Silver Bay (38 page)

I pushed myself on to my elbow. ‘I don’t know,’ I said, half asleep. I rubbed my eyes. ‘Whatever.’

‘The good news is I’ve found him, and he’s still alive. It took a bit of time because he’s gone double-barrelled. I think he’s taken his wife’s surname too. The old woman is dead, which helps, as there are fewer people who can corroborate his side of things. It means your girlfriend’s not going to face a murder charge.’

She paused as I digested this, trying to force the relief I wanted to feel.

‘The bad news, Mike, is that he’s a councillor. A respected member of his community. Married, as I said, two children, stable, blameless existence. Round Table, charitable efforts, you name it. A councillor with parliamentary ambitions. Every single newspaper report he features in has him shaking hands with some police chief or handing over a cheque to a good cause. None of that is going to make your girlfriend’s case any easier at all.’

Twenty-two

Liza

Mike worked night and day to stop the development. Some nights he worked so late I thought he’d make himself ill. Kathleen would give me meals to take up to him, and I sat with him and did what I could, but I’m not good at dealing with people. Listening to him wheedle and charm, the authoritative way in which he laid things down as absolutes, made my head spin. He wasn’t afraid to talk to anyone. Whoever answered the phone, he would ask for the next person above them, and if they gave him no satisfaction he’d go for the one after that. He had a great memory for figures – he threw statistics into conversation like he had them written down in front of him, and everyone he spoke to he warned of noise and pollution levels, of extra costs and reduced business elsewhere. He explained how business would be drawn away from local bars, restaurants and small hotels. He showed where the profits from this hotel would go, and it was not into Silver Bay.

Yet even that wasn’t enough. He had persuaded Yoshi to get her academic mates to research the effects on whales of noise – but, as she said to me out of his earshot, these things took time. It wasn’t as if you could stick a whale in a Petri dish and prod it to see how it reacted. The southern migration was under way, the whales returning to the Antarctic, and after November they wouldn’t be in our waters for months, when it would be too late. He didn’t seem to hear when I mentioned these things, just stuck his head down and hit the phones again.

I think he thought that if he could stop it by other means I wouldn’t go to England and somehow everything would be all right. When I told him I’d go anyway, he told me I was a masochist. My greatest fear was that the ‘story’, as he put it, wouldn’t be enough to save them.

He had got petitions running on all the boats, and was trying to haul together a protest for when the architectural model went on view at the Blue Shoals Hotel. He was finding it hard going: many people saw the new hotel as a given now and were already planning ways to capitalise on its presence. Even among those who didn’t want it you couldn’t guarantee action. People in Silver Bar weren’t the agitating kind. The sea does that to you: living so close to something over which you have no control can make you fatalistic.

Hannah was his greatest support. He had got her and Lara writing banners saying their school didn’t want the money or the new facilities if they came as a result of the new development. They had created new petitions, rallied their classmates, even been on local radio talking about the different personalities of the bay’s dolphins. When Kathleen and I heard Hannah’s voice on our station we almost burst with pride. Mike had set her up with an email account so that she could alert all the whale and dolphin societies she had found on the Internet. It had focused her attention nicely, stemmed her shock over the ghost nets. In the daytime, she seemed like a different person, more confident, enthusiastic, determined.

But more nights than not, she padded down the corridor to my room, just as she had when she was six, to hang on to me.

As soon as I could I told my daughter. One warm Friday afternoon after school I bought her an ice-cream and we sat at the end of Whale Jetty, letting tiny silver fish nibble our toes, while Milly drooled on our shoulders hopefully. The solicitor had told me that if I went back there would be a court case, and I’d have to explain what had happened. It was likely Hannah would be asked, too, and would have to tell them everything, just as she had told Mike, I said.

She sat there, her ice-cream untouched. ‘Will I have to go back and live with Steven?’ she asked.

Even the mention of his name made me go cold. ‘No, lovey. You’ll stay with Kathleen. She’s your closest blood relative after me.’ I thanked God, as I always have, that Steven and I had never married, that he had no rights over Hannah, at least.

‘Will you go to prison?’ she asked.

I would not lie to my daughter so I told her it was possible. But I added that if I was lucky the judge would find that I had been temporarily unbalanced, or something like it, so with luck I might get a short sentence, or even a suspended one.

That was what the solicitor had said, as Mike and I had sat in her office the previous day. Mike, grim-faced, had held my hand under the desk. ‘You do realise it wasn’t her fault?’ he had said to her repeatedly, as if it were she he had to convince. Afterwards it dawned on me that he had been testing the waters, trying to gauge what kind of reaction my tale would get if told elsewhere to less-sympathetic ears. She was a cold fish, despite the inflated fee Mike paid for her time. The most he could get out of her was an admission that the way things had worked out was ‘unfortunate’. Then she had said it was not her role to pass judgment on what had happened, in a tone that suggested she already had.

The important thing, I told Hannah, forcing a smile, was that once it was over we would be free to get on with our lives. She would be able to go where she wanted, and we would talk about Letty and help the whales and dolphins. ‘Hey,’ I said, holding her shoulders, ‘you might even be able to go to New Zealand. That school trip you were talking about. How does that sound?’

I didn’t see her expression at first. She was looking at the far side of the bay, turned away from me. When she turned back the depth of her horror shocked me. ‘I don’t want to go to New Zealand,’ she said, her face crumpling. ‘I want you to stay with me.’

She wasn’t buying any of it. There was nothing but fear and desperation in her eyes, and I hated myself for putting them there.

‘Everybody leaves me,’ she whispered.

‘No, lovey, that’s not—’

‘And now you’ll go and I’ll have no one.’

She cried for a while, and I dropped my ice-cream and held her tight, trying not to cry with her. The truth was that the prospect of being separated from my daughter made me feel ill. When I held her now it was no longer casual, no longer pleasurable, but as if I was trying to imprint her on myself. When I looked at her I was trying to burn her image on to the backs of my eyelids. It was as if I was already preparing for the months? years? when I would not have the privilege of holding her close to me.

It was these and future losses that kept me awake at nights. The prospect of her going through the delicate adolescent years without me. There was no knowing who she would become. Would she forgive me? Would she forgive herself? I closed my eyes, breathing in the smell of her hair, scenting in it an echo of my lost Letty. When I realised I was teetering, I pulled back and allowed her to do the same.

She composed herself. My daughter’s bravery and self-control were heartbreaking. She said sorry as she wiped her eyes with the ball of her palm. ‘I don’t mean to cry,’ she said.

‘It might feel bad now, but it’s going to get better,’ I told her, trying to convey a certainty I wasn’t sure I felt. ‘We can write to each other and speak on the phone and we’ll be together again before you know it.’ A blade of seagrass had blown into her hair and I picked it out.

She sniffed.

‘And, most importantly, whenever I talk about Letty, I’ll make sure to talk about the whales. And the dolphins.’

‘You think that would stop the hotel?’

‘It might. And that way her life and death might mean something good.’

We sat there, staring out over the water, mulling over what I had said. Hannah was too polite to tell me what I knew to be true: that I was wrong, that nothing good could ever emerge from Letty’s death. Then she turned to me. ‘Does she have a grave in England? Somewhere you can put flowers?’

I had to tell her I didn’t know. I didn’t even know whether my own daughter had been buried or cremated.

‘Doesn’t matter where Letty is,’ she said, perhaps seeing my discomfort, ‘because she’s always here.’ She took my hand and pressed it to her heart. She didn’t say the rest, but I saw it in her eyes, in her clenched jaw:
Just like you will be.
And I didn’t know whether I should treat that as a promise or an accusation.

Kathleen was not one of society’s great party-givers. In fact, it would be fair to say that, despite her trade, she was one of the least outgoing people I knew, happier alone in her kitchen or out on her boat than making small-talk with guests or visitors. It was one of the reasons she and I understood each other so well. So, it was a bit of a surprise when, two days after Hannah and I had talked, she announced that when Nino Gaines came out of hospital she was going to throw a celebration. It would, she said, take place outside, so that he could smell the fresh air, see the sea and catch up with all his friends.

‘Lance, you’ve no need to be catching flies. It’s about time we had something to celebrate in this sorry little hole,’ she said, as the whalechasers were stunned momentarily into silence at the bleached tables.

‘Anyway,’ she said, ‘if we can wheel him out now, they won’t be dropping in on him at home bothering him at all hours for the next few weeks. Nothing to make a fellow feel crook like a load of do-gooders on his doorstep.’

Three days later, on an afternoon warm enough to hint of the summer to come, we were sitting out under carefully prepared canopies when Kathleen’s car pulled up in front of the hotel and a back door opened. After a few moments Frank helped his father out.

‘Welcome home!’ we all shouted, and Hannah ran down the path to hug him. He was the closest she’d ever had to a grandfather.

He struggled a bit to straighten himself. He had lost weight – his shirt collar gaped round his neck – and he was frail, a little unsteady on his stick. He held on to the open car door with one hand, squinting at us from under his hat. ‘This sorry parade of humanity the best you could get to welcome me home, Kate? Ah, take me back to the hospital.’ He made as if to duck into the car again, and I couldn’t help but smile.

‘Ungrateful old sod,’ she said, hauling out his bag.

‘You’re meant to indulge me,’ he said. ‘I could keel over any minute.’

‘I’ll make sure you do if you keep milking this,’ she said, and slammed her car door.

‘You get to sit near me, Mr Gaines,’ said Hannah, holding his free hand as he made his way slowly up the path. ‘It’s a special chair.’

‘Hasn’t got a bedpan in the bottom, has it?’ he said, and Hannah giggled.

‘I meant it’s got all the cushions.’

‘Ah, that’s all right then,’ he said.

He winked at me and I stepped forward to hug him. ‘We’re glad to have you home, Nino,’ I said.

‘Well, now, Liza, someone has to keep your aunt on her toes, right? Can’t have her going to seed.’

He was trying a little too hard, but I understood why. A man like Nino Gaines would find it hard to be treated as an invalid.

It was a glorious afternoon. The crews had taken time off and, by tacit agreement, no one discussed the development, or what might lie ahead. We chatted about the weather, the footie results, the awfulness of hospital food and the southern right someone had seen down past Elinor Island. We drank and watched Hannah, Lara and Milly tear up and down the sand, Lance and Yoshi dance to some of Hannah’s music, and various fishermen, neighbours and distant relations of Nino stopped by to share a few beers. Mike sat beside me and, periodically, I felt his hand reach for mine under the table. Its gentleness and strength made my mind wander to places it shouldn’t have gone at three thirty in the afternoon during a family party.

Look at me, I mused, when that thought occurred, and gazed surreptitiously at the man who had landed in my life and now sat beside me. Look at Hannah, Kathleen and Nino Gaines, at the whale crews, who had, over the years, given me more friendship and support than many people’s blood relatives would. I had a family. Whatever happened, even though there would always be someone missing at the heart of it, I had a family. And that thought filled me with sudden happiness. Mike might have caught it, because he raised an eyebrow, as if in silent question. I smiled, and he lifted my hand to kiss my fingers in front of everyone.

Nino Gaines raised his own eyebrows at Kathleen. ‘How long did you say I was out?’ he said.

‘Don’t ask,’ she said, waving a dismissive hand. ‘I can’t keep up with these young people.’

‘Where’s Greg?’ Hannah asked, from the other end of the tables. ‘He said he’d be here by now.’

‘He was being mysterious this morning,’ said Kathleen. ‘I saw him at the fish market. He said he was on a mission.’

‘Yeah? What was her name?’ Nino pulled his hat down over his eyes and rested back in his chair. ‘God, it’s good to be back here, Kate.’

To my surprise, she leant forward and kissed his forehead. ‘Good to have you back, you old fool,’ she said.

Before any of us could say anything, the whine of Greg’s truck could be heard down the road and, as if on cue, he drove slowly up to the front of the hotel and ground to a halt. ‘Sorry to interrupt,’ he said, climbing out of the cab. He was wearing an ironed shirt and was clean-shaven – rare for Greg – and looked uncommonly pleased with himself. ‘I just thought you should all know – you might want to swing by my lock-up in half an hour. It’s kind of important.’

‘We’re having a party, in case you hadn’t noticed.’ Kathleen placed her hands on her hips. ‘And you were meant to be here two hours ago.’