Page 24 of That Island Feeling

I unwrap the roll eagerly, my palms slippery with grease. Golden yolk drips down my fingers as I take my first bite, followed by another and another. Jack was right. It’s completely moreish.

I close my eyes to savour the final mouthful, a lump forming in my throat as I reflect on the undeniable truth: Jack likes me.

I cut a generous slice of lemon meringue and locate a Tupperware container in one of the neatly stocked kitchen drawers to transport it safely to Hazel.

I pull the door gently behind me, even though there’s still no stirring from upstairs. Without stopping to check Google Maps, I expertly navigate my wheelbarrow along the rocky shore path like a local, with the cicadas chorusing loudly and the sun biting into my shoulders.

As I wheel through the gate and past the TRESPASSERS WILL BE COMPOSTED sign, I half expect Hazel to jump out from one of the trees, but by the time I reach her porch I’ve only encountered a family of king parrots.

I park the wheelbarrow out front, scoop up the Tupperware container and climb the stairs.

‘Hello? Hazel? I have your wheelbarrow,’ I call out as I near the open door.

A welcoming voice shouts from deep within the house. ‘Come on in, dear.’

I step tentatively into the entry, the house groaning with each footstep as rooms open up into larger rooms. Almost every inch of floor space is taken up with furniture of some description. Heavy drapes hang over open colourful leadlight windows and I welcome the cooling breeze as I weave in and out between an eclectic mix of leather and velvet settees, wooden trunks, oak tables and bookcases overflowing with first editions and other collectables. It’s like a jumble sale has put down roots here.

‘I’ve had the most magnificent haircut!’ Hazel greets me as I find her in a room that appears to be the study. ‘Hold on, it’s a bit hard to get a good look at my new do with these things on. Just a second.’ She removes the headphones she’s been wearing and sweeps her fringe back into place. ‘What do you think? I asked Arthur for the Diana Ross and I think he nailed it.’

Surely she’s not referring to the island kook Arthur we were hiding from at Charlie’s yesterday morning, who was also the sole member of the bowling club’s band last night? He designs shoes to walk on water, sings and cuts hair?! What a versatile skill set.

‘It looks lovely,’ I say, swallowing a giggle. Hazel’s head is mostly obscured by a giant computer screen. The sophisticated-looking tech set-up seems at odds with Hazel and her charming heritage home. Shamefully, I probably wouldn’t feel the same way if she were stationed in front of a Singer sewing machine.

Hazel peers over her computer monitor and narrows her eyes at me. Shit, have I said the wrong thing? Or maybe she thought I was laughing at her?

‘I think you’ve got something on your nose, dear. Is that egg?’

My mind flashes back to twenty minutes ago, when I was face-deep in my bap. ‘Possibly,’ I laugh.

‘Let me get you a washcloth to clean yourself up.’ She stands up from the desk. ‘I’m due for a break anyway. I’ll put the kettle on and we can have a nice chat on the porch. Why not sit outside and enjoy this glorious weather!’

‘I brought cake,’ I say, gesturing to the container in my hands.

‘Even better.’

Once I’ve mopped up my greasy egg splotches, we settle into a pair of rocking chairs, cups of tea in our hands and dainty saucers holding lemon meringue resting in our laps. It’s only 9 a.m. but we reason that lemon is fruit, so it’s allowed. And as Hazel reminds me, ‘one of us is on holidays’.

‘You know, it looks different every day,’ she says, nodding at the view. ‘I’ve lived here thirty-one years and there’s not one day where the river has looked the same.’

‘Thirty-one years. That’s a long time,’ I gush.

‘Indeed. It’s why I thought it was high time I made this documentary. I don’t want the island’s stories lost with me.’

I’m hit with a sudden wave of sadness. That’s why I started using the Storytime app, but I wish I’d begun earlier – to capture more of Mum’s stories before she passed, and before Dad’s memory washed away. I take a sip of tea to disguise my unexpected emotion.

‘How’s it coming along?’ I ask, recalling her quest to capture the birdsong of the sharp-tailed sandpiper.

‘I’m trying. Learning on the job, so to speak. They say you’re never too old to learn a new skill . . . but I’m not entirely sure that’s true.’

‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘It certainly looked like you knew what you were doing in there.’

‘You’re sweet, dear.’

We sit in comfortable silence, rocking in our chairs as we polish off our cake and stare at the river. This morning it’s a brilliant turquoise blue, and so flat it looks silky.

‘You know, most of my furniture, including these very chairs, was pulled from the river,’ Hazel says, while I’m trying to determine if the dark flash that’s just caught my eye is a dolphin fin.

‘Cargo ships and big seas are no mix. But it means plenty of amazing pieces washing up the river for us to find. Most of it is salvageable, too. Hannah, my best friend, and I used to have lots of fun using our clever lady brains to figure out how to haul the furniture up onto our roofs to dry out. What we wouldn’t do for a Victorian mahogany chaise!’

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