THE OTHER SIDE OF THE SEASON by Jenn J Mcleod

THE OTHER SIDE OF THE SEASONFirst published in Australia in 2016 by Simon & Schuster (Australia) Pty LimitedSuite 19A, Level 1, 450 Miller Street, Cammeray, NSW 2062

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© Jenn J McLeod 2016

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior permission of the publisher.

National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication entryCreator: McLeod, Jenn J., author.Title: The other side of the season/Jenn J. McLeod. ISBN: 9781925030310 (paperback) ISBN: 9781925030327 (ebook)Subjects: Brothers – Australia – Ficion. Families – Australia – Fiction. Interpersonal relations – Fiction.Dewey Number: A823.4

Cover design: Christabella DesignsCover image: Stephen Carroll/Trevillion ImagesTypeset by Midland Typesetters, Australia Printed and bound in Australia by Griffi n Press

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Copyright material by Andrew Wyeth in this publication has been reproduced with permission.

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The Blue Mountains, 2015

Sorry was all he’d managed to write this time, each shaking stroke of his pen scratching against the sheet of fancy paper. Unsaid, the solitary word seemed hollow and meaningless.

There were so many things to be sorry about. Sometimes he was sorry he’d been born at all. But how did he explain that in a letter? Besides, who would care to know all he’d done—all that had been done to him?

Outside the guestroom, winter-grey mountains sat against a dawn sky brushed purple and gold. Soon enough the familiar mist would tinge everything blue. The haze was said to be oil particles emitted by eucalypt trees, but he knew it was most likely chimney smoke from nearby houses—homes that would be warm and welcoming of family and of friends. Wasn’t that how life was meant to be?

Not like this.Not alone.Not sad, not scared, and not sorry. And yet there was that

single, unsaid word staring back at him from the page.Sorry.He’d already penned one brief note and addressed it: To Anyone

Who Cares.

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viii

The Other Side of the Season

Three lines.Three short sentences.But this second note—this apology—was his last chance to

explain what he was sorry about. He’d need to fi nd the right words so she understood, so she’d know the truth. His version of the truth at least, because . . .

There’s another side to every story.

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Part 1

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1Watercolour Cove, 2015

‘G et that clodhopper of a foot off my dashboard, Jake.’Her brother barely mumbled himself awake when Sidney

thumped the solid lump of shoulder muscle sculpted from years of hauling heavy tubs of ice and freshly caught fi sh.

‘What’s up, sis?’ Jake fl icked at the brim of his peak cap and slid the gold-rimmed sunglasses down his nose before looking around. ‘And what have you done with Byron Bay?’

‘Come on, get your act together,’ Sidney replied, noting the two-kilometres-to-town signpost. ‘We’re here.’

‘We are? Didn’t we only just cross over Mooney Mooney Creek Bridge?’

‘About four hours ago. You’ve been great company while I’ve been driving.’

‘Only four hours from Mooney and we’re already in Byron? Really?’ Jake sat straight. ‘The place looks different than I remember.’

‘Very funny. This isn’t Byron Bay and you know it.’‘So, I take it the we’re here is a bit premature. Wake me when

we get there, will ya? And do you think we can turn the heat down a little? A bloke could bake in this car.’


4


Her brother burrowed back into the seat, rested his chin on his chest and pretended to nod off again as Sid fi ddled with the climate control knob, glimpsing her travel-weary face in the rear-view mirror and wishing Jake hadn’t got all the good looks.

‘I made an executive decision while you were sleeping.’He peeked sideways at her from under his cap. ‘My big sister is

making decisions on the fl y? Since when?’Jake was right. While her brother had inherited the impuls-

ive gene from some distant relative, Sid, older by ten years, was usually more prudent—a mix of her mother’s cautiousness and her father’s need for order and routine. But with the recent overdose of motherly advice she’d received, and with life about to be fl ipped on its head in a matter of months—all routine out the window—a little spontaneity seemed like the perfect panacea. The detour wasn’t all that spur-of-the-moment, of course, but her brother didn’t know that yet.

‘Sidney? Out with it.’ Jake sat up again and appeared to take in the change of scenery. Where thick, unwieldy trees and shrubs had lined the roadside, the vegetation was now sparse and pruned to accommodate traffi c signs, advertising billboards and local tourist drive information. ‘Where are we and what are you up to?’

‘Nothing!’ Even Sid thought she sounded like a guilty ten-year-old. ‘I saw the name of the town and I liked it. Watercolour Cove sounds special, don’t you think? And it’s a nice break from the highway.’ Sid had been enjoying the feel of her new car wending its way along the ribbon of bitumen that traced a wide river, on which an occasional boat fl oated at anchor, bows pointing into the breeze. ‘Is the view right now not more spec-tacular than Byron?’ she asked. ‘Besides, that town is overrated, overcrowded and overpriced—even in winter. We are both out of work, remember?’

‘You’re a crap liar, Sidney. Never been your strong suit. What gives? The idea was to check out the job scene. There’s always something going in Byron, and the further north we go the warmer


Jenn J McLeod

5

the winter for cold frogs like you.’ Jake attempted to adjust the temperature control again but she slapped his hand away.

‘I agree there’s probably more jobs, but there’s also more people vying for them. Don’t you think the odds might be better in a small, out-of-the-way place like this?’

Jake eyeballed his sister. ‘And how out of the way would that be?’‘Oh, only a few kilometres from the Pacifi c Highway.’‘There’s that face again, Sid. I’ve known when you’re fi bbing

ever since you told me the tooth fairy forgot to leave money under my pillow. Now, how many is a few kilometres?’

‘Ah, about twenty-fi ve, give or take a kilometre or so. Anyway, I need to refuel.’

‘And a twenty-fi ve kilometre detour from the country’s busiest highway was your best option?’ Jake inspected his wristwatch as Sid pulled up beside a diesel pump at the small garage in the heart of the Watercolour Cove township. ‘Right-o, then. It’s too late to hit the highway now. It’ll be beer o’clock soon enough, I reckon. This town better have a pub.’

‘No pub!’ Her brother repeated the petrol station attendant’s answer as the bloke robbed Sidney of an exorbitant amount of money for one night’s villa accommodation in the caravan park behind the garage. ‘I’ve heard of the pub with no beer, mate, but what kind of Aussie country town doesn’t have a hotel?’

The attendant shrugged. ‘Renovations. Closed till July.’‘That’s a whole month away.’Another shrug. ‘Best time, really. First day of winter. Not many

people come here at this time of year. Most head further north. Byron’s heaps warmer. Better waves as well.’

‘Told you so, sis.’Sid slipped the credit card back into her wallet. This trip was

going to cost more than she’d fi rst thought—money that would’ve


6


been better off earning interest until the end of next month when she planned to be back home, in time for Sydney’s July sales. She’d need to buy furniture and other things to set up her own place, because she wasn’t staying at her mother’s any longer than needed. Mid October was her absolute deadline. If she could survive her mother that long.

‘Fish co-op only operates till two pm.’ The attendant handed Sidney a giant key tag, the words Gumnut Cabin burned into a varnished piece of wood. ‘The Fisho’s Club on the other side of the cove is good for a beer and it’s walking distance. Follow the path from the breakwall, down along the beach and up the other side. You’ll see it past the jetties, but before the co-op. Bistro’s always open and not bad, as long as Cook’s having a good day.’ The mechanic with the winter tan fl icked his wild mane of surfer-boy bleached hair.

‘I like my seafood,’ Jake said.‘In that case, you might want to take the car and follow the

river along the bottom of the mountain behind us. A few kilo-metres along you’ll fi nd Moonlight Oysters. Best Sydney rock oysters in the country.’

Jake took the villa key and his sister’s elbow, guiding her out of the small shop. ‘Oysters! Okay, now we’re talking. Come on, sis, your shout.’

‘Maybe tomorrow, Jake. I really don’t want to get back in the car right now. Let’s walk the main street and we can check out the Fisho’s Club for dinner tonight.’

Her brother stopped to survey the short length of divided road, the median strip down its centre planted out to add colour: fl ower-ing gazanias, brilliant pigface and small clumps of purple lobelia dwarfed by the spiky and unwieldy reeds of a mysterious grey-green plant.

‘Don’t get too excited about the main street,’ he said.Shops lined only one side of the road, while opposite there

was open space—a beachside reserve with a poorly placed public


Jenn J McLeod

7

amenities block that partially obstructed breathtakingly beauti-ful estuary views. Someone had painted a seascape over the squat brick building and, although clever, the fi nished artwork was no substitute for the real thing.

Halfway along the street the footpath detoured into a paved courtyard ringed by more small businesses: a café and takeaway with wooden tables and chairs fi xed in place, the market umbrel-las folded away and stacked in one corner; a tattoo parlour called Squid’s Ink; and a hairdressing salon called Salt Spray that had fi fty per cent off foils.

Sid needed a spruce-up. She might feel like crap more often than not these days, but she didn’t have to look like—to use her mother’s expression—she had given up caring completely. Natalie didn’t mince her words, her critical business eye and expectations fl owing over to her family, like criticising her daughter’s increas-ingly frequent fashion faux pas. Natalie always looked immaculate. Not a single strand of bottle-blonde hair was ever out of place, her make-up faultless from breakfast to bedtime.

At the last shop in the small courtyard, in the only section of window glass not obliterated with anti-government posters, Sid caught her own refl ection: the comfortable track pants that were pulled a little too tight, the shapeless hoodie hanging a little too loose, and more hair out rather than in the elastic band. Mourning her job, and the seven years of her life she’d lost building up Zeus Design Studio, Sid had ditched business suits for comfortable pants and oversized jumpers, and given up complexion-enhancing make-up, expensive foils to enliven her mousey-brown hair, and styling products—all potential poisons according to a magazine article. Instead she rediscovered a love of face freckles and no longer bothered to cover the sprinkling that had speckled her nose and cheeks since childhood.

Once over the shock, Sid tried to see her unemployment status as liberating. With time on her hands, and the odd bit of free-lance work to keep money coming in, she was at least eating three


8


healthy meals a day and trying to think positive about herself and her future.

‘Are you listening, sis?’ Jake tugged at the ponytail Sid favoured these days. A few months ago she would have started each morning wrestling with a round brush and hair dryer to coerce the waves into a more corporate look. Now she couldn’t be bothered. Maybe her mother was right and Sid really had started to give up com-pletely—and not just on her appearance. Then Sid found the letter scrunched up in the bin and she fi nally had a mission, something to take her mind off everything else.

‘Sorry, Jake, I guess I’m more tired than I thought. What were you saying?’

‘I told Mum we’d ring when we got to Byron,’ he repeated. ‘Better call and fi ll her in.’

‘No!’ Sidney snapped. ‘I mean, yes, we can call, but maybe we shouldn’t tell her where we are—exactly. It’s not as if a small detour matters and she might worry. Besides, she’s only been in Melbourne a couple of days. Let her settle in. We know how full-on a visit to Aunty Tasha’s can be.’

‘Sidney?’ Jake’s questioning, the way he strung out his words, always sounded a little bit like a song. ‘What exactly are you up to?’

‘Nothing.’‘Nuh-ah! That is not your nothing face. That face right now is

your uh-oh fl ippin’ fi shcakes face. And I will tell Mum, you know. I’m not too old to dob on my big sister leading me astray.’ The conspiratorial squint told Sid he was kidding, easing her concerns.

‘As if she’s not upset enough with the business shutting and everything else. Let’s not worry Mum about our change of plans.’

Jake stepped in front, blocking her path. ‘Tell me, Sid.’‘Okay, okay. I found something.’‘Something like what? Gold in them big ol’ hills up there? Or is

there sunken treasure in the little cove, me hearty?’‘A letter. Can we keep walking, please? It’s cold.’ She darted

around her brother, forcing him to catch up.


Jenn J McLeod

9

‘I’ll keep walking if you keep talking,’ he said. ‘Where did you fi nd this letter?’

‘At home. In the bin. Mum had thrown it away.’‘Sidney, you’re doing my head in.’ They crossed the road,

heading for the crescent-shaped stretch of sand that the bloke at the bowsers said would lead them to the Fishermen’s Club. ‘You owe me an explanation—I’ll have a draught beer at the same time. Come on. Get a move on. A man could die of thirst at this pace.’

‘Well, fl ip me a fi shcake!’ Jake looked up from the letter in his hand when Sidney returned with a glass of pale ale for him and a lemon squash to quench her unquenchable thirst. With any luck the sugar would help hold back the headache from becoming any worse.

‘So, now you know as much as I do.’‘And this is why you’ve dumped me in a town with no pub,’

Jake said. ‘Hmm! Might it not have been better to ask Mum? Or are the two of you still playing no talkies since the last argument?’

‘Ask her what? Why she’s never told us we had a grandfather living only a seven-hour drive north of Sydney? And why, when he’s extending an olive branch and asking to reconnect with his son, she decides to throw the letter in the bin unanswered?’

‘That might’ve been a start,’ Jake said. ‘You obviously knew she hadn’t sent a reply.’

‘I did ask her, sort of.’ Ice cubes bobbed in Sid’s glass as she poked at them with the striped drinking straw. ‘I fi shed around when I fi rst found the letter two weeks ago.’

Jake gave a little snort. ‘Sis, you fi sh like you drive.’ He folded his arms on the table and shook his head. ‘I knew something was going on with you two. The atmosphere at home has been colder than a Tibetan tin toilet seat.’

‘Try living there.’


10


‘No thanks.’ Jake sculled his beer. ‘One visit a week is enough for me. So, what did Mum say?’

‘She told me she was respecting our father’s wishes, then promptly reminded me, in true Natalie fashion, that he’d been estranged from his parents since marrying Mum and had wanted nothing to do with them.’

‘Then?’‘Then we kind of argued—again—about something. I can’t

remember what. You know how Mum is always changing the subject when it suits her.’

Kind of argued was a bit of an understatement. Their mother had been furious. In hindsight, confronting her about the letter over dinner that night had not been very smart, considering recent events—especially since mother and daughter hadn’t seen eye to eye on much over the years.

‘And then?’ Jake stared harder.‘I told her it wasn’t right to keep something like that from us.

Dad was the one with the family issues and since he’s not here anymore surely you and I can choose whether or not we reconnect with our relatives.’

‘So, this little detour away from Byron was planned.’ Jake sounded miffed. ‘And you fi gured you wouldn’t let me in on the secret until when?’

‘We can still get to Byron. In the letter our grandfather mentions a beach house in Watercolour Cove. I was curious to see the place—and it’s not far out of our way. I thought a couple of days here wouldn’t hurt.’

‘And the fact that this grandfather is in prison doesn’t add a degree, or two, of diffi culty?’

‘I hadn’t decided how that factors into my plans. Still haven’t.’‘And so here we are,’ was all Jake said.Sid followed her brother’s contemplative gaze to the cluster of

beach shacks set back along the foreshore, their front yards wild with dune vegetation. ‘Sorry I didn’t tell you sooner.’


Jenn J McLeod

11

‘No worries, sis. Maybe it’s not such a loony idea after all.’‘What do you mean?’‘I didn’t see too many houses as we drove through town, and if

this grandfather of ours really has got a property in Watercolour Cove, well, just check out those little beauties on the beach. Pretty awesome if he owns one of those joints. Visiting the old bloke may put us in his good books and his will. Good move, sis.’ Jake winked.

‘Be serious.’‘I am. A cheap reno, rustic tables, a small daily menu featur-

ing the day’s freshest seafood straight from those trawlers. Jake’s Beach Shack Café. Ta-dum!’

‘Dream on, little brother. All I’m doing at this stage is looking. I thought being here might help me decide what to do about the information in the letter.’

Jake pressed a calloused hand over the creased envelope Sidney had found while transferring paper from the kitchen bin to the recycling container. She had been tsking to herself, muttering something along the lines of How hard can it be to put paper in the recycling, Mum? With the recycling bin already bursting with wine cartons and discarded tissue boxes, she had started tearing and fl attening them when the note fell out of a tissue box and fl oated down to land on her foot. The sight of her father’s name on the envelope, and the handwritten forwarding address, had piqued her curiosity. More than ten years had passed since his death. Why, or more importantly how, would someone know to forward a letter to his wife in the Blue Mountains?

‘And do you know where the Mid North Coast Correctional Centre is in relation to where we are now?’ Jake asked.

‘About an hour’s drive inland.’‘And the solicitor has addressed the letter to Dad so they assume

he’s still around.’‘And whatever happened between Dad and his parents must’ve

been more serious than them not being keen on his choice of a


12


wife, as Mum tells it. We’ll have to take things one step at a time so we don’t tread on anyone’s toes.’

Jake sat up straight, launching into his all-too-common meerkat pose. ‘We?’

‘You don’t have to stay, or get involved,’ Sid smirked, sounding deliberately cocky. ‘I’m happy to get in our grandfather’s good books all on my own. I’ll let you know how things go.’

‘Yeah, sure you will. That’ll be like the tooth fairy all over again.’

‘I’m serious, Jake. Give me a few days to arrange a visit to the jail, then you can take my car if you want to head off.’

‘You want to stay here so much you’ll let me take your new car?’

‘Now you know why I insisted on bringing my bike. I can get by on that if you decide to go on to Byron to check things out.’

‘And you’re planning to cycle that thing all the way back to the Blue Mountains when you’re done?’ Jake chuckled. Then his head cocked to one side. ‘Come to think of it, sis, you’re starting to look a bit beefy in the backside. Some exercise might help keep that middle-aged spread at bay.’

‘Thirty-fi ve is hardly middle-aged. You’ll know that yourself in ten years. And nothing’s spreading, thanks very much.’

‘Something’s different about you. I mean, what’s with the soft drink? Unless . . . Hey, are you preggers? That would account for the humungous arse you’ve been cultivating.’

‘Very funny.’ Sid spoke down at the loose-fi tting top she thought hid her belly quite well. ‘Wondered when you’d notice.’

‘Ha! My big sis is going to be a mum. Woo hoo!’‘Shh, Jake,’ she said with a fi nger pressing against her lips. Sid

wasn’t announcing her pregnancy to all and sundry yet. At her last visit the doctor had been a bit concerned about the baby’s small size. He was monitoring both Sid and her little bump carefully, but Jake didn’t need to know that detail, in case he told their mother, who would surely have something to say about Sidney not taking


Jenn J McLeod

13

care of herself properly. ‘I fi gured if you hadn’t worked it out by the time the kid turned one I’d have to tell you.’

‘Oh, you’re hilarious, Sid. Cheers, big ears!’ Jake raised his glass and Sid realised how lucky she was to have him as a brother.

‘Yes, so, like I was saying . . . I can take the train back from here, or if the timing’s right you can collect me on your way south.’

‘Hmm.’ For a moment Jake seemed to contemplate his options, but then he grinned at her. ‘I’m your brother and you’re preggers. No way are you getting a train.’

‘Pregnant ladies catch trains all the time, Jake.’‘Yeah, well, not my sister. And stay off the bike.’Sid smiled. ‘Pregnant women can also still ride bikes.’‘No one in their right mind would ride a bike in this town.

Look at those hills.’Sidney squinted into the sienna-coloured fi reball of sun now

scorching the hilltops gold. The mountainous terrain sure was steep. Perhaps she should’ve anticipated as much when her quick Google search described Watercolour Cove not as a town but as a tourist attraction—the actual point where the Great Dividing Range escarpment meets Australia’s east coast.

Jake got up to go to the bar. ‘One for the road?’ he asked Sid, but she shook her head and he walked off.

The fi nal arc of sun behind the range was barely hanging on, the hills now a dark backdrop to the small seaside town nestled at their base. From the closed-in deck of the club, Sid peered beyond the smeared plastic awning and through the sea mist at the fuzzy yellow lights of the village. One by one lamps fl icked on, lighting the breakwall walk, while the crescent-shaped cove fell into darkness, only the white crests of small waves visible where they rolled onto the shore.

‘Starry night,’ she said as her brother returned with his second beer. ‘It’ll be cold.’

‘Not in Byron.’ Jake’s cheeky grin was so wide Sid could feel it spreading to her own face.


14


She poked out her tongue and wrapped her jacket around her body before pointing at the speck glowing at the top of the dark mountain range behind the town. At fi rst she’d thought the spot was a star. ‘See that tiny light? On the highest peak?’

‘Sure. What about it?’‘I wonder what sort of person would want to live up there?’‘Easy answer,’ Jake said. ‘Someone who doesn’t ride a bloody

bike!’


2The Greenhill Banana Plantation, 1979

‘G et off those bikes, you two, and help Albie and Matthew. These bananas aren’t going to pack themselves. And put your jumper on, David, or you’ll catch your death.’

‘Yeah, moron, what Dad said. It’s winter now. Or maybe you’re planning on painting yourself some sunshine.’

Tilly shot David’s older brother a look, wishing his father hadn’t been in earshot so she could deliver the mouthful of expletives Matthew’s wisecrack deserved.

‘Hey, Dad,’ David said, ignoring his brother. ‘You’ll never guess what Tilly and me did today.’

‘Oh, I’m sure I can, boy.’ He looked at his teenage son with a mix of love and tolerance.

‘Let’s show him, Tilly.’ David was already fl ipping open the satchel that hung by her side. She always draped the bag with the strap between her breasts to make them look bigger and now David’s hands were inside the bag and grabbing the sketchpad. He put a drawing on an upturned box where his father stood de-handing bananas from thick stems with a thin-bladed knife.


16


‘Look,’ he said, stepping back as if critically appraising the artwork. ‘I was teaching Tilly about the rule of refl ection. How everything has one.’

‘One what, son?’‘A refl ection, Dad.’‘Is that right?’‘Of course. I’m planning on a study in refl ection for my fi nal

year assessment work at school. See this?’ David pressed his fi nger at a point on the drawing. ‘If an object leans to the left its refl ec-tion will also lean to the left.’

Tilly wished David wouldn’t show her drawings to anyone, especially with his brother so close. Without even looking, she knew Matthew and the other workers in the packing shed would be grinning and rolling their eyes at each other.

‘Reckon she learns quick, Dad?’‘If you say so, son. Now, I want you cleaned up quick smart.

Wash the charcoal off your face and hands before you touch the bananas.’

‘Yeah, no marked bananas here, hey, Albie?’ Matthew and his packer mates grinned like the idiots they were, shoving each other in a silent show of solidarity. More like stupidity, Tilly mused. ‘And no Marhkt bananas either,’ Matthew added.

Morons! Tilly turned around to poke out her tongue at them, and at Albie Marhkt for letting them make fun of his surname.

‘Back to work you lot. And Tilly?’She turned, and in a voice sweeter than the scent on Mrs Hill’s

favourite roses, said, ‘Yes, Mr Hill?’‘I’d be giving your hands a good scrub before your mother sees

you, too.’‘Okay.’ Tilly rammed her hands in the pockets of her pants

and looked across at David, who was already doing what he’d been told, his hands in a lather of soap over the washbasin at the rear of the shed. No one had to tell David twice. At seventeen,


Jenn J McLeod

17

two years her junior, he was the good and obedient son—and smart. She’d fi gured that out the very fi rst time she saw him, in 1974. She’d been fourteen years old at the time Ulf had introduced them on the steep trip up the Greenhill plantation road.

Tilly fi ngered the lumps of charcoal in her pockets, knowing she’d be in trouble for getting her pants dirty—not that she cared about Hilda’s rants. Trouble and Tilly went hand in hand and she had bigger problems than grubby trousers. Five years on she was still here, still stuck on this mountain. David at least made things bearable.

She turned toward his older brother, Matthew, and then looked at Albie, David’s best friend, who lived with her on the Marhkts’ plantation next door. With a quick fl ick of her middle fi nger, she strutted up the hill to the fork in the road that would take her home.

The smell of smoked haddock made her want to gag as she sneaked through the front door and down the hall on tiptoes, keen to reach the bathroom and see her face before Hilda did.

‘I’m a Zebra!’ she said, quickly grabbing the face washer from the shower and scrubbing back and forth over her forehead, down her nose and across both cheeks until her skin tingled.

She and David had been down by the sea drawing, too engrossed to notice the time. They’d panicked, tossing pens and paper and pastels into their satchels before racing to their bikes at the start of the breakwall. David had chased Tilly, who—lighter, nimbler and faster—had managed to stay well ahead at the start. But running and laughing slowed her down, and as David closed in, Tilly faked a stumble and fell to the ground, grasping an ankle with both hands and crying out.

‘Are you okay?’ he’d asked, panting for breath when he reached her, worry streaked across his brow as his hands—soft and sexy—gently prodded her ankle to look for swelling.


18


Tilly’s fi rst response was a whimper and a puckered face to squeeze fake tears to the surface, knowing David would draw close and she could stroke his cheeks.

‘I am now.’ She barely managed to hold back a grin as her charcoal fi ngers laid stripes with each caress. ‘I love the way you look after me,’ she managed to say straight-faced.

‘Can you walk okay?’She was tempted to say ‘no, you’ll have to carry me’, only

David wasn’t like his brother—tall and athletic like a lot of the men in Dinghy Bay, a small town surviving on a mix of commer-cial fi shing and the banana industry. Tilly had no doubt David could support her weight. In fact, she’d enjoy the feel of his arms wrapped around her. She wanted nothing more than to have his hands touch her in places he hadn’t yet dared. But that wasn’t part of her plan right now.

‘Maybe some water?’ She thrust the small plastic drink fl ask in his direction. ‘Can you fi ll this from the bubbler on the breakwall?’

He trotted off dutifully, and within seconds Tilly was up and running, squealing in joyful victory as David yelled, ‘Hey, that’s cheating. Wait till I catch you.’

She beat him back to the pushbikes and stopped, knowing when David caught up he’d grab her, tickle her and she’d get to tickle him back. They’d played those kinds of games for years, although lately Tilly had noticed the tickles seemed to be linger-ing a little longer in some places. Once on their bikes she’d let him lead the way to the bottom of the plantation road where they’d again stop and regroup before tackling the steep track up the mountain on foot.

They had spent a little too long down by the cove that afternoon, too caught up in leaving their mark on the most out-of-the-way rock on the breakwall. They’d started their pastel drawing esca-pades years before, climbing down at low tide to the rocks closest to the waterline where they’d remain out of sight, and the high tide would wash away the evidence. Some locals called David


Jenn J McLeod

19

and Tilly vandals, their work graffi ti. That only encouraged the pair.

‘One day I’m going to choose the biggest rock on the wall and I’m going to paint you a message that will last forever,’ David had said earlier that day. ‘And I won’t care if everyone sees it.’

‘What will the message say?’ Tilly had asked.‘You’ll just have to wait and see.’


Documents

THE OTHER SIDE OF THE SEASON by Jenn J Mcleod