‘Were Saul and Jackson close once?’ Eva asks.
‘Tight as a mussel. Did everything together. They were an enterprising little duo. Used to get up early and snorkel off the jetty down at Wattleboon, looking for lost squid jigs to sell to the tourists and make a bit of extra pocket money.’
‘But they haven’t been close for a while?’
He shakes his head sharply.
‘Is Saul still living in Tasmania?’
‘Yeah. Works over at the university in Hobart. Doing some big project on cephalopods. That’s squid to you and me.’ He takes a glug of whisky and she sees him wince, placing a hand over his stomach.
‘Hobart. Is that where he lives?’
‘No, no. Moved to Wattleboon Island. Built himself a place out in Shoal Bay.’
Eva’s head tilts. ‘That’s where you used to have a shack, isn’t it?’
‘Yeah, beautiful place.’ Under his breath he adds, ‘But too many bad memories for me.’
‘I’d like to meet Saul.’
Dirk’s expression turns wary. ‘Why?’
‘He was Jackson’s brother.’
‘Nah, don’t think he’d be too keen.’
‘It’s important to me.’
He looks at her closely. ‘Sorry, Eva, but I think you’d best forget about the idea.’ He lifts his glass and downs the whisky.
*
Jackson had told her that his father liked a drink, but he’d never explicitly said Dirk was an alcoholic. But he is; she can see it in the high colour of his skin, the broken veins across his cheeks, and the way his fingers cling to the glass. It hurts knowing Jackson left out this information, as if he didn’t trust her enough to show her the darker corners of his family life.
She wonders how Jackson would feel now if he could see his father getting steadily more drunk after Eva has travelled thousands of miles to meet him. A quiet anger simmers inside as she thinks about her countless calls that went unanswered, and the invite to the memorial service she’d extended to him – but that wasn’t returned.
It feels like a personal affront to Jackson, and before she can check herself, she is saying, ‘You didn’t come to our wedding.’
Dirk shrugs. ‘England’s a long way. A lot of money.’ He pours himself another whisky, the neck of the bottle clattering against the glass. He swirls it around and then takes a slug. Is that his third or fourth since she’s been here?
‘Weren’t you interested in seeing who your son was going to marry?’ she presses Dirk, wanting to understand his absence.
‘Y’know what?’ he says, and there’s something in his tone she doesn’t like, a loosening, as if whatever he’s been holding back is beginning to spill out, dragging with it the sharp edges of his thoughts. ‘I wasn’t interested. Because I didn’t want him to marry you.’
Her eyes widen.
‘I thought he was bloody mad! And I told him.’ He shakes his head. ‘You two should never’ve got married.’
She feels as though she’s had the breath kicked out of her. ‘What?’
Dirk runs a thick hand down the length of his face, exhaling loudly. Then he gets to his feet and crosses the room unsteadily. He sets his hands square on the windowsill and looks out onto the street.
‘Dirk?’ She shakes her head back and forth. ‘Why are you saying this?’
He shrugs. ‘I’d never have seen him again. He wouldn’t have come home when he was married. That’s all.’
Tears burn the back of her throat.
When Dirk turns, his expression has softened and she thinks he’s going to apologize. But then he says, ‘Listen, Eva, I can see you loved Jackson. And I’m sorry for what you’re going through. I am. But my boy’s dead. You being out here isn’t going to make that any better. So I reckon it might be best if you go now, don’t you?’
A knot of anger is wedged into the pit of Eva’s stomach as she replays Dirk’s words: You two should never’ve got married. She keeps reminding herself it was the whisky talking, or perhaps the lash of his grief, but the remark has left her unsettled.
She is even more determined now to try to find Saul. As she leans her elbows on the ferry railing, watching Wattleboon Island come into focus, she wonders how Jackson would have felt about her coming here to meet the brother he hadn’t spoken to in over four years. The few times Jackson mentioned Saul’s name, his expression darkened, as if Saul’s betrayal still had the power to wound him.
The island reveals itself by degrees; first the forested sea cliffs rising up in the distance, then the green curve of the hills. Jackson had talked about his summers spent here with a sense of nostalgia, as if the island were both treasured yet also lost to him – a place he could never get back to.
From her pocket she takes out the free visitors’ map she’d picked up at the ferry building and unfolds it, the edges flitting in the breeze. The map shows one road running the fifty-kilometre length of the island, and stemming from it are veins of unsealed tracks and four-wheel-drive routes leading to secluded inlets and bays. Looking at the key, she sees there is a pub, two cafés, a doctor’s office, a general store and a community hall. Most of the symbols denote boat launches, surf spots, camping areas and hiking trails.
She locates Shoal Bay in the south-east corner of the island. While she doesn’t know Saul’s address, with a population of only 500 permanent residents, someone must know which house is his.
The crossing only takes twenty-five minutes, but by the time the ferry docks, Eva feels as if she’s arriving at the edge of the world. The small throng of passengers return to their cars. Engines are started and cars nose forward as the boat ramp is lowered.
Just beyond the dock a hand-painted sign reads: PLEASE REMOVE WATCHES AND MOBILE PHONE BATTERIES. YOU’RE ON WATTLEBOON NOW!
The road is quiet – just the occasional motorhome or truck passes in the other direction, surfboards and bikes strapped to roofs. She drives with the windows down, absorbing the smell of sun-warmed grass and the salt breeze drifting in. She sees two hikers standing before a shallow lagoon with binoculars hanging around their necks, a flock of black swans drifting beyond them.
When she gets to the general store, Eva pulls in. It’s a simple building with a cork bulletin board tacked to an exterior wall, which is filled with handwritten signs about boat trailers for sale, holiday cottages to rent, and two Kelpie pups that need a home.
The door is propped open by a faded ice-cream sign, and inside, a stocky woman with a wedge of yellow hair plants her hands on the counter and smiles. ‘G’day. How’s it goin’?’
‘I was wondering if you could help. I’m looking for Saul Bowe’s place on Shoal Bay.’
‘Well, that’s easy,’ she says, smiling. ‘It’s the only house in the bay. You keep on this road heading south for about five minutes. You’ll pass a berry farm on your right and you wanna take the track straight after that. Leads you right down to the bay.’
‘That’s great –’
‘But he won’t be there