Читать книгу Choices - Jeff Edwards - Страница 22

The nondescript government car pulled up at the lookout beside the lighthouse and Diane climbed out to stretch her cramped limbs, easing her joints back to normal use after their long road trip. Even with regular stops along the way she and Pile were tired and very glad to have nearly reached their destination.

‘Why did we come up here? Why not stop in town?’ asked Pile as he joined her at the railing that kept sightseers back from the edge of the cliff.

‘We’ve got a map of the district, but I want to see what Seashell Cove looks like in the flesh before we head down there.’

‘There’s a picnic table,’ pointed Pile. ‘Let’s spread the map out.’

The headland on which they stood made up the southern point of Seashell Cove, with a northern point of land a few kilometres away marking the cove’s other boundary. The northern headland did not protrude as far into the ocean as the one on which they now stood which Diane assumed was why it had been selected as the site for the lighthouse.

Between the two headlands the cove itself was cut in half by the deep, swift flowing Cromwell River. It was fed by the steady rainfall that nourished the inland rainforests and pastures on its way to the sea. Having reached its salty end in the bay, schools of fish gathered there to feed on the nutrients being flushed out to sea.

The original inhabitants had lived and thrived here for untold generations, but with the coming of ‘civilisation’ they had been decimated by the white man’s diseases, until their few survivors had been shunted off to a section of the coast where no right thinking white man had bothered to settle. It was nothing more than a rocky outcrop and had been promulgated by the government as an aboriginal reserve. The local population of coloured descent were obliged to live there under the ‘protection’ of the federal authorities.

The first white men to arrive in the area had been the timber-getters, plundering the rich forests of cedar in the interior. Logs of the valuable wood were floated down the river to be sawn at mills established at the mouth of the river and loaded onto ships at the wharfs that had been erected there. To ensure that the river would not silt up, a pair of rock seawalls had been built at the river’s mouth, and to this day they stood firm, allowing further generations of amateur fishermen a place from which to cast their rods and test their skill.

Eventually the stands of valuable cedar trees had run out, and the denuded hills given over to become meadows where cattle grew fat and provided a steady income for the dairy farms that sprung up. Originally their products were taken to market by ship, but this was soon changed to road transport as the highway between Sydney and Brisbane was completed.

Later, fishing trawlers provided much of the employment for the small township and the boat’s owners and crews built their homes along the river’s bank. Many fishermen had erected their own wharfs and their houses were built on high piers as a precaution against the floods that sometimes raged down the river, inundating the flat country at the Cromwell’s mouth.

As with most small towns, Shell Cove’s layout had been determined many years before by usage rather than planning. This village consisted of two main streets. One was an extension of the main road which connected with the distant highway, and ran along the river’s bank to end at the breakwater. The second road began here at a right angle to the first, travelling along the beachfront and then climbing the steep sides of the headland to the lighthouse and picnic area. Inland from the lighthouse, along the headland, was the council caravan park where summer tourists clambered for the best sites, which most agreed were located close to the stairs that led down to the sandy beaches located on both sides of the headland.

The road along the beachfront was bordered on the surf side by parking spaces, which were always full in the summer months, while across the road shops glinted in the sunlight with the promise of holiday bargains. At the corner created by the meeting of the two streets lay one of the town’s most important buildings, the Seashell Hotel. With its views over the river, its mouth, and the beach, it was an attraction for visitors and locals alike. The pub’s two bars were rarely empty, but most patrons still preferred to drink in the shade of the enormous fig tree in the garden outside.

‘That looks recent,’ commented Pile, pointing upstream to a cement bridge that spanned the river just at the point where the village began. On the opposite bank, paved streets could be seen, and many houses had already been built close to the river, with others now spreading slowly back inland as the lots with the best views were taken and new arrivals forced to accept less picturesque lots.

‘I’ll wager that some developer had to contribute a heap of money to the local council to get them to build the bridge.’

‘Whatever it cost, it looks like he’s being paid back a thousand times over. I wouldn’t mind buying a place over there for my retirement,’ Pile said wistfully.

‘Seashell Cove certainly has a lot going for it,’ agreed Diane.

‘Where do we find our men?’

‘We passed them on the way in. They live side by side in a couple of those high houses that back onto this side of the river, those old ones that look like they’ve been there for decades. It seems Travers’ friends both come from fishing families. They both have siblings who still trawl for a living.’

Pile looked at his watch. ‘Do you think they’ll be home yet?’

It was the middle of the afternoon, and Diane shook her head. ‘It’s too early. Let’s book into the hotel, and wait to pay them a visit this evening.’