Читать книгу The Reunion Of A Lifetime - Fiona Lowe - Страница 10

CHAPTER ONE

‘IT’S RED DAY.’

‘Red day?’ Dr Lauren Fuller’s hand paused in mid-twist on the yellow lid of a jar of Vegemite. She was minding Shaylee—her parents’ current foster-daughter—while Sue and Ian were up in Melbourne, celebrating their thirty-third wedding anniversary.

‘For reading,’ Shaylee explained. ‘We wrote a real letter with a stamp and everything. Today we’re walking to a big red letterbox. Mrs Kikos says it’s really old.’

Lauren knew the postbox. It dated back to 1890, when Horseshoe Bay had been a popular holiday destination and people sent postcards to tease the folks at home. Now everyone just texted. ‘That sounds like fun.’

She grabbed the toast as it popped up and swung back towards the table, dodging Cadbury, her parents’ aging chocolate Labrador, who had decided he needed to lie right at her feet. After dropping the toast on a plate, she pulled the scrambled eggs off the heat seconds before they boiled. Breakfast at her own house was a much less hectic affair, consisting of fruit and yoghurt, and, if the planets aligned, a quiet online read of the paper.

The eight-year-old girl’s gaze suddenly dropped past her new green and white checked school dress—her pride and joy—before resting on her bare feet. Shaylee mumbled something else about red.

Lauren scooped the eggs out of the pan and dumped them over the toast she’d spread with Vegemite. Her mother had been insistent that Shaylee eat a high-protein breakfast before school to help her with her concentration. Lauren knew that wasn’t the sole purpose; it was as much about warmth, love and a full stomach as it was about concentration. Shaylee had spent far too many years going hungry when her drug-affected mother’s suppressed appetite and muddled brain hadn’t considered food a necessity. ‘Sit up and eat your brekkie and tell me what you just said.’

Shaylee eyed Lauren carefully as she climbed up onto the breakfast stool. ‘Doesn’t matter.’

‘Of course it matters,’ Lauren said with a smile. She’d grown up with a parade of foster-children coming and going in the house and, as hard as that was at times to cope with, if she’d learned one thing, it was that the muttered asides usually contained the most important information.

Shaylee shovelled eggs into her mouth and Lauren waited. The moment the girl swallowed, Lauren said, ‘Hit me with it.’

‘We have to wear red,’ Shaylee said quietly, her head down. ‘But it’s okay. I love my uniform.’

Lauren’s heart rolled over. This little girl had endured so many disappointments in her short life that she automatically prepared for them now. It was odd that Lauren’s mother hadn’t made a costume for her before she’d left for Melbourne—Sue was huge on things like this. Surely the school had sent home a note about it? But that was something to sort out later. Right now, she had...she glanced at the clock and tried not to groan...half an hour to create a red costume before dropping Shaylee off at school and getting to the clinic on time. ‘You eat your eggs and I’ll go and see what I can find that’s red.’

Her first stop was the bathroom. At the back of the cupboard she found four cans of coloured hair spray, all of dubious age. She picked up the red one and shook it. It sounded hopeful, although she hoped it was fire-engine-red or it wouldn’t show up on Shaylee’s glossy black hair. Her second stop was the floor-to-ceiling cupboards in the playroom-cum-teenage retreat. Dragging an old hospital linen bag along the polished floorboards, she walked back into the kitchen just as Shaylee finished her last mouthful.

‘What’s that?’ the little girl asked, clearly intrigued.

‘Sue’s special bag of tricks.’ Lauren pulled open the drawstring and started pitching out items—a pink feather boa, a black ushanka fur hat with a red badge, a green fez, an old handbag, a royal-blue waistcoat... As she added more items to the pile, Lauren found herself silently chanting ‘Come on, red,’ like a roulette player.

Meanwhile, Shaylee was twirling around the kitchen, wearing the Russian hat and a stethoscope. ‘Look, I’m a doctor just like you.’

Lauren glanced at the bright red instrument in surprise. It must have been tangled up in some clothing, because she hadn’t seen it come out of the bag. If anyone had asked her about that piece of medical equipment, she would have said she’d binned it at the end of her first year of uni after replacing it with a utilitarian black stethoscope. Apparently not. It appeared she had abandoned it here and her mother, ever a magpie when it came to the bag of tricks, must have kept it for dress-ups. Lauren had deliberately not thought about the red stethoscope in years.

Twelve years.

Shut up! How do you even know that?

It was too long ago and far too much had happened in her life for her subconscious to instantly calculate the number. Especially as the day she’d bought the replacement black stethoscope had been the day she’d moved on from Charlie Ainsworth. At least that was what she always told herself on the infrequent occasions something made her think back to that heady summer a lifetime ago.

‘Stethoscopes are like wands,’ Charlie had said, slinging a red one around her neck and pulling her towards him before kissing her.

She’d gazed up at him, loving his kind and handsome face. ‘They’re magic?’

‘I wish,’ he’d said in a resigned tone, ‘but no. They do, however, reflect personality and you, Lauren Fuller, are the antithesis of boring old black. This one is bright and vivacious, just like you. This is the one.’

Lauren felt herself grimace at the now tarnished memory and immediately noticed Shaylee’s smile fade. Damn. She banished the mothballed memory back where it belonged and forced a smile as she kept rummaging in the bag. ‘The stethoscope looks great on you and, ta-dah!’ With relief, she shook out a red sequined cape. ‘You can be Super Shaylee.’

‘Yay!’ Shaylee clapped her hands as a look of wonder crossed her face. ‘I’m gonna be dressed in red like the other kids.’

Lauren blinked back tears. Why was it always the simple things that undid her? ‘You’ll be totally red, especially when I’ve sprayed your hair.’

* * *

After dropping a very excited Shaylee off at school, Lauren drove to the café nestled under the Norfolk pines on the sweet curve of Horseshoe Bay. Her usual morning routine was a run along the beach and on Tuesdays and Thursdays she added in a yoga class, but the one constant was coffee. This morning it was just coffee.

‘You missed a spectacular sunrise.’ Ben, the barista and café manager, greeted her with his trademark grin.

And I missed you. Sun-bleached hair and with a surfer’s tan, Ben had moved to the Bay three months ago to run the café. Most mornings as she finished her run, he was walking up the beach with his board tucked under his arm and they always fell into easy conversation. Everything about Ben was easy. This was a new experience for Lauren, because the two men she’d thought she’d loved had turned out to be anything but easy. But that was all in the past and not worth revisiting.

As far as Lauren was concerned, she’d wiped clean her slate of disastrous relationships when she’d returned to Horseshoe Bay two years ago. Determined to learn from her twenties, she was older, wiser and ready to live life on her own terms. The last year had been frantic, most of it spent breathing new life into a busy medical practice that had let the twenty-first century pass it by. Now, with her newly minted decree absolute declaring her officially divorced from Jeremy and with her heart encased in a protective layer of reinforced Perspex—visible but crack-proof—Lauren was finally ready for an easy, straightforward and uncomplicated man.

Truth be told, she was ready for sex. Just recently, she’d been waking up at three a.m. hot, sweaty and aroused, and although she was adept at bringing herself to orgasm, she was ready for someone else to do it. She just didn’t want a relationship with its inevitable breakdown and crippling scar tissue as part of the deal. Ben, with his ‘live for the moment’ and ‘no regrets’ attitude, might just be the solution she was looking for.

The stumbling block was that at thirty she’d only ever had sex as part of a committed relationship. Correction; she’d been committed—Charlie and Jeremy not so much—and she was clueless about how to bring up the topic of a no-strings-attached gig. Of course, she could just use a dating app but the two recent cases on the news where women had lost their lives from swiping right warned her she was safer with someone she knew. But in a town the size of Horseshoe Bay, her options were limited.

‘I was on mothering duty this morning,’ she said, pulling out her purse to pay for her latte.

Ben did a double take. ‘I didn’t know you had a kid.’

‘I don’t,’ she said, checking the Perspex around her heart and not letting her mind travel to a memory that always brought a troubling combination of sadness and disappointment seasoned with an unsettling soupçon of relief. ‘I’m looking after Shaylee while my parents are whooping it up in Melbourne celebrating thirty-three years of wedded bliss.’

‘Crikey.’ Ben’s expression was a priceless combination of respect and horror. ‘I can’t imagine what that would be like. My brain refuses to go there.’

‘I know, right? They got married at twenty-three and are still going strong. It’s terrifyingly impressive.’ So much about her parents and their achievements was impressive that she was often left feeling daunted by her own choices. How did one even start to live up to their high-set bar?

He placed the metal jug under the steam jet, frothing the milk for her brewing coffee. ‘I think I’d find marriage claustrophobic.’

Was this her opening? Come on, be brave. Be a millennial woman like the ones you read about and take what you want. ‘Sexually or otherwise?’

He shot her a quizzical look as if he was testing the lie of the land. ‘A bit of both, really. What about you?’

‘Post-divorce, I’ve had a total rethink.’ She swallowed and forced herself to look him straight in his sea-green eyes. ‘What’s your opinion of friends with benefits?’

‘I’m an enthusiastic supporter.’ He capped her coffee with a plastic sippy top and gave her a grin. ‘And we’ve been friends for a while now.’

‘We have.’ For some reason her heart was just beating away normally: lub-dub, lub-dub. Shouldn’t it be bounding wildly out of her chest at the fact that the gorgeous Ben was on board with the idea of the two of them tumbling into bed?

He handed her the coffee and swept the coins she laid on the wooden counter into the till. ‘Call me whenever, Lauren. I’m looking forward to it.’

‘Great!’ She heard herself saying, sounding far more enthusiastic than she felt. For some—probably antiquated—reason, she’d assumed Ben would be the one to contact her. Yet this way he was letting her call the shots and after two disastrous relationships, wasn’t that what she wanted? Demanded even?

Gah! Perhaps she wasn’t as twenty-first-century evolved or as ready for casual, no-strings-attached sex as she’d thought.

* * *

Charles Ainsworth—‘Boss Doc’ to the islanders, Charlie to his friends and on very infrequent occasions to his family—swore as the lights in the operating theatre flickered. ‘Bert filled the generator, right?’ he asked as he slipped a ligature around a bleeding vessel.

‘No worries, boss.’ A dark eyed man with a bush of frizzy hair gave him the thumbs-up from the door. ‘I fill ’em up. No be in the dark this time.’

‘Excellent.’ Charlie might be in what travel magazines called ‘paradise’—a string of tropical, palm-dotted coral islands floating in an aquamarine sea—but from a medical perspective, he was in a developing country and a disaster zone. During the recent cyclone, he’d had to perform emergency surgery on a boy who had been pierced by a stake that had been hurled into his chest by the terrifying and mighty force of the wind. Mid-surgery, they had predictably lost power, but he hadn’t foreseen the generator running dry or him finishing the surgery with Bert and Shirley holding LED torches aloft.

Just another tough day in paradise but at least the kid had survived and only half of the hospital had flooded. If the Red Cross managed to deliver desperately needed medical supplies today, he might be able to breathe more easily. As it was, air was skimming in and out of the tops of his lungs without going deeper and his body was coiled tight, ready to react to the next disaster. He’d been in a constant state of high alert for two weeks.

It’s been longer than that.

He shook away the thought. Emergency aid work was, by definition, disaster management, and he had the dubious honour of being an expert. Once the powers that be recognised someone with the skills they needed, they locked onto them and never let them go. Not that he wanted to be let go—he lived for being busy. The alternative didn’t bear thinking about.

He stepped back from the antiquated operating table that even on its highest extension was too low for his height, stripped off his gloves and rubbed his aching back. ‘Wake him up,’ he said to his current anaesthetic nurse, a local islander who had blessedly trained in Melbourne. ‘And keep a close eye on the drainage bottle.’

‘Sure thing, Charlie,’ Shirley said, her teeth a flash of white in her dark and smiling face. ‘You get some sleep now, yeah?’

He laughed; the sound as far removed from jolly as possible. ‘I’m going down to the wharf.’

‘I see your eyes close. You need sleep.’ She gave an islander shrug—the one that implied it will be what it will be. ‘You can’t will the boat to come.’

‘I can try.’ He wasn’t about to explain to Shirley that there was no point in trying to sleep, because sleep no longer came. If insomnia had been a visitor in the last few months, it had taken up residence since the cyclone had hit. For the last two weeks he’d only cat-napped. An hour here, a half-hour there, all squeezed in between medical emergencies, general hospital work and helping the islanders clean up the havoc Cyclone Samuel had wrought on them. Although some aid had arrived, it was going to take months for the replacement of vital infrastructure. Not that he’d be around to see it. By then he would have been moved on, dispatched to another place of need and leading another team.

He walked into the basic change room that all the staff shared and stripped off his scrubs. He was shoving his left leg into his shorts when the room shifted and he shifted with it, banging hard into the old metal lockers and jarring his shoulder. What the hell! Was it an earth tremor? He righted himself and listened keenly for rumbling but all he heard was birdsong. He was no rookie at natural disasters and birds didn’t sing when there were tremors. Nothing sang then; every animal and insect went deathly silent—the anthem of impending doom.

Trying again, he lifted his right leg, aiming it at the leg hole in his shorts. This time silver spots danced in front of his eyes and then the floor shifted again. He flung out an arm to steady himself and sat down hard on the bench seat. Sucking in some deep breaths, he closed his eyes and waited for the floaters to vanish.

‘You okay, boss?’ Bert asked, suddenly appearing in front of him. ‘You don’t look so good. You need a smoke?’

‘Don’t tempt me, Bert.’ Charlie gave him a grim smile. ‘I just need to eat.’ But just the thought of food made him feel queasy, let alone trying to eat any.

Men’s shouts rent the air, sliding in through the open window, and Charlie’s empty stomach fell to his feet. He didn’t understand a lot of Bislama and his French was tourist-competent, not medical literate, but the last time he’d heard a commotion like this they’d found an islander who’d been trapped under rubble for three days. Despite the joy in finding the man alive, Charlie had been faced with the task of amputating the patient’s crushed leg in the hope of saving his life.

‘Grab my medical kit.’ Charlie lurched to his feet, taking a moment for his head to stop spinning.

‘No, boss!’ Bert grinned at him. ‘This good news. Come on.’

He followed Bert’s brightly coloured shirt through the door and down a short corridor until they were both outside and in the glare of a fearless sun. Under the wind-stripped and almost naked palm trees Charlie glimpsed heaven—a group of men and women dressed in fresh and clean Australia Aid uniforms. All of them clutched the distinctive and life-giving red and blue medical packs. At the back of the cluster he recognised the distinctive height of Richard di Stasio—his boss.

Relief carried him towards them, his long strides steady. ‘You lot are a sight for sore eyes. That is, if you’ve brought IV fluids and antibiotics.’

‘Would we dare turn up without them?’ Richard shook Charlie’s hand and his dark eyes did one of those quick head-to-toe assessments that emergency medicos specialised in. ‘You’re looking a bit rough, Charlie.’

He shrugged as they walked inside. ‘It’s been tough. You saw what’s left of the town on your trip from the wharf? Or what’s not left of it, to be more precise. Half the hospital’s out of action and we’ve got limited power. The fuel for the generator’s dangerously low, the sat phone’s dodgy and I’ve got three patients battling septic shock.’

‘You look a bit shocked yourself.’

‘Nah.’ He ran his hand through his hair and suddenly realised it was longer than it had been in years. ‘No more than usual.’

Richard shook his head. ‘You look like you’ve dropped at least five kilos. Possibly more.’

‘The joys of a fish and taro diet. Listen, Richard,’ he said, suddenly gripped by urgency. ‘I’ll happily give you a full report as soon as I’ve administered those antibiotics to my three sickies.’

‘Keith can do that. You’re handing over to him and then you’re getting on the boat to Port Vila and going home.’

No! Every part of Charlie stilled. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. There’s still mountains of work for me to do here.’

Richard sighed. ‘You know the rules, Charlie. First response teams get pulled out after two weeks when second response arrives.’

‘Hell, Richard, you know as well as I do that you’re the first response team, not me. The only reason I’m on Pipatoa is because I came for a few days of diving after teaching the emergency trauma course in Port Vila. Two days after I arrived, Samuel blew up and I got stuck here.’

‘That’s irrelevant. The bottom line is you’ve done the job of first response without the back-up of a trained team. It doesn’t take a medical person to see you’re completely exhausted. God, man, have you slept at all since the cyclone?’

‘I’m fine,’ Charlie ground out. ‘Besides, you’ve got me pencilled in for Ghana next week, right?’

‘That was before you lived through the most savage cyclone to hit the area in forty years.’

‘So?’

Richard’s brows rose at the belligerence in Charlie’s voice. ‘So, HR’s been on my case because you haven’t taken any leave in eighteen months. Now you’ve lived through the cyclone, the psych’s waded in.’

Charlie’s head ached and his gut cramped. ‘I don’t want to take leave. I want to go to Ghana.’

‘Neither of us has a choice in the matter. Even if HR weren’t getting antsy about your accumulated leave, you’re mandated to take time out of the field and attend three post-disaster counselling sessions.’

‘Hell, Richard, I’m not going to get PTSD.’

‘You know as well as I do no one’s bulletproof. The rules exist to protect Australia Aid workers. As an employee, those rules apply to you.’

‘But you’re the boss.’ Charlie hated the frantic pitch to his voice. ‘You can pull strings.’

Richard shook his head. ‘Not this time, mate. Besides, it’s not the end of the world. There are worse times than summer in Australia to go home.’

It was never a good time to go home. Not that he considered Australia home anymore, or anywhere else for that matter. ‘How long am I on enforced leave?’

‘A minimum of six weeks.’

‘What?’ His bark of disbelief bounced off the walls and came back to bite him.

‘Longer if the psych isn’t happy with your progress, but I’m sure you’ll be back in action before Easter.’ Richard gave him a fatherly clap on the shoulder. ‘Look on the bright side. Your family will be happy to see you.’

‘Oh, yeah. They’ll be thrilled,’ he muttered under his breath. ‘Any chance the psych will visit me in Bali?’

Richard laughed, completely missing the point that Charlie was deadly serious. ‘Send me a postcard from that joint you summered in as a kid. I’ve always thought it sounded like a place I should take my kids.’

Charlie stared at Richard, stunned that he’d even remembered that conversation—hell, he’d forgotten all about it. He guessed it had taken place about three years ago, on the night of ‘the anniversary’. He’d found himself with a bottle of Scotch and, a little while later, Richard for company. He hadn’t told his boss the significance of the date—hell, he never told anyone that—but to prevent Richard from asking too many probing questions about why one of his best trauma surgeons was uncharacteristically nursing a bottle of top-shelf liquor, Charlie had entertained him with stories about his childhood summers on the coast.

He’d used words to paint pictures of the old rambling house on top of the cliff, the white sandy beach far below that squeaked when the sand particles rubbed together, the seventy grey weathered wooden steps that led down to the sea and the roar of the surf that filled the air with the zip and tang of salt. He’d waxed lyrical about the exhilaration of catching a wave and riding it all the way in to shore.

Horseshoe Bay. He hadn’t thought about the place in years. Despite growing up in the privileged leafy suburbs of Melbourne with every possible advantage, his happiest memories were the holidays at Bide-A-While. He’d spent every long, hot summer there and he and his brother had run wild—swimming, surfing and beachcombing—the sun bleaching their hair white and darkening their skin to honey brown.

When he’d turned sixteen, they added bonfires on the beach and parties to their repertoire. He’d shared his first kiss at Horseshoe Bay. He’d ecstatically given up his virginity in the dunes with—God, what was her name? Other than a flash of white skin illuminated by moonlight, he couldn’t form a picture of her, but then again it had been eighteen years ago. His body sagged as the elapsed years unexpectedly clawed at him.

A memory of luminous almond-coloured eyes ringed by jet lashes bloomed in his mind and he smiled. Lauren. He may not remember the other girl he’d had his first fumbling sexual encounter with, but it was impossible to forget Lauren. She’d been his saving grace in the worst summer of his life. Old regret ached but he was an expert at ignoring it. It was pointless questioning why life threw curve balls and disrupted the good things. Turning away from the melancholy memories of Lauren, his mind darted to find something to soothe his intense disquiet about returning to Melbourne.

Bide-a-While! While he worked out his appointments and organised a real holiday somewhere far, far away from that southern city—one that fitted in between the obligatory counselling sessions—he’d ensconce himself with Gran down at Horseshoe Bay. With its clear views to the horizon, and a solid two-hour drive from Melbourne, it might just be the wide safety buffer he needed between him and his parents.