Page 60 of That Island Feeling

‘Oh, Andie. Why would anyone be interested in that?’

‘Come on, please just give it a try,’ I coax delicately.

Selfishly, I want to hear another of her stories. The memories of the bathtub and Jack’s cake now live in my mind too.

She rubs her eyes, and I notice their red rims – the colour of her rose lipstick.

‘Alright,’ she agrees, ‘but only because I’m so fond of you, Andie-girl.’

She clears her throat and I slowly step out of shot, take my place at the camera and press record.

‘Well, of course the thing I’m most proud of is my precious son, Jack,’ she begins, casting a brief glance in my direction. I pretend to fiddle with the tripod.

‘But second to that it would have to be the purchase of this house. It wasn’t easy starting again after Peter passed.’ Her forehead creases. ‘He was my first husband – died in a freak accident with a welding machine. We’d just moved from the UK to Australia for Peter’s job, and suddenly I was left widowed with a three-month-old. The insurance payout was decent, but not amazing money – certainly not enough to purchase a city property and cover all the expenses that come with raising a baby. It was only a month or so after the funeral when I visited the island – a friend from back home was living here, and I came to stay for a couple of days to clear my head and work out my next move. The obvious thing to do would have been to return to the UK, but then I chanced across this house, and it was like it had been divinely delivered to me. To say it was a fixer-upper is an understatement, but it was priced just right, and I knew I could take my time with it. So I made an offer the next day. Of course, everyone thought I was crazy, but now, almost thirty-two years later, I’ve had the most wonderful life here – so I guess I’m the one who had the last laugh.’ She beams. ‘The best part of it all was Hannah. She was a single mum with two little ones who’d moved to the island a few months before me for the same reason – it was the only place she could afford – and we became inseparable, raising our kids together. My found family, as I always say. My Pearl family,’ she adds with a sad yet beautiful smile.

I already gleaned from the Moorings double-booking incident that Hannah was no longer with us, but now I’ve also learned that – presumably – Jack’s father was Peter, and not Billy as I’d assumed, and they have both passed.

Now that Hazel’s relaxed into her storytelling, I continue peppering her with gentle enquiries about life on the island for another hour or so until I seem to ask one too many follow-up questions and we agree to wrap for the day.

We’re feeling extra sticky from our hard work, so when Hazel suggests that we jump in the river to cool off, I agree enthusiastically, before remembering that I didn’t bring my one-piece with me.

‘You’ll wear one of my bathing suits,’ Hazel instructs. Her tone leaves no room for debate.

The beach in front of Hazel’s house is a wide smile of sand. It’s so expansive it looks as though it’s swallowed Moorings Beach and Pearl Cove in one blissful gulp.

‘Best beach on the island. One kilometre of utter perfection,’ Hazel boasts as we wade in. ‘The whitest sands and clearest waters. All-tide swimming and all-day shade.’

I hope the shade part is accurate as I’m not entirely sold on Hazel’s homemade sun cream, made from a concoction of coconut and almond oil, vitamin E, shea butter, beeswax and zinc.

‘I’m not lining Beryl’s pockets any more than necessary,’ Hazel remarks as I slip into a vibrant red retro halter-neck swimsuit. ‘I have it on good authority that she’s saving up for a golf cart – like we need another on the island!’

Hazel’s disapproval is clear as she recounts the island’s infamous golf-cart wars of the early noughties when surplus electric golf buggies from the Olympic village flooded the market and were snapped up by locals.

‘Thankfully, many turned out to be lemons and broke down on their own. Still, we had to dispose of a few ourselves by – ah – unorthodox methods,’ she admits, a mischievous glint in her eye – the same one that danced in Jack’s eyes as he wielded the leaf blower outside the window of the bucks’ rental.

I wish the camera was still rolling so I could capture Hazel as she describes her and Hannah’s late-night exploits pushing carts into the river. ‘I’d never pollute like that now, of course. It was a different time back then,’ she adds.

We paddle out into the water, staying close to the shore as the current is strong, but deep enough that we can no longer stand.

‘I swim here at dawn every morning,’ Hazel tells me as we tread water.

Treading water. Just like life recently, I think, as my legs egg-beat underneath me. ‘It’s gorgeous,’ I sigh. And it truly is. The water feels cool on my skin, and the tang of salt lingers on my tongue.

‘Sorry about my little tantrum earlier.’ Hazel flips gracefully onto her back. ‘I needed that extra push. I’ve gotten a little too set in my ways since Hannah died,’ she confesses, her words directed towards the vastness of the bright blue sky above.

‘No need to apologise,’ I murmur. ‘When did you lose her?’

‘A year ago now. She had MS but we ended up losing her to cancer.’

A strangled noise gurgles in my throat, the sound mostly muffled by the river.

‘Fuck cancer,’ I blurt out and plunge beneath the surface. It’s nice and quiet under here, the upstairs world muted by the seal of water. Seconds tick by, and I hold my breath for longer and longer, relishing the sense of anonymity and freedom.

When I eventually resurface, Hazel has flipped back over and is looking at me, her expression filled with sombre understanding. ‘Cancer can suck my dick,’ she announces.

We float on our backs and allow the current to sweep us further up the beach like stray leaves. I even close my eyes, trusting that Hazel knows how far we can push the river’s hospitality. My mind is almost wiped of all noise when a shrill cry for help startles me out of my meditative state. I roll back over onto my stomach to see a man floating nearby, his legs adorned with bulbous shapes strapped around his ankles.

‘Arthur! What on earth are you doing?’ Hazel cries, swimming towards him. He’s making all the noises of someone in distress, but with his arms neatly folded behind his head, he looks the very picture of relaxation.

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