The Cottage at Rosella Cove Read online

  But, if she led with a vague, general ‘how’d you come to be living in the boatshed?’ she’d be met with an equally vague and general response.

  She stared at the letters on the yellowed tiles sitting before her, which now appeared as random black scratches. They made no sense at all.

  Charlie had taken no pleasure in their game. Nicole was clearly somewhere else today. He’d kept an eye on the tiles she’d put out, as he always did, and she was clearly not on form. The ‘y’ she so casually discarded early on could have been held onto for much better use with a later move. Same with the ‘k’ three turns after that. It didn’t even seem that she was looking at the letters she was using, let alone the words he’d placed on the board and how she could use them to her advantage.

  What had her so distracted now? And why did it have to make his Sunday morning so sour? It was the only part of the week he looked forward to.

  He took no pleasure in winning today. Not like that.

  He watched her walk up the path as she left, and once again questioned all his choices that led her here. It was too late now, though. The wheels were in motion for the custodian of what remained of his wasted and wretched life and of Ivy’s legacy.

  As Nicole headed home she recalled the letter, the words etched in her mind.

  14th May, 1968

  My Dearest Tom,

  I have let you down. I have not been as strong as you asked of me when you shipped out. I gave up. Lucy leaving was more than I could bear, the utter loneliness that consumed me, intolerable. I find it curious now that such a relatively small event was what broke me. I survived losing you, and our angel. I have crafted a quiet life for myself these past twenty-odd years. Yet somehow the simple act of Lucy leaving reignited the burden of loneliness I did not realise I have been carrying all these years. The proverbial straw to break my back. My spirit.

  I am ashamed to tell you what I did, but who else can I confess to? Father Anthony would be so disappointed in me. And if Mother ever found out … I cannot bear to think. Besides, God will judge me in His own way, in His own time. But I must confess to you. Perhaps it will help.

  Two nights ago I walked down the path, past the boatshed, to the cove. It was just a walk. I had no plan. The waves were crashing so heavily. We have had terrible storms this past week. I stood on the sand, barefoot, staring into the pounding black. I felt so desperately alone. Alone and wretched and empty. The waves called to me.

  I walked into the water. And once the water hit my ankles it pulled me towards its cold embrace. I walked in even further. Perhaps I was looking for that sense of calm I have so often felt beside the water. Perhaps there was no conscious sense of anything at all. Just slipping in to a state of nothingness.

  The thundering stopped in my ears and the waves crashed around my hips. I knew I would not return to shore. I did not fight the pull. I did not kick or thrash my arms about. I was calm. So very calm.

  I saw your loving face, so clearly, as the ocean took me under.

  A rush of noise lifted me to the surface and I gasped for air. There was a voice, detached, distant. I felt myself being carried. I was cold and soaked. There was sand beneath my body. The waves tried to grab my ankles as I lay there, begging me to return. Oh, how I wanted to return. But the voice kept calling. He would not let me go. It went dark after that.

  I woke in the boatshed atop Fabricio’s old bed. The sun was pouring through the portal window.

  There was a man there. In his thirties, perhaps? It is quite hard to tell. He made me drink tea and promised to fix the door he kicked in. He said nothing else.

  I uttered no thanks, no explanation. I was too embarrassed to admit what had happened. Too exhausted to offer a lie as an excuse. I said nothing.

  Did you send him to save me?

  He is not from around here, or any town close by, that is certain. Something about him reads city, though I do not know from which one he comes. He has asked me no questions and I will return in kind.

  He is in the boatshed still. I told him he was welcome to stay for as long as he needs. He carries no possessions, save the worn and dirty clothes on his back. I know not why he was passing that night, or where he was heading. He said he will stay until he fixes the door and then move on.

  You will think me careless, I know, inviting a stranger to stay. But I had to offer him kindness, shelter, for what he did. And if you did send him, then I know I must look after him. There must be some purpose to him finding me, saving me.

  I am full of shame and guilt. Can you forgive me?

  This strange man who rescued me is intriguing. His face is covered in dirt and he wears a perpetual scowl but I detect a gentleness in his spirit. I do not fear him, though perhaps I should.

  Time alone will tell.

  Time. So often we speak of Time as a friend – how it heals our wounds, how it is on our side, how our happiest moments are the times of our life. Yet Time is also our enemy. We waste so much of it and can never go back to fix the mistakes or relive the joy. We wear the scars of Time across our face. Time claims each one of us in the end. It is the herald of death.

  Time … I know I have spent too much of it alone. I know that I have wished, still wish, perhaps, my Time here to end. I do not know how Time-to-come will pass or what I am supposed to do with it.

  Evening comes again. Time eternal. I have allowed him to stay in the boatshed these past two nights. It was the least I could do. There is a light on in there now. I have offered him supper, but he declined.

  I have learned his name is Charlie. The irony of this was not lost on me and I had to hold back long buried tears for our lost little one.

  Am I to look after this angel you sent? Will he stay?

  Forgive me, my love, and help me find the strength I need for whatever is next to come.

  Forever yours,

  Ivy

  Twenty-eight

  Exhaustion washed over Nicole as she dozed in the wicker chair in the afternoon sun that flooded the verandah. It had been a very big day. After she returned from her Scrabble game with Charlie she finished applying the last of the undercoat to the hallway and cleaned up the rest of the cottage.

  The sound of crunching gravel alerted her to someone’s arrival and sat up straight as she saw Mandy’s ute pull up.

  ‘Hi,’ called Mandy from the fence. ‘Look at you there basking in the sun.’

  ‘Hey.’ Nicole waved. ‘To what do I owe this pleasure?’

  ‘I wanted to say sorry about the way I blurted out the Caitlyn thing at the pub, Nicole.’

  ‘It’s okay. I’m glad you told me.’

  ‘Thank goodness.’ Mandy raised a hand to her chest. ‘He’s a good man, you know.’

  Nicole sighed.

  ‘Okay, spill.’ Mandy sat herself down on the other wicker chair and turned to face Nicole directly. ‘What’s the problem?’

  ‘Nothing gets past you, does it, Mandy?’

  ‘Not a lot.’

  How much could she tell Mandy? It might be good to get it off her chest. Some of it, anyway. Would Mandy judge her?

  ‘There’s a guy. In my past. He … I …’ No. She couldn’t do it. ‘And then there’s this place and the lease …’

  Nicole threw her hands in the air. Oh, what was the point of any it?

  ‘Hmmm.’ Mandy tilted her head to the side. ‘You haven’t given me a lot to go on. But let’s see what I can do with it anyway.’ Her smile was gentle and warm. ‘Okay. The easy one first. When the lease runs out here, you can rent somewhere else. There are a few rooms in town. If worst comes to worst, there’s always a spare room at our place. Even if it’s just for a little while, till you figure out what you want to do. How’d I do with that one?’

  A gentle breeze pushed through the gum leaves across the path, shifting shadows in a delicate dance. ‘Pretty good.’ A short-term, interim plan, but a least a plan.

  ‘But that’s not really the problem, is it?’ Mandy shook her head.

&
nbsp; Not the insurmountable one, thought Nicole.

  Mandy got up and paced the verandah. ‘This guy in your past? If he’s definitely in the past, maybe it’s time to leave him there. I don’t know if you and Danny have a future, but wouldn’t it be fun to find out?’

  Nicole laughed. Yes. It would probably be a lot of fun. But that wasn’t really the point.

  ‘I’ve known Danny since he was a pimple-faced kid.’ Mandy reached out and touched Nicole’s arm gently. ‘He’s one of the good ones.’

  Nicole nodded. ‘I gathered that.’ That was why she couldn’t hurt him with the truth about her inability to have children.

  Mandy crouched down beside Nicole. ‘I know trusting someone can be hard, if you’ve been hurt before, but you’ll never know if Danny’s worth it unless you try.’

  Trust wasn’t the issue. Not trust of Danny, anyway. Not really. It was really whether she could trust herself again; whether she was willing to show all of herself, dirty truth and all, to someone else.

  ‘So I’m two for two?’ Mandy stood proud.

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Then why aren’t you smiling?’ Mandy put her hands on her hips.

  ‘What if …’ Be brave, Nicole. A simple question. ‘What if the guy from my past won’t leave me in the past?’

  ‘Easy.’ Mandy wrapped her in hug. ‘Then he’s just a bully and together we’ll bloomin’ well make him. Bullies only respond to strength.’

  Nicole let out a tiny laugh. It sounded so very simple. ‘How is it you’re so wise?’

  ‘Natural gift, my dear. Now come inside and fix me a snack. I’m starving.’

  Nicole threw together a quick chicken salad and they sat in the kitchen and Mandy went through the plans for the painting bee Jacqui had suggested last trivia night – who would bring what to eat, which tasks were allocated to whom, who’d bring what equipment. Nicole wanted to make a list, but Mandy put a gentle hand on her shoulder.

  ‘We’ll all turn up next Sunday and it will just work out.’

  They tidied up their dinner mess and Mandy bade her farewell. ‘Have you told Danny any of what you told me?’

  Nicole shook her head.

  ‘Maybe you should.’

  To what end, though?

  Nicole couldn’t think about that right now. All she wanted was to find out what happened next with Ivy and Charlie.

  16th December, 1968

  My Dearest Tom,

  Charlie remains in the boatshed. He has fixed the door and started on fixing up other bits and pieces – one of the window frames, the planter box at the entrance. He has offered to paint the cottage verandah and I have accepted. It is flaking and while I am sure I could manage the task (you would be impressed with the skills I have been forced to acquire from living alone!), I must admit I welcomed having an excuse to keep him here longer.

  He has not been one for talking and is not a joyous soul spreading warmth – oh, how I miss Lucy. But, I have grown somewhat accustomed to his quiet company.

  I have begun bringing him tea each morning and we often sit together, without speaking, on the bench you made me. We sip Earl Grey, and watch the waves. I find myself looking forward to those silent moments, the part of the day I feel I am no longer alone in the world.

  Last week we came to an agreement, and it seems his stay will be indefinite.

  The seed of a thought germinated in Nicole’s mind. Did Charlie have something to do with the cottage and the rental agreement?

  It was not intentional, on either side I believe, but it came to pass last Sunday and quite by accident I suggested he stay, and quite surprisingly he agreed. To be honest, I think he was as shocked by his acceptance as I was by my invitation.

  We were finishing a game of Scrabble – he is a formidable opponent – and I asked him outright how long he thought he would be staying. He said he did not know.

  ‘Do you have anywhere else to go?’ I asked.

  He shook his head. ‘There is nowhere for a man like me,’ was his answer.

  How I wanted to know more! What horrible burden could a man so young be carrying to have lost his place completely in the world? My curiosity finally got the better of me, and so I asked.

  ‘Tell me, Charlie,’ I said. ‘What was it that led you here? We are friends, if not in a conventional fashion, and I shall not judge.’

  I could see in his eyes he wished to tell me but was scared to do so. Like a child who knows they have done something wrong and wants to confess but is afraid of his parents’ wrath.

  Nothing could have prepared me for his answer, my love, nothing in this world. I promised him I would never tell a soul and so I will not, not even you. He has taken a great risk in my knowing and I dare not betray his trust. My hands are shaking even now.

  I will tell you that I have removed all traces of alcohol from the cottage. Even my cooking sherry – what will become of my Christmas trifle this year? But while his story is indeed horrific and sad, I trust he is no threat. I am, perhaps, being a foolish old woman, but if you had seen his eyes, you would agree with me.

  Perhaps.

  As he finished his story, my heart broke and, apparently, all sense left me.

  ‘Would you like to stay here?’ I asked and he looked at me as if he could not quite believe I had said it. He whispered yes and I felt overcome by a brief wash of doubt, wishing I could take it back. Then I saw the tears falling down his cheeks and I realised I had done the right thing.

  ‘My poor child,’ I told him, ‘this is your home as long as you wish.’

  Before I emptied all the alcohol (do not fear – I gave your whisky away to William Tucker when he returned all those years ago; it did not go down the drain), I poured myself a large glass of wine and wondered if I would live to regret my rashness.

  In the days that have followed I have seen a lighter side to my new tenant. He has even smiled. It is a sad smile, but he is ever so handsome when he allows it to grace his face. Some days he goes out fishing and just yesterday he gave me his catch for dinner. He even told me how best to prepare it.

  He has agreed to be my handyman in exchange for board in the boatshed, and I have asked Father Anthony to send as many odd jobs for the church his way as is reasonable. I cannot see Charlie holding down a regular job (too many questions would be asked), and the man must eat. If Father Anthony was concerned, he did not show it. He simply made reference to ‘all God’s children’. That man is one of His true blessings.

  Peggy’s health is deteriorating, yet he still finds the strength to care for others. There is an apple teacake in the oven as I write this, that I will take over when I visit tomorrow.

  Joan Wetherby has had more than enough to say on the matter. She accuses me of keeping a ‘strange vagabond in the boatshed, a madman or criminal with surely dishonourable intentions’.

  I finally lost control of my temper when she said this. I told her I preferred the company of a would-be crazed murderer who minded his own business to that of a mean-spirited, unchristian, busy-body who would rather spend her time spreading vicious rumours than caring for her fellow man.

  I will ask God’s forgiveness next Sunday for my outburst, many pews away from Mrs Wetherby.

  If I am not murdered in my sleep before then, of course.

  Perhaps I should not joke about such things.

  Her only response, other than a shrill intake of breath, was to say, ‘I can’t believe he ever chose you.’

  I have no idea what goes through that woman’s mind sometimes, other than an awful lot of hot air.

  Best I finish off this letter before I reveal too many of my evil thoughts.

  I miss you, my darling. God willing I have not made a mistake allowing Charlie to stay. A new adventure in my twilight.

  Forever yours,

  Ivy

  PS Mother has taken ill. I shall visit her next week. We remain as distant as ever. Perhaps I should have made more of an effort with her.

  Whatever Charlie’s secret
was, it was big. Big enough for Ivy to get rid of all the alcohol in her house. Yet he’d found the courage to share it with her. Perhaps, maybe, if Nicole was brave, she could share her past with Danny.

  Twenty-nine

  The following Friday Nicole ambled down the path towards the small cove just beyond the boatshed, trying to draw on the peace from her surroundings. The evening sky was dark blue, the air warm. The waves lapped the sand softly, rhythmically.

  She stretched out her legs as she sat on the sand, letting the water tickle her toes. The light breeze teased a few strands of hair out from her loose ponytail and a small flock of seagulls came to investigate if she had anything for them. She offered no bounty and they squawked their way back down the shore.

  She concentrated on her breathing, trying to keep it in time with the water rolling in. All week she’d managed to avoid Danny, courage failing her miserably. And he’d respected her request to slow things down. Tomorrow’s football game was an away match, so she had one more day’s reprieve until she would have to face him at the painting bee.

  ‘You ain’t dressed for swimming,’ Charlie barked from behind, making Nicole jump.

  ‘Just as well I’m not planning on going in, then.’ She smiled weakly as she turned to greet him. ‘Did you catch anything?’ She looked at the rod and tackle in his hands.

  ‘Humph.’ He shook his head as he came up and sat down in the sand next to her. ‘What’s got you so riled up?’

  ‘Excuse me?’ Nicole thought she’d been doing a good job pretending to be calm.

  ‘Your cheeks are flushed and your finger there’s tapping at a hundred miles an hour.’ He looked to her left hand, which was indeed tapping against her thigh furiously.

  Nicole laughed.

  It had started during her HSC, the pinkie on her left hand tapping during the exams. She’d been so desperate to do well. And ever since, whenever anything of great importance was looming and Nicole’s nerves were frayed, her little finger tapped. Her university exams, her first job interview, the day she submitted her manuscript to her agent.