Review
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Praise for Silver Bay:
"Surprising and genuinely moving." --The Times (London)
"Moyes keeps you guessing in this satisfying love story." --Marie
Claire (UK)
"Moyes is a tremendously gifted storyteller." --Paula McLain,
author of The Paris Wife
"Touching and impossible to put down." --Daily Express (London)
"Unashamedly romantic." --Elle (UK)
Praise for Paris for One and Other Stories:
“Moyes is in fine, cheeky form in this collection of short
fiction, deploying the wit and charm that animates Me Before
You and her other popular novels. The title novella offers a
vicarious jolt of Parisian romance, while shorter stories deliver
pithy ins into the joys and woes of marriage, ending with
delightful twists.” --People
“An old-fashioned, feel-good love story. . . ["Paris for One"
is] as light as a French pastry. It will make you smile and even,
maybe, sigh. It’s as if Moyes has booked a vacation and is taking
us along. To Paris. Amour! . . . Think of these short fictions as
palate s after the sweet, tasty Parisian treat Moyes so
deliciously serves up.” –USA Today
“Paris for One and Other Stories. . . [is] dreamy escapism, a
book you can curl up with and easily finish over a weekend, with
or without a glass of wine.” –Miami Herald
"[A] charming novella. . . [and] a collection of short stories
rounds out the work and adds up to an engaging way to spend
fall's first chilly afternoon.”—Good Housekeeping
“These stories are a treat—quick, short nibbles of Moyes’
character genius, storytelling charisma, and writing grace, plus
a new, intriguing format for the author, with the occasional
surprising twist.” --Kirkus Reviews
"Vibrant. . .Bold, humorous and genuine, the stories in this
collection are classic Moyes." —Publishers Weekly
Praise for After You:
"Jojo Moyes has a hit with After You.”—USA Today
“Think Elizabeth Bennet after Darcy’s eventual death; Alice after
Gertrude; Wilbur after Charlotte. The 'aftermath' is a subject
most writers understandably avoid, but Moyes has tackled it and
given readers an affecting, even entertaining female adventure
tale about a broken heroine who ultimately rouses herself and
falls in love again, this time with the possibilities in her own
future..” —Maureen Corrigan, Fresh Air, NPR
“The genius of Moyes . . . [is that she] peers deftly into class
issues, social mores, and complicated relationships that raise as
many questions as they answer. And yet there is always
resolution. It’s not always easy, it’s not always perfect, it’s
sometimes messy and not completely satisfying. But sometimes it
is.” —Bobbi Dumas, NPR.org
“Charming.”— People
“Expect tears and belly laughs from Me Before You’s much
anticipated sequel.” —Cosmopolitan
“Moyes is at her most charming here, writing with a sense of
humorous affection about family dynamics among
working-class Brits. . . a Maeve Binchy for the 21st
century.” —Kirkus Reviews
“[A] heart-tugger.” —Good Housekeeping
“Like its predecessor [Me Before You], After You is a comic and
breezy novel that also tackles bigger, more difficult subjects,
in this case grief and moving on. . . . We all lose what we love
at some point, but in her poignant, funny way, Moyes reminds us
that even if it’s not always happy, there is an ever
after.” —Miami Herald
“Once again, Moyes delivers a heart-wrenching and relatable book
about love and loss that will stay with you long after you’ve
finished.” —InStyle.com
“Moyes wisely knows that life-changing events don’t always change
our lives for the better. . . . After You may not be the sequel
you expect, but it is the sequel you needed.” —Entertainment
Weekly
“After You is an immersive experience, inviting readers back into
the homes of the characters they fell in love with in Me Before
You. They’ll experience the mourning that follows a devastating
loss, and the glimmers of hope that propel the brokenhearted
forward.” —BookPage
“[After You] left me thrilled by the possibilities of fiction to
entertain and inform, and astounded by [Moyes’s] deep well of
talent and imagination.” —Baskmagazine
Praise for Me Before You:
“A hilarious, heartbreaking, riveting novel . . . I will stake my
reputation on this book.” —Anne Lamott, People
“When I finished this novel, I didn’t want to review it: I wanted
to reread it. . . . An affair to remember.” —The New York Times
Book Review
“An unlikely love story . . . To be devoured like candy, between
tears.” —O, The Oprah Magazine
“Funny and moving but never predictable.” —USA Today (four stars)
“Masterful . . . a heartbreaker in the best sense . . . Me Before
You is achingly hard to read at moments, and yet such a
joy.” —New York Daily News
Praise for One Plus One:
“Safety advisory: If you’re planning to read Jojo Moyes’s One
Plus One on your summer vacation, slather on plenty of SPF 50.
Once you start the book, you probably won’t look up again until
you’re the last one left on the beach. . . . [A] wonderful new
novel.” —The Washington Post
“Jojo Moyes’ new novel One Plus One adds up to a delightful
summer read, where the whole is greater than the sum of its
charming parts. . . . Moyes’ observations on modern life are
dryly hilarious. . . . You don’t need to be a math whiz to figure
out this book is one worth adding to your summer reading
list.” —USA Today(four stars)
“Bridget Jones meets Little Miss Sunshine in this witty British
romp from bestseller Moyes. . . . Wryly romantic and surprisingly
suspenseful.” —People
“Fans of the 2006 summer er hit Little Miss Sunshine will
find a lot to love in British author Jojo Moyes’ latest, about a
madcap road trip that’s packed to the boot with familial drama,
class clashes, and romance.” —Entertainment Weekly(A-)
“No need to worry where this road trip is headed. Just sit back,
roll down your window and enjoy being a passenger.” —Cleveland
Plain Dealer
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About the Author
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Jojo Moyes is the #1 New York Times bestselling author of Still
Me, After You, Me Before You, The Horse Dancer, Paris for One and
Other Stories, One Plus One, The Girl You Left Behind, The Last
Letter from Your Lover, Silver Bay, and The Ship of Brides. She
lives with her husband and three children in Essex, England.
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Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Jojo Moyes
July 2006
Prologue
KATHLEEN
My name is Kathleen Whittier Mostyn, and when I was seventeen I
became famous for catching the biggest shark New South Wales had
ever seen: a gray nurse with an eye so mean it still looked like
it wanted to rip me in two several days after we’d laid it out.
That was back in the days when all of Silver Bay was given over
to game fishing, and for three straight weeks all anyone could
talk about was that shark. A newspaper reporter came all the way
from Newcastle and took a picture of me standing next to it (I’m
the one in the bathing suit). It’s several feet taller than I am,
in that picture, and the photographer made me wear my heels.
What you can see is a tall, rather stern-seeming girl,
better-looking than she knew, shoulders broad enough to be the
despair of her mother, and a waist trim enough from reeling and
bending that she never needed a corset. There I am, unable to
hide my pride, not yet aware that I would be tied to that beast
for the rest of my days as surely as if we had been married. What
you can’t see is that he is held up by two wires, supported by my
her and his business partner Mr. Brent Newhaven—hauling it
ashore had ripped several tendons in my right shoulder and by the
time the photographer arrived I couldn’t lift a mug of tea, let
alone a shark.
Still, it was enough to cement my reputation. For years I was
known as the Shark Girl, even when my girlhood was well over. My
sister Norah always joked that, given the state of my appearance,
they should have called me the Sea Urchin. But my success, my
her always said, made the Bay Hotel. Two days after that
picture appeared in the newspaper we were booked solid, and
stayed booked solid until the west wing of the hotel burned down
in 1962. Men came because they wanted to beat my record. Or
because they assumed that if a girl could land a creature like
that, why, what was possible for a proper fisherman? A few came
to ask me to marry them, but my her always said he could smell
them before they’d hit Port Stephens and sent them packing. Women
came because until then they had never thought it possible that
they could catch game fish, let alone compete with the men. And
families came because Silver Bay, with its protected bay, endless
dunes and calm waters, was a fine place to be.
Two more jetties were hurriedly constructed to cope with the
extra boat traffic, and every day the air was filled with the
sound of clipped oars and outboard motors as the bay and the sea
around it was virtually dredged of aquatic life. The night air
was filled with the revving of car engines, soft bursts of music
and glasses clinking. There was a time, during the 1950s, when it
is not too fanciful to say that we were the place to be.
Now we still have our boats, and our jetties, although we only
use one now, and what people are chasing is pretty different. I
haven’t picked up a rod in almost twenty years. I don’t much care
for killing things anymore. We’re pretty quiet, even in the
summer. Most of the holiday traffic heads to the clubs and
high-rise hotels, the more obvious delights of Coffs Harbour or
Byron Bay and, to tell the truth, that suits most of us just
fine.
I still hold that record. It’s noted in one of those
doorstop-sized books that sell in huge numbers, and no one you
know ever buys. The editors do me the honor of ringing me now and
then to let me know my name will be included for another year.
Occasionally the local schoolchildren stop by to tell me they’ve
found me in the library, and I always act surprised, just to keep
them happy.
But I still hold that record. I tell you that not out of any
desire to boast, or because I’m a seventy-six-year-old woman and
it’s nice to feel I once did something of note, but because when
you’re surrounded by as many secrets as I am, it feels good to
get things straight out in the open occasionally.
One
HANNAH
If you stuck your hand in right up to the wrist, you could
usually uncover at least three different kinds of biscuit in Moby
One’s jar. Yoshi said that the crews on the other boats always
skimped on biscuits, buying the cheapest arrowroot in value packs
at the supermarket. But she reckoned that if you’d paid nearly a
hundred and fifty dollars to go out chasing dolphins, the least
you could expect was a decent biscuit. So she bought all-butter
Anzacs—thick, oaty, double-layered with chocolate—Scotch Fingers,
Mint Slices wrapped in foil and very occasionally, if she could
get away with it, home-baked cookies. Lance, the skipper, said
she got decent biscuits because they were pretty well all she had
to eat. He also said that if their boss ever caught her spending
that much on biscuits he’d squash her like a Garibaldi. I stared
at the biscuits, as Moby One headed out into Silver Bay, holding
up the tray as Yoshi offered the passengers tea and coffee. I was
hoping they wouldn’t eat all the Anzacs before I had a chance to
take one. I’d snuck out without breakfast, and I knew it was only
when we headed into the cockpit that she’d let me dip in.
“Moby One to Suzanne, how many s did you sink last night?
You’re steering a course like a one-legged drunk.”
Lance was on the radio. As we went in, I dropped my hand straight
into the biscuit jar and pulled out the last Anzac. The
ship-to-ship radio crackled, and a voice muttered something I
couldn’t make out. He tried again: “Moby One to Sweet Suzanne.
Look, you’d better straighten up, mate . . . you’ve got four
passengers up front hanging over the rails. Every time you swerve
they’re decorating your starboard windows.”
Lance MacGregor’s voice sounded like it had been rubbed down with
wire wool, like the boat’s sides. He took one hand off the wheel
and Yoshi gave him a mug of coffee. I tucked myself in behind
her. The spray on the back of her navy blue uniform sparkled like
sequins.
“You seen Greg?” Lance asked.
She nodded. “I got a good look before we set off.”
“He’s so done in he can’t steer straight.” He pointed out of the
droplet-flecked window toward the smaller boat. “I tell you,
Yoshi, his passengers will be asking for refunds. The one in the
green hat hasn’t lifted his head since we passed Break Nose
Island. What the hell’s got into him?”
Yoshi Takomura had the prettiest hair I’d ever seen. It hung in
black clouds around her face, never tangling despite the effects
of wind and saltwater. I took one of my own mousy locks between
my fingers; it felt gritty, although we had been on the water
only half an hour. My friend Lara said that when she hit
fourteen, in four years’ time, her mum was going to let her put
streaks in hers. It was then that Lance had caught of me. I
guess I’d known he would.
“What are you doing here, Squirt? Your mum’ll have my guts for
garters. Don’t you have school or something?”
“Holidays.” I stepped back behind Yoshi, a little embarrassed.
Lance always talked to me like I was five years younger than I
was.
“She’ll stay out of ,” Yoshi said. “She just wanted to see
the dolphins.”
I stared at him, pulling my sleeves down over my hands.
He stared back, then shrugged. “You gonna wear a life jacket?”
I nodded.
“And not get under my feet?”
I tilted my head. As if, my eyes said.
“Be nice to her,” said Yoshi. “She’s been ill twice already.”
“It’s nerves,” I said. “My tummy always does it.”
“Ah . . . Hell. Look, just make sure your mum knows it was
nothing to do with me, okay? And listen, Squirt, head for Moby
Two next time—or, even better, someone else’s boat.”
“You never saw her,” said Yoshi. “Anyway, Greg’s steering’s not
the half of it.” She grinned. “Wait till he turns and you see
what he’s done to the side of his prow.”
It was, Yoshi said, as we headed back out, a good day to be on
the water. The sea was a little choppy, but the winds were mild,
and the air so clear that you could see the white horses riding
the little breakers miles into the distance. I followed her to
the main restaurant deck, my legs easily absorbing the rise and
fall of the catamaran beneath me, a little less self-conscious
now that the skipper knew I was onboard.
This, she had told me, would be the busiest part of today’s
dolphin-watching trip, the time between setting off and our
arrival at the sheltered waters around the bay where the pods of
bottlenoses tended to gather. While the passengers sat up on the
top deck, enjoying the crisp May day through woolen mufflers,
Yoshi, the steward, was laying out the buffet, offering drinks
and, if the water was choppy, which it was most days now that
winter was coming, preparing the disinfectant and bucket for
seaness. It didn’t matter how many times you told them, she
grumbled, glancing at the well-dressed Asians who made up most of
the morning’s custom, they would stay belowdecks, they would eat
and drink too quickly and they would go into the tiny lavatories
to be , rather than hanging over the edge, thereby making
them unusable by anyone else. And if they were Japanese, she
added, with a hint of malicious pleasure, they would spend the
rest of the voyage in a silent frenzy of humiliation, hiding
behind dark glasses and raised collars, their ashen faces turned
resolutely to sea.
“Tea? Coffee? Biscuits? Tea? Coffee? Biscuits?”
I followed her out on to the foredeck, pulling my windbreaker up
around my neck. The wind had dropped a little but I could still
feel the chill in the air, biting at my nose and the tips of my
ears. Most of the passengers didn’t want anything—they were
chatting loudly, to be heard above the engines, gazing out at the
distant horizon, and taking pictures of each other. Now and then
I dipped my hand into the biscuits until I’d taken what I thought
they would have eaten anyway.
Moby One was the biggest catamaran—or “cat,” as the crews called
them—in Silver Bay. It was usually a two-steward vessel, but the
tourists were tailing off as the temperature dropped, so it was
just Yoshi now until trade picked up again. I didn’t mind—it was
easier to persuade her to let me aboard. I helped her put the tea
and coffeepots back in their holders, then stepped back out onto
the narrow side deck, where we braced ourselves against the
windows, and gazed across the sea to where the smaller boat was
still making its uneven path across the waves. Even from this
distance we could see that more people now were hanging over
Suzanne’s rails, their heads lower than their shoulders,
oblivious of the spattered red paint just below them. “We can
take ten minutes now. Here.” Yoshi cracked open a can of cola and
handed it to me. “You ever heard of chaos theory?”
“Mmm.” I made it sound like I might.
“If only those people knew,” she wagged a finger as we felt the
engines slow, “that their long-awaited trip to go see the wild
dolphins has been ruined by an ex-girlfriend they will never meet
and a man who now lives with her more than two hundred and fifty
kilometers away in Sydney and thinks that purple cycling shorts
are acceptable daywear.”
I took a gulp of my drink. The fizz made my eyes water and I
swallowed hard. “You’re saying the tourists being on Greg’s
boat is down to chaos theory?” I’d thought it was because he’d
got drunk again the night before.
Yoshi smiled. “Something like that.”
The engines had stopped, and Moby One quieted, the sea growing
silent around us, except for the tourist chatter and the waves
slapping against the sides. I loved it out here, loved watching
my house become a white dot against the narrow strip of beach,
then disappear behind the endless coves. Perhaps my pleasure was
made greater by the knowledge that what I was doing was against
the rules. I wasn’t rebellious, not really, but I kind of liked
the idea of it.
Lara had a dinghy that she was allowed to take out by herself,
staying within the buoys that marked out the old oyster beds, and
I envied her. My mother wouldn’t let me roam around the bay, even
though I was nearly eleven. “All in good time,” she would murmur.
There was no point arguing with her about stuff like that.
Lance appeared beside us: he’d just had his photograph taken with
two giggling teenagers. He was often asked to pose with young
women, and hadn’t yet been known to refuse. It was why he liked
to wear his captain’s peaked cap, Yoshi said, even when the sun
was hot enough to melt his head.
“What’s he written on the side of his boat?” He squinted at
Greg’s cruiser in the distance. He seemed to have forgiven me for
being onboard.
“I’ll tell you back at the jetty.”
I caught the eyebrow cocked toward me. “I can read what it says,
you know,” I said. The other boat, which had until yesterday
described itself as the Sweet Suzanne, now suggested, in red
paint, that “Suzanne” do something Yoshi said was a biological
impossibility. She turned to him, lowering her voice as far as
possible—as if she thought I couldn’t hear her. “The missus told
him there was another man after all.”
Lance let out a long whistle. “He said as much. And she denied
it.”
“She was hardly going to admit it, not when she knew how Greg was
going to react. And he was hardly an innocent . . .” She glanced
at me. “Anyway, she’s off to live in Sydney, and she said she
wants half the boat.”
“And he says?”
“I think the boat probably says it all.”
“Can’t believe he’d take tourists out with it like that.” Lance
lifted his binoculars better to study the scrawled red lettering.
Yoshi gestured at him to pass them to her. “He was so ill this
morning I’m not sure he’s even remembered what he’s done.”
We were interrupted by the excited yells of the tourists on the
upper deck. They were jostling toward the pulpit at the front.
“Here we go,” muttered Lance, straightening up and grinning at
me. “There’s our pocket money, Squirt. Time to get back to work.”
Sometimes, Yoshi said, they could run the whole bay but the
bottlenoses would refuse to show, and a boat full of unsatisfied
dolphin-watchers was a boat full of free second trips and
fifty-percent refunds, both guaranteed to send the boss into
meltdown.
At the bow, a group of tourists were pressed together, cameras
whirring as they tried to catch the glossy gray shapes that were
now riding the breaking waves below. I checked the water to see
who had come to play. Belowdecks, Yoshi had covered a wall with
photographs of the fins of every dolphin in the area. She had
given them all names: Zigzag, One Cut, Piper . . . The other
crews had laughed at her, but now they could all recognize the
distinctive fins—it was the second time they’d seen Butter
that week, they’d murmur. I knew the name of every one by heart.
“Looks like Polo and Brolly,” Yoshi said, leaning over the side.
“Is that Brolly’s baby?”
The dolphins were silent gray arcs, circling the boat as if they
were the seers. Every time one broke the surface the air was
filled with the sound of clacking camera shutters. What did they
think of us gawping at them? I knew they were as smart as humans.
I used to imagine them meeting up by the rocks afterward,
laughing in dolphin language about us—the one in the blue hat, or
the one with the funny glasses.
Lance’s voice came over the PA system: “Ladies and gentlemen,
please do not rush to one side to see the dolphins. We will
slowly turn the ship so that everyone can get a good view. If you
rush to one side we are likely to capsize. Dolphins do not like
boats that fall over.”
Glancing up, I noticed two albatross; pausing in midair, they
folded their wings and dived, sending up only the faintest splash
as they hit the water. One rose again, wheeling in search of some
unseen prey, then the other rejoined it, soaring above the little
bay and disappeared. I watched them go. Then, as Moby One slowly
shifted position, I leaned over the side, sticking my feet under
the bottom rail to see my new trainers. Yoshi had promised she’d
let me sit in the boom nets when the weather got warmer, so that
I could touch the dolphins, perhaps even swim with them. But only
if my mother agreed. And we all knew what that meant.
I stumbled as the boat moved unexpectedly. It took me a second to
register that the engines had started up. Startled, I grabbed the
handrail. I had grown up in Silver Bay and knew there was a way
of doing things around dolphins. Shut down engines if you want
them to play. If they keep moving, hold a parallel course, be
guided by them. Dolphins made things pretty clear: if they liked
you they came close, or kept an even distance. If they didn’t
want you around they swam away. Yoshi frowned at me, and as the
catamaran lurched, we grabbed the lifelines. My confusion was
mirrored in her face.
A sudden acceleration sent the boat shooting forward, and, above,
squealing tourists collapsed onto their seats. We were flying.
Lance was on the radio. As we clambered into the cockpit behind
him, Sweet Suzanne was scudding along some distance away,
bouncing over the waves, apparently heedless of the increasing
numbers of miserable people now hanging over her rails.
“Lance! What are you doing?” Yoshi grabbed at a rail.
“See you there, bud . . . Ladies and gentlemen—” Lance pulled a
face and reached for the PA system button. I need a translation,
he mouthed. “We have something a bit special for you this
morning. You’ve already enjoyed the magical of our Silver
Bay dolphins, but if you hold on tight, we’d like to take you to
something really special. We’ve had a ing of the first
whales of the season, a little further out to sea. These are the
humpbacked whales who come past our waters every year on their
long migration north from the Antarctic. I can promise you that
this is a you won’t forget. Now, please sit down, or hold
on tight. Things may get a little choppy as, from the south,
there’s a little more size in the swell, but I want to make sure
we get you there in time to see them. Anyone who wants to stay at
the front of the boat, I suggest you borrow a raincoat. There are
plenty inside at the back.”
He spun the wheel and nodded to Yoshi, who took the PA system.
She repeated what he had said in Japanese, then in Korean for
good measure. It was entirely possible, she said afterward, that
she had simply recited the previous day’s lunch menu: she had
been unable to focus since Lance had made his announcement. One
word sang through, as it did in my own mind: whale!
“How far?” Yoshi’s body was rigid as she scanned the glinting
waters. The earlier relaxed atmosphere had disappeared
completely. My stomach was in knots.
“Four, five miles? Dunno. The tourist helicopter was flying over
and said they’d seen what looked like two a couple of miles off
Torn Point. It’s a little early in the season, but . . .”
“Fourteenth of June last year. We’re not that far out,” said
Yoshi. “Bloody hell! Look at Greg! He’s going to lose passengers
if he carries on at that pace. His boat’s not big enough to soak
up those waves.”
“He doesn’t want us to get there before him.” Lance shook his
head and checked the speed dial. “Full throttle. Let’s make sure
Moby One’s first this year. Just for once.”
Some crew members were doing the job to make up their shipping
hours, on course for bigger vessels and bigger jobs. Some, like
Yoshi, had be as part of their education and had simply
forgotten to go home. But, whatever reason they might have for
being there, I had grasped long ago that there was magic in the
first whale ing of the migration season. It was as if, until
that creature had been seen, it was impossible to believe they
would be back.
To be the first to see one didn’t mean much—once the whales were
known to be out there, all five boats that operated off Whale
Jetty would switch their business from dolphins to
whale-watching. But it was of importance to the crew. And, like
all great passions, it made them mad. Boy, did it make them mad.
“Look at that great idiot. Funny how he can hold a straight
course now,” Lance spat. Greg was portside of us, but seemed to
be gaining.
“He can’t bear the thought of us getting there before him.” Yoshi
grabbed a raincoat and threw it at me. “There! Just in case we go
out front. It’s going to get pretty wet.”
“I don’t bloody believe it.” Lance had spied another boat on the
horizon. He must have forgotten I was there, to be swearing.
“There’s Mitchell! I bet you he’s been sitting on the radio all
afternoon and now he swans up, probably with a cabinful of
passengers. I’m going to swing for that bloke one of these days.”
They were always moaning about Mitchell Dray. He never bothered
to look for the dolphins, like the others: he would just wait
until he overheard a ing on the ship-to-ship radio and go
where everyone else was headed.
“Am I really going to see a whale?” I asked. Beneath our feet,
the hull smacked noisily against the waves, forcing me to hang on
to the side. Through the open window, I could hear the excited
shouts of the tourists, the laughter of those who had been hit by
rogue waves.
“Fingers crossed.” Yoshi’s eyes were trained on the horizon.
A real whale. I had only once seen a whale, with my aunt
Kathleen. Usually I wasn’t allowed this far out to sea.
“There . . . There! No, it’s just spray.” Yoshi had lifted the
binoculars. “Can’t you change course? There’s too much glare.”
“Not if you want me to get there first.” Lance swung the boat to
starboard, trying to alter the angle of the sun on the waves.
“We should radio ashore. Find out exactly where the chopper saw
it.”
“No point,” said Lance. “It could have traveled two miles by now.
And Mitchell will be listening in. I’m not giving that bugger any
more information. He’s been stealing passengers from us all
summer.”
“Just watch for the blow.”
“Yeah. And the little that says, ‘Whale.’”
“Just trying to help, Lance.”
“There!” I could just make out the shape, like a distant black
pebble dipping below the water. “North-northeast. Heading behind
Break Nose Island. Just dived.” I thought I might be with
excitement. I heard Lance start counting behind me. “One . . .
two . . . three . . . four . . . whale!” An unmistakable plume of
water rose joyously above the horizon. Yoshi let out a squeal.
Lance glanced toward Greg, who, from his course, hadn’t seen it.
“We got her!” Lance hissed. All whales were “her” to Lance, just
as all kids were “squirt.”
Whale. I took the word into my mouth, rolled it around and
savored it. My eyes did not leave the water. Moby One shifted
course, the huge catamaran slapping hard as it bounded over each
wave. Behind the island I imagined the whale breaching,
displaying its white belly to the world in an unseen display of
buoyancy. “Whale,” I whispered.
“We’re going to be first,” muttered Yoshi, excitedly. “Just for
once we’re going to get there first.”
I watched Lance swing the wheel, counting under his breath to
mark the number of times the whale blew. More than thirty seconds
apart and it was likely to dive deep. Then we would have lost it.
Closer together meant it had already dived, and we would have a
chance to follow.
“Seven . . . eight . . . She’s up. Yessss.” Lance hit the wheel
with his palm, then grabbed the PA system. “Ladies and gentlemen,
if you look over to your right, you might make out the whale,
which is headed behind that piece of land there.”
“Greg’s realized where we’re headed.” Yoshi grinned. “He’ll never
catch us now. His engine isn’t powerful enough.”
“Moby One to Blue Horizon. Mitchell,” Lance yelled into his
radio, “you want to see this baby you’re going to have to get off
my coattails.”
Mitchell’s voice came over the radio: “Blue Horizon to Moby One.
I’m just here to make sure there’s someone to pick up Greg’s
overboards.”
“Oh, nothing to do with the big fish?” Lance responded tersely.
“Blue Horizon to Moby One. Big old sea, Lance. Plenty of room for
everyone.”
I gripped the wooden rim of the chart table so tightly that my
knuckles turned white as I watched the scrubby headland grow. I
wondered whether the whale would slow there, allow us to come
closer. Perhaps it would lift its head and eye us. Perhaps it
would swim up to the side of the boat and reveal its calf.
“Two minutes,” said Lance. “We’ll be around the head in about two
minutes. Hopefully get up close.”
“Come on, girlie. Give us a good show.” Yoshi was talking to
herself, binoculars still raised.
Whale, I told it silently, wait for us, whale. I wondered whether
it would notice me. Whether it could sense that I, of all the
people on the boat, had a special empathy with sea creatures. I
was pretty sure I did.
“I don’t—bloody—believe—it.” Lance had taken off his peaked cap,
and was scowling out of the window.
“What?” Yoshi leaned toward him.
“Look.”
I followed their gaze. As Moby One came around the headland, all
of us fell silent. A short distance from the scrub-covered
landmass, half a mile out to sea in aquamarine waters, the
stationary Ishmael sat, its newly painted sides glinting under
the midday sun.
At the helm stood my mother, leaning over the rail, her hair
whipping around her face under the bleached cap she insisted on
wearing out to sea. She had her weight on one leg and Milly, our
dog, lay apparently a across the wheel. She looked as if she
had been there, waiting for this whale, for years.
“How the bloody hell did she do that?” Lance caught Yoshi’s
warning glare and shrugged an apology at me. “Nothing personal,
but—Jeez . . .”
“She’s always there first.” Yoshi’s response was half amused,
half resigned. “Every year I’ve been here. She’s always first.”
“Beaten by a bloody Brit. It’s as bad as the cricket.” Lance lit
a , then tossed away the match in disgust.
I stepped out onto the deck.
At that moment the whale emerged. As we ped, it lobtailed,
sending a huge spray of water toward Ishmael. The tourists on
Moby One’s top deck cheered. It was enormous, close enough that
we could see the barnacled growths along its body, the corrugated
white belly; near enough that I could look briefly into its eye.
But ridiculously swift—something of that bulk had no right to be
so agile.
My breath had stalled in my throat. One hand clutching the
lifelines, I lifted the binoculars with the other and gazed
through them, not at the whale but at my mother, hardly hearing
the exclamations about the creature’s size, the swell it sent
before the smaller boat, forgetting briefly that I should not
allow myself to be seen. Even from that distance I could make out
that Liza McCullen was smiling, her eyes creased upward. It was
an expression she rarely, if ever, wore on dry land.
• • •
Aunt Kathleen walked to the end of the veranda to put a large
of prawns and some lemon slices on the bleached wooden table
with a large basket of bread. She’s actually my great-aunt but
she says that makes her feel like an antique, so most of the time
I call her Auntie K. Behind her the white weatoard of the
hotel’s frontage glowed softly in the evening sun, eight fiery
red peaches sliding down the windows. The wind had picked up a
little, and the hotel sign whined as it swung back and forth.
“What’s this for?” Greg lifted his head from the bottle of
he’d been nursing. He had finally taken off his dark glasses, and
the shadows under his eyes betrayed the events of the previous
evening.
“I heard you needed your stomach lined,” she said, thwacking a
napkin in front of him.
“He tell you four of his passengers asked for their money back
when they caught of his hull?” Lance laughed. “Sorry, Greg
mate, but what a damn fool thing to do. Of all the things to
write.”
“You’re a gent, Kathleen.” Greg, ignoring him, reached for the
bread.
My aunt gave him one of her looks. “And I’ll be something else
entirely if you write those words where young Hannah can see them
again.”
“Shark Lady’s still got teeth.” Lance mimed a snapping motion at
Greg.
Aunt Kathleen ignored him. “Hannah, you dig in now. I’ll bet you
never had a bite to eat for lunch. I’m going to fetch the salad.”
“She ate the biscuits,” said Yoshi, expertly undressing a prawn.
“Biscuits.” Aunt Kathleen snorted.
We were gathered, as the Whale Jetty crews were most evenings,
outside the hotel kitchens. There were few days when the crews
wouldn’t share a or two before they headed home. Some of the
younger members, my aunt often said, shared so many that they
barely made it home at all.
As I bit into a juicy tiger prawn, I noticed that the burners
were outside; few guests at the Silver Bay Hotel wanted to sit
out in June, but in winter the whale-watching crews congregated
here to discuss events on the water, no matter the weather. Their
members changed from year to year, as people moved on to
different jobs or went to uni, but Lance, Greg, Yoshi and the
others had been a constant in my life for as long as I had lived
there. Aunt Kathleen usually lit the burners at the start of the
month and they stayed on most evenings until September.
“Did you have many out?” She had returned with the salad. She
tossed it with brisk, expert fingers, then put some onto my plate
before I could protest. “I’ve had no one at the museum.”
“Moby One was pretty full. Lot of Koreans.” Yoshi shrugged. “Greg
nearly lost half of his over the side.”
“They got a good of the whale.” Greg reached for another
piece of bread. “No complaints. No refunds necessary. Got anymore
s, Miss M?”
“You know where the bar is. You see it, Hannah?”
“It was enormous. I could see its barnacles.” For some reason I’d
expected it to be smooth, but the skin had been lined, ridged,
studded with fellow sea creatures, as if it were a living island.
“It was close. I’ve told her we wouldn’t normally get that
close,” said Yoshi.
Greg narrowed his eyes. “If she’d been out on her mother’s boat
she could have brushed its teeth.”
“Yes, well, the least said about that . . .” Aunt Kathleen shook
her head. “Not a word,” she mouthed at me. “That was a one-off.”
I nodded dutifully. It was the third one-off that month.
“That Mitchell turn up? You want to watch him. I’ve heard he’s
joining those Sydney-siders with the big boats.”
They all looked up.
“Thought the National Parks and Wildlife Service had frightened
them off,” said Lance.
“When I went to the fish market,” Aunt Kathleen said, “they told
me they’d seen one all the way out by the heads. Music at top
volume, people dancing on the decks. Like a discothèque. Ruined
the night’s fishing. But by the time the Parks and Wildlife
people got out there they were long gone. Impossible to prove a
thing.”
The balance in Silver Bay was delicate: too few whale-watching
tourists and the business would be unsustainable; too many, and
it would disturb the creatures it wanted to display.
Lance and Greg had come up against the triple-decker catamarans
from around the bay, often blaring loud music, decks heaving with
passengers, and were of similar opinion. “They’ll be the death of
us all, that lot,” Lance said. “Irresponsible. Money-mad. Should
suit Mitchell down to the ground.”
I hadn’t realized how hungry I was. I ate six of the huge prawns
in quick succession, chasing Greg’s fingers around the empty
. He grinned and waved a prawn head at me. I stuck out my
tongue at him. I think I’m a little bit in love with Greg, not
that I’d ever tell anybody.
“Aye aye, here she is. Princess of Whales.”
“Very funny.” My mother dumped her keys on the table and gestured
to Yoshi to move down so that she could squeeze in next to me.
She dropped a kiss onto my head. “Good day, lovey?” She smelt of
suncream and salt air.
I a look at my aunt. “Fine.” I bent to fondle Milly’s ears,
grateful that my mother could not see the pinking in my face. My
head still sang with the of that whale. I thought it must
radiate out of me, but she was reaching for a glass and pouring
herself some water.
“What have you been doing?” my mother asked.
“Yeah. What have you been doing, Hannah?” Greg winked at me.
“She helped me with the beds this morning.” Aunt Kathleen glared
at him. “Heard you had a good afternoon.”
“Not bad.” My mother downed the water. “God, I’m thirsty. Did you
drink enough today, Hannah? Did she drink enough, Kathleen?” Her
English accent was still pronounced, even after so many years in
Australia.
“She’s had plenty. How many did you see?”
“She never drinks enough. Just the one. Big girl. Lobtailed half
a bath of water into my bag. Look.” She held up her checkbook,
its edges frilled and warped.
“Well, there’s an amateur’s mistake.” Aunt Kathleen sighed in
disgust. “Didn’t you have anyone out with you?”
My mother shook her head. “I wanted to try out that new rudder,
see how well it worked in choppier waters. The boatyard warned me
it might stick.”
“And you just happened on a whale,” said Lance.
She took another swig of water. “Something like that.” Her face
had closed. She had closed. It was as if the whale thing had
never happened.
For a few minutes we ate in silence, as the sun sank slowly
toward the horizon. Two fishermen walked past, and raised their
arms in greeting. I recognized one as Lara’s dad, but I’m not
sure he saw me.
My mother ate a piece of bread and a tiny plateful of salad, less
even than I eat and I don’t like salad. Then she glanced up at
Greg. “I heard about Suzanne.”
“Half of Port Stephens has heard about Suzanne.” Greg’s eyes were
tired and he looked as if he hadn’t shaved for a week.
“Yes. Well. I’m sorry.”
“Sorry enough to come out with me Friday?”
“Nope.” She stood up, checked her watch, stuffed her sodden
checkbook back into her bag and made for the kitchen door. “That
rudder’s still not right. I’ve got to ring the yard before they
head off. Don’t stay out without your sweater, Hannah. The wind’s
getting up.”
I watched as she strode away, pursued by the dog.
We were silent until we heard the slam of the screen door. Then
Lance leaned back in his chair to gaze out at the darkening bay,
where a cruiser was just visible on the far horizon. “Our first
whale of the season, Greg’s first refusal of the season. Got a
nice kind of symmetry to it, don’t you think?”
He ducked as a piece of bread bounced off the chair behind him.
Two
KATHLEEN
The Whalechasers Museum had been housed in the old processing
, a few hundred yards from the Silver Bay Hotel, since
commercial whaling was abandoned off Port Stephens in the early
1960s. It didn’t have much to recommend it as a modern tourist
attraction: the building was a great barn of a place, the floor a
suspiciously darkened red-brown, wooden walls still leaching the
salt that had been used on the catch. There was an outhouse at
the back, and a fresh jug of lemon squash made up daily for the
thirsty. Food, a sign observed, was available in the hotel. I’d
say that the “facilities,” as they’re now known, are probably
twice what they were when my her was alive.
Our centerpiece was a section of the hull of Maui II, a
commercial whalechaser, a hunting vessel that had broken clean in
two in 1935 when a minke had taken exception to it, and had risen
beneath the boat, lifting it on its tail until it flipped and
snapped. Mercifully a fishing trawler had been nearby and had
saved the hands and verified their story. For years local people
had come to see the evidence of what nature could wreak on man
when it felt man had harvested enough.
I had kept the museum open since my her died in 1970, and had
always allowed visitors to climb over the remains of the hull, to
run their fingers over the splintered wood, their faces coming
alive as they imagined what it must have been like to ride on the
back of a whale. Long ago I had posed for pictures, when the
sharp-eyed recognized me as the Shark Girl of the framed
newspaper reports, and talked them through the stuffed game fish
that adorned the glass cases on the walls.
But there weren’t too many people interested now. The tourists
who came to stay at the hotel might pass a polite fifteen minutes
walking around the museum’s dusty interior, spend a few cents on
some whale postcards, perhaps sign a petition against the
resumption of commercial whaling. But it was usually because they
were waiting for a taxi, or because the wind was up and it was
raining and there was nothing doing out on the water.
That day, behind the counter, I thought perhaps I couldn’t blame
them. Maui II was more and more like a heap of driftwood, while
there were only so many times people could handle a whale or
a bit of baleen—the strange plasticky filter from a humpback’s
mouth—before the delights of minigolf or the gaming machines at
the surf club became more inviting. For years people had been
telling me to modernize, but I hadn’t paid much heed. What was
the point? Half the people who walked around the museum looked a
little uncomfortable to be celebrating something that is now
illegal. Sometimes even I didn’t know why I stayed open, other
than that whaling was part of Silver Bay’s history, and history
is what it is, no matter how unpalatable.
I adjusted Maui II’s old harpoon, known for reasons I can’t
recall as Old Harry, on its hooks on the wall. Then, from below
it, I took a rod, ran my duster up its length and wound the reel,
to confirm that it still worked. Not that it mattered anymore,
but I liked to know things were shipshape. I hesitated. Then,
perhaps seduced by the familiar feel of it in my hand, I tilted
it backward, as if I were about to cast a line.
“Won’t catch much in here.”
I spun around, lifting a hand to my chest. “Nino Gaines! You
nearly made me drop my rod.”
“ chance.” He removed his hat and walked from the doorway into
the middle of the floor. “Never saw you drop a catch yet.” He
smiled, revealing a row of crooked teeth. “I got a couple of
cases of wine in the truck. Thought you might like to crack open
a bottle with me over some lunch. I’d value your opinion.”
“My order’s not due till next week, if I remember rightly.” I
replaced the rod on the wall and wiped my hands on the front of
my moleskin trousers. I’m old enough to be beyond such
considerations, but it bugged me that he’d caught me in my work
trousers with my hair all over the place.
“As I said, it’s a good batch. I’d appreciate your opinion.” He
smiled. The lines on his face told of years spent in his
vineyards, and a touch of pink around his nose hinted at the
evenings afterward.
“I’ve got to get a room ready for a guest coming tomorrow.”
“How long’s it going to take you to tuck in a sheet, woman?”
“Not too many visitors this deep in winter. I don’t like to look
a gift horse . . .” I saw the disappointment in his face and
relented. “I should be able to spare a few minutes, long as you
don’t expect too much in the way of food to go with it. I’m
waiting on my grocery delivery. That darned boy’s late every
week.”
“Thought of that.” He lifted up a paper bag. “Got a couple of
pies, and a couple of tamarillos for after. I know what you
career girls are like. It’s all work, work, work . . . Someone’s
got to keep your strength up.”
I couldn’t help laughing. Nino Gaines had always got me like
that, as long ago as the war, when he’d first come and announced
his intention to set up here. Then the whole of the bay had been
taken over by Australian and American servicemen, and my her
had had to make pointed references to his accuracy with a
when the young men whooped and catcalled at me behind the bar.
Nino had been more gentlemanly: he had always removed his cap
while he waited to be served, and he had never failed to call my
mother “ma’am.” “Still don’t trust him,” my her had muttered,
and, on balance, I thought he had probably been right.
Out at sea it was bright and calm, a good day for the whale
crews, and as we sat down, I watched Moby One and Two heading out
for the mouth of the bay. My eyes weren’t as good as they had
been, but from here it looked like they had a good number of
passengers. Liza had headed out earlier; she was taking a group
of pensioners from the Returned and Services League (RSL) club
for nothing, as she did every month, even though I told her she
was a fool.
“You shutting this place up for the winter?”
I shook my head, and took a bite of my pie.
“Nope. The Mobys are going to try out a deal with me—bed, board
and a whaling trip for a fixed sum, plus admission to the museum.
A bit like I do with Liza. They’ve printed some leaflets, and
they’re going to put something on a New South Wales tourism
website. They say it’s big business that way.”
I’d thought he would mutter something about technology being
beyond him, but he said, “Good idea. I sell maybe forty cases a
month online now.”
“You’re on the Internet?” I gazed at him over the top of my
glasses.
He lifted a glass, unable to hide his satisfaction at having
surprised me. “Plenty you don’t know about me, Miss Kathleen
Whittier Mostyn, no matter what you might think. I’ve been out
there in cyberspace for a good eighteen months now. Frank set it
up for me. Tell you the truth, I quite like having a little surf
around. I’ve bought all sorts.” He gestured at my glass—he wanted
me to taste the wine. “Bloody useful for seeing what the big
growers in the Hunter Valley are offering too.”
I tried to concentrate on my wine, unable to admit quite how
thrown I was by Nino Gaines’s apparent ease with technology. I
felt wrongfooted, as I often did when talking to young people, as
if some vital new knowledge had been dished out when I’d had my
back turned. I sniffed the glass, then sipped, letting the flavor
flood my mouth. It was a little green, but none the worse for
that. “This is very nice, Nino. A hint of raspberry in there.” At
least I still understand wine.
He nodded, pleased. “Thought you’d pick up on that. And you know
you get a mention?”
“A mention of what?”
“The Shark Girl. Frank typed you into a search engine and there
you are—picture and all. From newspaper archives.”
“There’s a picture of me on the Internet?”
“In your bathing suit. You always did look fetching in it.
There’s a couple of pieces of writing about you too. Some girl at
university in Victoria used you in her thesis on the role of
women and hunting, or somesuch. Quite an impressive piece of
writing—full of symbolism, classical references and goodness
knows what else. I asked Frank to print it out—must have
forgotten to pick it up. I thought you could put it in the
museum.”
Now I felt very unbalanced indeed. I put my glass down on the
table. “There’s a picture of me in my bathing suit on the
Internet?”
Nino Gaines laughed. “Calm down, Kate—it’s hardly Playboy
magazine. Come over tomorrow and I’ll show you.”
“I’m not sure if I like the idea of this. Me being out there for
anyone to look at.”
“It’s the same photograph as you’ve got in there.” He waved
toward the museum. “You don’t mind people gawping at that.”
“But that’s—that’s different.” Even as I said it, I knew the
distinction made little sense. But the museum was my domain. I
could dictate who entered it, who got to see what. The thought of
people I didn’t know being able to dip into my life, my history,
as casually as if they were scanning the betting pages . . .
“You should put up a picture of Liza and her boat. You might get
a few more visitors. Forget advertising the hotel with the
Mobys—a fine-looking girl like her could be quite a draw.”
“Oh, you know Liza. She likes to pick who she takes out.”
“No way to run a business. Why don’t you focus on your own boat?
Bed, board and a trip out on Ishmael with Liza. She’d get
inquiries from all over the world.”
“No.” I began to