Mckinley - Ocean Child

Tamara McKinley

The soft, downy warmth intensified and Lulu Pearson moved restlessly in an attempt to escape it. But the smothering heat seemed to press harder, covering her eyes, her nose and her mouth. With a whimper of distress she discovered she had no strength to push it away, and as her damaged heart hammered and she fought to breathe, she knew she was about to die.

The pressure was even greater now, the blood singing in her ears, the fear giving her strength to fight this awful thing. But as she flailed and thrashed and tried to cry out, her heart struggled thudding away inside her, weakening her with every tortuous beat.

She heard voices. Was aware of a sliver of light. And suddenly she was free.

Rearing up in the bed with a great gulp of clean, life-giving air, she opened her eyes. The room was in darkness, and this was not the little house in Tasmania. Her heart continued to struggle as she fought to regulate her breathing and calm the terrible fears this recurring nightmare always elicited. She was no longer a child she was safe.

*

No one would have guessed he was sixty-five, for his step was robust, his figure sturdy, the walking stick more of an affectation than an aid. He fitted into the country scene and, as it was a role hed played over many years, he felt comfortable in the tweed jacket, plus-fours and walking boots. It hadnt always been so, for he was a city man at heart, but, like a good actor, hed grown into the part and enjoyed these annual visits to Sussex.

Camouflaged by the dappled shadows of the trees, he ate the last of his sandwiches and watched the rider slowly descend the far hill towards the livery stables. She had been gone for over an hour, but he hadnt minded the wait. The weather was clement, if a little chill, and he was being generously paid. He tucked the sandwich wrapper in the canvas bag, brushed crumbs from his moustache and raised his binoculars.

He knew Lulu Pearson intimately, yet they had never met or spoken, and if things went to plan, they never would. His occasional surveillance had begun many years ago, and as time had passed hed seen her grow from coltish childhood into the beautiful young woman who now moved with lithe grace about the stable-yard. Her hair was her crowning glory, usually falling almost to her waist in curls that sparked gold and chestnut in the sun, but today she had pinned it into a thick knot at her nape.

As she left the stables he got to his feet and began the long, uphill walk home. With the canvas bag and binoculars swinging from his shoulder, he headed back towards the village and a welcome pint of beer.

*

The effects of Lulus nightmare had been dissipated during her gentle horse-ride, and although the arrival of that strange letter this morning still puzzled her, she felt exhilarated. It was wonderful to be in the fresh air after all those hours in her studio, and now she was eager to return to work. The clay model was almost finished, and she wanted to make sure shed captured the right sense of power and movement before she judged it ready for the foundry. Yet her great-aunt Clarice would be expecting her home for afternoon tea and, despite her enthusiasm for work, the prospect of a blazing fire, buttered crumpets and Earl Grey tea was enticing.

She put all thoughts of Tasmania and the mysterious letter aside. It was a perfect English winter afternoon, with the sun shining from a cloudless sky, frost glittering in the shadows beneath the trees and the air crisp with the promise of snow. It was on days like these she was thankful she hadnt followed the fashion for short hair, and as she tramped slowly homeward she took out the combs and pins and let her luxuriant locks fall over her shoulders and down her back.

No doubt Clarice would make a fuss about her being out so long, but her troublesome heart was beating steadily enough, and it was liberating to have only the sky and silent landscape for company after the smog and noise of London. Shed enjoyed the independence of driving the omnibuses during the dark days of the Great War, and the thrill of earning her own money and sharing a flat with other girls, but the Downs soothed her.

She smiled at the thought, for she had once believed she could never belong anywhere but Tasmania. Shed been so young when shed arrived here her accent and family circumstances setting her apart from the other girls at boarding school her damaged heart making it difficult to join in their boisterous games. A stranger in a strange land, shed felt bewildered and lost, blindly clawing her way through those emotional early years until she made friends and felt easier in her new life. The landscape had helped, for although the trees were different, the hills more gentle, the rivers less wild, it contained the essence of that Australian island she still called home.

She climbed the stile and sat to catch her breath after the trek up the hill. The light was extraordinary, and her artists eyes drank in the scene as if parched of beauty. The South Downs undulated around her, offering glimpses of church spires and tiny hamlets, of the tapestry of ploughed fields, hedges and black-faced sheep. A solitary walker traversed the hill to the west, his sturdy figure silhouetted against the sky until he slowly faded from sight leaving her truly alone in these magnificent surroundings.