Spindrift by Tamara McKinley

Author:Tamara McKinley [McKinley, Tamara]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781784292638
Publisher: Quercus
Published: 2017-03-08T23:00:00+00:00

12

Bellerive, Tasmania

The journey had taken far longer than Harold had expected, for the horse had cast a shoe and he’d had to walk him several miles to find a blacksmith. By the time he’d found one in Richmond, which was one of the first towns to be settled by free migrants on the island almost a century before, it was very late, so he decided to spend the night. There were still twelve miles or so to go, and the horse was as weary as he was.

He rented a room at the Bridge Inn, settled his horse in the stables at the back and, after a hearty dinner, fell into bed and was asleep within minutes.

*

Harold woke at dawn as usual, ate a quick breakfast and saddled his horse. The day promised to be fair and he was in a hurry to get to Christy’s place, do what he had to do, and then see if he could catch the ferry from Hobart. It would mean a longer journey – the boat would call in at Sydney before reaching Melbourne – but at least it would give him a quick getaway from Hobart and Florence.

Bellerive was a sparsely settled suburb of Hobart on the eastern bank of the River Derwent, which flowed into Storm Bay and eventually out into the Tasman Sea. This south-easterly part of the island was made up of several peninsulas, one of which held the notorious, and thankfully decommissioned, convict prison at Port Arthur. As Harold reached the old fort on top of Kangaroo Bluff, he was afforded a magnificent view of Hobart and its vast harbour against the imposing backdrop of Mount Wellington. Easing the horse down the hill and taking the narrow track which ran alongside the river, he soon caught sight of the roof of Christy’s home in the distance.

Skye House was a traditionally built wooden Queenslander that had been given a sturdy tiled roof in place of the more traditional corrugated iron. Built above the ground on concrete blocks to deter termites, it had been extended over the years to provide a comfortable home for Christy’s family. It sprawled across the vast plot, its white painted walls gleaming in the sun. The ornate wrought iron decorating the deep veranda which ran round three sides of the house had also been painted white, but was now almost smothered in a tumble of roses and clematis, which would bloom in the spring into a riot of pink and white and purple. There were cane chairs and tables on the shaded veranda, and tubs of winter pansies and ferns added to the sense of comfort and welcome.

A manicured lawn swept down towards the small private bay of white sand and shingle; flowerbeds and pretty specimen trees that would come alive with blossom in the spring were dotted across the lawn, and at the back of the house were the paddocks and stables, and the sandy schooling ring where Christy’s late husband had spent his final hours.

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