Return to Moondilla (3 page)

Finally, after several days of this, the old man spoke to him. ‘What’s your name, young man?’

‘It’s Greg. Greg Baxter. We own the restaurant in Moondilla.’

‘I’m Albert Garland. You can call me Mr Garland. Like fishing, do you?’

‘I like to see the different kinds of fish there are.’

‘I suppose you know them all, do you?’

‘No, but I know the ones my mum uses in the restaurant. Snapper and flathead mostly.’

‘Your mother can’t go wrong with them,’ Mr Garland said and nodded wisely. ‘Very good eating fish. I like them best myself.’

The old man would make lunch of a sandwich and small thermos of tea. He carried them and his fishing gear in an ex-army haversack that had attracted Greg’s attention from the outset. Aside from the haversack, Mr Garland carried his rod and a sugar bag with a rope noose. He’d put his catch in the sugar bag and drop it into the water until it was time to leave, when he’d kill and clean the fish.

‘That’s a strong-looking bag,’ Greg said once, after a thorough inspection of the haversack. It was made of a kind of canvas and fastened with brass-edged straps. The boy had never seen a bag like it.

‘It will never wear out,’ the old man said proudly. ‘That haversack was in North Africa. They made them tough for the army.’

•

So it was to Mr Garland that Greg made his way after his mother had told him the awful news. He hoped the old man would appreciate how badly he felt.

‘What’ve you lost, young Greg?’ Mr Garland asked. ‘You look very down in the mouth.’

‘We’re leaving Moondilla,’ Greg said tremulously. He was on the verge of tears but trying desperately not to appear a sook.

‘Ah, so it’s true.’

‘What do you mean?’ Greg asked.

‘I heard your people’s business had been sold. Surprised me, ’cause it seemed to be going so well.’

‘That’s the problem.’ Greg explained his mum’s plans.

Mr Garland listened thoughtfully. ‘And you’re very unhappy about leaving?’

Greg sniffed. ‘Yes, I love this place. I love the beach and the river and watching you fish. I don’t want to go to Sydney where there’s millions of people.’

‘Well, if you’re a good boy—and I reckon you are—you’ll
fall in with what your people want. They must reckon they’re doing the right thing, and it’s them that has to find the money for everything. One day it will be your turn to make the decisions about what you’re going to do.’

‘I suppose so,’ Greg said glumly.

The old man set his rod aside and stooped down a bit closer to the boy’s level. ‘I’ll tell you something I’ve never told anyone—not even my late wife.’

Greg nodded eagerly.

‘I was in the first AIF, in France. It was a dreadful business, young Greg. Freezing cold, snow at times, the shelling was awful and the German machine guns were terrible. Then there was their stinking gas. Thousands of Australians killed. I finished up in hospital in England. And do you know what helped to get me through?’

The boy shook his head.

‘It was the thought of being able to come back here where there were no guns and no stinking gas, just the sea and the river and the fishing. So I’ll give you two pieces of advice. Fall in with a good heart with what your parents want to do, but keep the picture of Moondilla in your mind. And when you’re your own boss, you can come back here.’

‘What’s your second piece of advice, Mr Garland?’

‘Be the best it’s possible to be at whatever you do. If you’re successful, that will help you to come back here.’ The old man’s face softened in a way the boy had never seen before. ‘I’m
going to miss you, young Greg. Although I won’t be here to see it, I reckon that one day you’ll return to Moondilla. That’s the kind of young man I think you are. You’ll come back here and do things that people remember.’

‘But you won’t be here,’ Greg said, again feeling like he might cry.

Mr Garland shrugged. ‘Nobody lives forever. I could have, and probably should have, died in France along with my best mates, so I’ve had a fortunate reprieve. And I’ve caught a lot of good fish.’

•

Some three years later, a parcel arrived at the Baxters’ home in Sydney, addressed to Greg. It wasn’t Christmas or his birthday. ‘Who could be sending me a present?’

‘If you open it, you’ll find out,’ Frances said, handing him a pair of scissors.

Once he’d cut the packing tape, Greg tore the cardboard box open and let out a whoop of excitement. ‘It’s Mr Garland’s haversack! It was in North Africa. There’s an NX number on it.’

‘And there’s a note inside,’ Frances pointed out.

Greg withdrew the single piece of creamy notepaper.

Dear Greg,

Keep the dream alive.

Your old fishing mate,

Albert Garland.

‘He didn’t forget,’ Greg whispered. ‘He knew I liked his haversack.’

‘The really worthwhile people never forget, Greg,’ his mum told him.

Greg looked at his mother and nodded. Her eyes were damp. That was when he realised that the arrival of the haversack meant Mr Garland had died.

This didn’t lessen Greg’s desire to go back to Moondilla, though he knew the town would never be quite the same without his friend. An old and very decorated ex-soldier had treated him not as a small boy, but as a mate.

Years later, when he finally returned to live in Moondilla, Baxter brought the haversack with him. In fact, it was where he stowed the aspirin he’d just bought.

CHAPTER FOUR

‘
So what are
you
doing in Moondilla?’ Julie asked, when they were sitting in a corner of the cosy little coffee shop.

He looked down at the long, neat line of stitches in his arm before answering. ‘I’m trying to write a book. Although I won’t be much good at typing for a while.’

‘The great Australian novel?’

‘I’ll be happy just to get it published,’ he said, grinning.

‘What’s the theme of it?’

‘Well, do you remember that journalism was my day job back in Sydney? When I wasn’t helping out with one of Mum’s cooking ventures.’

Julie nodded.

‘I did a couple of big stories about the increase in heroin usage, and the fact that a lot of prostitutes are hooked on it or
something equally obnoxious. Mum’s publisher was impressed with my work. He said if I ever felt like writing something more substantial, even a novel based on the articles I’d written, he’d be more than happy to have a look. So I’ve sort of got a foot in the door. Mind you, I’ve got to produce the book.’

‘Hmm. Well, don’t tear those stitches.’ Julie paused, stirring some sugar into her coffee. ‘And is there a Mrs Baxter?’

Baxter caught a glimpse of hope in her eyes—she was probably just hoping that he’d settled down with a nice woman. He wished he could say that he had.

Instead he said, ‘I haven’t met anyone I wanted to live with. Not after I lost Elaine. And to be honest, not after you left for the UK.’ He took a breath and plunged on. ‘I have to admit, you were the only woman who appealed to me. But you had other plans. I understood that, and I just hope you never felt I was coming on too strong.’

He thought she might be offended or even angry, but she smiled gently and said, ‘There must have been others, Greg. There must have been. Men in your mould don’t grow on trees.’

Baxter shook his head. ‘Nothing serious. Nothing beyond dinner dates.’

There was a pause as they sipped their coffees.

‘So,’ she said, just as the silence grew uncomfortable, ‘you’re out at the Carpenter place on your own and you’re writing a book.’

‘I’m not entirely on my own.’

‘Ah,’ she said, her cup clattering as she set it down.

‘I have a big dog, Chief. An amazing animal. He’s a German Shepherd, bred from imported stock.’

‘A dog! You’re living on your own with a dog?’

‘Yep, is that so hard to believe?’

She gave him a look that told him it was.

‘Honestly,’ he said and laughed, ‘I’m living on a strict budget, keeping up my martial arts routine and working long-ish hours at the computer.’

Julie nodded thoughtfully. ‘So you’ve got a German Shepherd. Things are beginning to click in my head. My sister Jane is dog mad—she has two boxers—and she mentioned that a fellow who came to the garage had a very clever shepherd. You might have met her husband, Steve Lewis. He owns Moondilla Motors.’

‘I didn’t meet him, just an assistant, but I know him by reputation. He’s supposed to be the best mechanic in the district.’

‘That’s right. He’s a decent enough fellow, as men go. Jane could have done a lot worse. His only vice is that he’s fishing mad. Mind you, he’s not alone around here.’

‘It’s hardly a vice, Julie,’ Baxter protested.

‘No, hardly a vice,’ she said and smiled. ‘Maybe more of an obsession in Steve’s case. And to be honest, it’s an obsession I understand. Not Jane, though.’

‘Steve sounds a nice bloke. And is there anyone I should watch out for?’

She hesitated, then said, her voice low, ‘There’s one bully boy here: Jack Drew. An ex-pug who slaps his wife around from time to time. It’s usually when he’s on the booze. I doubt that you’d get on very well with Jack. I’ve patched up a few fellows he’s tangled with, not to mention his gorgeous wife, Liz. You might keep your eyes open for him.’

‘You’re concerned about my welfare?’

‘No, you ninny. I’m concerned about what
you
might do to Jack.’

He tried to look humble, but knew he’d failed when she grinned.

‘Anyone else?’ he asked.

‘There’s a Senior Sergeant Cross. Did you meet him at the accident today?’

Baxter shook his head.

‘Well, Cross has been here a fair while, and the rumour is that he’s bent.’

Baxter cocked an eyebrow. ‘Bent in what way?’

Julie’s voice lowered even more, and Baxter leaned forward to listen. ‘It’s said that he’s hand in glove with some of the big drug suppliers.’

‘Drug suppliers in Moondilla?’ he asked harshly.

The discovery of the woman’s body had worried Baxter, but he hadn’t really believed that the town had fallen so low. Albert Garland would have been horrified.

Baxter’s face hardened and his eyes bored into Julie, who looked a little scared. She gestured for him to calm down, and
he glanced around, realising that the couple at the table next to them were staring. He made an effort to relax, and Julie kept talking in her soft voice.

‘You know we’ve always had drugs here—’

‘But only in a low-key kind of way.’

‘Yes, that’s true.’ Her mouth was drawn tight, and he realised she might be thinking of her brother. ‘Now there seems little doubt that drugs are being landed here from the sea and then sent on to Sydney and Melbourne. The locals are reluctant to talk about it—they remember what happened to Donald Mackay in Griffith.’

Baxter shook his head. ‘I hate the whole drug scene, Julie,’ he said bleakly. ‘I knew people who got hooked on drugs. Someone who died. It’s what I’m writing about. I hate drugs and I hate the people pushing them.’ It was a huge effort to keep his voice down. ‘As far as I’m concerned, anyone who pushes drugs is a complete mongrel, the lowest kind of person on this earth. It’s a rotten business.’

‘I agree. Drugs and alcohol have a lot to answer for. My brother’s death, for one.’

Baxter nodded, wishing there was something he could do or say to comfort her.

‘And now,’ she added, a quaver in her voice, ‘it’s my job to deal with the consequences of those things every week of my life.’

They’d finished their coffee and Baxter wasn’t sure what else to say—just that he wanted to see her again. But now,
after everything she’d told him, and with the new weight on his mind, it was difficult to ask.

He was relieved when she beat him to the pleasantries. ‘It’s really good seeing you again, Greg,’ she said, making an effort to smile. ‘It gave me a shock seeing you sitting there. I hope you have a very pleasant sojourn in Moondilla, despite its problems.’

‘Thanks, I plan on being here quite a while.’ This was his chance. ‘I hope you’ll come out and see me—I’ll cook you a decent fish meal.’

He’d hoped he sounded casual enough, but Julie raised her eyebrows and said sharply, ‘You should know that I’m not looking for a relationship.’

‘Who said anything about a relationship? I didn’t have that in mind.’

But the barriers were up. ‘Men always have that in mind.’

‘Look, it’s a very agreeable spot, and you can fish off my jetty if you’d like. Or we can go out on the small runabout I bought with the place. She’s named the
Flora Jane
after old Harry’s grandma.’

It was the right thing to say. Julie’s face softened, and she looked a little embarrassed, colour rising in her cheeks. ‘Sorry, Greg. That does sound lovely. My dad had a fishing boat too—an area of dispute between him and Mum.’ She swallowed. ‘When he died, she sold the boat.’

Baxter felt a surge of sympathy—Julie had certainly been through the ringer. ‘That’s a shame,’ he said. ‘Well, there you
are, you can come and fish with me. I’ll bet you could teach me a lot.’

‘We’ll see.’ She got to her feet, a grin back on her face. ‘You get on home now, have a cup of tea and something to eat, and take a couple of those aspirin. And don’t be a bad patient. Take the antibiotics!’

‘Yes, Dr Rankin, whatever you say.’ He chuckled and glanced at his arm as he stood up. ‘And thanks for the embroidery. When I left for Moondilla, I didn’t imagine I’d be returning with a sample of your handiwork.’

CHAPTER FIVE

Baxter smiled to himself as he pulled up the driveway to his riverside home. He hadn’t been there long, but already he had a great fondness for the place. He’d never experienced any warm feelings towards the apartments he’d rented in Sydney. Riverview was different—it was beautiful, and it was his own.

He also had a great warmth for his mother, who’d helped him buy the property. Frances wouldn’t have done it if she’d disapproved—she was a shrewd businesswoman as well as a renowned chef—but the fact was that she liked Riverview and believed it was a good buy. Her trusted real estate valuer had assured her that the property was likely to appreciate greatly in the very near future. Sydney businesspeople were buying up South Coast land and either renovating farmhouses or building
flash new homes, and some were commuting to and from the city by helicopter.