January 1993
Mart Belden stood alone in the airport. At the end of the reunion, he had been dropped by Jim near the airport in Baltimore, for a flight that would take him to Iowa. Two nights’ stay and a plane trip later he had arrived. He collected his luggage and made his way towards the place he had agreed to meet his hosts.
“Mart,” he heard Mr. Gorman call, as he approached. “Good to see you. Sorry I’m late.”
“Not a problem,” Mart replied, shaking his hand. “I’ve only just arrived.”
Hank took the larger of the two suitcases and led the way to the Happy Valley station wagon. With barely an effort, he stowed the luggage in the back. Soon they were on the road.
“It’s sure good to have you working with us,” Mr. Gorman said. “With your uncle away at the moment and young Nelson on a leave of absence, we could surely use the help.”
Nelson was the farm hand who had been hired when Ben left to work his own farm. Andrew Belden had given him six months’ unpaid leave to visit a dying relative overseas and see some of his parents’ homeland while he was there.
“Is there a problem?” Mart asked, concerned.
“Nothing we can’t handle together,” the older man assured.
The rest of the journey was taken up with in-depth discussion of the situation at the farm. The familiar landscape, the farm work ahead and the very fact that he was far from home made Mart feel a peace which had been missing from his life for longer than he cared to recall.
This is just what I need, he thought. Peace and quiet, fresh air, hard work and enough responsibility to keep me busy. After six months of this, I’ll be ready to face it all again.
For the first few weeks Mart was like a new man. He was eager to get the day underway and settled into his bed satisfied at night. His old problems - ones that he had not dared admit to his friends, even though some of them had made far more personal admissions - seemed to have been left behind. As the routine of the farm became familiar, however, his old dissatisfaction and restlessness returned.
“Are you worrying about something, Mart?” Mrs. Gorman asked him one evening as he helped with the dishes.
Mart looked at her blankly.
Mrs. Gorman smiled. “You’re so distracted, dear,” she said. “There must be something troubling you.”
Mart took a deep breath. Why can’t I keep this to myself? he wondered, trying to think of an answer. I don’t want anyone to know what I did. He frowned slightly. There are so many things that I’m ashamed of. On the other hand, she might be able to help me - without even knowing the details.
“I came here,” he confided, “because I couldn’t keep my mind on my studies. I used to love them but they’d become a chore. Trixie suggested that some time away might help and I thought it was going to when I first got here.”
“What happened then?” she prompted gently.
“Now I feel the same way I did before, except now it’s the work I can’t keep my mind on instead of the study.” Mart sounded lost and rather bewildered. “I feel restless; like I don’t belong anywhere in particular.”
“And what are you planning to do about it?” Mrs. Gorman asked.
“I don’t know yet,” he responded. “I was also thinking about travelling, but that depended on me sticking to this long enough to get enough money to go,” he added wryly.
“I’m sure you can do that,” she told him, with a smile.
All of a sudden, Mart felt a lot better.
Mart paced his room. Step, step, step, turn. Step, step, step, turn.
I’ve got to know where I’m going, he told himself. I have to make the decision.
Six weeks had passed since his conversation with Mrs. Gorman and at once his situation had become both better and worse. It was better because he knew now that he could last the six months in this job; and worse because with each day that passed he became more certain that he needed to leave the U.S. for a time. The trouble was he did not know where he wanted to go.
He picked up the globe from his desk and spun it aimlessly.
I’ll close my eyes, he thought, and put my finger on the spot.
His finger landed in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean.
Best of three? he decided. Or, the first suitable destination that comes up?
Iran.
New York.
On the desk was a picture of the Bob-Whites, taken on the last day of the reunion. Their happy smiles seemed to mock him and his inability to know his own mind. He laid the cheap frame face downwards and spun the globe again.
The Sahara.
This is taking too long! he thought impatiently. There has to be a better way. Setting the globe down gently, Mart took at piece of paper and tore it into eight roughly equal slips. I’ll write a destination on each one and then pick one out of a hat, he decided. Only I left my hat at the farmhouse. Shaking his head to clear it, Mart began to write.
‘England’
‘Japan’
‘Mexico’
‘South Africa’
‘Italy’
‘Morocco’
‘Hawaii’
One piece left, he considered. Where to put on the last one?
His fingers gently shifted the globe, coming to rest on the Southern Hemisphere.
‘Australia’
He folded each piece and mixed them together in his hands. For several minutes he simply sat there, unable to make the move that would decide his destination.
Slowly he chose a slip and unfolded it. His decision was made.
Well, I always wanted to visit a country with more sheep than people, he thought. Maybe I’ll find myself in Australia.
Late May 1993
Mart stood once again in the airport, this time at a departure gate. Nelson had returned early, allowing Mart to leave before his allotted six months were up.
“We’ll certainly miss you,” Mrs. Gorman told him. Mr. Gorman nodded his agreement.
Their goodbyes said, Mart stepped through the gate and onto the plane which would take him across the country on the first leg of his trip around the world.
No one will see me leave this country, he thought with mixed emotions. This is the last in-person contact with anyone I know until I return.
Late June 1993
Mart stood on the beach, watching small waves roll in. The sand was golden, the water a clear blue-green and the small bay protected the beach from the wind. The weather was clear and fairly warm, despite it being winter.
Before visiting the beach, he had walked through a town filled with boutiques and up market restaurants. Mart had felt out of place. This isn’t what I had in mind, he thought wistfully. I wanted something a little more quiet.
Mart’s thoughts drifted to a beach long ago where he and his friends had swum in the surf and picnicked on the sand. It had been the end of a mystery and they had presented their find - a sum of money - to its rightful owner.
He was not taking much notice of where he was going as he walked towards the water. Suddenly he was brought back to the present. In his distraction, he had collided with a shapely young woman and knocked her to the ground.
“I - I’m so sorry,” he stuttered. He reached down to help her to her feet and she took his hand. She’s beautiful, he thought, eyeing her discreetly. Too young, he corrected a moment later as he focused on her face. She can’t be more than sixteen or seventeen.
The girl smiled warmly. “That’s okay,” she said. She dusted the sand off herself in a casual manner, smoothed back her long blonde hair and went on her way. Mart watched her for a moment, then continued his walk.
Just my luck, he thought, feeling dismal. I never could do anything right when there was a pretty girl around. Against his will, Mart’s mind filled with the image of Diana Lynch’s face at the moment that she had dumped him. Other faces threatened to come to mind, but he pushed the memories away savagely. Pretty girls are nothing but trouble.
A short time later, he returned to his car. On the passenger seat he had a bag full of brochures and maps and a few minutes search found the one he was looking for. Here it is, he thought. Noosa National Park. It doesn’t look too far away, either. He started the engine and headed in that direction.
Laguna Bay came into view to his left as he drove along. A few surfers were out, well away from the patrolled area for swimmers where he had been before. Soon he came to the end of the road and, after a short search, found a parking space.
He rummaged through the back seat for a few minutes, put on some more sun screen and extracted a drink and a snack, before locking the vehicle and walking away from it. He took the coast track, with the water on his left and a sizable hill rising to his right. After a few minutes’ walk he came upon a small beach and settled down for something to eat.
The waves ran up the beach and the warm sun shone down on him. Mart took the lid off his drink and took a swig before setting it in the sand. He took a bite of his apple and gazed out over the water. I wish… he thought. I wish I knew what I wanted. He put his hand in his pocket, half drew out something he had there, then changed his mind. I wish I knew where I belong. His mind cast back over the last few years of his life. They had been difficult years, littered with failed relationships and bad decisions. I wish I hadn’t burned so many bridges.
Before he knew it, his drink and apple were both finished. He gathered up the empty bottle and the core and stood and turned quickly, only to bump right into someone who was standing behind him.
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” she said, then smiled. “It’s you.”
“Yes,” he said, looking down at the same girl he had knocked over earlier. “We have to stop meeting like this.”
She grinned. “My name’s Daphne. And you, I would guess, are an American tourist?”
“It’s obvious, isn’t it?” he replied rather sheepishly. Everywhere he went it seemed as if he could not fit in. “I’m Mart Belden.”
“Pleased to meet you,” she said. “Are you here all by yourself?”
Mart nodded, wondering all over again why he had ever thought that world travel was a good thing to do all alone. “Just passing through,” he said. “On my way down the coast. I thought this might be a nice place to stop, but it’s a bit too…”
“Commercial? Tourist-y?” she suggested. “I think so, too. We’re staying a little further down the coast. It’s quieter.” She looked over her shoulder. “Look, I’ve got to go. Why don’t you walk with me? My family is waiting for me just up there. Come and meet them.”
Until that moment, Mart had not realised how lonely he had been. He felt enormously grateful to Daphne for talking to him and suddenly found himself looking forward to meeting her family. Soon, Mart had been introduced to Mr. and Mrs. Matthews and their sons, Craig and Jon. The family reminded him so strongly of his own that he felt a gut-wrenching urge to go home, but he wasn’t sure where that was anymore.
Get a grip, he told himself. You’re thinking about the past. The only ones at home now are Moms, Dad and Bob. And even if Brian and Trixie were there, they’d have Ginnie and Jim with them and I’d still be the odd one out. Still, the image persisted of the friendly squabbles and easy companionship which had characterised the home-life of his early teens.
Daphne pulled him away from the group again after only a moment. Mart heard, but ignored, an older-brotherly remark about ‘picking up stray animals’ which Mrs. Matthews frowned at darkly. Daphne pointedly turned her back on her brothers and began pointing out items of interest.
In next to no time it seemed that she had extracted Mart’s entire life story, while only revealing that she lived on a farm about an hour’s drive away and was in her second-last year of school. All the while, the brothers teased and suddenly Mart knew what Trixie had dealt with from him over the years. It was an uncomfortable feeling.
The group spent a pleasant few hours wandering along paths and enjoying the views. Eventually, they neared the car park once again and Mart knew that he would have to leave. The few hours of respite from the gnawing loneliness were over.
“Thanks for showing me around,” he said politely, though reluctantly, as the sun began to sink behind the trees. “I still need to find somewhere to stay so I’d better be going now.”
“What sort of place are you looking for?” Mr. Matthews asked him.
“Something fairly cheap,” replied Mart, a little self-consciously. “I don’t have a lot to spend.”
“We’re staying a little way south of here,” the older man told him. “Nice little place called Peregian Beach. There’s a caravan park that you could try. Why don’t you follow us?”
Mart thanked him gratefully.
Early the next morning Mart took the short walk from his rented caravan to the beach. Golden sand stretched far in either direction and big waves crashed, their tops whipped by the stiff breeze. For a few moments it seemed that he had the beach to himself, until he spotted the figure of a young woman sitting close to the dunes.
Is that Daphne? he wondered. I think I’ll go and have a look.
He turned to his right and walked towards the girl, close to the water. As he neared the spot where she sat he slowed, hoping for some sign of recognition from her.
“Good morning,” she called. “Care to join me?”
Mart settled himself next to her.
“So, how did you end up in Noosa?” she asked.
“Well,” Mart said and paused, gathering his thoughts, “I was living in Iowa, at my uncle’s farm. I flew from there to the west coast - San Francisco, actually. There to Tokyo-”
“Did you spend any time there?” Daphne interrupted.
“A few days,” he replied. “It was a pretty weird place, actually. You can get anything out of a vending machine - anything you can think of.”
“A friend of mine told me about it,” she confirmed. “She said you can get hot coffee in a can - like a soft drink can.”
“Yeah,” Mart agreed softly. “I saw them.” He became lost in his thoughts.
“What then?” Daphne prompted.
“Oh,” Mart said, coming back to the present. “I flew from there to Cairns, bought a car and I’ve spent the last - uh - four weeks, I think, driving a bit and staying a bit right down the coast.”
“So, why Noosa?” Daphne persisted.
“It was in the brochure,” Mart admitted, feeling sheepish. “Before I even got here it was on the list because of a picture in a stupid brochure.”
“I like it better here,” she told him serenely. “It’s quiet.”
Mart laughed. With the waves crashing in front of them and the gulls calling it was anything but quiet.
“You know what I mean,” Daphne rejoined, giving him a playful slap.
For reasons that he dared not examine too closely, that brief touch burned on his upper arm for far longer than it should have. You’re lonely, he told himself firmly. She’s very pretty. And she’s barely older than Bobby. Don’t read too much into things. Still, despite his best efforts to suppress it, the feeling remained.
Late July 1993
Mart looked out over the gently rolling hills of the Brisbane Valley. He had spent the last few weeks staying with friends of the Matthews family who needed help on their farm. Later today he would be leaving once again, continuing his journey to find himself.
Time to move on, he told himself. But…
Even in the privacy of his own head he could not complete the thought. It was too dangerous, too uncomfortable.
He heard the rumble of an engine and soon a battered car came into sight. Daphne jumped out of the passenger side almost before it was fully stopped.
“You weren’t thinking of leaving without saying goodbye, were you?” she asked playfully.
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Mart replied lazily. He kept his elbows on the verandah railing and gazed out over the countryside. “I’m gonna miss this place,” he mused.
“Then stay,” she countered. “There’s nothing making you leave. We could find you somewhere else to live.”
Mart turned to look at her. “I came halfway around the world,” he laughed. “I intend to see as much as I can while I’m here.”
He almost said that he might never be back, but something inside stopped him.
“Down south,” she scoffed. “It’s much nicer up here, trust me.”
Mart merely smiled.
“You’ll write, won’t you?” Daphne asked him softly.
“I’ll write,” he confirmed.
“And you’ll at least try to come back this way before you leave?” she persisted.
“Like I told you,” he explained gently, “I’ll get back here if I can, but I can’t guarantee it.”
Daphne nodded.
September 1993
The air was cold and crisp as Mart drove along a winding country road, prompting him to keep his window firmly closed. The weather report on the television the previous night had told him that, had he taken up Daphne’s offer, he would have been pleasantly warm right now.
Even so, he considered, this is one of the most beautiful places I’ve been so far. It’s kind of wild and civilised at the same time.
Sydney, with its deep blue harbour, famous bridge and Opera House, were far behind him. It had held no special attraction for him; the places he had enjoyed the most were the quiet places: rural areas, wilderness and seaside towns.
The place he headed for now was one of those places: Wilson’s Promontory. Everything about the area through which he drove beckoned Mart. Everything, that is, except the weather. It had been rainy, cold, windy and sunny in turn.
So this is what Daphne meant about the weather down here, Mart grumbled to himself, recalling her cryptic remarks about ‘four seasons in one day’.
Stark granite cliffs towered above him, making him long to stop the car and just stare at them. There was nowhere safe to stop and Mart contented himself to fleeting glimpses. On the way here he had seen emus running next to the car and kangaroos in the distance.
Some time later he came across a beach, wild and rocky.
This might be a good place to read my letters, thought Mart, recalling an earlier day on a beach much further north. Opening the car door, however, he quickly shelved that idea. On second thoughts, it’s too windy. He nevertheless took the time to explore the beach properly. After all, time is no object when you have no fixed destination.
At least this would be a good place to sit and think, he decided. He found a sheltered place against a huge rock and settled himself, his feet digging into the golden sand. For several long moments his mind was blank, washed clean by the sounds of the wind and the waves.
It’s time to make some decisions, he thought.
Some time later, Mart left the beach and found a quiet spot to park his car. He had purchased some postcards and small souvenirs at a shop he found along the way. A gentle rain was falling as he opened the first envelope in the stack, a letter from his sister.
A soft smile crossed his face as he read. As much as she had grown up, her letters still bounced from one topic to another with the same exuberance that she had spoken with as a teenager.
I really miss her, he realised. I don’t know why I didn’t notice that before.
He penned a reply, choosing a card which depicted the beach he had just left, and moved on to the next letter. His mother had written, asking whether he would be home in time for Christmas. With a pang, Mart recommitted himself to the plans he had made and wrote to tell her that he would not. The final letter - by design - was from Daphne. He turned it over and over in his hands before opening it.
What am I afraid of? he asked himself. She’s just a friend.
Taking a deep breath, he opened the letter and unfolded it. There, said a vindictive little voice in his head. Nothing to be frightened of. She’ll never see you that way.
Inside the envelope was a single sheet of plain white paper, scrawled upon in ordinary blue ink. The words themselves were purely innocent, too. ‘I’ve been busy with school work.’ ‘We’ve had good rains lately.’ ‘We’re looking at buying another horse.’
Mart rested his head on the steering wheel and shut his eyes.
It’s a delusion, he told himself. Get over it.
Taking his pen once again, he picked a card with an ocean scene and wrote.
‘Dear Daphne,
‘Got your letter. I hope everything’s still fine with you and your family. I’m fine.’
Lame way to start, he thought. Get to something interesting!
‘It’s really beautiful around here but I think I’m beginning to understand what you meant about the weather. Not that this has anything on a New York winter.
‘The way things are going, I think I’ll see you again in December. Let me know if that’s not all right.
‘Yours,
‘Mart’
December 1993
To Mart, it felt nothing like Christmas. To begin with, the weather was all wrong. Christmas at home was cold and, quite often, snowy. Secondly, there were none of the people around with whom he normally celebrated Christmas. His family and friends were on the other side of the world - with the cold weather. Thirdly, there were none of the familiar traditions. Mistletoe and eggnog and Moms’ Christmas cookies would have to wait for next year.
“Can you do something for me, Mart?” asked Mrs. Matthews as he stood looking morosely at out the kitchen window. At his nod she continued. “There’s a package to be picked up from the post office, and a few last minute groceries that I need.”
After carefully going through the list with Mrs. Matthews, Mart went off on his errand.
Maybe I should just forget about Christmas, thought Mart. I’ll be home in just over a month. Maybe we can do something together then.
His first stop, the post office, held a surprise for him: the package was much larger than he had anticipated and had quite obviously arrived by air mail. A quick examination confirmed his first impression that it had come from Crabapple Farm. It was not, however, addressed to him.
I’m sure I’ll find out about that later, he thought curiously, stowing the package and driving on to the general store. Half an hour later the groceries were loaded in the back and Mart headed back to the farm. Once on the road, his thoughts strayed once again to the package from home.
Maybe they sent me a gift, he mused. But then why isn’t it addressed to me?
“Where’s my sister, the detective, when I need her?” he muttered aloud.
At the farm, Mart slouched into the kitchen, helped Mrs. Matthews with the groceries and then went back to his moping.
Christmas Day, 1993
Mart awoke at around quarter to six to find a brilliantly sunny day awaiting him. From another part of the house he could hear the excited voices of children - Daphne’s young cousins who were staying for a few days.
The walls here are even more stretchy than the ones at home, Mart thought with a smile. But why are they making so much noise this early?
“Oh please, Mum,” he heard one youngster say. “Get up now so we can open our presents. Please?”
It’s Christmas Day, Mart realised with a start. Suddenly filled with a childlike enthusiasm, he leapt out of bed and started preparing himself for the day.
Mrs. Matthews was in the kitchen when he got there, busily preparing breakfast for the household. Her sister, whose children Mart had heard earlier, had apparently agreed to rise as she was assisting.
“Good morning, Mart,” Mrs. Matthews greeted cheerily. “Merry Christmas.”
Mart replied in kind and offered to help with the food.
“Not at the moment, thanks,” was the polite reply. “Why don’t you go out to the lounge room and sit with the kids? They’re just dying to get into those presents and might need a little help with waiting.”
On entering the lounge room he was greeted with a chorus of groans.
“It’s just you,” said the smallest boy, eight-year-old Michael. “I don’t think Mum and Dad will ever get here.”
“Nice way to greet people, munchkin,” said Daphne, entering the room. She turned to wink at Mart, letting him see her amusement at her small cousin’s dejected face. “Besides, in this house we wait until after breakfast.”
This remark was met with another chorus of groans.
Mart, meanwhile, was busily trying not to notice Daphne’s attire. She had obviously just gotten out of bed and was dressed in a thin cotton singlet style top with matching shorts.
Cool it, Mart told himself. Just don’t look. Better still, think unsexy thoughts… like Dan dressed in drag… no… my sister and Jim Frayne… NO… got it! Mucking out the chicken coop.
Oblivious to his discomfort, Daphne dropped onto the floor near the huge pile of presents and started fiddling with a Santa hat she found there. As the hat spun around on her outstretched fingers Mart concentrated on the smell of chicken manure and how it felt when it got inside his boots.
Everyone was relieved - though for different reasons - when Mrs. Matthews called them to breakfast minutes later. Soon the whole group was gathered around the table, sharing the light breakfast which had been prepared. The happy banter made Mart keenly miss the scene which would play out at Crabapple Farm only hours later.
Once they were finished eating, the group moved back to the lounge room to open their presents.
“I’m Santa!” cried Daphne, taking her previous position and donning the appropriate hat. She began examining the labels on the presents to find one for the youngest person there, as was the custom in that household. “Here you go, Michael,” she said, handing him one of the biggest boxes.
As Michael ripped the wrapping from his gift, Daphne handed presents to ten-year-old Sarah, eleven-year-old Brendan and selected one for herself. There was a pause here, as she opened her own gift and soon each of the youngest four was giving enthusiastic thanks to the givers of their presents. Next were Daphne’s brothers, Craig and Jon.
“Here’s yours, Marty,” said Daphne cheekily.
Grimacing slightly at the unfamiliar name, a point which Daphne made particular note of, Mart thanked her and looked curiously at the tag. ‘To dear Mart,’ it said. ‘Merry Christmas, lots of love, Moms, Dad and Bob.’
Smiling softly, Mart opened his gift. Inside the package was a selection of his favourite foods which were not available in Australia. There was also a short note explaining that they did not want to contribute to his luggage when he would be coming home so soon.
All around him there were excited voices as the others opened their gifts but Mart did not notice them, so wrapped up he was in this little piece of home. Maybe I’m almost ready to go back, he thought, surprising himself with the sentiment. Maybe it’s time to face up to a few things.
There were two others gifts waiting for Mart: one from the rest of the Bob-Whites and the other from the Matthews family. He laughed when he opened the first of these. His brother, sister and friends had sent a pair of the most vivid boxer shorts he had laid his eyes on in some time - though he found it hard to believe that Brian had anything to do with the gift.
His hosts were more thoughtful in their choice. They had chosen a book depicting their region and had added to the inside cover a few photographs of their farm and town.
“Thank you,” he said sincerely. “I’d like to remember this place. You’ve all been very kind to me.”
The next surprise in store for Mart was at the end of lunch. The meal itself was as far from the familiar for Mart as he could imagine. Instead of the traditional fare his mother would be serving, they had steaks and sausages cooked on the barbecue to keep the house cool and a variety of salads and breads. The table was cleared and Mrs. Matthews began to bring out dishes for dessert.
Mmm, he thought as she set down the first two dishes. That looks nice. I wonder if it would be rude to have both?
A few minutes later her preparations were complete and the family began serving themselves. To Mart’s great relief, everyone seemed to be having a little of everything and he soon had a bowl piled high with cheesecake, trifle, pavlova, fruit salad and ice cream. Mr. Matthews had tried to add a piece of something he called lattice slice to the top, but Mart had reluctantly declined fearing it would all end in his lap.
“Well, come back when you’ve eaten that,” Mr. Matthews laughed. “I’m sure you can fit in more than that.”
Finally, when everyone had finished eating and the table was cleared, Mr. Matthews made a suggestion which had Mart paying close attention.
“Before we start cleaning up,” said the older man, “why don’t we play a game?”
“It’s too soon for cricket,” said Daphne’s brother, Craig. “Call me in an hour or two.”
“That’s not what I meant,” said his father. “I thought we could play Charades.”
That’s just what Dad says every year, thought Mart. Did they put him up to this somehow?
The others agreed to the game and soon the whole group was laughing uproariously at the antics of the less-overfed younger ones.
By mid afternoon the game was over and all the cleaning up was done.
“I could do with a coffee,” said Mrs. Matthews. “Anyone else want one? Or a cold drink?”
The kitchen was once again bustling with activity and soon the whole group was gathered on the back verandah which was now nicely shaded and attracting a cool breeze. Two platters were set on the side table there and Mart could hardly keep his eyes off them. On the first was what looked like the cookies his mother made every Christmas from the old Belden family recipe and the other held a rich fruit cake.
“Your mother sent me the recipes,” Mrs. Matthews told him softly. “I hope I did them justice.”
“Thank you,” Mart said sincerely. “I’m sure you did. They look exactly right.”
“Well, go ahead. Taste them,” said Daphne.
Mart laughed and took a cookie from the plate she held out to him. Taking a bite, he could almost imagine himself sitting next to the fire at Crabapple Farm.
“Perfect,” he pronounced. “I could almost be at home.”
“Now some cake,” insisted his young friend as soon as the last piece was in his mouth.
“Daphne!” chided her mother. “Be polite!”
Mart laughed and took a slice of cake.
“You remind me of my Aunt Alicia talking to my sister,” he said. “Trixie can’t ever seem to meet her expectations of politeness.” He took a bite of the cake and pronounced it to be perfect as well. “Thank you so much Mrs. Matthews, for everything” he said. “You’ve really made my day.”
Ten minutes later he was dragged out of his chair by Daphne, who carried a cricket bat in her other hand.
“Time for that game of cricket, is it?” asked Daphne’s brother, Jon. “Come on, Mart, we’ll explain it as we go.”
January 1994
It’s so green, thought Mart as he stood near the top of an enormous hill. After all that time in Australia I’ve forgotten how green landscape usually looks.
He was just outside Christchurch, on the South Island of New Zealand and the few hours he had spent here were enough for him to begin to fall in love with the place. It was, as far as Mart was concerned, a beautiful city. The River Avon, its banks green with splashes of bright flowers; the Cathedral and the backdrop of these majestic hills combined to make it a memorable place.
He had originally planned to go home from Australia, but at the suggestion of several people he had met, he changed his plans to include New Zealand. Now that he had arrived he was very glad to have taken the advice.
This is the perfect place, he thought. He took an envelope out of his pocket and opened it carefully. I’ll just read it one last time.
Slowly Mart unfolded the paper inside. Its edges were worn from frequent handling and a few of the creases had begun to split.
‘Dear Mart,’ he read silently, even though he knew every word by heart.
‘I’m writing to say goodbye since I don’t think we’ll see each other again. I’m going to end it all and I want you to know that you pushed me to do it.
‘Right now I hate you, Mart. I hate the thought of the things we did together. I hate the memory of the night that I asked you to help me. I would have made it if it wasn’t for you. You made me lose everything and I want you to pay for it.
‘By the time you get this, it’ll be too late to do anything about it and you’ll have to live the rest of your life knowing that it was your fault.
‘I hope you never forget me.
‘Teesh’
Placing it carefully back in its envelope, he took a box of matches from his pocket, lit one and set the letter alight. Yellow flames reduced the symbol of his unhappiness to brittle black flakes and he ground them into the grass with his boot. The remains of the letter could stay here, on the opposite side of the world to his home and family, and bother him no longer.
“Goodbye, Latisha,” he said aloud. “Rest in Peace.”
Mart stood in an airport, one of the last in his journey. Around him people hurried on their way, exactly like they did in all of the other airports he had seen in his travels. Images and memories of the places he had been flashed through his mind.
The bustle of downtown Tokyo.
Bright coral and tropical fish.
Tranquil rainforest.
Golden sand on the beach.
The smell of eucalypts and dry grass.
Deep blue water.
Red, red rock.
Emerald green fields of New Zealand scattered with fluffy white sheep.
Snow-capped mountains.
Boiling mud and the smell of sulphur.
Mart took out his ticket and walked up to the gate from which he would board his plane. After a year away, it was time to go home.
February 1994
It seemed to Mart that Cornell was exactly as he had left it, but that he had changed enormously. Everything about the place had some sort of new meaning, from the menu in the local cafe to the most in-depth content in his classes.
At the end of the first week he felt compelled to talk to his sister.
“Thanks, Trixie,” he told her as soon as an opportunity presented itself.
“For what?” she asked.
“For the advice you gave me. It was exactly right.”
Epilogue
Helen Belden stood back to consider the effect. She had just finished rearranging her family photographs to suit the two newest additions: college graduation photographs of two of her four children.
Perfect, she thought. And when Brian graduates, his can go next to the wedding photo.
Her husband joined her. “Fiddling with those again?” he teased gently.
“Just adding some new ones,” Helen told him serenely. “You can’t begrudge me that.”
“No, certainly not,” Peter agreed.
“I’m so proud of all of them,” she continued. “They’re all such fine individuals.”
“You did a good job, Helen,” he said sincerely.
“And so did you, Peter,” Helen replied.
The End
End notes: I don’t know why Mart wanted to travel to Australia. He was never my favourite character, which is why it bothered me so much when he started following me! He kept turning up at the beach, only he didn’t always like it there. I suppose that was where this story came from. Fortunately, since writing this, he has decided to let me go to the beach by myself. 
The Victorians out there might correct me, but I think the expression ‘four seasons in one day’ actually refers to Melbourne. Wilson’s Promontory is close enough that I think it probably applies.
The Christmas celebrations described are not based on my own family’s. In Queensland, you can reasonably expect Christmas Day to be quite hot - or possibly stinking hot! - so people here are less likely to do the whole turkey-and-stuffing-and-roast-veges thing than in other places in the country. In fact, in my whole life, I’ve only been to one Christmas dinner of that kind and I think I was about twenty at the time. Some families traditionally have seafood at Christmas. My own family doesn’t have particular traditions - other than good food, and lots of it!
Backyard cricket at Christmastime is, I feel safe to say, fairly universal across the country. Last Christmas, it was reported that Australian troops in Iraq challenged the British troops to a game of cricket on Boxing Day (the day after Christmas). Apparently, the Brits thought they were absolutely barmy for wanting to play at that time of year (cricket is a summer game), but accepted the challenge anyway.
For those of you who wondered what Lattice Slice is, I used to have a link here to a picture of the biscuits it’s made with at the manufacturer’s website, Arnott’s Biscuits, but they’ve taken the picture down. (“Biscuit”, in Australia, is equivalent to “Cookie” in the U.S.) Basically, you have the lattice biscuits top and bottom with a cheesecake-style filling in between. There are plenty of recipes around, including one at the site listed above (though, it’s not the same as the kind I’ve eaten - the recipe for which I’ve added to the bottom of the travel page).
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