I’ll take these, thanks,’ and handed over several jars and a bottle. ‘Are you at all the markets?’

  ‘Every Sunday, just like a churchgoer. I’ve moved back from Sydney and one day I’d like to open a shop, but for the time being it’s strictly only on Sunday.’ She reached into a bag. ‘Here’s my card. And a sheet you can fill in, personal details, and then I can make up things specially for your skin.’

  ‘Thanks a lot. I’ll give it some thought,’ said Holly glancing at the card. ‘Oh, that’s a lovely name – Amber. You said you’ve just come back, so I assume this is home.’

  The girl’s expression faded for a moment then she forced back the bright smile. ‘Yes. Born here, but had to go south to the big smoke just to see what it’s like; now I’m back for good. I’m working at it, damned hard. As you probably know, this area is at the cutting edge of holistic health and lifestyle changes. Not to mention all the other things that ruffle the conservative traditionalists.’ She grinned, giving Andrew a sideways glance. ‘This is the place to start a business that is grounded in a caring belief system.’

  ‘That’s nice to hear. Good luck, Amber, I’ll let you know how I find these,’ said Holly.

  ‘Please do,’ she said before turning to serve another customer.

  ‘Idealism of youth,’ said Andrew with a slight smirk. ‘She’d go broke in a proper shop in a month.’

  As they turned into the next avenue of stalls, Holly stopped and dug her elbow into Andrew’s ribs. ‘Look there.’

  At the end of the row a man was sitting in a polished wooden squatter’s chair under a fringed Indonesian paper umbrella, his legs slung over the arms, an embroidered footstool and coal shuttle beside him. Three card tables were covered with an assortment of crockery, ornaments and silverware. On an old Persian rug on the ground were piled lace doilies, crochet rugs and damask cloths, cushions and patchwork quilts. Several paintings and prints of old boats were stacked against one of the tables. A tall thin woman wearing a top made of what was once a brocade curtain over a silver and red Indian sari skirt was showing a couple a large silver teapot.

  Holly rushed forward. ‘Excuse me,’ she said and she tugged at the teapot. ‘I believe that came from Richmond House. It belongs to me.’ She turned to the suburban looking couple who were dressed in unflattering baggy shorts and golf shirts. ‘It’s not for sale, I’m sorry.’

  ‘Yes it is,’ protested the woman running the stall, whom Holly assumed must be Lynn.

  ‘There’s been a misunderstanding. We bought the house and everything in it. The estate agent had no right to let you have these things.’ Holly appealed to Andrew who had caught up with her. ‘Look, it’s everything from the house. Where’s the rest of it, the furniture?’ she demanded.

  The potential buyers edged away as the woman called to the man in the chair. ‘Stolle, get over here . . . we got a small problem.’

  He unfolded his lanky body with a nonchalant air. ‘What’s up?’

  Holly nudged Andrew who didn’t waste time with preliminaries. ‘You’re selling property that doesn’t belong to you. We purchased Richmond House and paid for the contents – we can produce an itemised inventory which includes all this,’ he lied easily.

  ‘We really want our things back, to keep all the original pieces in the old house,’ added Holly, trying to balance Andrew’s aggressiveness.

  ‘So buy them,’ Stolle said. ‘Everything is for sale.’

  ‘Would you rather we called the police to settle this?’ asked Andrew.

  ‘Be a big hassle for you, man. How you going to call them? No mobiles work out here, the boys are up dealing with a grader in a flooded creek anyway. And we have a bit of paper too, telling us we can clear the house.’

  Andrew glanced at Holly. He knew she was ready to pay for the lot.

  ‘Is there a problem?’ The woman at the next stall came over to them.

  Holly did a double take when she saw the older woman dressed all in purple, even down to purple ribbons threaded through her dyed red braids. But she had a friendly face.

  ‘Couldn’t help hearing. So you’ve bought old Richmond House . . . great home. Going to live in it?’

  ‘Keep your nose out, Mac,’ said Lynn without rancour.

  Mac was unoffended and continued, ‘Sounds to me like you both believe you have a case here. What’s the bottom line?’ She looked at Holly. ‘You want the gear, Stolle and Lynn want a donation, to save all the hassle, right?’ The woman eased herself into a position between the two couples and all eyes were on her as she gently took control.

  ‘Yeah, make us an offer for a job lot.’

  ‘But that’s not fair, or right,’ protested Holly.

  ‘What were you going to do with the money you cleared today, Stolle?’ asked Mac.

  He shrugged. ‘Have a good feed, and give Eddie a hand.’

  ‘Plus pay the market fee,’ added Lynn.

  ‘Fifteen bucks. Now, let’s ask this good lady and gentleman – by the way I’m Tilly MacDonald but everyone calls me Mac, and you are?’

  ‘Holly. Holly Jamieson. My husband Andrew.’

  ‘G’day. Lynn and Stolle.’ She waved a hand at the two stallholders. ‘Now, let’s ask you what you wanted from today?’

  ‘We came here to get our stuff back.’

  ‘How long you been living in The Bay?’

  ‘We just arrived, but I don’t see what that has to do –’

  ‘Ah, newcomers, rush, rush. As you are new arrivals, you’ll need to get to know the area, the ins and outs of the place, where to find people, things you’ll need. Maybe someone to give you a hand . . .’

  Holly and Andrew didn’t answer. They’d had this discussion in the car on the way to the markets, wondering how they’d find appropriate workers, for a start.

  The purple lady continued, ‘I would say it would be a small price to pay to have Lynn and Stolle – old, old hands in The Bay – become your mentors, so to speak. Stolle can fix anything, knows where to find anything and Lynn, she knows everyone and gives great massages. Now wouldn’t their expertise be of value to you?’

  ‘I’m not about to do business with people who flog stolen property,’ snapped Andrew.

  ‘Not stolen, given, in their minds,’ said Mac. ‘And I can vouch for them. Very handy people to know. They’ll save you months of mistakes, paying through the nose for the wrong stuff and the wrong people.’

  ‘And what do you do, Mac? Who are you?’ asked Holly turning to look at her stall, which seemed rather empty except for a few blue bottles, some oils, soaps and candleburners and a pile of coloured cards.

  ‘Like most people here, I do a bit of everything. I’m best known for reading the cards. Tarot,’ she added as Holly and Andrew looked blank.

  ‘Oh, great!’ Andrew threw back his
head, laughing. ‘What a reference.’

  ‘Take it or leave it, your loss,’ said Stolle.

  ‘I wouldn’t mind helping you guys out down at the old house. Bit of a mess, isn’t it?’ said Lynn. She gave Holly a big smile and Holly found herself smiling back. Her instinct – long dormant – told her this wildly dressed woman was a friend. She knew Andrew wouldn’t understand why she was suddenly prepared to trust her gut feelings, but she plunged in anyway. ‘Andrew, let’s do it. Trade off . . . buy the stuff and we get the services of Stolle and Lynn.’ She turned to Lynn with a smile. ‘We can work something out, can’t we?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Holly, you’re not taking this crystal ball gazer, whatever she calls herself . . . Mac, her word as a reference for these people?’

  Mac didn’t look the least insulted. ‘Tell you what, Mrs Holly. Come and sit down and let me do your cards, then you can decide if I’m genuine enough for you.’

  ‘Ooh, I don’t think I want my cards read. I don’t want to know if there’s any . . . bad news.’

  ‘It’s nothing like that. Sometimes one’s life follows a pattern. Knowing when you are falling into bad habits, or making an incautious decision might help you re-adjust your thinking. Understanding what has happened in your past can help with the present.’ She paused, then added, ‘Arriving at a new place can be a sensible time to clear your mind and know what to focus on, what not to waste energy on –’

  ‘Holly . . .’ Andrew sounded concerned.

  ‘No, Andrew. I’m going to do it. You work out the deal with Stolle and Lynn. Mac, how much do I owe you for this . . . reading?’

  ‘You decide. See if you feel I am helpful.’ She took Holly’s hand and led her to a chair opposite her table.

  ‘I’m going to get a coffee. I’ll be back,’ said Andrew to Stolle. ‘Don’t sell anything of ours.’

  ‘No worries, mate.’ Stolle settled back into the chair.

  Holding his coffee – in a china cup which he’d promised to return to the stall which only used crockery or recyclable cups – Andrew wandered along a row of stalls, pausing to rummage through old tools and second-hand books.

  ‘Looking for anything in particular?’ asked the man running the stall.

  ‘No, unless you have any books on architecture. I collect them.’

  ‘Got an interesting one on Gaudi’s work.’

  Andrew flicked through the glossy hardback. ‘How much?’

  ‘Let’s see, it’s a good quality coffee-table book, old edition, in good nick, sell for sixty bucks in Sydney. How about ten?’

  ‘Done,’ said Andrew, pleased at his buy.

  The man put the book in a bag, pocketed Andrew’s ten-dollar bill and smiled. ‘Nice to know it’s going to someone who appreciates it.’

  Andrew glanced at the other boxes of books, noticing that many of them were related to alternative lifestyles, from herbal medicine and natural therapies, to an incredible selection of spiritual texts, overwhelmingly on Eastern religions.

  The bookseller was dressed in what Andrew assessed as ‘normal’ clothes: jeans and a plain open-necked shirt. ‘You into this scene?’ he asked, then added quickly in explanation, ‘I mean into this therapy and spiritual business.’

  ‘Up here everyone is at some stage. Helping others or trying to save ourselves.’ The bookseller gave Andrew a gentle smile. There was no hint of cynicism or fanaticism in his manner. ‘This is a place people come to change their lives.’

  Andrew nodded awkwardly, picked up his coffee and moved away.

  In front of him a man had set up a tripod and was video-taping several buskers. One was a handsome tall Caribbean man singing a calypso as he tapped out a rhythm on the sliced-off top of a silver forty-four gallon drum. He was wearing red boxing boots, yellow satin shorts and a full-sleeved frilled shirt. The calypso song he was singing in his rich baritone voice seemed to be slinging off at the local council over some issue. Beside him a pretty teenager was mimicking a calypso rumba dancer. Her mother, an attractive woman, clapped her hands in time, singing out, ‘Yo, Matty.’ The small crowd laughed and applauded as the song came to an end, some throwing coins into the steel drum with a clatter.

  The man filming turned around with a grin and said, ‘Now what I need is to film that when he sings it in the next council meeting!’

  ‘Are you chronicling the local colour?’ asked Andrew.

  ‘In a way. I make documentaries,’ he said, taking the camera off its tripod.

  ‘What sort of documentary are you making here?’

  ‘There’s a bit of a stoush on over a whole lot of issues. This song is about a big supermarket chain trying to stop the markets.’

  ‘Doesn’t like the competition from the cash economy, eh?’

  ‘That and a whole range of issues – the region around The Bay is getting to crisis point. We need a vision for the future.’

  ‘I’ve heard that before –’ They were interrupted as the teenage girl came dancing up to the cameraman.

  ‘Hi, am I going to be on the news tonight?’

  ‘Sorry, sweets, this is for a little TV thing, don’t know where it will end up.’

  She looked crestfallen but the man with the camera reached into his back pocket. ‘Listen, if you want to come and have a look at it sometime, get your mum to ring me up. I’m Eddie. I live out at Spring Hill.’

  ‘We’re in The Bay, I’ll ask her. I’m Matty and my mum is Kimberley. See ya then.’

  ‘Cheers, kid.’ He picked up the camera and tucked his tripod under his arm. ‘I’d better see if there’s anything else around,’ he said to Andrew. ‘Interview one of the organic growers maybe. Enjoy your visit.’

  ‘I look like a tourist?’

  ‘It’s the vibes, man. You just don’t look at home,’ Eddie said and smiled.

  ‘It’s not my home. You’re right. Good luck with your film.’

  ‘Thanks.’ He wandered off but his comments about the area being at a turning point stuck with Andrew as he began to walk back towards Stolle and Lynn’s stall.

  After speaking to them Andrew looked across to Mac’s area. She was sitting across from a man at her table, dealing oversize coloured cards. Holly was nowhere to be seen, and Andrew wanted to go home. He headed for the car hoping she was waiting for him.

  Holly was doing the circuit of the stalls in a daze. All she could see were the medieval cards falling in slow motion onto the table. She was trying to remember everything that Mac had said. So many strange associations, so many things rang true – things she hadn’t fully acknowledged herself. She wished she’d taped it all . . . Mac spoke so quickly, so much information, so much to take in. She tried to distil the points that had made the biggest impact: that she was led here as an inevitability; she was following a path, Mac said, that was leading backwards. There would be some severance, some loss, possibly financial, but she would gain in other ways. New people would give her what she’d been lacking in her life. And when she asked Mac what that meant, the older woman had merely replied, ‘Look at your life.’

  As Mac had read the cards, she seemed to become a different person, one in a trance, as if she were drawing these things from somewhere else.

  What else was there . . . Oh yes, the hangman. That card had frightened Holly. But Mac had been calm. ‘Yes, there are factors working against you, but the noose need not strangle. It is up to you not to keep waiting as you have been.’

  ‘Waiting? For what?’

  ‘That is for you to discover. This card also represents sacrifice. You have sacrificed yourself to others. It is time for you to take control.’

  ‘I’ve never been one to take control, that’s Andrew’s role.’

  Mac had lifted her eyes from the cards and asked, ‘Why?’

  Holly had no answer. She tried to dismiss this. All she was doing was trying to establish a business for herself. For her family. To prove to them she was capable of doing something this ambitious.

  It
seemed Mac had read her thoughts. She tapped a card. ‘The Fool, the destiny card. This journey, the fact you are in this place is for a reason. There is unfinished business and only you can help. You have taken on a bigger task than you think. Continue to follow your instincts . . . that is what they’re for. To guide you, not your husband.’

  Holly glanced around and saw their car across the grass with Andrew standing by it, shading his eyes, searching the crowd for her. She headed towards him, pushing down feelings of guilt, knowing she couldn’t tell him anything of what had transpired, knowing he wouldn’t understand. And for the moment, nor did she. But strangely, she felt a small sense of triumph. There was a reason she was here. Eventually it would become clear.

  KIMBERLEY BOUGHT A LIME GELATO FROM THE ICEE STAND across from the Big Pub and trailed back to the row of beach shops with sarongs, Indian shirts and skirts festooned around their doorways. She leaned against a cocos palm and waited for Matty.

  Kimberley was tall, her tightly curled brown hair tumbled below her shoulders. She rarely wore make-up, favouring a sporty outdoors look. While she dressed casually she would have liked to own a few smart clothes similar to those she saw on city visitors strolling round The Bay, but money was tight. She had a deserted wife’s pension and a little in the joint bank account which her husband had left when he went to chase dreams in India.

  Occasionally he sent them money earned from casual teaching jobs he picked up, but mostly he mailed his wife and daughter embroidered tops and cushions from Rajasthan or miniature pictures painted on silk and canvas, or small brass ornaments. Matty loved them and Kimberley didn’t have the heart to tell him you could buy the same things at the Indian import shops in The Bay. Kimberley hated being dependent on the part-time job she had at the glass studio packing hand-blown glass creations to be shipped to stores around Australia and overseas. She’d watched the artisans at work over the searing fire deftly blowing and twirling the glass pipes to produce the distinctive, wildly coloured vases and ornaments that were a trademark of the local crafts people.