Grasping at Water

Chapter 1

One

Once there was a garden, lush and languid by the sea. And into that garden came a handsome soldier and an innocent young woman. And in their delight at each other, the young woman delightedly and innocently conceived a child. And the handsome soldier returned to the war, leaving the young woman with only a memory and the precious souvenir of a baby girl. But it was in the days of misunderstanding, when love was limited to respectable people; and so the baby was taken from the young woman’s arms and given into respectable arms. And, after that, all the young childless mother had left was the gaping wound in her heart.

7 May 2013

Unnatural. That’s how he’ll later describe the atmosphere that hangs like the dark clouds over the harbour this morning.

It’s early, the sun just up, and the light winds of the previous day have intensified to whip the harbour into a washing machine. The ferry from Manly to Circular Quay slips and dips and rises and rolls in the churning ocean and he is not surprised to be the only passenger who has chosen to stand near a deck entry door and look out onto the threatening sea. He stares toward the steep sandstone cliffs of North and South Heads; they offer no protection to the harbour today and loom, instead, like failed sentinels letting in an enemy that will swamp all in its path. Very unnatural.

Most days the ferry ride to work is a pleasure. When Sydney Harbour glistens under a generous sun, there is nowhere else in the world he would rather be. But today the sun has been swallowed by the deep, angry water, and the air is cold, very cold. Too cold for so early in May.

What’s wrong with the harbour today? What’s wrong with me? he thinks as the ferry falls off an impossible crest. He knows the answers to both questions. The first one is a straightforward matter of an east coast low pressure system that imposes itself on Sydney a couple of times a year in late autumn and winter. An early arrival, yes, but understandable. The answer to his second question is far more complex: a knot of sadness and love that last night’s argument with his wife has tied more tightly; and anger, too, that she is not interested in participating in the untangling. Such a beautiful, brilliant, headstrong, puzzling woman. A mystery to him. A mystery to herself. He shakes thoughts of his wife away, filing them in the ‘too hard basket’ for the moment as he steals himself to stay upright against the boat’s rocking motion.

Once the ferry is past the heads, the sea settles into a less chaotic, more predictable rhythm and he decides to step outside the crowded, stuffy interior of the main passenger cabin to get some fresh air on the port-side deck. He ignores the waving hand and shaking head of a crewman who gestures to dissuade him and, instead, continues opening the heavy door. He steps onto the slippery exterior boards, closing the door firmly behind him as he goes. He pulls his coat collar up around his ears then, spreading his newspaper on part of the sea-damp wooden bench that encircles the vessel’s lower level, he takes a seat and a very deep breath. Seaspray smacks his face, but he sits doggedly, willing the water to wash away his disappointment.

He starts to relax, taking in a vista that never fails to enthral him. The parade of harbourside beaches, still lovely under grey skies; Watson’s Bay with its pub and restaurants; Lady Jane beach (minus its nudists today); the expanse of Rose Bay with one of its seaplanes even now taking off into the blustery sky; exclusive Point Piper with its multi-multi-million dollar houses; the picnic areas of Shark Island. In the distance, even in the overcast weather, the Harbour Bridge presides over the scene. Above it, a Qantas A380 glides southward on its final descent to the airport.

Suddenly, as they pass Garden Island and Woolloomooloo, and with only about five minutes of the journey to go, the wind stops. Completely. Not a breath. Calm. Eerily calm.

Unsettled, he leaves the bench and steps forward to lean on the railing, his eyes darting between the approaching cityscape and the navy blue water beneath the boat. The ferry takes a wide, smooth sweep around the Martello-towered Fort Denison, the small, steep island where, over two centuries earlier, some of the young colony’s most difficult convicts had found themselves imprisoned, marooned in clear sight of the growing Sydney town but with no way of getting back there. And, always in view of course, but now coming closer, floating like a giant ship with unflappable white sails, is the Opera House. It captures his gaze, holds it utterly, till a shaft of sunlight breaks through the clouds and reflects so brilliantly off the building that he is forced to look away.

And then he sees it. A shape in the water. Pale but distinct. Small, but growing larger as the ferry bears down on it. A shape … with a head … and legs … and outstretched arms. A body. Floating. Face down. A body. A human body.

‘A body. There’s a body. In the water. Stop. Stop the boat,’ he screams, to the air, to the water, to anyone.

He runs, waving his arms wildly at those inside the main cabin.

‘Help. Someone. Anyone. Stop this ferry now!’

Somehow, people appear from everywhere. Shoving. Shouting. A crewman is calling the captain. The ferry is slowing … but oh, so, slowly. The blade of its prow prepares to slice through the body. Time suspends. All those crowded on the decks inhale as one and are silent.

The ferry stops. It stops within inches of the body. Group exhalation. Time recommences, accelerates. Ropes, hands, life buoys are lowered, thrown over the side, a young crewman jumps in and, somehow, the soaked body of a young woman is brought to lie on the deck at his feet. A thermal blanket is placed over her; people offer coats to the shivering crewman who has retrieved her.

‘I’m a doctor,’ he confesses, looking toward the ferry captain who has materialised by his side. ‘I’ll help her … if it’s appropriate … you know … usual protocol.’

‘There’s nothing usual about any of this,’ responds the captain, rubbing his hands together. ‘I just didn’t see her. I don’t understand. This is a busy part of the harbour. Why didn’t anyone report this earlier?’

‘Are you all right?’ he asks, stepping in the captain’s direction.

‘Fine, good. The important thing is, how is she?’

He kneels beside the body, feels the neck for a carotid artery pulse, registers the surprising warmth of the body, observes the even rise and fall of the chest, scans the face for signs of trauma but notices none, notes the remarkably healthy colour of the woman’s face and finds, on picking up one of her hands from under the blanket, that the fingernails are pink.

‘She’s alive,’ he announces.

‘Thank God,’ the captain sighs, the relief obvious. ‘Okay, well, Doctor, if you can stay with her, I’ll get us to the quay. Marine Area Command has already been notified. There’ll be an ambulance waiting.’ Turning to the passenger throng, he shouts, ‘Move back folks. Give them some room. We’ll be on our way now. There in five minutes.’

As the captain hurries off, the doctor kneels beside the woman. He is close enough to hear her breathing. He gazes at her face. The skin is clear, unlined, and he guesses her age at around thirty. He wonders at the delicacy of the brown-fringed eyelids. As he wonders, the lids flick open. Steely blue eyes stare back at him, sear him. His heart jumps, his nerves twinge, a sick panic seizes him. How can she be alive? So alive, after this ordeal, he wonders.

Several seconds pass before the veneer of medical competence can assert itself. He is aware of other passengers and crew staring at him from various vantage points, expecting information, intervention.

‘You’re safe,’ he hears himself announce. ‘I’ll stay with you until you’re moved from here to a hospital where you’ll get appropriate treatment. No need to try and talk but, perhaps, you can nod your head if you’ve understood what I’ve told you.’

The woman’s eyes remain fixed, unblinking, on him. She does not nod.

‘Are you in any pain?’ he tries. ‘I’m not going to examine you here; best not to move you about. From my brief visual assessment, I can tell you that your vital signs seem good. But, perhaps, you’ve got pain somewhere. Can you let me know if that’s the case?’

Again the unblinking eyes, the unmoving head.

‘Well, perhaps you could tell me your name,’ he coaxes.

At this, she turns her head away from him and the fringed lids clamp shut. And remain shut during the short trip into Circular Quay where assistance is waiting. Dutifully, the passenger-doctor offers the paramedics his thoughts on her condition.

‘All noted, Doctor,’ says one, as the patient is transferred onto a trolley and into the ambulance. ‘We’re taking her to the emergency department at Royal Harbourside. Do you want to accompany us?’

‘No, I’m afraid I can’t. Very busy.’

‘Well, thanks for what you’ve already done. It was doubly lucky that you were on that ferry. I mean, what are the chances? You have the medical skills, of course, but to be the one who spotted her … the only one outside on deck at the time. Great coincidence, huh?’

‘Yes, quite a coincidence,’ he agrees over his shoulder as he hurries away.