Three Over Par Read online

  I drove home straight after my shift, forgetting that Wednesday evening was when I did my weekly grocery shop. The late-opening supermarket was quiet at that hour and I could trundle around the aisles without frazzled parents and bored children getting in my way. I only realised my mistake when I opened the fridge door and found it bare bar an almost finished block of cheese, a droopy carrot and a tub of yoghurt close to its use-by date. For some reason the sight set me crying again. By the time I reached the supermarket I’d stopped, but my eyes remained swollen and my nose chafed from blowing it on soggy tissues.

  That evening I was so down, even the easiest choices left me flummoxed. In the dry-goods aisle I was bamboozled by rows of pasta in a multitude of shapes and brands. I stood with my hand on the bar of my trolley, eyeing them wearily, while in my troubled mind I berated myself over and over for leaving Mr. Carlisle to die alone. The few minutes I had stepped from his room had been crucial ones. My return found him dead and I couldn’t cease my agonising that I’d left that lovely man to die with no one to hold his hand.

  A tear trickled down my cheek. I pressed my hands against my eyes and ground my palms into the sockets. I wasn’t God. I couldn’t reset time, so there was no point in crying yet again over something I couldn’t change. Pep talk over, I dropped my hands and blinked away the spots. Then I blinked again, this time in shock.

  Standing by my side with a milk carton in his hand was Daniel, his beautiful autumn-coloured eyes creased with concern.

  “Are you okay?”

  I nodded, staring at the floor in shame, with my heart fluttering against my ribcage like a panicked bird. I didn’t want him to see my tear-reddened and swollen face, my pathetic lack of strength. I hated that he’d caught me like this, crying in the town supermarket’s dry-goods aisle as if I were a lonely spinster seeking comfort in its brightly lit banality.

  “Hey.” He tucked fingers under my chin and gently raised my head. “What’s wrong?”

  “Mr. Carlisle died,” I said, feeling the need to explain my embarrassing behaviour. “I only left him for a few minutes. I didn’t—” I stopped as guilt made my throat raw. Another tear trickled down my cheek, hot and stinging.

  His touch tender and slow, Daniel stroked away the tear-trail with his thumb. “I heard. I’m sorry.”

  I cast him a wobbly smile, desperate to pull myself together. “It’s okay. We’d been expecting it. I just wish—” I reached for the nearest packet of pasta and stared at it, blinking rapidly.

  “You just wish he hadn’t died alone.”

  I nodded, unable to speak.

  After the countless times I’d imagined meeting him like this, talking to one another like two people who cared, at that moment, all I wanted was for him to walk away and leave me to nurse my humiliation. I continued to stare at the farfalle I’d picked, my shoulders hunched, hoping he’d leave.

  He didn’t. Instead, he placed a broad palm on my shoulder and squeezed it. “Come on, I’ll help you finish your shopping.”

  I cast him a glance, unsure if he was serious. “You don’t have to.”

  He smiled a little. “Yeah, I do.” He dropped his hand, placed his milk in the basket and took control of the trolley as though helping with my shopping was something he did every week. “Do you have a list?”

  Astonished, I handed it to him. He scanned it with interest and, after a quick orienting glance at the shelves, pushed on.

  He turned to look at me over his shoulder. “Come on. The quicker we get this done, the quicker you can get home and get some rest.”

  After a moment’s hesitation, I caught up with him. I didn’t understand why, after all the borderline hostility he’d displayed outside of our liaison, he was acting this way. Like a man who cared.

  “Daniel, you don’t have to do this, really.”

  He halted, his mouth thin, and stared at his milk carton, his knuckles whitening as his grip on the trolley handle hardened. Suddenly, he let it go, shoving his hands into his jeans pockets as he took two steps backward.

  He shook his head as though annoyed with himself. The golden highlights in his hair glittered under the supermarket’s fluorescent light. My hand twitched with the desire to touch it, to touch him. To not let him walk away from me.

  “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have intruded.” For an electrifying moment he regarded me with that same strange expression I saw the first time we kissed. My skin fevered with the force of his yearning, as though a million tiny Catherine wheels had whirled across its surface at once. He raised his fingers to rub hard at his forehead, his palm hiding his eyes and breaking the connection. “Bad habit of mine.”

  I swallowed, trying to calm the wing beats in my heart.

  He dropped his hand and nodded toward the checkouts, expression stony. The man who cared, the man I’d fallen in love with after one kiss, was gone. In his place was a person I didn’t understand one bit and perhaps never would. “I’d better go.”

  The balloon of confidence that had been slowly flying skyward inside me collapsed. Biting my bottom lip, I ducked my head. I didn’t want to cry again in front of him. I didn’t want him to see how vulnerable he made me.

  “Lucy?”

  I looked up. That indefatigable emotion, hope, rising once more.

  His chest expanded with the deep breath he hauled in, as though he had to fortify himself before he spoke. “I’m sorry I imposed. It won’t happen again.”

  Abandoning his milk, he trudged away, leaving me more confused than ever.

  “Daniel asked about you last week,” said Mrs. Haddon a few weeks after the supermarket incident. She’d recently been prescribed new arthritis tablets and, while they promised greater relief from pain, for some patients there was an increased risk of hypertension. Although I was worried for her, I was also delighted the change in medication provided me with an excuse to visit each day.

  I stopped securing the cuff of the blood pressure monitor to regard her corrugated face and those twinkling, Daniel-like eyes. “Oh, yes?”

  “He asked me if I knew why you’d moved to Harrington but I didn’t have an answer for him.” She tilted her head, frowning slightly. “Why did you move here?”

  Despite my tumble-turning heart, so elated by her words, I feigned nonchalance and winked cheekily at her. “I’d heard there were lots of sexy single men in the country and a severe shortage of women.”

  She laughed and tapped the back of her hand against my leg, chiding me. “Don’t you fib. City or country, I bet a lovely lass like you would have your pick.”

  I shook my head, wishing that were true. I’d had boyfriends, of course. Nice men who treated me well and with whom I enjoyed a lot of fun times. Twice, I’d even felt love. But not once had I experienced the soul-tearing, intoxicating, all-consuming want of true passion like I did with Daniel.

  She cast me a shrewd look. “Broken heart?”

  “Sorry to disappoint you, but no. No broken heart and no scandal.” Smiling, I returned to my task. “The reason I came here is pretty mundane, actually. I was just fed up with commuting. It used to take me over an hour to drive to work every day, and that was only if the traffic was good. And, to tell you the truth, I’d had it with my old job. Being a ward nurse can be very rewarding but it’s also incredibly stressful.” I released a sigh, as though just the memory of those days still held the power to exhaust me. “Even the thought of spending another year like that left me feeling depressed. This job—” I paused in my preparations and used my hand to indicate the window and Harrington beyond, “—this town, seemed like a place where I could relax and be happy. Seeing that ad in the paper was a godsend.”

  “And are you? Relaxed and happy?”

  “Of course.”

  But it wasn’t true, not at that point. Since Daniel had kissed his way into my life, I’d been racked by discontent. His contrary manner left me anxious and, in the shadowy recesses of my mind—in the dark, forgotten places where I store all my self-doubts—had unquie
tly roused the fear of what he might think of me, this history-less refugee from the city who indulged in ménage sex on a golf course.

  Mrs. Haddon sighed. “I wish Daniel were. I don’t know what’s got into that boy. He’s like a bear with a sore head lately.”

  Her words had my blood coursing. I tried to hide my acute curiosity but even I could hear the hunger in my voice. “What do you think’s the matter?”

  “I wish I knew.” She shook her head. “Just like his father. Keeps everything bottled up.”

  My mind galloping over a thousand possibilities, I concentrated on taking Mrs. Haddon’s blood pressure. Slightly elevated but nothing too concerning and easily attributed to her worry over Daniel. A condition to which I could easily relate.

  The following day, out of the blue, she asked me if I liked football.

  “Isn’t it un-Victorian not to like football?” I replied.

  She laughed. “Some people think so. I’m a Carlton supporter. Have been since I was a girl.”

  “Really? They’re my team. I’m even a fully paid-up member.”

  Her lovely Daniel-eyes twinkled. “My grandson will be pleased to hear that. He supports them, too. They sent scouts out to give him the once-over when he was younger. That boy was a very good player in his time.”

  I could easily picture Daniel playing Australian Rules Football. His height, strength and athleticism would make him a natural. And he’d look very good in shorts and a chest-hugging guernsey. Very good indeed.

  “I can imagine. He’s the build for it.”

  She nodded, shoulders straightening and chest puffing up. “He won the district under-eighteen Best and Fairest Medal. We were all very proud. His father especially. Strutted around like a peacock for days afterward.”

  I glanced at the collection of photo frames Mrs. Haddon kept on the shelf above the television. Pictures of a once-happy family. Afraid of resurrecting pain, I hadn’t probed for details but I knew it was a family broken by tragedy.

  The question I feared to raise formed in my head and slid to my tongue. I wanted to understand Daniel, to know everything about him. I needed to know this man I loved, inside and out. “What happened to them?”

  Her chest shrank as fast as it had inflated. Her old eyes welled and strayed to the pictures. “Car accident. On the Ballarat road. They were going to watch Daniel play football. A drugged-up semi driver lost control of his rig and hit them head-on.” Her head dropped and she stared at her palms as though the prediction of misfortune could be found hidden in their criss-crossing lines. That she somehow should have foreseen the accident and warned them. “Daniel played for another couple of seasons but you could tell he’d lost the heart for it. Can’t say I blame the boy. We all lost heart that day.”

  My stomach clenched in sorrow for her, for the boy who’d lost his parents, for the family forever torn. I stroked Mrs. Haddon’s wispy soft hair as she let tears drip into her palms. For the elderly, especially those who have lost children, tragedy always seems close. The pain of loss grows more acute as they reach the end of their days. Those with religion have it easier, comforted by the belief they will soon see their loved ones again, but for others, the agony only intensifies. All those unlived years, all that unexperienced love, lost for eternity in the vacuum of death.

  “Do you have a big family?” she asked when she’d regained her composure.

  “Mum and Dad. Two sisters, both older than me and both married to men who dote on them. Maryanne has two boys, aged eight and five, and Chrissy has four-year-old twin girls.” I grinned. “They’re very cute but also a bit of a handful.”

  “You must miss them all.”

  “Sometimes.” I marked that day’s blood pressure on her chart, pleased to record no change. “But they’re not far away so I still see them regularly. And there’s always the phone.”

  I packed up my gear and made to leave but curiosity drew me toward the photographs. I’d eyed the pictures of Daniel on previous visits, smiling at the skinny little boy he once was. At the grinning, gangly adolescent he developed into, looking out on the world with big hazel eyes and youthful innocence. At the solid, nature-blessed man he’d become.

  Incapable of remaining sober, I smiled at the images again before focussing on a family grouping. Two older people stood behind a teenaged Daniel and an extremely pretty cinnamon-haired young girl. They held their hands on the children’s shoulders, laughing at something to the side of the camera, the man’s head turned slightly toward his wife’s as though he was about to whisper into her ear.

  “These are Daniel’s parents?” I picked up the frame to inspect it more closely. Daniel’s father appeared to be hewn from the same huge trunk of manhood as his son, while his mother had the lithe frame and elegant bearing of a ballet dancer. Together, they made a stunning, if contrasting, couple.

  “And his sister, Helen. She lives over Sale way now. Does something with the Department of Environment. I’m not sure exactly what, but it’s to do with looking after State forests.” Her voice swelled with pride. “She was the first one in our family to graduate from university.”

  “Is she married?”

  “Engaged. Anthony’s his name. Owns a farm around there. I haven’t met him yet but Daniel approves, which means he must be all right. That boy’s very protective of his sister. Understandable, of course. After Michael and Stephanie died, Daniel took full responsibility for Helen. Charlie and I helped out but it was Daniel who really looked after her.” She held my gaze, expression heavy with meaning. “He’s a very good lad, Daniel. Always has been.”

  “Yes. I can see that.” I replaced the photo frame and smiled. “Well, no rest for the wicked. You take care now, okay?”

  Every day, I learned something new from Mrs. Haddon. I discovered how Daniel broke his arm when he was seven, falling off a motorbike out on his uncle’s farm. How he helped carry his father’s coffin with dignity, mouth turned down and eyes watering but holding strong for the younger sister, who needed him. Demonstrating his manhood to the world while his insides bled with grief. How he worked two jobs, at the golf club and a local pub, to help fund Helen’s education. How he hid tears of pride at her graduation ceremony.

  The old lady told me more than I could ever have asked and, hungry for information, I gorged on the intelligence like a starving animal. But instead of bringing me closer to him, the more I heard, the more isolated I felt. It was though I was falling for a character from a book or television show, someone adored, someone who turned my insides out, but who was destined to remain forever unattainable. The Daniel I knew was so closed that the Daniel of Mrs. Haddon’s life might not have existed.

  He did, however, grant me glimpses of this other person. In the gentle way he touched me, the tender way he said my name, in his kindness in the supermarket before he backed away as though I were something dangerous. It wasn’t enough. And how could I be sure my feelings weren’t derived from a fantasy I’d woven from Mrs. Haddon’s stories? Or worse, the product of mere lust, a consequence of phenomenal, never-before-experienced sex.

  Then something occurred that convinced me what I felt for him went much deeper. And though I wish it never happened, that it hadn’t taken another person’s suffering to guide me to understanding, I’m grateful to fate for awakening me to the truth.

  Instead of the district’s usual parched late summer, the first two weeks of February produced unseasonal rain. Some of it hit in violent squalls, turning sun-hardened paddocks pulpy, and the golf course was no exception. Despite signs at the clubhouse urging cart drivers to take care of the course and limit their vehicles to the side of the fairways, some of the older members refused to walk to their balls, and so lower, poorer-draining sections soon became muddy with tyre tracks.

  No one, however, saw any real danger. Not even on the sixteenth where the first half of the fairway sloped steeply toward an old limestone quarry, now water-filled and abundant with mis-hit golf balls.

  I was playing the
par-three fourteenth and, though I didn’t see the cart turn over, I heard enough cries to know something terrible had happened. Without thought, I abandoned my clubs and dashed toward the commotion.

  Resting on its side, only a few metres from the edge of the quarry, lay a crumple-roofed golf cart. Skid marks streaked the soft turf where the driver had lost control of the vehicle and slid sideways before momentum and the steep gradient flipped the cart over.

  As I raced through the stand of newly planted gums separating the fourteenth fairway from the parallel sixteenth, Daniel emerged from the trees to the right, sleeves rolled up and a rag in his hand. For a half second he stilled, as though unsure what he was looking at, then he tossed the rag aside and broke into a sprint. Great, ground-eating strides had him at the cart in seconds. Without pause, he clambered over the bent roof frame and crouched down. The cart’s white plastic roof blocked my view but Daniel’s lowered head and stiff body told me someone lay badly hurt. Adrenaline drove my legs harder.

  I reached the cart, hauling in breaths. Inside the frame Daniel knelt beside the head of a grey-haired woman. As I moved round to get the better look at her, I realised it was Mrs. Croydon, the ringleader of a pack of cronies who vocally and unfairly blamed Daniel for the state of the bunkers, when most sensible people knew the real culprit was the club’s malnourished bank account.

  She lay on her back staring at Daniel with huge fluid eyes, lips trembling and face the sickly pallor of a person already succumbing to shock. Daniel held one of her golf-gloved hands gently cupped in his as he talked quietly in a calm, reassuring voice. The other she had curled tight around a clump of her shirt, using it as a brace against pain.

  The heavy base of the cart pinned her feet, and it didn’t take a nurse to realise one of her legs was severely broken. The leg kinked mid-calf at a sickeningly unnatural angle, the broken bone edge flexing against skin as though someone were attempting to poke a finger through. Quickly, I scanned her body for other injuries but other than the pale onset of shock, I could identify none.