Ocean Child Read online

  OCEAN CHILD

  Tamara McKinley

  New York • London

  © 2013 by Tamara McKinley

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by reviewers, who may quote brief passages in a review. Scanning, uploading, and electronic distribution of this book or the facilitation of the same without the permission of the publisher is prohibited.

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  Any member of educational institutions wishing to photocopy part or all of the work for classroom use or anthology should send inquiries to Permissions c/o Quercus Publishing Inc., 31 West 57th Street, 6th Floor, New York, NY 10019, or to [email protected].

  e-ISBN 978-1-62365-566-2

  Distributed in the United States and Canada by

  Hachette Book Group

  237 Park Avenue

  New York, NY 10017

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, institutions, places, and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons—living or dead—events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  www.quercus.com

  Tamara McKinley is the author of more than eleven novels. She was born in Tasmania, but now lives in Sussex and Cornwall and writes full time. Her novels are both contemporary and historical, following the lives of Australian pioneers and those who came after them.

  Also by Tamara McKinley, available for purchase in ebook

  Matilda’s Last Waltz

  Jacaranda Vines

  Windflowers

  Summer Lightning

  Dreamscapes

  In loving memory of Daireen McKinley, who loved me as a daughter.

  There are many faces of love – each demanding their own loyalties – each shaded by circumstances, experience and expectation.

  But when love is true and steadfast, it demands the greatest gift of all – to be returned.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter 1

  England, February 1920

  The soft, downy warmth intensified and Lulu Pearson moved restlessly in an attempt to escape it. But the smothering heat seemed to press harder, covering her eyes, her nose and her mouth. With a whimper of distress she discovered she had no strength to push it away, and as her damaged heart hammered and she fought to breathe, she knew she was about to die.

  The pressure was even greater now, the blood singing in her ears, the fear giving her strength to fight this awful thing. But as she flailed and thrashed and tried to cry out, her heart struggled – thudding away inside her, weakening her with every tortuous beat.

  She heard voices. Was aware of a sliver of light. And suddenly she was free.

  Rearing up in the bed with a great gulp of clean, life-giving air, she opened her eyes. The room was in darkness, and this was not the little house in Tasmania. Her heart continued to struggle as she fought to regulate her breathing and calm the terrible fears this recurring nightmare always elicited. She was no longer a child – she was safe.

  *

  No one would have guessed he was sixty-five, for his step was robust, his figure sturdy, the walking stick more of an affectation than an aid. He fitted into the country scene and, as it was a role he’d played over many years, he felt comfortable in the tweed jacket, plus-fours and walking boots. It hadn’t always been so, for he was a city man at heart, but, like a good actor, he’d grown into the part and enjoyed these annual visits to Sussex.

  Camouflaged by the dappled shadows of the trees, he ate the last of his sandwiches and watched the rider slowly descend the far hill towards the livery stables. She had been gone for over an hour, but he hadn’t minded the wait. The weather was clement, if a little chill, and he was being generously paid. He tucked the sandwich wrapper in the canvas bag, brushed crumbs from his moustache and raised his binoculars.

  He knew Lulu Pearson intimately, yet they had never met or spoken, and if things went to plan, they never would. His occasional surveillance had begun many years ago, and as time had passed he’d seen her grow from coltish childhood into the beautiful young woman who now moved with lithe grace about the stable-yard. Her hair was her crowning glory, usually falling almost to her waist in curls that sparked gold and chestnut in the sun, but today she had pinned it into a thick knot at her nape.

  As she left the stables he got to his feet and began the long, uphill walk home. With the canvas bag and binoculars swinging from his shoulder, he headed back towards the village and a welcome pint of beer.

  *

  The effects of Lulu’s nightmare had been dissipated during her gentle horse-ride, and although the arrival of that strange letter this morning still puzzled her, she felt exhilarated. It was wonderful to be in the fresh air after all those hours in her studio, and now she was eager to return to work. The clay model was almost finished, and she wanted to make sure she’d captured the right sense of power and movement before she judged it ready for the foundry. Yet her great-aunt Clarice would be expecting her home for afternoon tea and, despite her enthusiasm for work, the prospect of a blazing fire, buttered crumpets and Earl Grey tea was enticing.

  She put all thoughts of Tasmania and the mysterious letter aside. It was a perfect English winter afternoon, with the sun shining from a cloudless sky, frost glittering in the shadows beneath the trees and the air crisp with the promise of snow. It was on days like these she was thankful she hadn’t followed the fashion for short hair, and as she tramped slowly homeward she took out the combs and pins and let her luxuriant locks fall over her shoulders and down her back.

  No doubt Clarice would make a fuss about her being out so long, but her troublesome heart was beating steadily enough, and it was liberating to have only the sky and silent landscape for company after the smog and noise of London. She’d enjoyed the independence of driving the omnibuses during the dark days of the Great War, and the thrill of earning her own money and sharing a flat with other girls, but the Downs soothed her.

  She smiled at the thought, for she had once believed she could never belong anywhere but Tasmania. She’d been so young when she’d arrived here – her accent and family circumstances setting her apart from the other girls at boarding school – her damaged heart making it difficult to join in their boisterous games. A stranger in a strange land, she’d felt bewildered and lost, blindly clawing her way through those emotional early years until she made friends and felt easier in her new life. The landscape had helped, for although the trees were different, the hills more gentle, the rivers less wild, it contained the essence of that Australian island she still called home.

  She climbed the stile and sat to catch her breath after the trek up the hill. The light was extraordinary, and her artist’s eyes drank in the scene as if parched of beauty. The South Downs undulated around her, offering glimpses of church spires and tiny hamlets, of the tapestry of ploughed fields, hedges and black-faced sheep. A solitary walker traversed the hill to the west, his sturdy figure
silhouetted against the sky until he slowly faded from sight – leaving her truly alone in these magnificent surroundings.

  A shaft of sunlight illuminated the house far below, and she eyed it fondly. Wealden House was far removed from the tin-roofed wooden cottage in Tasmania. It was rambling and old-fashioned, the signs of age and neglect veiled by distance and the protective cover of wisteria and Virginia creeper. Smoke drifted from several of the tall chimneys, and the sun glinted on the many windows beneath the peg-tiled roof. The formal gardens were divided by hedges and connected by a cobbled path seeded with scented herbs. There were arbours entangled with honeysuckle and roses, a croquet lawn and tennis court, and a pond which reflected weeping willows and dormant rhododendrons. At the southern boundary lay the kitchen garden and greenhouses, and to the north a wide gravel driveway swept up from imposing gates through banks of azaleas to a large porch and an oak front door.

  Lulu clambered off the stile and, on reaching the five-bar gate at the bottom of the hill, remembered that first spring sixteen years ago. It had brought the English bluebells; a great carpet of them spreading from beneath the ancient oaks and ashes, providing a wonderland for the little girl who had never seen them before. Then the daffodils, wild anemones and buttercups had come – a new carpet of yellow and white beneath the delicate froth of apple and cherry blossom.

  She closed the gate and dug her chin into her collar as she walked into the shadows that now crept across the ragged lawn. The frost glittered like crystals in the grass, but there was already the promise of new life in the tiny green shoots of snowdrops and crocuses that poked their heads through the weeds. Each season had its own beauty, and if she hadn’t been so cold and hungry, she would have fetched her sketchbook and tried to capture the scene.

  Entering the kitchen, Lulu kicked off her boots and made a fuss of the elderly Labrador stretched before the range. This was the warmest room in the house, for even the blazing fire in the drawing room couldn’t cope with the draughts that whistled under every door and down the stairs.

  The housekeeper crashed through the kitchen door and folded her meaty arms beneath her vast bosom. ‘About time too,’ she muttered crossly. ‘I’ve enough to do without trying to keep my crumpets warm.’

  Lulu bit her lip against the giggle and continued to pat the dog. ‘I’m so sorry, Vera,’ she managed. ‘Am I terribly late?’

  Vera Cornish sniffed and tugged at her wrap-around floral pinafore, but her dour expression softened as it always did with Lulu, and she sighed. ‘Tea’s at four, as you well know, Missy, and without a house full of servants, it’s the devil’s own job to keep up with things.’

  Lulu apologised again, but the silence that fell between them seemed to emphasise the emptiness of the cavernous kitchen – reminding them both of the time when the cook and housemaids chattered with the gardeners around the scrubbed table. The delicious smell of baking remained, but the clatter of pans and the tramp of many feet on the flagstones were gone, leaving only ghostly memories. The Great War had changed everything.

  Vera clucked with annoyance and grasped the tea-trolley. ‘Wash your hands,’ she ordered. ‘What with …orses and dogs, you’ll be eating more than your peck of dirt, and what with your …eart and everything …’ The rest of the sentence was swallowed up in the screech of wheels and the clatter of china as she thrust the trolley out of the room ahead of her.

  Lulu was still smiling as she washed her hands under the kitchen tap and padded down the chilly hallway in her thick socks. Vera’s disgruntled exterior hid a soft heart, and Wealden House just wouldn’t be the same without her.

  She checked the mail that had come by second post, and entered the drawing room. There was a letter from Maurice, but she was in no hurry to read it.

  ‘How many times have I asked you to change before coming in here, Lorelei? The stables cling to you like a noxious scent.’ Clarice was fragrant with French perfume, her expression stern and her ramrod poise uncompromising as she waited for Vera to position the trolley to her satisfaction. With an imperious nod, the housekeeper was dismissed.

  Lulu and Vera were used to this rather haughty demeanour and ignored it. Clarice enjoyed playing the grande dame, but there was no malice behind it, and as her aunt didn’t like tacit shows of affection Lulu resisted kissing her and sank onto the sofa nearest the fire. ‘Sorry,’ she murmured, running her fingers through the tangle of her hair, ‘but I couldn’t wait for tea. I’m ravenous.’

  Clarice poured from the ornate silver pot as Lulu took a hot buttered crumpet from the chafing dish and bit into it. ‘Plate, Lorelei, and napkin.’

  She took both and munched the heavenly food as the heat from the fire began to thaw her. Clarice had always refused to shorten her name – she thought it rather common – and although she liked to maintain the impression that she was a harsh taskmaster, it was an act Lulu had seen through long ago – and yet, when truly riled, Clarice had a glare that could stop a rampaging bull at fifty yards. Today, however, the blue eyes glinted with humour.

  Clarice was seventy, or thereabouts – it was a closely guarded secret, and Lulu had never dared probe – but she had the complexion, vitality and sharp wit of a much younger woman. Her short silver hair had been freshly set in rigid waves, and there were pearls in her ears and in a rope that encircled her neck and fell in loops to her waist. Rings glittered on her fingers, and bracelets jangled on her slender wrists. Clarice was the widow of a long-dead diplomat, and the strict code of conduct and appearance he’d enforced was still rigidly adhered to. She had no intention of letting standards slip while she could draw breath.

  ‘It is rude to stare, Lorelei.’

  ‘I was just thinking how lovely you look this afternoon,’ she replied truthfully. ‘That soft grey really suits you.’

  Clarice smoothed the low-waisted dress over her knees, the heightened colour in her cheeks showing her pleasure at the praise. ‘Thank you, dear. I wish I could return the compliment, but you look like a ragamuffin in that get-up.’

  Lulu took in the grubby jodhpurs, the moth-eaten sweater and worn tweed jacket. ‘The horses don’t mind, and they’re comfortable.’ She flicked the curls out of her eyes and picked up another crumpet.

  ‘I do so envy your youthful appetite,’ sighed Clarice, ‘and the way you never seem to put on weight. If I ate half what you do, I’d be the size of a house.’

  Lulu hid a smile. Clarice was as slender as willow, and always had been, if the old photographs were anything to go by, yet her appetite was robust.

  ‘Still,’ added Clarice, ‘it’s good to see you eating again. It shows you’re in good health – but I worry that you try to do too much.’

  ‘I can’t spend my life sitting about and feeling sorry for myself,’ Lulu replied through the crumpet. ‘Exercise and fresh air cheer me up no end.’

  ‘That’s all very well, but you know what the doctor said. Your heart isn’t strong, and it doesn’t do to overtax it.’

  ‘I know when I’ve done too much,’ she reassured her, ‘and although I tire easily, I’ve learnt to deal with it.’

  Clarice eyed her over the teacup and changed the subject. ‘Did you find Maurice’s letter?’

  Lulu nodded, but her thoughts had returned to that other letter which had arrived this morning. As it was from Tasmania, and the contents made little sense, there was no point in discussing it with Clarice – who had made it quite clear over the years that she didn’t want to talk about Australia, or anything connected with it.

  ‘Maurice must be very lonely to write to you every day. What can he find to say?’

  Lulu brought her thoughts back to the present as she sipped the fragrant tea. She didn’t really want to discuss Maurice and spoil the mood of the day, but Clarice was awaiting a reply. ‘He keeps me up to date on his latest painting, the people he meets at the gallery and his general health.’ She didn’t mention the rambling pages of introspection, the endless picking away at his fears, and his inability to
settle on anything for long – it was too disheartening

  ‘I realise he had a bad time in France, but that is no excuse for idleness. It’s time he bucked up his ideas.’

  This was a conversation they’d had before, and Lulu took her usual defensive stance. ‘Maurice tries his best,’ she murmured, ‘but it’s difficult to find work when he can’t cope with crowds and noise.’

  She had a sudden memory of Maurice cowering in a corner during a violent thunderstorm, whimpering in fear as each bolt of lightning lit up the London house they shared. She’d known then that the battlefields and trenches still haunted him, and as the terrible storm had raged overhead she had taken him into her bed. Their lovemaking had been frantic, clinging to one another in a kind of desperation as if the heat and touch of another body could reassure and heal – blot out the memories. But of course it had only been a fleeting release, for the memories were still raw.

  ‘I do hope you haven’t got too involved. He obviously relies upon you, and although you have your art in common, there is very little else to commend him.’

  Lulu reddened under Clarice’s penetrating scrutiny. There was little doubt Clarice suspected her intimacy with Maurice, but she needn’t have worried. It had been short-lived – a mistake they had both soon acknowledged. ‘We’ve agreed to be friends, nothing more,’ she replied. ‘There’s never really been anyone special since Jimmy.’

  Silence fell, but for the hiss of flames on damp logs. Lulu’s gaze settled on the photograph that stood on the grand piano. Jimmy looked handsome in his uniform – and unbearably young, with his wide smile and honest brown eyes. They had known each other for years and were planning to marry, when war was declared in 1914 and he enlisted. He had been killed within weeks of landing in France.

  Unwilling to dwell on such sadness, Lulu loaded up the trolley and headed for the door. ‘I’m going to have a long soak in the bath before I check on the sculpture.’