She’d learned where to find the plumpest oysters and when to harvest them; where the shoals were shallowest and likely to ground the tinny. To appreciate the beauty of the pearly light of dawn during the solitary joy of a morning kayak, her paddle pleating the water into ripples that stretched out in her wake. It had been hard to leave and go to university in the city.
When her dad had retired, he and her mother had returned to Pittwater, to a house built into the side of a hill and surrounded by gum trees and overrun with lantana.
She planned to squeeze in a week or so with them on her way through Australia, but hadn’t phoned. Wanted to surprise them. Her mouth watered at the thought of her mum’s scones, warm and spread thick with homemade jam. They’d be disappointed she wouldn’t stay longer, but she couldn’t help that.
Rachel shed lives as easily as a snake its skin, starting afresh somewhere new every couple of years, never stopping to look back. The new posting, to a group of islands off the coast of southern England, was an interesting one—to her anyway. She would be studying the unattractively named Venus verrucosa, or warty venus clam. Another bivalve, if rather smaller than her beloved pa’ua. Clams, it seemed, had become her thing.
She was to survey the islands, estimating the verrucosa population to determine changes and their correlation to ambient and sea temperatures. She would be entirely on her own, not part of a group as she had been previously, and it was this, as much as the actual project, that most appealed to her.
The irony that she studied sessile sea creatures, ones that barely moved once they fixed themselves to the ocean floor, when she drifted through the world like weed on the current, was not lost on her. Unlike the clams that cemented themselves to the seabed with sticky byssal threads, she never became attached, to anything, anywhere, or anyone.
“Safe travels,” said LeiLei, coming around the counter to engulf her in a plump, sweetly scented hug and handing back her passport. “Come and see us again soon.”
She smiled at her friend, turned, and didn’t look back.
Chapter Three
London, Spring 2018
Rachel arrived in London at the same time as a vicious cold snap. Its effect on her was made worse by the fact that she’d come straight from a sultry southern hemisphere autumn. Before flying north, she had spent a couple of weeks in Pittwater catching up with her parents and siblings. Her parents both looked older than the last time she’d seen them more than three years earlier, although they still appeared to be spry.
Her father, long retired from the navy now, spent most of his days vigorously attacking the weeds that threatened to engulf their home, attempting to marshal them into the same kind of order that he had once imposed on the sailors under his command. Her mother busied herself with an endless round of yoga, twilight sailing, and baking for what seemed like the entire community. They both lived as if in perpetual motion and Rachel sometimes wished she had half their energy.
She spent most of her time there on the verandah overlooking the water, reading or watching the bright lorikeets flash by. She and her dad kayaked in the early morning stillness, holding their breath as the rising sun chased away wisps of fog that hung over the water.
Her younger brother was on the other side of the country, but one Sunday, her older brother and sister drove up from their homes in the city, bringing with them Rachel’s nieces and nephews, several of whom were now well into their teens but still loved to hear her stories of turtles and stingrays, whale sharks and giant clams, particularly the pa’ua. She showed them photographs of Tridacna gigas and Tridacna derasa. “They were introduced from Australia actually,” she explained, flicking through the pictures on her phone. “And no two are the same. A bit like fingerprints.” They delighted in the vibrant purple and turquoise, jade and scarlet, tiger-striped and cheetah-spotted markings of their mantles. “They can live for more than a century and weigh up to two hundred and fifty kilos,” she added as they jostled to get a better view.
“No way!” Jasper, her nephew exclaimed. He was still young enough to be impressed by such things.
Later, as they sat outdoors, toasting the last rays of the sun with glasses of cold white wine and slapping away the mozzies, Rachel let herself imagine what her life might be like if she too lived in Sydney. She wasn’t sure if it was a frightening or appealing prospect. She loved her family, but even they could get too much for her sometimes.
“It’d be nice if you could make it for Christmas one year Noes,” her brother said. Noes—short for “nosey parker”—had been his childhood nickname for her: she had liked to spy on him, torn between wanting to join in games with him and his friends and standing on the sidelines, an observer. “The kids will be gone before we know it and I know it would make Mum happy.”
“What would make me happy?” her mother asked, stepping out onto the verandah.
“Coming back here more often,” said Rachel. “Especially for Christmas.”
“I can’t deny that,” said her mum, placing a reassuring hand on Rachel’s shoulder. “But you have to live your life as you choose. If nothing else, I’m proud we gave you all the gift of independence.”
“Some of us took it more literally than others.” Her brother was only half-kidding.
“One year. I promise,” said Rachel, meaning it. She didn’t think either of them believed her.
* * *
Now, on a freezing gray day and completely underdressed (she was wearing her lucky T-shirt with don’t sweat the detials printed on the front), Rachel caught the tube to South Kensington, arriving exactly on time for her appointment with Dr. Charles Wentworth. He was the supervisor of the project she was about to undertake and worked in the Life Sciences department at the Natural History Museum.
They’d spoken via a pixelated Skype call, the connection sporadically dropping out, while she was in Aitutaki, and he’d followed up by email with confirmation of the job and this appointment.
She found the research offices and presented herself to the receptionist. The room was warm and she felt herself begin to defrost, curling and uncurling her fingers as the feeling returned to them.
“Ah, hello there, you must be Miss Parker.” She looked up to see the man in front of her holding out a hand in greeting. “Dr. Wentworth. But call me Charles.”
“Rachel,” she said, getting to her feet and taking his hand. He had a firm grip and cool, dry skin and she decided she liked the look of him. Heavy tortoiseshell glasses balanced precariously on the end of his nose, his shoulders had the slightly hunched look of someone who spent too many hours looking through a microscope and his tie appeared to have some of his breakfast clinging to it. Egg yolk, if she wasn’t mistaken. His smile was warm and genuine and she found herself returning it easily.
He led her into his office and proceeded to outline the previous study and what it had entailed, handing over several thick manila folders of information. “They pertain to the original work and also outline what we expect you will address in your research, but basically you’ll be looking at this one particular clam and determining any indicators of ecosystem change.”
“Yes,” said Rachel. “Venus verrucosa.”
“Indeed. I gather from our previous conversation that you are something of a fan of such bivalves, though I confess, this hardly compares to the spectacular species you have been studying on Aitutaki.”