The Lost Summers of Driftwood Page 6

  Phoebe pressed her hand over her mouth. She didn’t know how to tell Wendy that it was her sister, and she didn’t have the strength to lie. A sob began to build at the back of her throat.

  Wendy’s face flickered with emotion—confusion first, then wide-eyed understanding, then horror.

  ‘Oh, oh, Phoebe, I’m so sorry. You knew her.’ Wendy took her glasses off and pinched the top of her nose as tears sprang to her eyes. She reached out to touch Phoebe’s arm. ‘Oh, I should have thought. I’m so sorry.’

  Phoebe couldn’t help it. She hadn’t let herself cry properly since being here, or since what had happened with Nathaniel. She’d been in shock, on emotional autopilot, just hoping that with careful steering she might not crash to earth. Her chest was heaving but the sound coming out of her seemed to belong to someone else.

  Wendy left and reappeared with a box of tissues, her brows drawn together.

  Phoebe took some and wiped her eyes. ‘Sorry.’ She shook her head, appalled at her outburst to a near stranger.

  ‘No, no.’ Wendy touched her arm again. ‘It’s me who should be sorry. Was she a friend?’

  Phoebe balled the tissues in her hands. ‘Sister. My sister. Her name was Karin.’

  Wendy’s face fell and her hand went to her mouth. She was silent for a beat and when she spoke her voice was a whisper. ‘Oh, no. Your poor family. It must be so hard.’

  ‘We just . . . our family isn’t good at talking about these kinds of things.’

  ‘I should have put two and two together, given you and Jez being childhood . . .’ She paused. ‘Friends. He just never mentioned.’

  ‘It’s not an easy thing to talk about.’

  ‘No. No, it’s still a bit of a taboo, isn’t it? Very hard to understand, I imagine.’ She rubbed her chin. ‘Oh, I’m so sorry.’

  Phoebe took a deep, rattly breath. ‘That’s exactly how it is. Impossible to understand.’

  ‘Well, no one could believe it. Like I said, people in the street knew and loved her, from what I could gather.’

  Phoebe smiled. She felt happy that Karin had had some friends down here. She had never been the kind of person who needed lots of friends, she was too independent. She liked people but didn’t feel the need to possess them. She’d rarely talked about her neighbours but Phoebe knew it was the kind of small community that looked out for each other. They would have been shocked by her death.

  ‘She owned a florist shop, in the Bay,’ said Phoebe. ‘So people went to her for everything—births, deaths, parties, funerals. I remember she told this story of accidentally getting flowers for a baby shower party mixed up with the flowers for an old man’s funeral. But nobody seemed to notice. She thought that was very poignant.’

  Wendy smiled. ‘She sounds wonderful.’

  ‘She was.’ Phoebe looked out at the river. The water had taken on the quality of mercury, shifting and oily, reflecting a leaden sky. ‘I don’t really want to leave,’ she said, surprised at the force of her own emotion.

  ‘Of course you don’t.’

  ‘It’s more than Karin. I’ve just broken up with my fiancé. Well, he was meant to be my fiancé. We didn’t get that far.’ She laughed, as though her life were a joke.

  ‘I hope you don’t mind me saying this, but it sounds like maybe you might need a little more time before you head back to Sydney.’

  Phoebe hugged her arms; the breeze had picked up, whisking the clouds into a frenzy. A storm was coming. She wasn’t sure how much she should confide in Wendy but she said it anyway. ‘It’s just, after last night, I feel like maybe I shouldn’t stay here.’

  Wendy took her glasses off and cleaned them with a tissue before putting them back on and fixing her with a knowing gaze. ‘You mean Jez. And Asha.’

  Phoebe nodded, feeling terrible, but relieved to talk about it.

  Wendy sighed. ‘They’ve got their own story. I’m not sure it’s my place to tell you but . . .’ Wendy looked towards the river as though deciding whether to go on. ‘Jez confides in me a lot and . . . you know, they’ve had it pretty tough. Years of trying for a baby and losing some pregnancies. They were doing IVF in Canberra. It’s all Asha has ever wanted, but it just isn’t happening for them. The difficulty they’re having is because . . .’ She paused. ‘Let’s just say their inability to have children has created a lot of tension in their relationship. Their struggle seems to have forced them apart rather than bringing them together sadly. And now, I’m not sure a baby is going to be the thing to patch things up, even though they seem to believe it will. I’d love for them to have another chance, though Asha is back to smoking cigarettes at the moment, so I don’t know where that leaves them.’

  Phoebe felt a mix of emotions: sadness for Jez, and relief that she wasn’t the cause of the unhappiness she could sense in Asha.

  Wendy took Phoebe’s hand in hers and patted it. ‘Such young hands. So lucky.’ She smiled. ‘So, what I’m saying is that it’s much bigger than Jez’s childhood sweetheart coming to town. I think you need some time here, by the river, surrounded by your sister’s memories. Jez and Asha have been through a lot but that’s their story, not yours. Right now, I think you’ve got to look after yourself.’

  Deep down, Phoebe knew that a childhood sweetheart turning up when your marriage was rocky wasn’t the best scenario. But as she rolled the cool jar of homemade jam in her palms and promised to try it on the freshly baked scones wrapped lovingly in foil, Wendy’s logic seemed practical. Rain had rolled across the river by the time she waved Wendy goodbye, promising her she wouldn’t drive home in the storm.

  CHAPTER 7

  The days passed without clocks. Phoebe luxuriated in the quiet still indifference of the trees, the slow crawl of the river. A gentle routine emerged. She would walk to the village each morning for Ross’s coffee, check her messages at the top of the hill, and then return to throw in a line off the end of the jetty. She caught and threw back small fish, watching the quicksilver flick of their tails as they disappeared into the reeds.

  She felt completely alone, and loved it. The only sign of life was the passing boats and the occasional bark from the dog next door. Karin had told her that an old lady named Ginny lived there. The dog was a guide dog because Ginny was blind. Karin had visited her sometimes. Phoebe felt guilty for not going next door and introducing herself, but she couldn’t seem to rouse herself from this self-imposed hibernation.

  She had texted Camilla and her mother, telling them where she was and not to worry, and informed her boss she would be out of range for the rest of her holiday. Their answers were full of more questions but Phoebe ignored them and switched off her phone. She didn’t reply to Nathaniel.

  She slept deeply at night, ensconced on the sofa under an open window, the breeze caressing her skin, the sound of the night close. She woke now to a scratching on the tin roof. Her heart was beating fast as she sat up and tuned her senses in the dark. Crickets and the soft rush of the river, nothing more. It was probably a possum. She looked out at the river and thought she saw a rowboat through the dark trees, drifting downstream. She shivered. This was the feeling Wendy had talked about: the silence like a blanket, a kind of thick, quiet desolation. She wrapped a jumper around her shoulders and went to open the sliding door. There was a nip to the air and Phoebe smelled smoke on the wind. She eyed the potbelly stove in the corner of the deck, longing to feel that warmth on her skin and see the comforting dance of firelight. She remembered how they used to toast marshmallows over that stove and wrap sticky damper around big sticks, licking the honey that dripped and ran down to their elbows. She opened the little metal door to find kindling already set up.

  She went inside and flicked on the light in the kitchen, blinking as her eyes adjusted, and searched for matches in the drawers and cupboards. She padded down the hall to the main bedroom—Karin’s room. The moon cast a square of light through the bare window. Phoebe hadn’t been in here yet. She wasn’t sure why, but it felt disrespectful, like sh
e was invading her sister’s personal space. She switched on the light and hesitated at the door. It was a beautiful room, sparse and simple. The bed was covered with the same white and silver beaded throw as the sofa. Karin had painted the walls white and pulled up the carpet to reveal floorboards. An Art Deco lamp sat on an antique bedside table. Phoebe sat down on the bed. She felt like a voyeur as she opened the drawer but she was also curious. There were hairbands, two notepads and some receipts. She picked up a band; there was a single strand of black hair wrapped around it. Her heart squeezed and she pulled the hairband over her wrist. The notepads were pretty, the kind bought from a gift shop at an art gallery, but they were empty.

  She opened the drawer fully, searching right at the back, and pulled out a plastic ziplock bag with two small neat joints and a tiny lighter inside. Phoebe sat back on her haunches, shocked. She shook the bag as though to make sure they were real. So, Karin had smoked marijuana. Phoebe supposed it wasn’t that strange, but she just couldn’t picture the lover of flowers and granny chic having a habit, a dealer. She shook her head. Just because Karin had two joints at the back of her drawer unsmoked didn’t mean she had a habit.

  When the fire had taken and her hands were warm, Phoebe sat at the table, and took a joint between her fingers, breathing in the faint, herby smell. She had no idea what the effects of stale drugs might be. She lit the tip and inhaled, coughing when the smoke hit her lungs. She tried again, coughing again. Phoebe considered herself, right at this moment. The girl smoking a joint in the middle of the bush with bare feet, mozzie bites and fingertips that smelled of fish, bore no resemblance to the person she thought she was. How funny it was that she presumed to know everything about her sister.

  The crunch of gravel down the side of the house pinged through her body like an alarm. A stick snapped underfoot. Phoebe sat up, listening, all the hairs on her arms lifting. She picked up a gumboot by the doormat and held it over her shoulder, calculating how long it would take to run to Wendy’s house or Driftwood.

  ‘Hello?’

  The voice came from behind and she swung around, letting the gumboot fly. It missed Jez’s head by a matter of inches.

  ‘Oh my God, you scared me.’

  He held up his hands. ‘Sorry. I was knocking on the front door but you didn’t answer.’

  ‘That may be because it’s the middle of the night.’ She laughed nervously.

  ‘That doesn’t seem to have stopped you from having a little party out here,’ he said, glancing at the joint burning softly on the table.

  ‘I’m sorry, but, why are you here?’ She looked at him properly as he moved into the light. He was wearing spotty boxer shorts with a hoodie and a pair of beat-up Ugg boots. A wave of fond memories hit her. All those times they’d snuck into each other’s bedrooms in the middle of the night.

  Jez rubbed his head. ‘Sorry, you’re probably wondering why I’m knocking on your door at this hour.’

  ‘Something like that.’

  He gestured towards the river. ‘Looks like someone’s stolen our dinghy, and I think they’ve taken yours as well.’

  ‘Really?’ A chill ran down her spine despite the fire’s warmth. ‘That’s weird. Something woke me up—it was a possum or something—and then I looked out at the river and thought I saw a dinghy floating past. I’m not sure.’

  ‘Yep. Sounds like that was probably them. I just wanted to check in. It’s a bit freaky to have people like that around. It’s usually so safe round here. And I know you’re on your own.’

  Phoebe hugged her jumper closer around her shoulders. ‘I wonder how many they stole. Does Wendy have a boat at her place?’

  ‘Nah, don’t think so.’

  ‘Let me get my thongs, hang on.’

  They walked down to the jetty, the light from Jez’s torch criss-crossing the grass, to find the slip empty.

  ‘Yep. Bastards,’ he said, picking up the rope. ‘Cut it. No one bothers to lock anything up because nothing like this has ever happened before. River’s getting busier.’

  ‘Wow. I mean, the boat wasn’t worth much but it’s just the idea that someone would do that. Can you imagine this ever happening when we were kids?’

  ‘No way. Things were simpler back then.’

  They stood on the jetty looking out at the dark river. She wondered what Asha had thought of Jez leaving to check on her during the night. ‘It’s so dark. It takes some getting used to, the complete blackness.’

  ‘Yeah. You don’t get it in the city. Not like this.’ He paused. ‘Are you sure you’re going to be okay here?’

  She shivered. What was she going to say? It’s not like she could stay at Driftwood forever, although she wished she could. Some houses seemed to hold something special within their walls, something that didn’t diminish, even with the passing of time. There was an energy about Driftwood that made people feel welcome. Perhaps it had come from Pauline. Phoebe would always remember Jez’s mother as one of the warmest, most hospitable people, so she wasn’t at all surprised that so many people lived there now. The house was made for it and it’s what Pauline would have wanted.

  ‘It’s okay,’ Phoebe said finally. ‘I think that’s why I lit a fire. There’s something strangely comforting about real flames.’

  There was a pause before Jez spoke. She watched his face, the straight nose, the strong cheekbones: a silhouette against the moonlight coming off the river.

  ‘I was really surprised you came back here . . . on your own,’ he said.

  She laughed darkly. ‘I didn’t have much choice in that matter.’ She crossed her arms in front of her. ‘Big break-up. I needed to get away from Sydney for a bit. Let’s just say it was a spur-of-the-moment decision.’

  ‘Sorry . . . about the break-up.’

  ‘Yeah, relationships, huh,’ she said and they both chuckled knowingly. Phoebe had missed so much of his life. His loves, his hurts. Standing here it seemed impossible that they had been apart so long. He was different, she could see that—he’d filled out; there was a certain consideration to his speech and actions that had come with age—but there was also something that was the same. Something about the two of them, some energy that felt exactly as it always had.

  His foot scuffed the wood on the jetty and he shifted his weight a little awkwardly, as though he could feel it, too. Phoebe turned back towards the house. The glow coming from the deck indicated the fire was still alight. She knew she should say goodnight but she didn’t want him to go.

  ‘Do you want a cup of tea?’ The material around her shoulders felt flimsy now against the breeze off the water. ‘We can’t really do anything about the boats until morning, can we?’

  ‘Not really,’ he said. ‘A cup of tea? I thought you were going to ask me if I wanted a joint.’

  She laughed and led the way up towards the cottage, keenly aware of his body behind her in the dark. ‘They’re not mine. They’re Karin’s.’ It felt strange to say her name out loud. ‘I practically coughed up a lung when I inhaled.’

  ‘I would never have picked Karin as a pot head.’

  ‘Exactly what I thought.’

  They both fell silent as they reached the deck and into that silence came the awful reminder of what Karin had done. She expected Jez to ask something, talk about it, but instead he picked up the joint and studied it. ‘I’m not a pot smoker. Asha smokes cigarettes but it’s a bit of a . . . bone of contention.’

  Phoebe busied herself with checking the fire, which had smouldered to a low burn. She didn’t know how to reply. She knew the comment was weighted with implications that went way beyond a smoking habit.

  She threw another log on the fire, the damp making it crackle and hiss. ‘So, no joint for you.’ She stood. ‘Tea, then?’

  Jez nodded and followed her into the house, chin lowered, eyes downcast. He leaned against the dining table while she filled the kettle. ‘It’s so strange seeing you after all this time. It’s like everything has changed and nothing has. I can still re
member this tablecloth.’

  The tablecloth. She couldn’t bring herself to move it but she couldn’t look at it or eat on it, either. She assumed Camilla must have washed it when she’d been down, but all Phoebe could see was Karin’s dying flowers. She shook the thought from her head before it took hold. ‘It belonged to my grandparents. Karin kept all their lace. She was big on lace—tablecloths and curtains and doilies.’

  Phoebe busied herself with making the tea to avoid the intensity of Jez’s gaze behind her.

  She carried the mugs onto the deck. The night had softened, the breeze easing. Jez crouched to check the fire, then sat down at the table with her. There was such an ease about the way he inhabited his body. She’d forgotten how attractive it was.

  ‘You remembered how I like my tea,’ he said, smiling. ‘Very milky.’

  ‘With two sugars. And still a flat white for takeaway coffee?’

  He nodded. ‘Impressive. And you are . . .’ He scrunched his face up, trying to remember. ‘A latte. You used to drink soy in your coffee. Do you still drink that shit?’

  She laughed. ‘Worse. Almond milk. Or black.’

  ‘Oh God. You were always way too sophisticated for me.’

  ‘Oh come on, you’ve forgotten all those times we went camping and fishing and rode dirt bikes.’ She nudged his leg under the table playfully. ‘I was a little tom boy.’

  ‘We had some good times on this river Phoebs, didn’t we?’

  She hadn’t heard him call her that in so many years. The softness in his voice transported her back. Their bodies always so close, their skin coated in river salt.

  ‘Life felt so easy back then Jez, didn’t it? Was it just childhood that made it simple or . . .’ Or was it us? she thought.

  ‘I wonder if our names are still carved under the jetty?’

  ‘Did we do that?’

  ‘Don’t you remember?’

  She shrugged. Of course she remembered. J loves P using a pocket knife stolen from Tommy.

  ‘Do you still do that weird thing where you plait your hair when you’re thinking?’ Jez asked.