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  ‘Nothing stronger?’

  Stephen shook his head. He had been a little worried about Dan’s drinking lately. Dan never put himself or anyone else in danger by jumping behind the wheel but Stephen had thought for a while now that Dan might need some professional help. He’d tried to talk about it more than once but Dan would just brush it off.

  ‘Never guess who I saw drive through town yesterday morning,’ Dan said as he cracked open the can.

  ‘Who?’ Stephen had to wait until Dan had taken a long glug before getting an answer. Dan always liked a bit of dramatic effect.

  ‘Henny Bolton.’

  Stephen hesitated for a split second then raised the can to his lips. He took his own long drink before speaking again. ‘Well, under the circumstances, that’s no surprise.’

  Dan shrugged. ‘I guess not. I suppose she has to deal with her mum’s estate and stuff. Wonder if she’ll stay.’

  ‘I doubt it. Henny doesn’t like it here.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  Stephen shook his head. ‘If she did she would have come back before.’

  ‘I suppose. Are you going to see her?’

  ‘Why would I do that?’ Stephen asked with a frown.

  Dan smiled. ‘Why wouldn’t you? Come on, you always liked her.’

  ‘That was years ago—everyone’s grown up since then.’

  ‘Maybe you should tell her about the memorial service,’ Dan said before he took another drink.

  ‘The woman is here to bury her mother, I don’t think that she’ll want to stay for the memorial at the res. Maybe we should all just try to put the past behind us, where it belongs.’ ‘What are you saying? That we shouldn’t have the memorial?’ Dan said sharply.

  Stephen shrugged. ‘It was awful and we all lost friends, but it was a long time ago. Maybe it would be healthier for everyone in town to just put it to rest.’

  ‘We can’t do that—it’s up to us to remember. Otherwise Georgie, Laura and the others will be forgotten.’

  Stephen expelled a loud breath. ‘That’s never going to happen. The families, the town and all of us who were up there that night are never going to forget. Geez, all I have to do is close my eyes and I’m back in that bloody water—aren’t you?’ As he said the words, the fear of that night surfaced for a second. He pushed it down, like he always did—releasing it would only allow the old wounds to open and fester again and he’d spent too much time trying to get past that night at Killop Reservoir.

  ‘Yeah, I am. Funny, I can’t tell you what I had for breakfast most days but I reckon I can recall every detail of that night.’

  Stephen nodded but stayed silent; there was nothing to say.

  ‘Anyway, I’m not hanging around here if you’re going to be all broody,’ Dan grinned suddenly. ‘It’s too hot to do anything, let alone work. I reckon I need to cool off at the pool—wanna come?’

  ‘Nup, she’s right. I’ve got things I have to do.’

  ‘Suit yourself—see ya later.’ Dan skolled the rest of his drink then turned and threw the empty can into the rubbish bin next to the opposite wall. He smiled as the can hit its target. ‘Some things you never lose.’

  Chapter Two

  Henny couldn’t wait for this God-awful day to be over. She was barely holding it together and wasn’t sure how much longer she could carry it off. The heat of the sun beat down on her black sheath dress and a trickle of sweat ran down her back as she watched the coffin being lowered into the hard ground. An array of colourful bouquets waited to adorn the filled grave and Henny thought that her mum would’ve liked that, having always loved flowers.

  Henny had been grateful to see most of the town turn up for the funeral. It showed just how much Jess Bolton had meant to them all. But sitting in the first pew of the church and then standing by the graveside, Henny felt alone. It had dawned on her this morning as she looked in the bathroom mirror that she was officially an orphan. Probably a weird thing to think at the age of twenty-eight, but at that moment Henny felt as if she’d been sucked down into the cold waters of the res and wasn’t sure if she was going to resurface this time. Her parents were dead and so was Georgie—they were the only people she had truly loved and now they were all gone.

  The minister gave her a sympathetic smile as he closed his Bible. Henny took a step forward and looked down into the grave. Her mum was always filled with life and light and colour and it just seemed so wrong that she was laid in such a dark place.

  The minister softly cleared his throat and Henny glanced up. She looked at the three pink roses in her hand, their long stems bound together with pale green and pink ribbons, her mum’s favourite colours. Henny brought them to her lips before tossing them into the grave. It was suddenly too much—the pain of loss, the heat and the mourners all seemed to crowd in on her. She needed to get away, to take a breath and try to pull herself together. She should wait and thank everyone for coming but she knew now that she just couldn’t do it. Panic, just like the night the dark waters had closed above her head, began to set in. Without a word she turned and walked as quickly as she could; she didn’t know where she was going, only that she needed space. Henny could feel eyes boring into her back as she made her way through the throng, but she kept moving towards the two tall pine trees that stood just before the path.

  As she passed the last of the crowd, something hard and uneven in the sparse lawn caught the back of her unfamiliar heels and made her stumble, but before she could crumple onto the ground two large hands caught her and set her back on her feet.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said as she looked up into Stephen Drake’s blue eyes.

  ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘Yes—no, I mean, excuse me, I just need a bit of space.’ Henny hesitated before she said with a slight smile, ‘Thank you for coming today—and for catching me.’

  ‘Of course, anytime. Um, I mean, no worries.’

  Stephen looked down and realised that he was still holding her. Henny’s gaze followed his and he immediately let her go.

  ‘Sorry . . . I’m sorry about your mum.’

  She nodded as she took a step away from him.

  ‘It’s good to see you again,’ Stephen stammered. ‘I mean . . . um. Oh God, sorry—what I meant to say . . . Listen, do you need anything? Is there anything—’

  ‘No,’ Henny cut him off. ‘Sorry, Stephen, I just need to be by myself for a bit. Bye, and thanks again.’ She turned and walked away.

  ***

  Stephen watched Henny go, her back stiff and tall as she walked along the path leading to the front gate of the cemetery. He hadn’t been able to take his eyes off her during the service. She looked so fragile as she stood by the graveside, black shift dress highlighting her pale complexion. He’d told himself that he’d come out of respect for Mrs Bolton, but perhaps there was a tiny part of him that wanted to see Henny again. That wasn’t wrong, was it?

  ‘Smooth move,’ Dan said softly from behind him. ‘I’m in awe.’

  ‘Oh shut up.’ Stephen felt his cheeks burn. Obviously when it came to Henrietta Bolton, nothing had changed in ten years—he still managed to act like a complete idiot around her. ‘Geez, that was so stupid.’

  Dan gave him a grin. ‘Define stupid.’

  ‘Quiet. You’re not helping.’

  ‘Ah, forget it.’ Dan clamped his hand on Stephen’s shoulder. ‘Come on, it’s hot and I could do with a drink.’

  ‘There’s a thing at the church hall.’

  ‘I think we can do better than that. Besides, if I was you I’d wait a couple of days before trying to talk to Henny again. You know, give it enough time so she’ll forget what an arse you are.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Stephen winced. ‘But I think I’ll go with the others.’

  Dan shrugged. ‘Suit yourself. I’ll catch you later.’ He started to walk away then looked back. ‘You know I was just ribbing you, right?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Henny won’t think you’re a
n arse,’ he said with a grin as he stepped away. ‘Me, on the other hand, whole different story.’

  Stephen rolled his eyes. ‘I’ll call you tomorrow.’

  As Dan gave a wave and ambled off, Stephen turned his attention back to the group of mourners who had started to disperse. Stephen leant against the tree and let everyone pass. It didn’t take long; the people of Lawson’s Bend never did like to linger at the cemetery. Death cast a long shadow over the town and had done for at least the past ten years.

  Stephen fell into step behind the others, like the rest of the town relieved to walk through the cemetery gate and head for his car. He glanced around the car park but there was no sign of Henny. The early afternoon sun had a sting in it and seemed to intensify as he walked across the cracked asphalt. After opening the door of his white ute he yanked off his grey tie and chucked it inside, glad to be rid of it. Stephen undid the first couple of buttons of his white shirt and rolled up the sleeves. He was still hot but he at least felt a little less confined without that tie.

  Flipping on the ignition, Stephen sat for a few seconds until the aircon kicked in. The cool blast revived him and he closed his eyes and took a deep breath as the icy air began to circulate. He wondered if he would be missed if he didn’t show up at the hall. He hated that kind of thing, mainly because he never really knew what to say. But he supposed that most people felt the same way.

  With a sigh, Stephen pulled out of the car park and made his way to the small church hall on the other side of Lawson’s Bend. It was about a five-minute drive and soon the little bluestone church sitting on what the locals referred to as ‘the flea bite’ came into view. It was a joke at the town’s expense: Lawson’s Bend may be surrounded by undulating hills but most of the town itself was built on the river flats. Other than the flea bite, the only other exception was the hill that overlooked the town. It was hard to miss. If you stood anywhere on the main street you could see it. Back in the day when the town was just getting started, the founder built a mansion so he could keep an eye on what he had created.

  St Mary’s had been erected after the gold rush hit the area, sometime around the 1870s. It wasn’t particularly large but had an impressive stained-glass window. The hall was tucked next to the church beneath the spreading bough of an ancient peppercorn tree. Stephen parked his ute under a bit of shade but kept the engine running, intending to keep the cold air blowing right up to the last minute. The car park began to quickly fill up and soon a steady stream of mourners was making its way to the hall.

  Stephen took a bracing breath before switching off the engine and stepping out of the car and into a wall of heat. He walked towards the hall, hugging the patches of shade as he went. Inside, the weatherboard building had high narrow windows, a small stage down the far end and a scuffed wooden floor that echoed as Stephen walked across it. A long table with a white tablecloth had been set up down the middle of the room. It held a selection of cakes, sandwiches and biscuits. By the back wall another table had been set up with tea and coffee supplies as well as a couple of heavy glass jugs filled with water and orange cordial.

  People were already congregating in small groups and the old arched ceiling began to echo with the sound of hushed conversations. Stephen moved over to the drinks table and poured himself an orange cordial—yep, still as weak as he remembered.

  ‘Bad day,’ old Mr Cotton said as he laid a hand on Stephen’s shoulder. ‘Bad day.’

  ‘Yes, it is.’

  ‘You know, I taught her in school. I remember Jess when she was a girl. She was always spirited and talented. Never thought that I’d be attending her funeral,’ he said as his voice trailed away and eyes misted. ‘It’s not right, the old are meant to go before the young.’

  ‘I know what you mean,’ Stephen said with a nod. ‘It doesn’t seem right.’

  Mr Cotton nodded sadly.

  Stephen floated from one group to the next, occasionally snagging a sandwich as he passed. Janey Smith, owner of the newsagency, was continuously wiping her tearing eyes as she spoke to couple of teachers from the local primary school. She had a gravelly voice attributed to a lifetime of smoking, and her square-shaped face was framed by salt-and-pepper hair cut in a blunt bob. She’d been best friends with Jess Bolton since they had started kindergarten together, so Stephen could only imagine what she was feeling. He stopped for a minute and told her how sorry he was. Janey instantly broke down and he wished he hadn’t said anything at all.

  After a few more minutes Stephen decided to leave; he couldn’t bear the melancholy and sadness as people reminisced about Jess Bolton’s life. He took a few steps towards the door but stopped as Henny walked through it. She gave him a nod as she went by and stood next to the food-laden table where she cleared her throat.

  ‘Can I have your attention for a moment?’

  The conversations ceased and everyone turned in Henny’s direction.

  ‘I just wanted to thank you all for coming and supporting me on my worst day. It means everything to me to know just how loved my mother was. I only wish that she was here and we’d all gathered for another reason,’ Henny said with a tremble in her voice. ‘Thank you again.’

  Stephen watched as she turned away and into the waiting arms of Janey Smith. The surge of raw emotion that was generated in the room was all a bit too much. With one final glance, Stephen headed outside into the burning heat of the afternoon sun.

  ***

  Stephen’s mobile rang as he walked through the front door of the old farmhouse. He reached into the back pocket of his jeans and saw Dad flash up on the screen.

  ‘Hey, Dad. How’s it going? Is Aunty Elise okay?’

  ‘Yeah, she’s fine,’ came the voice down the line. ‘A bit battered and bruised—she’s got a sprained ankle and a hairline crack in her left wrist. She was lucky, but these things can happen when you get thrown off a horse.’

  Aunty Elise was his dad’s baby sister. She might be almost forty with a grown daughter, but as soon as Stephen’s cousin Heather called, his dad had dropped everything and headed over there. Elise lived about an hour away in a tiny town up past Bendigo.

  ‘Well, I’m glad that she’s on the mend. Give her my love, okay?’

  ‘Will do. Listen, I just thought I’d ring and see how you’re going. The funeral was today, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Stephen said as he walked into the kitchen and yanked open the fridge door. ‘I’ve just got back. I reckon most of the town turned up for it.’

  ‘Sorry I wasn’t there. Jess Bolton was a fine woman and she’ll be sorely missed.’

  ‘She was. Anyway, like I said, there was a big turnout.’

  ‘Was Henny there?’

  ‘Of course. She may hate the town but she’s going to turn up for her mum’s funeral. And I suppose there’ll be family things she has to deal with, like Wattle Cottage and stuff like that.’ Stephen grabbed a quarter-full bottle of orange juice from the fridge door before wandering over to the bench to look for a glass.

  ‘So do you think she’ll stay in town?’

  ‘I dunno. I’m guessing a few weeks maybe, but not forever.’ He knew that it was probably true, but the idea of her leaving still managed to give him a twinge of regret. It was likely just because he’d seen her that morning, bringing back that schoolboy crush from years ago. Though if he was being honest, calling it a crush was an understatement—it was more like he’d been body-slammed by an immovable force. He’d been besotted by Henny Bolton right through high school, not that it was ever reciprocated. In fact he doubted that she even knew his name until Year 12.

  It didn’t matter—soon Henny would leave and the town would go limping on just as it always did. She wasn’t part of his life and, apart from one brief shining moment, she was never meant to be.

  ‘I guess you’re right. If the girl wanted to be here she would have been before this. It’s a shame. I always thought . . . well, it doesn’t matter,’ his father said with uncharacteristic vagueness. ‘
Anyway I’m going to take off. I have to run a couple of errands for your aunt. I’ll be back in a few days once everything has settled down here. Catch you later, son.’

  ‘No worries, talk to you soon. Bye, Dad.’ Stephen shoved the phone back in his pocket and gave up his hunt for a glass, downing what was left in the juice bottle.

  Chapter Three

  Henny

  Killop Reservoir, 2 February 2008

  It had been a great day, one that Henny thought she would always remember. Most of her graduating class had spent the afternoon at Killop Reservoir, celebrating one last time as a collective before they all launched into the adult world. For some like Henny, their new paths would lead them away from Lawson’s Bend. Henny was off to Melbourne to university, and she was terrified and excited at the same time. Others were staying here and going into their family businesses and farms. Some were looking for work in Bendigo, staying in the same vicinity but exchanging the quiet life in Lawson’s Bend for a little more hustle and bustle. And a small handful were kicking over the traces and taking a gap year to adventure overseas.

  Excitement had been bubbling on a slow heat for most of the afternoon. The future beckoned them and it was thrilling, and nearly everyone on the bank of the res that day could feel it. The February sun shone down on the eucalypt leaves, releasing their scent. The water was cool and deep and refreshing. So far the day had been filled with laughter, reminiscing and music. They had planned this since their official graduation—a kind of last hurrah before they ventured out into the world.

  Killop Reservoir was always a popular spot during summer, but today the class of 2007 had the place almost to themselves. There were a couple of guys up past the boat ramp but they were far enough away to make Henny and the rest of her party feel that they were the only ones here. This section of the res was for public camping and swimming. There was a small campsite right next to the sandy bank, a basic jetty and, about fifty metres from that, a platform marking the boundary of where it was safe to swim. By the curve of the left bank a small island jutted out of the water. It looked closer than it was and occasionally someone would get it in their head to swim out to it, but most gave up. It could be done but you needed to be a strong swimmer. The tiny island was only about twenty metres square and was home to a family of herons.