Saturday, December 6, 2008
Thursday, November 6, 2008
Sunday, October 19, 2008
My Young Adult Novel Waving at the Moon
Thrilled to hear my young adult novel, WAVING AT THE MOON is to be published by Firedrakes Weyr Publishing
Sunday, September 21, 2008
alt="Click here to join TheRegencyReader" >Saturday, July 12, 2008
Tuesday, July 1, 2008
CASEY'S LUCK
Exciting news. My crime novel, Casey's Luck, which reached semi-finalist in the Amazon/Penguin Breakthrough Novel Contest is to be published with Wild Child Publishing under the name Maggi Coleman.
Excerpt of Chapter One
January 2001 DEVON, ENGLAND
Why was the house so cold? Casey leaned back on her elbows onto the narrow bed, as the memory of the past few weeks ran through her mind, tightening her stomach. She’d hoped to escape the trauma of a broken relationship by returning to England, but the break-up seemed to have taken a piece of her she wasn’t sure she’d get back.
Since she was last here, the roughly plastered walls had been painted crisp white. The acrid smell of turpentine lingered in the air. Glad of a distraction, she tucked her hands under her head and studied the changes to the room. The Tudor ceiling-beams were newly stained and curtains patterned with birds and flowers covered the lead-light windows. She smiled at the thought of Don perched on a ladder with a paintbrush, and pulled the duvet up around her shoulders. It was almost nine. The others would be downstairs preparing breakfast. Don loved cooking the great English breakfast, bacon, sausage and eggs, for Tessa and her, his cure-all for a heavy night.
Knowing she had to get up, she lifted her head. It began to throb from the toxic mix of jet-lag and red wine. She quickly pulled on her gown and some oversize sheepskin slippers, an impulse buy at Miami airport, and shuffled over the slippery timber floors to pull back the curtains.
The six acres of private woodland Don and Tessa prized so highly, stretched out before her. The wind had died down in the night and the lawn bristled white with frost, the pond frozen over. Behind the stone wall, the still, dripping woods began, like the edges of a ragged blanket covering the hills. She shivered. English countryside in winter failed to charm her. It seemed lonely and dank. Some miles beyond those woods lay the Devon coastline and the cold, oily waters of the English Channel.
Someone had closed her door during the night. She opened it and walked out onto the landing. The house was deathly quiet. Descending the sixteenth Century staircase, each step creaking louder than the last, she halted on the bottom step, which cracked like a pistol shot into the silence. She paused there, disconcerted by the echo it left and the lack of response, feeling her skin prickle when a noise came from the kitchen, a kind of thumping.
“What’s the matter, Soc?” she asked the despondent, tabby cat standing on the kitchen table, rocking it against the uneven, stone-flagged floor. He arched his back as she stroked him, and he replied with a deep, throaty meow.
“Where do they keep your food?”
She searched the cupboards and found a tin, blanching at the fishy smell as she filled his bowl, then replenished the water in his other dish.
Soc leapt to the floor, purring and eating quickly as she plugged in the electric kettle, wondering if she should take up some coffee to Don and Tessa. It was late for them.
The kettle switched off. She reached for it, then hesitated, listening, aware of the range of strange noises thatched cottages could make.
Caffeine would help, she decided, and poured a cup, carrying it into the hall. She paused at the hall table to study a photograph in a gold frame. It was one of herself and Tessa in their caps and gowns, like bookends, standing each side of Don, drinking champagne in the crowded Quad at Oxford. In the misty air, her rebellious brown curls tipped her Mortar Board to a drunken angle, creating an untidy counterbalance to petite Tessa, her red hair a neat plait over her shoulder.
As she replaced the photograph, she became aware of a smell, deathly sweet, and unpleasant. She moved on to the sitting room doorway and faltered.
The doors to the terrace stood open. Leaves had blown in and nestled at the foot of Don’s chair. He sat just as she had left him the night before.
The cup and saucer slipped from her fingers, crashing onto the floor and spilling coffee over the rug. She stumbled over them.
“Don?” His eyes were open and a stream of blood ran from the corner of his mouth mixing with the hairs of his neatly clipped beard. The front of his shirt saturated in blood, it had pooled into his lap.
She placed her hands on his shoulders as if to shake him awake. “Don?” As she touched him his stiff body slid sideways, and her legs buckled. She fell into a crouch at his feet. His glasses lay beside her on the floor. Her bloodied hand hovered over them. Don’t touch them.
She became aware of labored breathing, a bubbling breath from the far corner of the room.
Tessa.
Jumping to her feet, she scrambled across the floor. Brownish blood splashed across the green linen sofa. Tessa lay behind it on her stomach. The the back of her ivory nightgown stained bright red, fanning out to a reddish-pink. Casey touched her gently.
“Tessa, Tessa?” she sobbed. Tessa didn’t stir. She looked just like a waxy, porcelain doll some child had thrown down in a corner, arms and legs akimbo.
She grabbed the phone from the table near the door, dialling the emergency number. It rang in her ear for a long time.
“What service do you require?”
“Ambulance. Someone’s been hurt. I think she’s dying.”
“What’s the address?”
Her mind went blank. What was the damned street number? She took a huge breath to steady herself and the number emerged. Through the open door, she heard rustling in the trees across the lawn. She hung up and backed against the wall. Her heart hammered, she ran to slam the terrace doors shut. As her clumsy, trembling fingers shoved the bolt home, she saw it. The deer stood stock still watching her. Suddenly spooked, it bounded away into the woods. She scoured the bare, wintry branches for further signs of life, afraid of what she might find. Could those ghostly trunks shield a murderer? Or was he still somewhere in the house?
Excerpt of Chapter One
January 2001 DEVON, ENGLAND
Why was the house so cold? Casey leaned back on her elbows onto the narrow bed, as the memory of the past few weeks ran through her mind, tightening her stomach. She’d hoped to escape the trauma of a broken relationship by returning to England, but the break-up seemed to have taken a piece of her she wasn’t sure she’d get back.
Since she was last here, the roughly plastered walls had been painted crisp white. The acrid smell of turpentine lingered in the air. Glad of a distraction, she tucked her hands under her head and studied the changes to the room. The Tudor ceiling-beams were newly stained and curtains patterned with birds and flowers covered the lead-light windows. She smiled at the thought of Don perched on a ladder with a paintbrush, and pulled the duvet up around her shoulders. It was almost nine. The others would be downstairs preparing breakfast. Don loved cooking the great English breakfast, bacon, sausage and eggs, for Tessa and her, his cure-all for a heavy night.
Knowing she had to get up, she lifted her head. It began to throb from the toxic mix of jet-lag and red wine. She quickly pulled on her gown and some oversize sheepskin slippers, an impulse buy at Miami airport, and shuffled over the slippery timber floors to pull back the curtains.
The six acres of private woodland Don and Tessa prized so highly, stretched out before her. The wind had died down in the night and the lawn bristled white with frost, the pond frozen over. Behind the stone wall, the still, dripping woods began, like the edges of a ragged blanket covering the hills. She shivered. English countryside in winter failed to charm her. It seemed lonely and dank. Some miles beyond those woods lay the Devon coastline and the cold, oily waters of the English Channel.
Someone had closed her door during the night. She opened it and walked out onto the landing. The house was deathly quiet. Descending the sixteenth Century staircase, each step creaking louder than the last, she halted on the bottom step, which cracked like a pistol shot into the silence. She paused there, disconcerted by the echo it left and the lack of response, feeling her skin prickle when a noise came from the kitchen, a kind of thumping.
“What’s the matter, Soc?” she asked the despondent, tabby cat standing on the kitchen table, rocking it against the uneven, stone-flagged floor. He arched his back as she stroked him, and he replied with a deep, throaty meow.
“Where do they keep your food?”
She searched the cupboards and found a tin, blanching at the fishy smell as she filled his bowl, then replenished the water in his other dish.
Soc leapt to the floor, purring and eating quickly as she plugged in the electric kettle, wondering if she should take up some coffee to Don and Tessa. It was late for them.
The kettle switched off. She reached for it, then hesitated, listening, aware of the range of strange noises thatched cottages could make.
Caffeine would help, she decided, and poured a cup, carrying it into the hall. She paused at the hall table to study a photograph in a gold frame. It was one of herself and Tessa in their caps and gowns, like bookends, standing each side of Don, drinking champagne in the crowded Quad at Oxford. In the misty air, her rebellious brown curls tipped her Mortar Board to a drunken angle, creating an untidy counterbalance to petite Tessa, her red hair a neat plait over her shoulder.
As she replaced the photograph, she became aware of a smell, deathly sweet, and unpleasant. She moved on to the sitting room doorway and faltered.
The doors to the terrace stood open. Leaves had blown in and nestled at the foot of Don’s chair. He sat just as she had left him the night before.
The cup and saucer slipped from her fingers, crashing onto the floor and spilling coffee over the rug. She stumbled over them.
“Don?” His eyes were open and a stream of blood ran from the corner of his mouth mixing with the hairs of his neatly clipped beard. The front of his shirt saturated in blood, it had pooled into his lap.
She placed her hands on his shoulders as if to shake him awake. “Don?” As she touched him his stiff body slid sideways, and her legs buckled. She fell into a crouch at his feet. His glasses lay beside her on the floor. Her bloodied hand hovered over them. Don’t touch them.
She became aware of labored breathing, a bubbling breath from the far corner of the room.
Tessa.
Jumping to her feet, she scrambled across the floor. Brownish blood splashed across the green linen sofa. Tessa lay behind it on her stomach. The the back of her ivory nightgown stained bright red, fanning out to a reddish-pink. Casey touched her gently.
“Tessa, Tessa?” she sobbed. Tessa didn’t stir. She looked just like a waxy, porcelain doll some child had thrown down in a corner, arms and legs akimbo.
She grabbed the phone from the table near the door, dialling the emergency number. It rang in her ear for a long time.
“What service do you require?”
“Ambulance. Someone’s been hurt. I think she’s dying.”
“What’s the address?”
Her mind went blank. What was the damned street number? She took a huge breath to steady herself and the number emerged. Through the open door, she heard rustling in the trees across the lawn. She hung up and backed against the wall. Her heart hammered, she ran to slam the terrace doors shut. As her clumsy, trembling fingers shoved the bolt home, she saw it. The deer stood stock still watching her. Suddenly spooked, it bounded away into the woods. She scoured the bare, wintry branches for further signs of life, afraid of what she might find. Could those ghostly trunks shield a murderer? Or was he still somewhere in the house?
Thursday, May 8, 2008
STIRRING PASSIONS available now with New Concepts Publishing
In my Regency-set Historical, STIRRING PASSIONS, Kate Kilgarth yearns for adventure beyond the small country town where she grew up. She finds more than she can handle in a very surprising place.
Monday, February 25, 2008
Wonderful quote from the American poet, Robert Frost
No surprise for the writer, no surprise for the reader.
Saturday, February 16, 2008
WHEN DANGER FOLLOWS now available from New Concepts Publishing soon
CHAPTER ONE
The driver pulled Caitlin’s suitcase from the Greyhound tourist coach that had brought her up from Broome. He jumped back behind the wheel and drove off in a swirl of dust.
Caitlin looked around. She might well be the last person on the earth. The oppressive heat was far worse than anything she had imagined. Moving to a straggly, gum tree nearby, she sat on her case in the tiny circle of shade.
The mid-day sun bleached the sky to a silver haze, which shimmered, distorting everything in the distance. Pulling her hair free of its band, it settled like a damp towel on her neck. Caitlin put on her inadequate cotton sunhat, and began spreading sunscreen cream on any exposed bits of skin. She was sweating in her jeans–she’d have to change as soon as she arrived at the house.
Had she done the right thing coming here? She wanted so much to build a new life for herself, somewhere where she felt safe.
Down the road, another trail of dust rose. Relief spread through her at the sight of another human being. The truck rattled as it drove around her in a tight arc, pulling up with a spray of pebbles and dirt.
The door flung open and a man leapt out, grinning. "You’ve got to be Caitlin Fitzgerald." He grabbed her case and threw it in the back beside a panting kelpie dog.
She climbed into the cabin. It smelt of cow dung and smoke.
He nodded at her. "Harry’s the name. Gee, you’re going to have to be careful with that skin of yours. English are you?"
"Pleased to meet you, Harry,"Caitlin said, smiling. "Irish, from Dublin actually."
Harry was a big man, and he did have an easy way about him. She guessed he wasn’t much older than she was, maybe late twenties, but his skin was deeply tanned and laughter lines radiated from the corners of his hazel eyes. He wore khaki shorts and a sleeveless top that had seen better days, but his huge boots were polished until they gleamed like mirrors. He pushed his Akubra hat back off his face with a callused finger, and turned to look at her as they sped along.
"That’s a great head of red hair, you have, Caitlin. Do you have the temper to go with it?"
"I’ve been accused of being fiery on occasion," she replied, anxious that he should watch the road.
"I’ll have to stay on the right side of you then," he laughed, turning again to peer out through the dusty windscreen at the unchanging landscape. "What made you decide to come here, to the end of the earth to live?"
She paused. "Curiosity–I’ve read a lot about the Australian outback and wanted to see it. How far to Tall Trees?"
"We’re already on it."
"Did it start at that last gate?"
Harry gave a hearty guffaw. "Look to the horizon, east, west, north and south–all you can see is Tall Trees, and then some."
S
he peered through the window, struggling to grasp the sheer size of the landscape. She’d always felt at home in a crowd. Here, there was nothing but earth and sky for miles and it made her feel a bit odd.
Not afraid exactly, that’s an emotion she was familiar with.
"Tall Trees seems an incongruous name to me," she said.
"Do you mean it doesn’t fit?"
"Not many trees around here, tall or otherwise."
"Wait till we get there. You see that hill in the distance?"
She leaned forward, rubbing ineffectually at the windscreen. "That’s where we’re heading?"
"Yep."
Her mouth felt horribly dry, she’d had nothing to drink since the bottle of water bought at the last whistlestop. "Does it ever rain here?"
"In the rainy season. When it does, look out."
"It floods?" she said, with a strong note of disbelief in her voice.
Harry laughed. "If the river breaks its banks. You wait."
Caitlin wasn’t at all sure she wanted to.
Harry must have noted her expression. "The house is okay, it’s on top of a hill," he said taking pity on her. "But they do get cut off sometimes. So, you’re here to look after Jake Monterey’s kids."
"That’s right."
"Best of Irish luck to you."
Her heart sank. "They’re difficult?"
"More wilful than bad. Monterey’s let ‘em run wild since his wife died."
"How long is it since she passed away?"
"Over two years now. He goes off a lot these days–flies to Darwin on business. He has a lady-friend there."
She held her breath as Harry took his hands off the wheel and, steering with his knees, lit a cigarette. "Away now actually," he went on. "Maybe he plans to marry her and bring her back here. That would be a real good idea. The kids need a mother."
"Wouldn’t he tell you of his plans?"
He laughed and shook his head. "Nope, Jake’s a bit of a closed shop."
Trying to ignore her growing unease, she said, "What is it that you do, Harry?"
Harry pushed back his hat and scratched his head. "Jack of all trades master of none," he said cheerfully. "Tall Trees employs about thirty people and a fair few itinerant workers come and go. We all manage to work as a team under Jake, he’s the station manager as well as owner. I help muster the cattle. We send ‘em off to one of the bigger stations, for shipping to Asia and the Middle East. We also breed quarter horses. They’re my main interest, but I’m a mechanic by trade. I maintain the machinery–keep it all in good working order."
"That’s quite an impressive list of accomplishments," she said. "You must be kept very busy."
"Oh, I get time off." He glanced at her. "Saturday nights are always free."
Caitlin smiled and turned to gaze out of the window. They arrived at the base of cliff, glowing orange in the sun, and began to climb. She was amazed as the rocks and shrubs gave way to forest. "What sort of trees are they?"
"Bloodwood, Turpentine."
She thought it seemed a little cooler here, but that might be wishful thinking. It wasn’t long before they were traveling through dense bushland and she heard her first kookaburra laugh. A small, furry grey animal bounced across the track and the truck swerved.
"Effin wallabies," Harry cursed.
"Where’s the nearest town?" she asked when he’d straightened up again. She was beginning to relax; he handled the difficult conditions with practised ease.
"Burrawong–not far, twenty kilometres or so down the other side of the hill."
She wouldn’t be walking into town then. The revelation brought a wave of inexplicable claustrophobia washing over her.
"Do you ride?" he asked, breaking into her thoughts.
"No. I’m a bit scared of horses."
"You’ll have to learn," he said. "Can’t survive here, out of the saddle. Tell you what," he turned to look at her again, carelessly disregarding the slippery bush track the truck was negotiating.
"I’ll teach you."
"I might take you up on that, thanks," she said tensely.
A mile or so on, they emerged from the bush and approached another gate. Harry jumped out to open it with the truck still edging forward.
"You’ll be doing this in future," he said, back behind the wheel, grinding the gears as the truck leapt forward. "We’ll let you off today." Then he was gone again to close it.
Caitlin looked ahead at an amazing green oasis, Tall Trees, her new home. An avenue of shady trees with broad flat leaves she couldn’t identify, led up to the house. In the island formed by the circular sweep of gravel driveway, a sprinkler pumped out a wide arc of spray over lush green lawns and a rose garden.
She felt the wrench of homesickness, surprised to find roses thriving here. She needed to be somewhere that bore no resemblance to Ireland. "Where does the water come from?"
"Bore water. They’re lucky at Tall Trees. There’s a good underground supply."
The house was older and certainly bigger than she had imagined. Built of sandstone blocks, it had four stately, brick chimneys rising from its iron roof. A graceful curve of iron covered the wide verandah. She walked up to the front door; it had a light-well above it with Tall Trees etched into the glass.
"The jackeroo compound is down the bottom of the hill," Harry said, pointing away to the right of the house. He carried her suitcase as if it was packed with feathers. "You want some riding lessons, come find me."
"Thanks, Harry."
"Angela’s a real character," he said. "Wait till you hear her yodel, she’s a champ–won the pub talent contest four times running. The chooks love it." He took off his boots on the verandah, placing them together by the door. Caitlin stood wondering if she should do the same, was it a custom here, like in Japan? He opened the screen door and called into the gloom of the central hallway, "Angela?"
"Come in and have a cuppa." Angela appeared at the end of the hallway. She brought with her the aroma of something fresh-baked and delicious. Caitlin saw with relief that she was wearing shoes.
"You’ve taken off those beloved boots of yours, Harry, I’m pleased to see." She turned to Caitlin and in the same breath said, "You must be the new girl, Caitlin isn’t it?"
Caitlin moved forward to shake the woman’s hand. She was small and thin, her hair streaked with grey, but her grip was like iron.
"I’m pleased to meet you, Angela,’ Caitlin said to the woman's back as she headed briskly back down the hall.
"I’m glad you’re here," Angela said over her shoulder. "I have my work to be getting on with.
The children are out in the kitchen, having their tea. Come through."
Caitlin and Harry followed her over timber floors covered by a blue and gold carpet. Elegant lights like upturned crystal bowls hung from the high ceiling. Oil paintings dressed the walls. The kitchen was an airy room at the back of the house with both a wood stove and a more modern one. Windows looked out over a kitchen garden and open paddocks to the fringe of bush. At a well-scrubbed, wooden table sat two children, gazing at Caitlin from over the top of their mugs.
"This is Elizabeth, the eldest, she’s eight." Angela put her hand on the sandy curls of the girl.
"And this is William."
"I’m six." William said, wiping his milk moustache. He was a beautiful little boy with dark hair, smooth olive skin and startling blue eyes.
"Hello, Elizabeth, hello, William. I’m very glad to be finally meeting you both," Caitlin said, smiling. "I’ve bought you both a present all the way from Ireland. When I’ve unpacked my case I’ll give them to you." She’d brought them some books and two little woolly black-faced sheep, so different from the Australian ones.
Elizabeth was a pale, slightly built child. She had a high-strung look about her, her skin stretched tight over the delicate bones of her face. She screwed up her freckled nose. "Your hair is the colour of beetroots," she said dispassionately.
William giggled and twisted up his napkin, tossing it onto the floor. "Red as a beetroot," he parroted. "I hate beetroot!"
"Now you two," warned Angela. "That’s no way to behave. Apologise to Caitlin."
Elizabeth pulled her lips into a pout, looking mutinous.
"No, don’t worry about that now, Angela," Caitlin said, hastily. "I’d love that cup of tea. I’m as dry as a pharaoh’s tomb."
"What’s a faro’s toom?" William asked.
"Have you heard of the pyramids in Egypt?" Caitlin asked him, gratefully accepting the cup of tea Angela placed before her.
He wiggled in his chair. "Tell me."
The driver pulled Caitlin’s suitcase from the Greyhound tourist coach that had brought her up from Broome. He jumped back behind the wheel and drove off in a swirl of dust.
Caitlin looked around. She might well be the last person on the earth. The oppressive heat was far worse than anything she had imagined. Moving to a straggly, gum tree nearby, she sat on her case in the tiny circle of shade.
The mid-day sun bleached the sky to a silver haze, which shimmered, distorting everything in the distance. Pulling her hair free of its band, it settled like a damp towel on her neck. Caitlin put on her inadequate cotton sunhat, and began spreading sunscreen cream on any exposed bits of skin. She was sweating in her jeans–she’d have to change as soon as she arrived at the house.
Had she done the right thing coming here? She wanted so much to build a new life for herself, somewhere where she felt safe.
Down the road, another trail of dust rose. Relief spread through her at the sight of another human being. The truck rattled as it drove around her in a tight arc, pulling up with a spray of pebbles and dirt.
The door flung open and a man leapt out, grinning. "You’ve got to be Caitlin Fitzgerald." He grabbed her case and threw it in the back beside a panting kelpie dog.
She climbed into the cabin. It smelt of cow dung and smoke.
He nodded at her. "Harry’s the name. Gee, you’re going to have to be careful with that skin of yours. English are you?"
"Pleased to meet you, Harry,"Caitlin said, smiling. "Irish, from Dublin actually."
Harry was a big man, and he did have an easy way about him. She guessed he wasn’t much older than she was, maybe late twenties, but his skin was deeply tanned and laughter lines radiated from the corners of his hazel eyes. He wore khaki shorts and a sleeveless top that had seen better days, but his huge boots were polished until they gleamed like mirrors. He pushed his Akubra hat back off his face with a callused finger, and turned to look at her as they sped along.
"That’s a great head of red hair, you have, Caitlin. Do you have the temper to go with it?"
"I’ve been accused of being fiery on occasion," she replied, anxious that he should watch the road.
"I’ll have to stay on the right side of you then," he laughed, turning again to peer out through the dusty windscreen at the unchanging landscape. "What made you decide to come here, to the end of the earth to live?"
She paused. "Curiosity–I’ve read a lot about the Australian outback and wanted to see it. How far to Tall Trees?"
"We’re already on it."
"Did it start at that last gate?"
Harry gave a hearty guffaw. "Look to the horizon, east, west, north and south–all you can see is Tall Trees, and then some."
S
he peered through the window, struggling to grasp the sheer size of the landscape. She’d always felt at home in a crowd. Here, there was nothing but earth and sky for miles and it made her feel a bit odd.
Not afraid exactly, that’s an emotion she was familiar with.
"Tall Trees seems an incongruous name to me," she said.
"Do you mean it doesn’t fit?"
"Not many trees around here, tall or otherwise."
"Wait till we get there. You see that hill in the distance?"
She leaned forward, rubbing ineffectually at the windscreen. "That’s where we’re heading?"
"Yep."
Her mouth felt horribly dry, she’d had nothing to drink since the bottle of water bought at the last whistlestop. "Does it ever rain here?"
"In the rainy season. When it does, look out."
"It floods?" she said, with a strong note of disbelief in her voice.
Harry laughed. "If the river breaks its banks. You wait."
Caitlin wasn’t at all sure she wanted to.
Harry must have noted her expression. "The house is okay, it’s on top of a hill," he said taking pity on her. "But they do get cut off sometimes. So, you’re here to look after Jake Monterey’s kids."
"That’s right."
"Best of Irish luck to you."
Her heart sank. "They’re difficult?"
"More wilful than bad. Monterey’s let ‘em run wild since his wife died."
"How long is it since she passed away?"
"Over two years now. He goes off a lot these days–flies to Darwin on business. He has a lady-friend there."
She held her breath as Harry took his hands off the wheel and, steering with his knees, lit a cigarette. "Away now actually," he went on. "Maybe he plans to marry her and bring her back here. That would be a real good idea. The kids need a mother."
"Wouldn’t he tell you of his plans?"
He laughed and shook his head. "Nope, Jake’s a bit of a closed shop."
Trying to ignore her growing unease, she said, "What is it that you do, Harry?"
Harry pushed back his hat and scratched his head. "Jack of all trades master of none," he said cheerfully. "Tall Trees employs about thirty people and a fair few itinerant workers come and go. We all manage to work as a team under Jake, he’s the station manager as well as owner. I help muster the cattle. We send ‘em off to one of the bigger stations, for shipping to Asia and the Middle East. We also breed quarter horses. They’re my main interest, but I’m a mechanic by trade. I maintain the machinery–keep it all in good working order."
"That’s quite an impressive list of accomplishments," she said. "You must be kept very busy."
"Oh, I get time off." He glanced at her. "Saturday nights are always free."
Caitlin smiled and turned to gaze out of the window. They arrived at the base of cliff, glowing orange in the sun, and began to climb. She was amazed as the rocks and shrubs gave way to forest. "What sort of trees are they?"
"Bloodwood, Turpentine."
She thought it seemed a little cooler here, but that might be wishful thinking. It wasn’t long before they were traveling through dense bushland and she heard her first kookaburra laugh. A small, furry grey animal bounced across the track and the truck swerved.
"Effin wallabies," Harry cursed.
"Where’s the nearest town?" she asked when he’d straightened up again. She was beginning to relax; he handled the difficult conditions with practised ease.
"Burrawong–not far, twenty kilometres or so down the other side of the hill."
She wouldn’t be walking into town then. The revelation brought a wave of inexplicable claustrophobia washing over her.
"Do you ride?" he asked, breaking into her thoughts.
"No. I’m a bit scared of horses."
"You’ll have to learn," he said. "Can’t survive here, out of the saddle. Tell you what," he turned to look at her again, carelessly disregarding the slippery bush track the truck was negotiating.
"I’ll teach you."
"I might take you up on that, thanks," she said tensely.
A mile or so on, they emerged from the bush and approached another gate. Harry jumped out to open it with the truck still edging forward.
"You’ll be doing this in future," he said, back behind the wheel, grinding the gears as the truck leapt forward. "We’ll let you off today." Then he was gone again to close it.
Caitlin looked ahead at an amazing green oasis, Tall Trees, her new home. An avenue of shady trees with broad flat leaves she couldn’t identify, led up to the house. In the island formed by the circular sweep of gravel driveway, a sprinkler pumped out a wide arc of spray over lush green lawns and a rose garden.
She felt the wrench of homesickness, surprised to find roses thriving here. She needed to be somewhere that bore no resemblance to Ireland. "Where does the water come from?"
"Bore water. They’re lucky at Tall Trees. There’s a good underground supply."
The house was older and certainly bigger than she had imagined. Built of sandstone blocks, it had four stately, brick chimneys rising from its iron roof. A graceful curve of iron covered the wide verandah. She walked up to the front door; it had a light-well above it with Tall Trees etched into the glass.
"The jackeroo compound is down the bottom of the hill," Harry said, pointing away to the right of the house. He carried her suitcase as if it was packed with feathers. "You want some riding lessons, come find me."
"Thanks, Harry."
"Angela’s a real character," he said. "Wait till you hear her yodel, she’s a champ–won the pub talent contest four times running. The chooks love it." He took off his boots on the verandah, placing them together by the door. Caitlin stood wondering if she should do the same, was it a custom here, like in Japan? He opened the screen door and called into the gloom of the central hallway, "Angela?"
"Come in and have a cuppa." Angela appeared at the end of the hallway. She brought with her the aroma of something fresh-baked and delicious. Caitlin saw with relief that she was wearing shoes.
"You’ve taken off those beloved boots of yours, Harry, I’m pleased to see." She turned to Caitlin and in the same breath said, "You must be the new girl, Caitlin isn’t it?"
Caitlin moved forward to shake the woman’s hand. She was small and thin, her hair streaked with grey, but her grip was like iron.
"I’m pleased to meet you, Angela,’ Caitlin said to the woman's back as she headed briskly back down the hall.
"I’m glad you’re here," Angela said over her shoulder. "I have my work to be getting on with.
The children are out in the kitchen, having their tea. Come through."
Caitlin and Harry followed her over timber floors covered by a blue and gold carpet. Elegant lights like upturned crystal bowls hung from the high ceiling. Oil paintings dressed the walls. The kitchen was an airy room at the back of the house with both a wood stove and a more modern one. Windows looked out over a kitchen garden and open paddocks to the fringe of bush. At a well-scrubbed, wooden table sat two children, gazing at Caitlin from over the top of their mugs.
"This is Elizabeth, the eldest, she’s eight." Angela put her hand on the sandy curls of the girl.
"And this is William."
"I’m six." William said, wiping his milk moustache. He was a beautiful little boy with dark hair, smooth olive skin and startling blue eyes.
"Hello, Elizabeth, hello, William. I’m very glad to be finally meeting you both," Caitlin said, smiling. "I’ve bought you both a present all the way from Ireland. When I’ve unpacked my case I’ll give them to you." She’d brought them some books and two little woolly black-faced sheep, so different from the Australian ones.
Elizabeth was a pale, slightly built child. She had a high-strung look about her, her skin stretched tight over the delicate bones of her face. She screwed up her freckled nose. "Your hair is the colour of beetroots," she said dispassionately.
William giggled and twisted up his napkin, tossing it onto the floor. "Red as a beetroot," he parroted. "I hate beetroot!"
"Now you two," warned Angela. "That’s no way to behave. Apologise to Caitlin."
Elizabeth pulled her lips into a pout, looking mutinous.
"No, don’t worry about that now, Angela," Caitlin said, hastily. "I’d love that cup of tea. I’m as dry as a pharaoh’s tomb."
"What’s a faro’s toom?" William asked.
"Have you heard of the pyramids in Egypt?" Caitlin asked him, gratefully accepting the cup of tea Angela placed before her.
He wiggled in his chair. "Tell me."
"Pharaoh’s were kings a long, long time ago. When they died, their people buried them in tombs beneath the pyramids. Pyramids are shaped like this." She drew an outline on the tablecloth with a fork. "They’re strange and mysterious. I’ll show you a picture of them, perhaps tomorrow, okay?"
"Our mother died," said Elizabeth, in a conversational tone.
"Oh, yes, I know. I’m so sorry," Caitlin said, silently cursing her clumsiness.
"I can’t remember her very well, but Daddy says she was pretty. She didn’t have freckles." Elizabeth slipped off her seat and came close to Caitlin, peering into her face. "You’ve got freckles too. Like me," she said, her sweet child’s breath touching Caitlin’s cheek.
"I like my freckles," Caitlin said, resisting the urge to hug her. "but I’ll have to wear a big hat and keep out of the sun because I burn easily."
"Daddy doesn’t like freckles." Elizabeth looked as if she might cry.
"Oh, I’m sure he likes yours."
"No. He gets cross when I get burned, but I forget."
"Perhaps we can help each other remember."
Angela winked at her. "Now if you’ve finished your tea, Caitlin, I’ll show you your room."
The bedroom had a door opening out onto the verandah.
The bedroom had a door opening out onto the verandah.
"You’ll have that open most nights." Angela pointed up to the high ceiling where a large fan slowly rotated hardly stirring the air. "It’s hard to get a breeze out of that this time of year."
Someone had taken great care with the room. The walls had yellow wallpaper with a frieze of violets round the top. The white, wrought-iron bed was covered in a dainty, patchwork bedspread like one Caitlin’s mother once had. A mosquito net hung above the bed by a hook. Freshly picked, yellow roses spilled out from a vase on the old cedar dresser, dropping petals. Covering the bare boards in front of the fireplace was a hook rug in cool greens that might have been homemade, and a wooden rocker with a yellow cushion.
Someone had taken great care with the room. The walls had yellow wallpaper with a frieze of violets round the top. The white, wrought-iron bed was covered in a dainty, patchwork bedspread like one Caitlin’s mother once had. A mosquito net hung above the bed by a hook. Freshly picked, yellow roses spilled out from a vase on the old cedar dresser, dropping petals. Covering the bare boards in front of the fireplace was a hook rug in cool greens that might have been homemade, and a wooden rocker with a yellow cushion.
"This is lovely," Caitlin said, surprised. "Thank you for the roses."
"Not my doing," Angela replied. "Bathroom’s down the hall. I’ll leave you to get settled."
Left alone, Caitlin sat down and rocked for a few minutes. Apart from a few birdcalls outside and the muffled sounds of the children from the kitchen, it was oddly quiet. She took a deep breath. She’d been so afraid this mad escape to the other side of the world would be a failure. She let her breath out slowly, and felt her tense muscles begin to unwind.
****
****
The next morning at breakfast there was still no sign of Jake Monterey. Caitlin and the children ate their bacon, eggs and sausage. Caitlin had asked for cereal, but Angela said, in that way of hers that brooked no reply,everyone should eat a good solid breakfast to set them up for the day. Caitlin decided to deal with that later and explained to the children what their daily routine would now be.
Elizabeth’s bottom lip stuck out. "We ride our ponies every day, for hours."
"And I’m allowed to jump my pony. Daddy set up a jump out in the paddock," said William.
Caitlin took a sip of tea. "You are both so clever to be able to ride. I wish I could."
Elizabeth’s eyes were scornful. "Can’t you ride at all?"
Caitlin took a sip of tea. "You are both so clever to be able to ride. I wish I could."
Elizabeth’s eyes were scornful. "Can’t you ride at all?"
"Now, Missy, don’t you be so rude. Eat your breakfast,"Angela muttered. "She doesn’t eat enough to keep a bird alive."
Elizabeth pushed her plate away, barely touched.
Caitlin rose to take her plate to the sink. "I’m hoping to learn to ride and then perhaps I could ride with you."
"I can teach you how to jump," William said, jumping up and down on his chair.
"How nice of you to offer, William," Caitlin said. "Of course, you can ride, every day after afternoon lessons. But you shall not jump your pony, William, until your father returns and gives his permission."
Both children looked at her as they took this in, and the moment passed without argument.
It seemed she’d won round one and she felt quite pleased with herself.
It seemed she’d won round one and she felt quite pleased with herself.
ANGEL WITH ONE WING
CHAPTER ONE
‘Telephone Alice.’
Alice Robinson pushed herself away from the computer workstation where she was working on the Elle Decoration Hong Kong internet site. She headed back to her office and picked up the phone.
A man’s voice came over the line. ‘It’s Paul … Paul Schofield.’
Alice’s throat tightened. ‘Hello Paul.’ It had been years since she’d heard his voice. She tried to concentrate on what he was saying.
‘A car accident. Dom’s going to be okay … the whole thing is a horrible mess. A young man has died. She wants you to come.’
She took a deep steadying breath. ‘But she’s okay?’
‘Can you come soon? She’s pretty fragile.’
From her memory of her twin sister, Dominique, her fragile exterior hid a steely determination to get what she wanted. But maybe she had changed. They both had to grow up, Alice thought. ‘I’ll try to get on a plane tonight.’
Paul’s voice relaxed. ‘That’s great. Thank you, Alice. I understand it will be difficult … to leave your work and everything. Let me know your arrival time. I’ll pick you up from the airport.’
‘Don’t worry, Paul. I’ll get a taxi. I’ll be there as soon as I can.’
Alice hung up and walked on shaky legs to her boss’s office. Janice Chung, the new young, wiz kid editor of Elle Hong Kong, tended to put work before everything.
But a boy had died. Alice shivered and cursed herself for not getting more details from Paul, but she’d been too shocked by the sound of his voice coming out of the past, to think straight.
Understandably, Jamie was exasperated. No one at the magazine could write about food quite like her, she reminded Alice. And there was the next edition …
There was always the next edition. Alice did have vacation time coming, she pointed out. When Janice shrugged and capitulated, she rang the airlines and booked a seat on a plane leaving at eight o’clock. She put down the phone, wondering if her job would still be here when she returned.
Leaving Cyberport, she caught a mini-bus back to her Causeway Bay apartment. She grabbed clothes from the closet and drawers and thrust them into her case, adding a bag of toiletries from the tiny bathroom. She swept all the food from the refrigerator shelves into a garbage bag and took it down the hall to the chute, returning to prop the refrigerator door open. She had no idea how long she would be gone. A few days could turn into a month. One hand on the doorknob, she gazed around her at the small space that had been her home for the best part of ten years. The narrow galley kitchen just big enough for one. The shared roof garden off the lounge with its rows of potted Chinese herbs that her neighbour boiled up to treat sick friends.
Alice shut the door. There was a lingering smell of salty dried fish in the hall. It all seemed suddenly foreign and unfamiliar, as if she’d woken from a long sleep. But she didn’t have time to consider it. The taxi waited to take her to Chek Lap Kok. She sat in the back and tried to order her thoughts as they drove through the blue-grey fog, the leafy green giving way to the rim of high-rise under the shadow of Victoria peak and the teeming, neon-lit city streets. Crossing Victoria Harbour, she watched the bright red lights of the ferries as they cruised the choppy waters.
***
The cab turned onto the long driveway. Alice rolled down the car window and let the autumn sun warm her arm. She could hear the hum of bees, busy among the rusty-coloured leaves of the she-oaks. A steep, slate roof dotted with chimneys appeared above the treetops and the stone house came into view, a Century old now. Her grandmother’s house.
She’d left the day of the wedding, carrying with her images burned into her memory of coloured lights and champagne, a marquee pitched on the lawn. Dominique’s peel of laughter as her veil billowed out like a white sail in the wind.
As the taxi pulled up, Alice’s thoughts returned to the present. She climbed out, smoothing her skirt, feeling unprepared, sticky and rumpled after the long flight.
Paul came down the steps towards her, still slim in jeans and a t-shirt. ‘Hello, Alice.’ His lips brushed her face, one hand resting briefly on her shoulder. She caught a hint of spice from his newly shaven cheek as he pulled away.
‘How is Dom, Paul?
‘She’s going to be okay. We’ll talk inside.’
She watched him pull her luggage from the boot and pay off the driver. She’d expected her memories of him to be flawed, that he would in any event be changed by the years, but he looked much the same. The warmth and humour that had always lurked in his grey eyes was absent, though. It was to be expected, of course, but she found herself disappointed. His dark brows drew together in concentration as he hoisted her bag over his shoulder and set the larger case on its wheels. When he bent his head, she saw threads of white hair amongst the black. Did he find her much changed?
He straightened and turned towards her with a gentle smile. ‘How long do you plan to stay?’
‘Sorry. I can never pack light.’ She shrugged and laughed, her voice sounding hollow to her ears.
‘Dom’s looking forward to seeing you.’
She felt her stomach contract, a gnawing feeling that had begun when she had first heard the news. ‘Can I see her today?’
‘Best leave it. She’s pretty doped up. The doctor says she can come home tomorrow.’
‘So soon?’
‘Her physical injuries are healing, but she’s still in shock.’
When they entered the house, the first thing that struck her was the quiet. She followed him into the wide hallway past the marble statue of Pan on its plinth. Dominique had inherited it along with the house from their maternal grandmother, Cècile. All the women in the family had been given French names, right back to their French, great-great-grandmother. It was a tradition that Alice and Dominique were expected to carry on. But such an edict from strong-minded Cecile had seemed to Alice like testing fate, and here they were over thirty and both childless.
She followed Paul up the stairs. ‘Has Dom remembered anything more?’
‘No. Shock induced amnesia they’re calling it.’
Leading her into a bedroom on the first floor, he threw her suitcase onto the bed, as if it was empty, instead of crammed with clothes. She wasn’t sure what was in it now, she had packed in such a panic. She wasn’t particularly good at packing, even with time to plan she always threw in too much, just in case.
This had been her room, since Cècile had taken them in when their parents died. She and Dom were thirteen. There was nothing of her that remained here. You can’t come home, she thought, and pick up the pieces of a discarded life. She looked around the bedroom at Dom’s careful decorating. A lovely old dresser, an expensive Oriental rug, a chair upholstered in blue and white striped chintz placed in the alcove. A dainty table beside it held coffee-table books and magazines, forming an inviting nook. The brocade drapes at the window had been recently pulled back, and stirred-up dust motes rode the rays of the late afternoon sun. Dom used to be an assiduous housekeeper.
Paul gave the room a satisfied glance. ‘I think you’ll be comfortable here.’
Alice leaned back against the wide window ledge. Below her, the cliff fell away to the sea – azure blue near the coast deepening to indigo further out. A huge container ship squatted on the horizon. ‘Did you remember that this was my room when Cècile was alive?’
He glanced away towards the door. ‘I’d forgotten to be frank. I’ll leave you to unpack and rest. You’ve had a long journey. Come down for a drink later and we’ll order takeaway.’
If he’d been aware of how desperately she’d loved him once, he’d certainly forgotten it now. Paul had been a handsome young law student, who had made her laugh. She knew he had his own law practice now, in Newport, acquired after he married her twin. Was it a good marriage? As the door closed behind him, memories she had blotted out that had no business intruding now, made her sink onto the bed, her limbs leaden. Her journey seemed to stretch back over years, far longer than the twelve hours it had taken to get here.
She kicked off her shoes and propped a musty-smelling pillow under her head. Ten years! She’d been twenty-two when her undeclared and unrequited love for Paul Schofield had thrown her life completely out of kilter and set her on quite a different road than the one she’d planned.
***
‘Alice?’
She was jolted out of a dream and sat up too quickly, her head spinning. The room had grown dark. An overhead light flashed on, blinding her for a moment, and then her eyes focused. Paul stood just inside the doorway. ‘It’s eight o’clock – I wasn’t sure whether or not to wake you.’
‘I’m glad you did.’ She’d been dreaming that she was falling – that awful sickening drop, never reaching the bottom.
‘I’ve taken the liberty of ordering some Chinese. Hope that’s okay. It’ll be here soon.’
She pushed her legs over the side of the bed and jumped up. ‘Oh, you must be starving. I’m sorry. I’ll be down in a moment.’
She combed her mussed hair and reapplied some lipstick, then made her way down stairs. The lofty rooms echoed emptily as she crossed the polished floors. She found Paul in the formal lounge. He’d left the chandelier unlit, preferring the small lamps dotted about the room. A fire blazed in the fireplace. It wasn’t a cold night, but the warmth was soothing. On the coffee table in front of the fireplace were two plates laid out with napkins. A bottle of soy sauce sat incongruously beside the Wedgwood china.
Paul stood as she came into the room. ‘You still look so much like Dom,’ he said, sadly, she thought. ‘Same white-blonde hair. Dom wears it short now. Seems a shame to me.’
‘Same damn freckles.’
‘You should stay out of the sun. Wine?’ He held up two bottles.
She nodded. ‘Red thanks. I try, but in Hong Kong?’
‘Just a sprinkling,’ he said. ‘They suit you. Dom doesn’t go out in the sun much.’
‘She used to love the beach.’ Aware that he was studying her, her hand went to her neck, threading her silver chain through her fingers.
Paul pulled the cork and poured. ‘Not anymore.’
She took a sip from the glass he handed her and settled back on the cream damask settee. It was good wine. ‘Can you tell me more about what happened?’
He poured himself a glass of chardonnay, a cool, golden swirl in the crystal wineglass. ‘Not much more than I told you on the phone, I’m afraid. I hated Dom coming home so late from work. But there’s no telling her is there?’
Alice shook her head. Dom hadn’t changed.
'She was afraid she wouldn’t be ready for the exhibition. It was past midnight when she drove along the highway, just before Avalon where the road curves in an arc above the beach. You know the spot.’
She nodded.
He took a sip from his glass and she saw his hand tremble. ‘An SUV came up beside her – no one else around – and proceeded to deliberately push her off the road.’ He paused as if to acknowledge the horror of it. ‘When they banged into the side, she spun out of control and rolled it. Her car came to rest just above a sheer drop. Her petrol tank was close on empty. It was that, the police said that caused the car to burst into flames, fumes apparently. At first, they thought she’d been thrown out, but she pulled herself out, evidently. She was found in amongst the trees, three metres from the car.’
‘And the … body?’
‘Still in the car.’
‘The police still haven’t identified him?’
He shook his head. ‘Too badly burnt. It’s going to take some time. A hitchhiker. Dom picked him up a few kilometres back.’
‘She didn’t see who was at the wheel of the other vehicle?’
‘No. Too dark, presumably.’
‘Or she can’t remember.’
‘Yes.’
They sat silently for a moment, staring into the fire, until the door bell rang.
‘That will be the food,’ Paul said, rising to his feet. ‘We have some good takeaway outlets around here now. It’s been great for me, I hate cooking.’
She found she wasn’t the slightest bit hungry.
They ate with just the crackle of flames breaking the silence. To Alice, the Satay prawns tasted like paper and she pushed them to one side. She forked rice onto her plate and sprinkled Soy over it.
‘I’m sorry it’s Chinese, I didn’t think,’ he said, running a hand through his hair. ‘It probably isn’t very good.’
‘It’s fine. I’m mainly vegetarian these days.’
‘I wish you’d told me.’
‘You had more important things on your mind.’
‘I’m glad you’re here. It’s eased my mind. Dom used to rely on you quite a lot as I remember.’
‘Not after she met you.’
‘No.’ He looked down at his meal and pushed the food around on his plate. ‘I felt bad that you two fought and separated the way you did. For a long time I hoped you’d make it up.’
‘Well, I’m here.’
He looked relieved. ‘Blood’s thicker than water.’
She put down her empty glass. ‘Yes.’
‘Another?’
She shook her head. ‘Not a good idea. I’m a bit jet-lagged.’
He smiled. ‘You were always the sensible one, Ang.’
He meant it as a compliment, she supposed, but it smote at her, mixing uncomfortably with his use of Dom’s pet name for her. No one called her Ang or Angel anymore. Not since she’d left Australia. Like most pet names, it arose from a joke and stuck. Did it mean she was to resume their former role-playing? She the sensible one, Dom allowed to behave badly, after all, she was a talented artist. I must be tired, Alice thought. I’m sounding childish. ‘How is Dom’s career progressing? I’ve tried to keep up with it via the internet. She’s had some very good press.’
‘She now has a backer.’ His mouth curved down in disdain. ‘A patron of the arts. He believes her to be one of the best contemporary artists working in Australia.’
‘That’s high praise indeed.’
‘His name is Hew McBride.’
‘We haven’t heard of him in Hong Kong.’
‘Big fish in a small pond. Throws his weight around a lot in Sydney and into many things other than art. Some of them questionable.’
‘And you don’t like him.’
‘No, I don’t like him.’ Paul frowned. ‘He’s a well heeled, well mannered, thug. You’ll get to meet him, no doubt. He comes here often. Dom does a bit of work at home, in the studio we built in the garden.’
Paul sounded jealous. It was clear he still loved Dom. Not surprising. She had always been exciting and unpredictable, attracting both men and women to her in droves.
‘I want to hear about you. Your life in Hong Kong and your work,’ he said emphatically, breaking into Alice’s thoughts.
‘Nothing much to tell, really. I write culinary articles for a magazine as you know.’
‘But you do more than that, don’t you? You photograph it, too, I believe.’
‘How do you know that?’
He smiled. ‘I use the net too.’ She laughed as he said, ‘And many a lonely evening, eating my takeaway, I’ve lusted over your gastronomic delights.’
A feeling of warmth spread through her not just from the fire. ‘I’ve been offered a coffee-table book deal, actually.’
‘You’ll do it, of course.’
‘It will help pay the bills.’
‘Will you ever come back to Australia to live, do you think?’
She shook her head. ‘I don’t think so. I might go to England, though.’
He held up the wine bottle again. ‘One more glass can’t hurt.’
She relented and watched him pour.
‘Why haven’t you married?’ he asked her.
The suddenness of the question made her start. She spilled a few drops of wine as she raised the glass to her lips.
‘There was someone.’
‘Past tense?’
She merely nodded, too exhausted to tell him about the wasted years caught up with her much older boss, her mentor in her lonely, foolish early twenties. And it suddenly didn’t seem right to be cosy here with him when Dom was in hospital. She took another quick sip of wine, then put down the glass and rose.
‘Forgive me, Paul. I’m still tired. Thanks for dinner.’
He stood and took her hand. ‘Welcome home. I wish it were under better circumstances, but some good has come from this tragedy.’
I hope that’s true, she thought, as she climbed the stairs to her room, but she wished she felt more confident about it.
‘Telephone Alice.’
Alice Robinson pushed herself away from the computer workstation where she was working on the Elle Decoration Hong Kong internet site. She headed back to her office and picked up the phone.
A man’s voice came over the line. ‘It’s Paul … Paul Schofield.’
Alice’s throat tightened. ‘Hello Paul.’ It had been years since she’d heard his voice. She tried to concentrate on what he was saying.
‘A car accident. Dom’s going to be okay … the whole thing is a horrible mess. A young man has died. She wants you to come.’
She took a deep steadying breath. ‘But she’s okay?’
‘Can you come soon? She’s pretty fragile.’
From her memory of her twin sister, Dominique, her fragile exterior hid a steely determination to get what she wanted. But maybe she had changed. They both had to grow up, Alice thought. ‘I’ll try to get on a plane tonight.’
Paul’s voice relaxed. ‘That’s great. Thank you, Alice. I understand it will be difficult … to leave your work and everything. Let me know your arrival time. I’ll pick you up from the airport.’
‘Don’t worry, Paul. I’ll get a taxi. I’ll be there as soon as I can.’
Alice hung up and walked on shaky legs to her boss’s office. Janice Chung, the new young, wiz kid editor of Elle Hong Kong, tended to put work before everything.
But a boy had died. Alice shivered and cursed herself for not getting more details from Paul, but she’d been too shocked by the sound of his voice coming out of the past, to think straight.
Understandably, Jamie was exasperated. No one at the magazine could write about food quite like her, she reminded Alice. And there was the next edition …
There was always the next edition. Alice did have vacation time coming, she pointed out. When Janice shrugged and capitulated, she rang the airlines and booked a seat on a plane leaving at eight o’clock. She put down the phone, wondering if her job would still be here when she returned.
Leaving Cyberport, she caught a mini-bus back to her Causeway Bay apartment. She grabbed clothes from the closet and drawers and thrust them into her case, adding a bag of toiletries from the tiny bathroom. She swept all the food from the refrigerator shelves into a garbage bag and took it down the hall to the chute, returning to prop the refrigerator door open. She had no idea how long she would be gone. A few days could turn into a month. One hand on the doorknob, she gazed around her at the small space that had been her home for the best part of ten years. The narrow galley kitchen just big enough for one. The shared roof garden off the lounge with its rows of potted Chinese herbs that her neighbour boiled up to treat sick friends.
Alice shut the door. There was a lingering smell of salty dried fish in the hall. It all seemed suddenly foreign and unfamiliar, as if she’d woken from a long sleep. But she didn’t have time to consider it. The taxi waited to take her to Chek Lap Kok. She sat in the back and tried to order her thoughts as they drove through the blue-grey fog, the leafy green giving way to the rim of high-rise under the shadow of Victoria peak and the teeming, neon-lit city streets. Crossing Victoria Harbour, she watched the bright red lights of the ferries as they cruised the choppy waters.
***
The cab turned onto the long driveway. Alice rolled down the car window and let the autumn sun warm her arm. She could hear the hum of bees, busy among the rusty-coloured leaves of the she-oaks. A steep, slate roof dotted with chimneys appeared above the treetops and the stone house came into view, a Century old now. Her grandmother’s house.
She’d left the day of the wedding, carrying with her images burned into her memory of coloured lights and champagne, a marquee pitched on the lawn. Dominique’s peel of laughter as her veil billowed out like a white sail in the wind.
As the taxi pulled up, Alice’s thoughts returned to the present. She climbed out, smoothing her skirt, feeling unprepared, sticky and rumpled after the long flight.
Paul came down the steps towards her, still slim in jeans and a t-shirt. ‘Hello, Alice.’ His lips brushed her face, one hand resting briefly on her shoulder. She caught a hint of spice from his newly shaven cheek as he pulled away.
‘How is Dom, Paul?
‘She’s going to be okay. We’ll talk inside.’
She watched him pull her luggage from the boot and pay off the driver. She’d expected her memories of him to be flawed, that he would in any event be changed by the years, but he looked much the same. The warmth and humour that had always lurked in his grey eyes was absent, though. It was to be expected, of course, but she found herself disappointed. His dark brows drew together in concentration as he hoisted her bag over his shoulder and set the larger case on its wheels. When he bent his head, she saw threads of white hair amongst the black. Did he find her much changed?
He straightened and turned towards her with a gentle smile. ‘How long do you plan to stay?’
‘Sorry. I can never pack light.’ She shrugged and laughed, her voice sounding hollow to her ears.
‘Dom’s looking forward to seeing you.’
She felt her stomach contract, a gnawing feeling that had begun when she had first heard the news. ‘Can I see her today?’
‘Best leave it. She’s pretty doped up. The doctor says she can come home tomorrow.’
‘So soon?’
‘Her physical injuries are healing, but she’s still in shock.’
When they entered the house, the first thing that struck her was the quiet. She followed him into the wide hallway past the marble statue of Pan on its plinth. Dominique had inherited it along with the house from their maternal grandmother, Cècile. All the women in the family had been given French names, right back to their French, great-great-grandmother. It was a tradition that Alice and Dominique were expected to carry on. But such an edict from strong-minded Cecile had seemed to Alice like testing fate, and here they were over thirty and both childless.
She followed Paul up the stairs. ‘Has Dom remembered anything more?’
‘No. Shock induced amnesia they’re calling it.’
Leading her into a bedroom on the first floor, he threw her suitcase onto the bed, as if it was empty, instead of crammed with clothes. She wasn’t sure what was in it now, she had packed in such a panic. She wasn’t particularly good at packing, even with time to plan she always threw in too much, just in case.
This had been her room, since Cècile had taken them in when their parents died. She and Dom were thirteen. There was nothing of her that remained here. You can’t come home, she thought, and pick up the pieces of a discarded life. She looked around the bedroom at Dom’s careful decorating. A lovely old dresser, an expensive Oriental rug, a chair upholstered in blue and white striped chintz placed in the alcove. A dainty table beside it held coffee-table books and magazines, forming an inviting nook. The brocade drapes at the window had been recently pulled back, and stirred-up dust motes rode the rays of the late afternoon sun. Dom used to be an assiduous housekeeper.
Paul gave the room a satisfied glance. ‘I think you’ll be comfortable here.’
Alice leaned back against the wide window ledge. Below her, the cliff fell away to the sea – azure blue near the coast deepening to indigo further out. A huge container ship squatted on the horizon. ‘Did you remember that this was my room when Cècile was alive?’
He glanced away towards the door. ‘I’d forgotten to be frank. I’ll leave you to unpack and rest. You’ve had a long journey. Come down for a drink later and we’ll order takeaway.’
If he’d been aware of how desperately she’d loved him once, he’d certainly forgotten it now. Paul had been a handsome young law student, who had made her laugh. She knew he had his own law practice now, in Newport, acquired after he married her twin. Was it a good marriage? As the door closed behind him, memories she had blotted out that had no business intruding now, made her sink onto the bed, her limbs leaden. Her journey seemed to stretch back over years, far longer than the twelve hours it had taken to get here.
She kicked off her shoes and propped a musty-smelling pillow under her head. Ten years! She’d been twenty-two when her undeclared and unrequited love for Paul Schofield had thrown her life completely out of kilter and set her on quite a different road than the one she’d planned.
***
‘Alice?’
She was jolted out of a dream and sat up too quickly, her head spinning. The room had grown dark. An overhead light flashed on, blinding her for a moment, and then her eyes focused. Paul stood just inside the doorway. ‘It’s eight o’clock – I wasn’t sure whether or not to wake you.’
‘I’m glad you did.’ She’d been dreaming that she was falling – that awful sickening drop, never reaching the bottom.
‘I’ve taken the liberty of ordering some Chinese. Hope that’s okay. It’ll be here soon.’
She pushed her legs over the side of the bed and jumped up. ‘Oh, you must be starving. I’m sorry. I’ll be down in a moment.’
She combed her mussed hair and reapplied some lipstick, then made her way down stairs. The lofty rooms echoed emptily as she crossed the polished floors. She found Paul in the formal lounge. He’d left the chandelier unlit, preferring the small lamps dotted about the room. A fire blazed in the fireplace. It wasn’t a cold night, but the warmth was soothing. On the coffee table in front of the fireplace were two plates laid out with napkins. A bottle of soy sauce sat incongruously beside the Wedgwood china.
Paul stood as she came into the room. ‘You still look so much like Dom,’ he said, sadly, she thought. ‘Same white-blonde hair. Dom wears it short now. Seems a shame to me.’
‘Same damn freckles.’
‘You should stay out of the sun. Wine?’ He held up two bottles.
She nodded. ‘Red thanks. I try, but in Hong Kong?’
‘Just a sprinkling,’ he said. ‘They suit you. Dom doesn’t go out in the sun much.’
‘She used to love the beach.’ Aware that he was studying her, her hand went to her neck, threading her silver chain through her fingers.
Paul pulled the cork and poured. ‘Not anymore.’
She took a sip from the glass he handed her and settled back on the cream damask settee. It was good wine. ‘Can you tell me more about what happened?’
He poured himself a glass of chardonnay, a cool, golden swirl in the crystal wineglass. ‘Not much more than I told you on the phone, I’m afraid. I hated Dom coming home so late from work. But there’s no telling her is there?’
Alice shook her head. Dom hadn’t changed.
'She was afraid she wouldn’t be ready for the exhibition. It was past midnight when she drove along the highway, just before Avalon where the road curves in an arc above the beach. You know the spot.’
She nodded.
He took a sip from his glass and she saw his hand tremble. ‘An SUV came up beside her – no one else around – and proceeded to deliberately push her off the road.’ He paused as if to acknowledge the horror of it. ‘When they banged into the side, she spun out of control and rolled it. Her car came to rest just above a sheer drop. Her petrol tank was close on empty. It was that, the police said that caused the car to burst into flames, fumes apparently. At first, they thought she’d been thrown out, but she pulled herself out, evidently. She was found in amongst the trees, three metres from the car.’
‘And the … body?’
‘Still in the car.’
‘The police still haven’t identified him?’
He shook his head. ‘Too badly burnt. It’s going to take some time. A hitchhiker. Dom picked him up a few kilometres back.’
‘She didn’t see who was at the wheel of the other vehicle?’
‘No. Too dark, presumably.’
‘Or she can’t remember.’
‘Yes.’
They sat silently for a moment, staring into the fire, until the door bell rang.
‘That will be the food,’ Paul said, rising to his feet. ‘We have some good takeaway outlets around here now. It’s been great for me, I hate cooking.’
She found she wasn’t the slightest bit hungry.
They ate with just the crackle of flames breaking the silence. To Alice, the Satay prawns tasted like paper and she pushed them to one side. She forked rice onto her plate and sprinkled Soy over it.
‘I’m sorry it’s Chinese, I didn’t think,’ he said, running a hand through his hair. ‘It probably isn’t very good.’
‘It’s fine. I’m mainly vegetarian these days.’
‘I wish you’d told me.’
‘You had more important things on your mind.’
‘I’m glad you’re here. It’s eased my mind. Dom used to rely on you quite a lot as I remember.’
‘Not after she met you.’
‘No.’ He looked down at his meal and pushed the food around on his plate. ‘I felt bad that you two fought and separated the way you did. For a long time I hoped you’d make it up.’
‘Well, I’m here.’
He looked relieved. ‘Blood’s thicker than water.’
She put down her empty glass. ‘Yes.’
‘Another?’
She shook her head. ‘Not a good idea. I’m a bit jet-lagged.’
He smiled. ‘You were always the sensible one, Ang.’
He meant it as a compliment, she supposed, but it smote at her, mixing uncomfortably with his use of Dom’s pet name for her. No one called her Ang or Angel anymore. Not since she’d left Australia. Like most pet names, it arose from a joke and stuck. Did it mean she was to resume their former role-playing? She the sensible one, Dom allowed to behave badly, after all, she was a talented artist. I must be tired, Alice thought. I’m sounding childish. ‘How is Dom’s career progressing? I’ve tried to keep up with it via the internet. She’s had some very good press.’
‘She now has a backer.’ His mouth curved down in disdain. ‘A patron of the arts. He believes her to be one of the best contemporary artists working in Australia.’
‘That’s high praise indeed.’
‘His name is Hew McBride.’
‘We haven’t heard of him in Hong Kong.’
‘Big fish in a small pond. Throws his weight around a lot in Sydney and into many things other than art. Some of them questionable.’
‘And you don’t like him.’
‘No, I don’t like him.’ Paul frowned. ‘He’s a well heeled, well mannered, thug. You’ll get to meet him, no doubt. He comes here often. Dom does a bit of work at home, in the studio we built in the garden.’
Paul sounded jealous. It was clear he still loved Dom. Not surprising. She had always been exciting and unpredictable, attracting both men and women to her in droves.
‘I want to hear about you. Your life in Hong Kong and your work,’ he said emphatically, breaking into Alice’s thoughts.
‘Nothing much to tell, really. I write culinary articles for a magazine as you know.’
‘But you do more than that, don’t you? You photograph it, too, I believe.’
‘How do you know that?’
He smiled. ‘I use the net too.’ She laughed as he said, ‘And many a lonely evening, eating my takeaway, I’ve lusted over your gastronomic delights.’
A feeling of warmth spread through her not just from the fire. ‘I’ve been offered a coffee-table book deal, actually.’
‘You’ll do it, of course.’
‘It will help pay the bills.’
‘Will you ever come back to Australia to live, do you think?’
She shook her head. ‘I don’t think so. I might go to England, though.’
He held up the wine bottle again. ‘One more glass can’t hurt.’
She relented and watched him pour.
‘Why haven’t you married?’ he asked her.
The suddenness of the question made her start. She spilled a few drops of wine as she raised the glass to her lips.
‘There was someone.’
‘Past tense?’
She merely nodded, too exhausted to tell him about the wasted years caught up with her much older boss, her mentor in her lonely, foolish early twenties. And it suddenly didn’t seem right to be cosy here with him when Dom was in hospital. She took another quick sip of wine, then put down the glass and rose.
‘Forgive me, Paul. I’m still tired. Thanks for dinner.’
He stood and took her hand. ‘Welcome home. I wish it were under better circumstances, but some good has come from this tragedy.’
I hope that’s true, she thought, as she climbed the stairs to her room, but she wished she felt more confident about it.
Wednesday, November 7, 2007
Monday, November 5, 2007
TIPS I HAVE FOUND GREAT FOR CREATING SUSPENSE
Suspense is carried by strong characters that engender empathy. The reader has to care about what happens to them.
But action doesn't necessarily engender suspense. The axe lifting is far more important than the axe falling.
Suspense is anticipation. The build up gets us sweating, not the resolution, because it is during the build-up that our imaginations are working overtime and conjuring even greater fears than those on the page.
Play fair with your reader. Deception (like a false alarm) can have its place but don’t use it in place of genuine suspense.
Avoid oddly chosen words or clumsy inaccurate phrases that shatter illusion. Overwritten text, overly colourful mixed or strained metaphors take readers out of the story and stop them absorbing what they are reading.
Let your reader know that something is coming, but not necessarily what.
Foreshadowing is a powerful tool in the writer’s arsenal, creating foreboding and suspense with a minimum or words, if you do it properly, the reader won’t notice the odd, ominous metaphor, the word choices you make to create a specific effect, the occasional dark meaning to a line of dialogue, but all these things sink into their subconscious and tell them something is building.
Make the payoff worth the wait. If the resolution is not worthy of the suspense you have crafted, you create an anti-climax.
A favourite of mine is American crime writer, Sue Grafton. Her similes and metaphors are not only original, they fit Milhone perfectly. She has created a fascinating character in Kinsey Milhone. She has human weaknesses but never acts out of character in thought or deed.
Suspense is carried by strong characters that engender empathy. The reader has to care about what happens to them.
But action doesn't necessarily engender suspense. The axe lifting is far more important than the axe falling.
Suspense is anticipation. The build up gets us sweating, not the resolution, because it is during the build-up that our imaginations are working overtime and conjuring even greater fears than those on the page.
Play fair with your reader. Deception (like a false alarm) can have its place but don’t use it in place of genuine suspense.
Avoid oddly chosen words or clumsy inaccurate phrases that shatter illusion. Overwritten text, overly colourful mixed or strained metaphors take readers out of the story and stop them absorbing what they are reading.
Let your reader know that something is coming, but not necessarily what.
Foreshadowing is a powerful tool in the writer’s arsenal, creating foreboding and suspense with a minimum or words, if you do it properly, the reader won’t notice the odd, ominous metaphor, the word choices you make to create a specific effect, the occasional dark meaning to a line of dialogue, but all these things sink into their subconscious and tell them something is building.
Make the payoff worth the wait. If the resolution is not worthy of the suspense you have crafted, you create an anti-climax.
A favourite of mine is American crime writer, Sue Grafton. Her similes and metaphors are not only original, they fit Milhone perfectly. She has created a fascinating character in Kinsey Milhone. She has human weaknesses but never acts out of character in thought or deed.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)