Author Profile 

James Marsh has travelled widely overseas but enjoys in particular the south-west landscapes of Western Australia. He is married and lives with his wife in Perth. He has three grown-up children and three grandchildren. He is a keen jazz musician (pianist) and enjoys landscape photography. This is James’ first novel.

PROLOGUE 

May 1940

The tall man with a bushy black beard alighted from the tube train at Charing Cross and nonchalantly picked his way through debris and sleeping bodies to get to the Trafalgar Square exit. At least the tube trains were still operating despite the bombings. Just last month there was a direct hit at Bank tube station and more than a hundred people were crushed to death.

He paused briefly at Trafalgar Square, took out a piece of paper from his vest pocket and studied the address scribbled on it. He frowned momentarily as if recalling something distasteful, unpleasant, irksome. He was certainly a forbidding-looking figure in his black top hat and tightly buttoned black frock-coat.

A line of people, mainly males, was already queuing for today’s lunchtime concert at the pictureless National Gallery. It was now serving a very different but important role as a cultural and emotional outlet for Londoners who were suffering the onslaught of almost daily bombings.

The man seemed to equivocate about whether he would join the queue or not. For whatever reason, he readjusted his top hat and continued down Charing Cross Road, past various piles of sandbags and flower women crying out lustily for buyers of their bedraggled roses and daffodils. The various theatres around Soho were desolate and abandoned. Fun and good times had dissipated – with equal velocity to the murderous bombs in the night sky.

As he turned left at Soho Square, he quickened his pace, as if he knew just where he was going and what he had to do. The terrace houses he passed were grimy and poorly maintained. Sandbags were everywhere with grass sprouting up between broken bags in defiance of the man-made concrete and tar.

He paused at a doorway, checked the faded house number on the door and knocked forcefully. It was some while before the door creaked open and a middle-aged woman appeared in a long, faded-blue dress. She seemed rather flustered to see him as she rolled down her sleeves and wiped her hands on her apron. But she quickly regained her composure, curtsied to the tall man and ushered him inside. As soon as he was inside she curtsied again and excused herself. She moved quickly to another room where a woman’s shrieks of pain could be plainly heard. The man did not venture into this room and stayed discreetly in the front room of the house while the midwife continued with her ministrations.

The woman giving birth on the shabby bed was in her early twenties and had a pretty face, but the lines of pain marked indelibly all over her gave the appearance of a plain older woman. She lay helpless among the tangle of grubby sheets as the violent contractions, now coming much more frequently, caused her to cry out in terror.

The midwife did her best to coax her. ‘Push hard, dearie, push –push – again – harder –’

Tears of fear and panic appeared in the woman’s eyes as she pushed and pushed, and as she gasped at the crucifying peaks of pain.

And then it was all over. She lay crumpled and exhausted on the tattered sheets. The little red-faced baby cried plaintively as the mid-wife wrapped him up in a yellowed shawl and placed him carefully in his mother’s arms. At this point the man moved quietly into the room and stood expressionless in front of the woman in the bed.

The woman cradled the newborn baby ecstatically to her breast. Although weak and exhausted, her eyes shone as she exclaimed, ‘Cor blimey, ain’t he a wonder? So strong looking. I think he should be called John.’

The man gave the faintest of smiles as he moved closer to the bed, took an envelope from his pocket, checked that the forty pounds in notes was intact, and placed it next to her pillow. Without saying a word, he turned from the bed, and pausing in front of the midwife, gave her an envelope containing two ten-pound notes. She curtsied and led him to the front door. He nodded, touched his top hat, and then moved hastily back into the street.

As he walked back toward Soho Square his gait quickened and he began whistling a lively tune. His whole demeanour seemed to change, as if an immense burden had suddenly been removed. He appeared to be sharing some joke with himself as he grinned broadly and at one stage laughed heartily out aloud.

On his return to Trafalgar Square he detoured past several cafes and cinemas. Gone with the Wind attracted his attention at one cinema and he studied closely the coloured posters depicting the main stars, Clark Gable and Vivian Leigh.

He looked at his watch and shrugged. He was too late for the matinee for this film. Still, there was a lunchtime concert at the National Gallery. He joined the end of the queue moving slowly into the gallery and very soon became engaged in animated discussion with a very attractive young woman dressed elegantly in a navy blue suit and striking red hat.

*  *  *

November 1996

The afternoon sun shining through the Tudor stained-glass windows provided a warm yellow glow to the drawing room and highlighted the richness of the oak panelling, the wall hangings and the elaborate patterned carpet.

A middle-aged man dressed in a suede jacket and corduroy trousers paced irritably up and down the room. The scowl on his face and the mutterings he was making indicated that he was far from happy.

A silver-haired man dressed in a grey suit and carrying a small case, with a stethoscope still adorning his neck, appeared from a doorway to the left of the drawing room. He moved tentatively toward the middle-aged man, shook his head despondently, then descended the grand staircase leading to the vestibule and the front doors.

This brief silent meeting with their personal physician seemed to stir the man to new heights of frustration. The curses, the expletives, came forth in quick succession like a rapid-fire machine gun.

‘Shit! The old bugger. How dare he leave me to all this mess. The fucking estate. The bloody tax problems. Worst of all, why did he leave it till now to tell me the cruellest news of all? The good name of our family has been besmirched forever. The traditions, our good name – how can I ever live it down?’

At that point a middle-aged woman dressed conservatively in a long dark dress appeared at the door and in a plaintive voice enquired,

‘Is there any news?’

The man growled a reply but the gesture with his hands and the frown on his face said it all. The woman retreated, cowed by the reaction she had received from her brother.

The man moved across to a tall bay window and gazed longingly at the familiar, elaborate garden, the Inigo Jones-inspired formal garden complete with half-dressed cherubs, birds and statues of gods and goddesses.

‘For the family’s sake I have to do something. I’ll have to act and to act decisively. I must expunge the rotten apples – remove all traces.’

He turned toward the centre of the room and it was evident that the expression on his face had now changed from one contorted with rage to a malevolent squint, a vicious, mean stare. He seemed to be addressing an imaginary audience as he announced: ‘I can see the solution – I know what I have to do. I owe it to future generations of our family. I must start straight away. Where is that phone book …?’

He was interrupted in mid-sentence by a woman in a white uniform who emerged very agitated from a doorway to the left.

‘Come quickly, sir, I think the end is near. His breathing is …’

Chapter One

April 23, 1997

The gentle autumn sunshine of a lazy Monday afternoon found Nick Harris relaxing at an outside restaurant table at Amberley vineyard, a verdant valley just off the Wildwood Road, some ten kilometres from Yallingup.

The balmy Indian summer of the holiday week at Busselton and Margaret River had been the tonic he so urgently needed. For weeks now – or had it been months? – he had been mulling over what he was doing, his livelihood, his aspirations and his fears, his reason for being. What did he have to show for his thirty-one years? A marriage at twenty-eight that had ended disastrously in divorce two years later. A half-finished Masters degree in History at Murdoch University. A newspaper reporter role at the West Australian, which appeared to promise much when he started there six years ago, but all the plum assignments had gone to others and currently he had been given the assignment that no-one else wanted  – ‘education writer’.

He hadn’t noticed her at first because she had seated herself at a small white table on the outside veranda of Amberley restaurant. She appeared to be in her mid-twenties, tall, slim, with her dark brown hair pushed back into a loose ponytail. She gazed directly ahead at the parking area surrounding Amberley, the heavy gravel soil and majestic grass trees, and beyond the parking area to the row upon row of vines, carefully planted on a western slope to allow maximum penetration of the sun’s rays. They were leafless but the stalks looked strong and healthy. It would be several months before the varieties of Semillon, Sauvignon Blanc, Chenin Blanc, Chardonnay, Cabernet Sauvignon, Merlot and Shiraz would burst into life.

As with all vineyards in the south-west of Western Australia, wine-tasting was a major feature, a ritual that was meant to entice customers to purchase, but in the process, generally led to very happy fellowship. The normal inhibitions a person might have upon arrival soon slipped away under the alcoholic haze of the tastings.

And so it was with him. It had been a great week even if he had been mainly on his own. He had booked an on-site mobile home for the last week of April at the Geographe Bay Holiday Park at Busselton, a beautifully maintained park complete with swimming pool and tennis courts, only a short walk to the beach and adjacent to the Broadwater shopping centre and the Broadwater luxury apartment complex.

As he savoured the flavour of an Amberley Chenin and munched on some chunky potatoes with roasted garlic mayonnaise, he recalled his arrival last Friday at Busselton.

The first few days had been uneventful but relaxing. The nocturnal scurrying of some animal on the roof, probably a possum, was a little irritating on the first night but he found the scratching noises less distracting on subsequent nights.

Breakfasts were always leisurely affairs. He’d stroll across the road to the Broadwater Resort and Stilts restaurant and enjoy the ritual croissants and coffee, and the friendly chats with the waitress who very early on introduced herself as Jo-Anne – ‘Call me Jo’.

The long walks he had along the beach at Geographe Bay were refreshing. It was a delightful flat, sandy beach, which slowly curved around to Cape Naturaliste and was largely deserted apart from the few seagulls defending their territory. Sometimes for variety he clambered over the large red, lateritic rocks used as a sea wall and walked along the bike path to the next boat ramp. Occasionally he came across a beach fisherman or couples exercising their dogs. He appreciated their ready smiles and their willingness to converse.

Inevitably, evenings found him back at Stilts cafe enjoying a few quiet drinks before dinner. The clientele in the evenings were mainly business people staying overnight on a tour of duty in the south-west corner of Western Australia, a few tour operators ‘inspecting’ the facilities, and groups of holiday-makers doing a leisurely tour of the wineries. They all seemed to be enjoying themselves. He should have been having a ball, but here he was all alone. Christine would have enjoyed herself. He knew that for certain.

*  *  *

‘Nick, all you can think about are your books. Books, books, books and terribly, terribly academic articles that no one cares a fuck about anyway. I bet you are the least read writer in the West Australian. It’s a boring existence for me. I feel suffocated by it all. I’m being dragged down into a life of nothing. I want to have some fun.’

It must have been in early August, 1995. Christine had just come back from a travel agents’ conference in Sydney. She had returned home in a confrontational mood. Perhaps her anger was being heaped upon him because he had arrived late at the airport to pick her up. He evidently hadn’t shown enough interest in her trip.

When they arrived back at their apartment she was still in a mood and seemed to be poised ready to strike. In hindsight, Nick wondered if it had been a carefully planned attack. In a scolding voice she started to berate him: ‘We’re so different, Nick. I don’t think you like people, period. We don’t have a future.’

‘That’s strong stuff. We seemed to click at one stage.’

‘Huh! Perhaps! I was taken in by your good looks but I didn’t realise that you would be so goddamned awful in the action department. Besides …’ Christine paused, checked herself and then reddened.

‘Besides what? What were you going to say?’

A sinking feeling in his stomach was letting him know that something very devastating was about to be announced.

‘Well, best I give it to you straight. I was going to anyway. I’ve been seeing Alan for a while now – he’s another agent. We went to most of the training sessions together in Sydney and a few parties and so on.’

She eyed him coolly before continuing. He could almost predict the well rehearsed lines that followed. ‘I’m leaving you, Nick. Alan is really right for me. We have fun together. I’ll just need half an hour to collect my clothes – we can work out the other details later.’

She walked stiffly into the bedroom. He could hear cases being opened and clothes being taken out of wardrobes and a chest of drawers. True to her word she was gone in half an hour and out of his life. A year later the divorce formalities were finalised.

The last year without her had been both heaven and hell, but mainly hell. He wondered whether he was largely to blame. He wasn’t all that interested in the highs and lows of being a travel agent. He didn’t want to go to a lot of the parties that she craved to be at. Maybe he shunned some of these outings. But they did have other things that they really enjoyed doing together – music, theatre, the arts.

He hoped that this break away might help him to get his act together and stop his moping. He was going to go all out to develop new interests, new friends.

*  *  *

The surroundings today at Amberley were sheer magic. The dark green leaves of the redgums moved ever so gently in the light breeze. They framed a bright blue, cloudless sky. Everything was soft, subdued, in harmony.

Inside the building, wine tasting was taking place with gusto. Couples congregated near a long bar while others had taken their samples and were sipping them at a more leisurely pace at the tables in the spacious room. Adorning the walls were various tourist items for sale – Amberley T-shirts, posters and various presentation packs of wine. A wide selection of whites and reds was available for tasting at the bar, although if you were persuasive, you could make the wine tasting last longer at your table.

At his table, the sun streaming through the trees created colourful patterns of light on the wine bottles. The birds also seemed to be in high spirits and were chirping away, apart from a group on the bandstand that seemed to be embarking upon some argument relating to territorial rights.

Faintly in the background some traditional jazz emanated from two inconspicuous speakers on the back veranda. Adding to the ambience were the delicious cooking aromas of garlic and seafood that flagged the imminent arrival of mouth-watering dishes.

He wasn’t disappointed when the main course was placed in front of him. He inhaled with heightened expectation the scent of the juicy chunks of snapper, prawns and scallops in a filo roll – the magnificent Geographe Bay filo dish greatly sought after by Amberley restaurant regulars. Without doubt it complemented the Chenin perfectly!

Several mouthfuls later he was rhapsodising about his good fortune: a magnificent venue, excellent food and wine. The only downside to it all was that he had no-one to share it with. Whether the wine was increasing his self-confidence or whether it was the peacefulness of the surroundings he couldn’t be sure, but he glanced back again at the woman seated on the veranda.

There were few patrons at Amberley that Monday lunchtime. Perhaps this wasn’t surprising as it was a weekday. More importantly, the six thousand music-lovers and ‘yuppies’ who had descended upon Margaret River on the previous Saturday to see and hear Shirley Bassey perform at the thirteenth annual open-air Leeuwin Concert had long since returned home.

He glanced around at the idyllic setting, the white tables and chairs contrasting with the salmon-coloured brick paving, and strategically placed under the bottle-green verandas, the fascinating South African-Dutch architecture with its steep roof gables and shuttered windows. The outside grassed area beyond the tables dipped gracefully down to a small lake and a bandstand. A range of performers gave recitals during the summer months.

Surrounding the bandstand was a profusion of colour – masses of yellow lilies, daisies, lavender, agapanthus and delphiniums. Immediately beyond the bandstand were rows and rows of vines, all carefully spaced and connected to elaborate irrigation hoses and sprays.

By this time he had completed his seafood filo and consumed a major portion of the Amberley Chenin. He was feeling in fine form and ready to take on anything or anyone.

At that moment, he noticed that the brunette at the far table was looking at him. At least he thought she was, but she may have been attracted by the birds that had descended upon the bandstand. The marauding magpie was engaged in a ding-dong fight with three honeyeaters. They were creating quite a din.

*  *  *

Laura looked across at the birds. How could they fight in such a beautiful setting?

Why do arguments happen? All the jarring came back to her – that recent fight with Joel, the tears that followed, her sleepless nights. She had confronted him with her suspicions at his apartment about a week ago and as it turned out, it was the final argument. He didn’t even put up a fight and try to justify his behaviour.

‘How could you be so sneaky? All the time I was away on buying trips for Aherns you were with her. That bitch Sally. But you were caught out. Perth is a small place. One of my friends saw you at Jo Jo’s together. So that’s it, go on, piss off.’

He hadn’t even tried to explain. He had lowered his head, muttered something inane and then stalked away, out of the apartment and off down the road. No excuses, no apologies, nothing. She had slammed the door of his apartment and driven off in a huff. It was a bit stupid, come to think of it, that they had both left the apartment. But she didn’t care. The safety and security of his stuff was his problem.

I can get away from those preening bloody males down here at Busselton. I’m finished with men. I don’t need them, she told herself.

The thought had hardly passed through her mind before she found herself staring at the man seated by himself several tables away. His brown wavy hair, handsome face and clean-cut style caused her to sneak another look. There was nothing about his clothes that attracted her attention. Rather it was indefinable qualities – the pensive face, the intelligent expression, his bearing. She felt some unexplainable stirrings, some warm flutterings about this person.

If only … no. Joel could go to buggery.

*  *  *

‘Cheers! What a great day to be at Amberley.’ The man in question was speaking to her and raising his glass.

She smiled back at him and returned the compliment. There was no other course of action, or so he thought at the time, but to take hold of his bottle, wander nonchalantly over to her table and extol the many virtues of the Amberley wines.

‘Why don’t you have a seat? I’m about to order coffee. It’ll make the waitress’s task a lot easier by just serving one table,’ she exclaimed, giving him a wink.

They had both consumed ample quantities of wine so it was not surprising that their behaviour toward each other was friendly and convivial. As Nick sat down he had an opportunity for a closer inspection of the woman in front of him. Here was someone worth getting to know – confident with a zest for living, friendly and very pretty.

‘Thank you, I will. Here’s to country life and good restaurants.’ He raised his glass once more. ‘Do you live around here?’

‘Oh, I’m not a local, I’m just visiting the area for a few days.’

‘Me too – a happy coincidence. I should introduce myself, I’m Nick Harris.’

‘Hi, I’m Laura Hadley.’

He filled both their glasses from his bottle and hastily ordered another bottle of Chenin. In the process he stole a closer look at Laura Hadley. Indeed she was very striking and attractive. Her hair arrangement and the hastily tied ponytail did nothing for her, nor did the loose-fitting white linen shirt and pants, but he could see beyond this. She had a well-sculpted face with penetrating blue eyes, a pert nose and chin, and a slim figure – indeed, a most eye-catching woman.

But what would she see in him? As he was pondering his next move she asked him what brought him to Busselton. Perhaps a few self-deprecating comments might be in order, he mused to himself, as he filled their glasses from the new bottle.

‘I’m looking for a new start. I don’t like my job, my marriage fell to pieces two years ago, I’ve come south to reflect on where I’m going, what I’m doing, and what might be.’

‘And what progress have you made?’

‘Not sure – perhaps newspaper reporting isn’t for me.’

‘So you’re one of those snooping reporters,’ she exclaimed provocatively.

He laughed ironically. ‘Actually I’m the education reporter at The West Australian. I liked writing education stories at first. The human interest ones – you know the sort of thing: the disadvantaged migrant student who gains top marks in a major examination; the grandmother who gets a university degree at the age of seventy. But I soon began to realise that for the majority of students, schools are prisons. Little changes because the public officials in power don’t want things changed. I mustn’t get started on this topic, I’ll drive you silly,’ he blurted out, as he realised he was going on at great length. ‘Anyway, what do you do?’ he asked, trying to deflect attention from his list of woes.

‘I’m a fashion buyer for Aherns. It can also get very boring – the buying trips to wholesalers in Melbourne and Sydney, the highs and lows of ordering stock that either does fabulously well or bombs out.’

He was a little amazed that a clothes buyer could look anything other than a ‘fashion plate’, yet here was Laura, a young woman in her early-to-mid twenties, wearing very casual, almost scruffy gear. \

She must have read his thoughts because she added: ‘I’ve come down to Busselton on the spur of the moment – had a few problems lately – or rather my Dad has. I literally tossed some things in my car after work last night and came.’

He paused, waiting for her to continue but she obviously didn’t want to elaborate on what these problems were. He changed tack.

‘So where are you staying?’

‘At the Broadwater resort. Dad has had an apartment there for several years.’

‘Why, that’s just over the road from me. I’m at the Geographe Holiday Park – but I’m downmarket from you.’

Laura ignored the comment and focussed instead on the menu. ‘I’d better order those coffees I enticed you with some while ago,’ she said with a smile. ‘In fact I’m going to be really wicked. I think I’ll try one of their desserts. I can’t get past this one – “Icky, Sticky, Licky Toffee Pudding with lashings of whipped cream”. Mmm, sounds delicious.’

He readily agreed. The dessert lived up to its reputation. It really was very good and they dallied for some time over the espresso coffees. The restaurant staff had been exceptionally patient with them; it was now nearly three o’clock and they were the last customers. He volunteered to pay both bills but Laura insisted on paying her share. With the bills settled they strolled out to the gravelled car park past the giant redgum and large grasstrees. Laura stopped at a bright red Toyota Celica. The rusty old surfboard rack on the fancy car looked rather incongruous but he didn’t comment.

Instead he took her hand and said softly: ‘That was a great way to spend an afternoon and the coffee was worth coming over to your table.’

‘It sure was.’ She smiled warmly and made no attempt to release her hand from his.

‘Why don’t we meet up again tonight, perhaps at Stilts at around seven?’ he suggested.

‘Sure, I’d like that, but I must warn you that I’ll be having an early night. I’m up surfing at five tomorrow morning.’

Having reached that agreement he bade Laura farewell, walked across the car park to his rather battered and elderly Ford Falcon and drove off.

The magnificent scenery floated by as Nick drove slowly back down the Wildwood Road to Busselton. The grassy paddocks and the sheep grazing contentedly made an attractive scene. The narrow stretches of Wildwood Road revealed at its verges the large amount of gravel and laterite in the area. Every now and then he glimpsed patches of blue on the horizon, the dark blue waters of the Indian Ocean to the west and the placid lighter blue waters of Geographe Bay to the north.

He noticed the new holiday chalets, many of them with mud brick walls, springing up on both sides of Wildwood Road, and the newly established vineyards with their glistening new trellis posts and irrigation systems. In other parts of the land adjoining Wildwood Road were stands of Tasmanian bluegums, a vigorously growing softwood which he knew was now providing an important source of paper-pulp for newspapers.

Some of the paddocks had been completely cleared and were now being used for cattle grazing. These paddocks tended to be dotted with black and white Friesian dairy cows. At regular intervals were small dams and slowly turning windmills. Lone redgum trees, stark, greyish-white and almost dead, remained as sentinels and as a reminder of the foolish habits of early settlers to ringbark trees if they proved to be too difficult to fell.

The growth of tourism was evident everywhere he looked: roadside craft shops, flower farms, an ice cream parlour selling thirty-five different flavours, a wildlife park. All were trying to attract the tourist dollar. A lot of the land which had previously been used for farming was now being divided up into ‘choice’ building lots. An occasional old group-settlement house could still be seen together with deserted hay sheds and overgrown cattle-loading pens, a relic of a past era and soon to be obliterated from the landscape as new small hobby farms and residential subdivisions took over.

Although he was absorbing all these scenes and enjoying them immensely, Nick’s thoughts kept going back to the afternoon’s events and especially Laura. He couldn’t wait to see her again. Thankfully it wouldn’t be too long, he thought to himself, as he completed the last leg of the journey across the Vasse River and past the archery park and then the short trip along the Bussell Highway back to Geographe Holiday Park.

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