Page 25 of That Island Feeling

I laugh, completely enamoured with her storytelling. This must be the same Hannah who owns Moorings, I realise.

‘We got a bit too smart for our own good, though. When a clawfoot bathtub washed up on the other side of the island, we thought we could float it around to us. It almost reached us when it took on too much water. It’s down there somewhere with my boy’s ninth birthday cake.’

‘Oh?’ I could listen to Hazel all day while watching the river flow steadily by.

‘A chocolate mud with sprinkles, from Port Hope, as requested by the birthday boy, but I ended up doing the splits between the dock and my little runabout and I couldn’t save the cake – or myself, for that matter.’ She chuckles as she tells me how her son and Hannah’s children helped pull her out of the water before proceeding to duck dive for any remnants. ‘That’s how over the healthy cake I made with oats from the general store they were.’

But I’ve tuned out; I’ve seen something in the water. Not a dolphin, but a Jack. On a paddleboard, stroking confidently towards the house, paddle in one hand, fishing rod in the other and abs glistening in the sun.

Hazel spots him a few seconds later, her eyes lighting up with a glorious warmth as she rushes to the porch railing and begins waving wildly.

‘Morning Jackie-boy!’

He looks over at us and grins, his white teeth snagging a sunbeam.

‘Are you out there fishing for that cake again?’ she yells to him.

‘I’ll find it one day, Mum,’ he calls back.

REAL LIFE

Three Days Before

Chapter Thirteen

JACK

‘Why are you still reading that rubbish?’

Mum looks up guiltily from her copy of Holibob and snaps it shut.

‘I didn’t realise you’d be stopping by, Jackie-boy.’

Holibob was the first publication to break the news about our oysters, and three years on, I still can’t lay eyes on a copy without picturing the headline: ‘Pearl Island’s Oyster Industry: CONDEMNED’, and all the awful memories come flooding back. I imagine the graphic designer picking out a perfectly alarming shade of red, giving little thought to the people behind the clickbait headline.

I lope over to where she’s sitting in her favourite sunshiny spot on the verandah and plant a kiss on the top of her head. Her hair looks freshly done. ‘Nice do.’

‘Thank you. Arthur just had to rush off – he’ll be back later for my cut.’ She reaches up and tucks a silvery strand behind her ear. A strip of sunlight falls across her face and I take a moment to admire the enigma that is my wild and free-spirited mother. Frequently caught, yet always, always released.

‘So, to what do I owe the pleasure of your company?’ she asks.

‘I’ve left some fish in the kitchen. A nice large bass and some cod.’

‘You’re too good to me, Jackie-boy. Cuppa?’ She stands, pre-empting my reply. I don’t think I’ve ever turned down an offer of tea or coffee – after Hannah, I’m too awake to how fleeting this precious time together is.

‘Yeah, a quick one. I’m due over at Charlie’s shortly. I’m trying to get an online ordering system set up for him.’

I follow her back into the house. In the kitchen, Mum flicks on the kettle and pulls some mugs and canisters of tea from the cupboard, while I retrieve the milk from the fridge. Fortunately, it’s the scent of oranges I’ve halved and rested on the top shelf, rather than the less palatable aromas of my fresh catches, that fills the room.

Mum taught me the orange trick – and so much of what I know – from this very spot. I’ve been standing at this bench since I was knee-high to a grasshopper, using a stool to reach to help her cook, beating wooden spoons and cracking eggs into a mixing bowl.

‘Online ordering?’ Mum repeats as she drops a tea bag into each of the mugs.

‘Yeah, I want to ensure Charlie’s all prepped if the hordes return,’ I say.

‘When they return,’ she corrects me, briskly. ‘Are you ever going to stop punishing yourself?’

The kettle whistles, and my head snaps up.

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