Page 14 of That Island Feeling

‘Do you have an aviary?’ I ask.

‘No, dear. Capture the birdsong. A recording. I’m making a documentary about the island. Here we are, yes, right next to Billy’s chrysanthemums. You know, I never even planted any bulbs. I scattered his ashes here five years ago and they shot up on the first anniversary of his death. Isn’t that something?’

I nod dumbly.

‘Right. Where are you staying?’ the woman asks.

‘Moorings. The place right on the beach?’

‘Ah, yes. Lovely.’ Her eyes glaze over. ‘Make sure you get yourself out onto that floating lily pad at the beach one of these starry nights. Did you know there’s more stars in the sky than grains of sand on the Earth?’

Goosebumps run the length of my arms.

A lily pad.

‘No. I don’t think I did know that.’ I manage a smile for her, and she returns a warm, crinkly version, skin bunching around her eyes like crepe paper.

‘I’m Hazel, by the way,’ she says.

‘Andie.’

‘Lovely to meet you, Andie-girl. Now, we’ll get you a wheelbarrow for your goodies. That way you can carry the watermelon. Come back any time to return it and I’ll repay you with some passionfruit.’

Thank God the bucks aren’t home when I return. We devour the fruit – it’s juicy and sweet, with no trace of the tang of city chemical pesticides – and the girls shower me with compliments to pass on to Hazel.

I’ve become an expert at food preparation in recent years. Peeling, dicing, blitzing, arranging. I shudder as I think of the bleak tray meals Dad is eating now; I feel so guilty that this week, without me there to feed him, his meals will need to be pureed. Then I remind myself that the aged-care home has an on-site dietitian informing what calories and nutrients he needs for his bones and brain, so it doesn’t matter what form the food is in.

We’re still sitting around the kitchen counter when the boys return. Richie strides in first, a newspaper-wrapped package cradled under his arm. He pushes aside our empty platter and deposits it on the kitchen counter with a theatrical flourish, along with a few cans of Coke.

‘So, what’s on the agenda for today, ladies?’ he asks, unwrapping the package to reveal a mound of potato scallops. They’re arranged like lovely golden medallions, as if declaring the boys the champions of breakfast. ‘Quad biking? Paintballing? Fishing?’ He crunches into a scallop.

I do my best to ignore the fluffy white heart of potato perfection and the delicious smell, nearly as enticing as the bacon-and-egg baps. Our fruit platter suddenly seems underwhelming.

‘That would be D: none of the above,’ I say. After our shaky start, I’m determined to get this trip back on track to ensure Taylor has an unforgettable time. Hopefully we’ll hear from Jack shortly and the boys will be shipped off.

‘Fishing could be fun, don’t you think, Ands?’ Taylor catches my eye before directing her gaze towards Ben. ‘Provided one of you boys baits my hook?’

Innuendo or not, I haven’t had enough coffee for this.

‘Eww, Tay,’ Grace groans, echoing my sentiments. Thank goodness we seem to be on the same page this morning. I’m still puzzled by yesterday’s eye rolls.

‘Don’t you think it would be cute to catch our own dinner?’ Taylor exclaims, wide-eyed.

She’s about as familiar with the outdoors as Bear Grylls is with a sofa.

‘Sure . . . if that’s what you want to do,’ I say, reminding myself once again that it’s her trip.

Personally, I’d rather watch paint dry on the landscapes I intended us to try watercolouring this morning with some art supplies from school.

‘Awesome.’ Richie nudges Garth in his side, prompting him to grab the final scallop. The bench is now dusted with breadcrumbs and oily fingerprints. ‘We’ll go hunt down some fishing gear while you girls slip into your activewear sets. But I’ll warn you now – the fish won’t care if you look the part. Anything under thirteen centimetres will still need to be kissed and released.’

I snort. ‘That’s a very specific measurement.’

I’m aware I’ve taken his bait, but I’m pissed the bucks continue to disrupt my carefully laid plans.

Richie shrugs. ‘It’s Pearl Island regulation.’

‘And here I was thinking you were after a new Tinder pic,’ I retort.

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