Page 13 of Reckless

The old man sucked his gums. “They’d be my third cousins. No, fourth, on my father’s side.”

I’d momentarily forgotten that everyone on this island had the same names. I nodded down at the dog. “Is he yours?”

“One of Elias Dinsmore’s,” Tall Tom said. “He’s got a pack of the things, most of them friendlier than he is. You’d remember—oh, I suppose you wouldn’t, would you?” He hummed thoughtfully. “You’re an incomer.”

“I am,” I agreed. “Your tomatoes look good.”

Tall Tom showed me a pleased, gummy smile. “Yes, they’re coming along nicely. Mavis Coldwell said they’d never grow in this soil. Too sandy this close to the harbour, you see? But I put some lime down, and some straw, and I keep it nice and damp for them.”

“Well, it certainly looks as though it’s paying off for you,” I said. The dog nudged my palm with its nose, and I patted its head.

“You’re off to see Anna, are you?” Tall Tom asked.

“Yes.”

“Not right, is it?” He shook his head. “I was eighty-four last birthday, and still healthy as a horse.” The tremor in his hands said otherwise. “And Anna’s hardly more than a girl. Was only yesterday she was barely knee high.”

“No, it’s not fair.”

“Wait here for just a tick,” he said, and tottered on his walking stick into his cottage. Moments later he reappeared clutching a cotton tote bag. As I watched, he hummed and harred over the tomatoes, eventually selecting seven or eight that passed inspection. “Give those to Anna for me, will you?”

“Of course.”

“And see me on your way back, and I’ll have a few for you too.” He turned his attention back to his plants, and the dog and I continued on our way.

I’d thought Dauntless a picturesque place when I arrived, a postcard-pretty background for my new life. But I was starting to realise the island, and the people on it, had a way of getting under your skin.

“Hi, doc!” someone called from behind me, and I turned. It was Button John, about halfway down the street, in company with another guy about the same age as him. They were laden down with gardening tools. Button John waved a pair of shears enthusiastically in my direction, and the other guy sensibly took them off him.

“Hi,” Button John said again. “This is my cousin, Natty. He does the copper’s yard. Does more than his yard if you know what⁠—”

Natty elbowed him.

“Anyway,” Button John continued blithely. “You think about that cleaning job?”

As I recalled, the cleaning job didn’t exist, but I had to admit that mopping floors wasn’t something I enjoyed. Why not hire someone to do it for me? “Alright then,” I said. “How’s every afternoon at five, once the clinic closes?”

Button John’s face lit up. “That’s perfect, doc! I’ll start tomorrow!”

“I’ll see you then,” I said. “I suppose I’ll need your bank details and your tax file number⁠—”

“Nah, it’s cash in hand, doc,” Button John said with a winning grin. “The Dauntless way!”

Natty slung an arm around him and hauled him on. Button John let himself be dragged, waving at me.

I waved back, and they continued along.

The Dauntless way. Apparently that was dodging taxes and refusing to sign up for Medicare. But I thought of how everyone went to the old church on Saturday, sharing food and drink and stories, and suddenly a little bit of cash in hand work didn’t seem worth worrying about.

The Medicare thing though? I’d still push that.

My visit with Anna went well. She was having a good day—a relative term—and she even had a bit of an appetite. The twins were playing outside in the garden with an older boy, and I helped Anna slice tomatoes so she could make sandwiches for them all.

While we worked, she talked about the twins, who were clearly her pride and joy, and about her husband, Archie, who was her childhood sweetheart. I imagined that in a place with a population as small as Dauntless Island, it wasn’t unusual to marry your childhood sweetheart. Who else were you going to meet?

In turn, I talked a little about Neal, glossing over the part of the story where our relationship had broken down into dull indifference, and instead focussing on how we’d met at university, and how I’d hated him because he was full of himself—smart and good-looking, and didn’t he know it. But then we’d worked together as part of a group presentation and I’d realised I’d mistaken his confidence for arrogance, and he’d mistaken my dislike for—well, no, he’d been right; it was dislike, verging on utter contempt. But I could admit I’d been wrong.

Anna laughed, and so did I, pushing that familiar regretful ache to the back of my mind. I sometimes wondered if it would have been easier if we’d hated one another by the end, because at least that would have been something.