SYNOPSIS: Olivia Marchand came to the Sapphire Coast for peace, to practise her art and mend a broken heart. At first she was preoccupied with healing herself, but when she finds an injured creature she must shift her attention to helping others. Arriving at the vet surgery, events take an unexpected, harrowing turn. This is a story about destructiveness, healing, and finding artistic inspiration in unlikely places.

A bright new salt-licked morning. I tighten the cord of a floppy woven hat under my chin in the breeze and angle my face away from the glare, before continuing to wander up the slag-line of the shore.

It’s a weekly ritual, reconnecting with the rhythms of nature and combing the beach for materials suitable for incorporating into my sculptures. Driftwood, sponges, crab claws, palm fronds stiff with salt, smooth frosted glass, seed pods like alien litter. In the dunes I uncover bleached bones of such wildly different sizes – from a tiny femur to a gargantuan knuckle – that I imagine the shifting sands have compressed the skeletal remains of millennia.

My latest project is a series of nests made of fibres, threaded with fragments sharp or soft, harmonious or jarring. The effect could be a comforting cradle for an unseen sleeper, or a pit of punishment.

I’m preparing for the Icarus Art Prize, a regional competition which closes in a few weeks, the next in a circuit that I enter each year. It’s a shame that artistic expression has to fit within a framework of ever-increasing rules and conditions. Someone let the lawyers into the process. For the Icarus Prize, entries must not be taller than 1.5 metres or wider than 1.2 metres. The maximum weight of 20 kilograms is not an issue because I work in lightweight materials, rather than stone or metal.

After finishing on the beach, I carry my souvenirs, snug in a plastic bucket, back to the grassed reserve between the beach and the car park. Sitting on a timber bench, I sort through what I’ve collected and use the tap to rinse the sticky sand from shells and bones.

This place has brought me healing, and the chance to practice art, instead of merely teaching it to ungrateful teenagers who sapped my energy. Sometimes they took out their destructive urges on the art room. Expensive equipment broken or vandalised, glossy books splattered or torn.

I notice movement in the grass out of the corner of my eye. In a small hollow, a round shiny object wobbles. At first I think it’s a polished rock, but what would cause it to move? As I approach, it resembles an upturned ceramic bowl, glazed and patterned. Standing over the bowl, I realise it’s a tortoise. Someone’s escaped pet? Shunting itself with webbed feet in slow fractions of a circle, it’s getting nowhere.

For a second I appreciate the shell as an artwork, the row of hexagons stamped down the centre, the surrounding irregular shapes, the walnut hue with a lacquer glow. But the shell is disfigured by a crack at the lower end, with pinkish-red pulp visible in the crevice, and the grey body underneath bulges out as if squashed. I crouch to study the wound which is raw, a fresh injury. The tortoise’s squirming jolts me into recognising that it could be suffering.

Preoccupied, I don’t immediately see the bearded man with a dog veering into my orbit to check why I’m staring at the grass. I hear the snuffling first. Thankfully the dog is on a leash, a wad of poo-bags threaded through a loop in the collar. Possibly a boxer. I’m not too good with dog breeds.

‘Must be one of the missing turtles,’ the man says, yanking the lead to restrain the dog from sniffing around the reptile.

‘Missing?’ I echo.

‘There’s a sign over there.’ He points to a pair of wheelie bins for recycling and rubbish. I can make out a white flap of paper taped to a pole which has a dog litter-bag dispenser fixed to it. ‘Something about turtles being swept into the drain,’ he adds.

‘Okay, I’ll take a look. Thanks.’ Good excuse to get away from the salivating dog.

Carefully I scoop up the tortoise in my floppy hat and place it inside the collecting bucket, where it sits on a cushion of palm tree matting. It raises its long neck, revealing beady staring pupils, and paddles its feet, claws scratching against the bucket as it tries to gain traction.

I cross the grass with my bucket to read the sign:

If anyone finds turtles washed down the stormwater drain due to the heavy rain, please return them to the pond at the golf club. Or if they are injured, contact WIRES.

I wonder if ‘turtles’ is a mistake. I’ve always thought that turtles live in the ocean, and their smaller, land-based cousins are tortoises, like the one I’ve found.

A phone number for the wildlife rescue service is written in a different pen, growing fainter with each digit, as if added once the sign went up. Taking out my phone, I ring the number and a polite older man gives me the mobile of a local carer, Sally McNiece, but my call goes to her voicemail so I leave a message. Then I walk up the sandy path, lined with stooped banksias, to the golf club to report what I think is one of their missing tortoises.

I know the golf club as a wedding venue because I’m a part-time civil marriage celebrant, but I don’t remember any tortoises.

Passing the maintenance area to get to the pond, I notice a young groundsman pouring liquid from a drum into a jerry can. Nobody else seems to be around, so I show him the tortoise in the bucket.

‘Yep, that looks like one of ours.’

‘How many are missing?’ I ask.

‘Two, I think.’

We wander over to the pond, where I have sometimes been invited to pose with happy newlyweds, absorbed in my duties and oblivious to the reptilian residents. Scrutinising the kidney-shaped pond, I pick out two, no, three tortoises, motionless and camouflaged on the island of rocks surrounded by greenish water.

I tell the groundsman I’ve called WIRES and he scowls at the damage to the shell of the tortoise I’ve found, agreeing that it should not be returned to the pond in that condition.

As we talk, the groundsman’s features strike me as familiar – the cornflower blue eyes, auburn hair tied with a rubber band – even though my celebrant role doesn’t involve much contact with the ground staff. ‘Have you worked here long?’ I ask.

‘Just a few months.’

‘Somewhere else then?’

He nods. ‘Deckhand on a cruise boat in the whale-watching season.’

‘That must be it.’

I’m a regular visitor to the wharf, sketching and photographing the trawlers and lobster pots, and am used to crew members ambling around. Many people on the Sapphire Coast have second jobs; it’s a matter of adapting to the seasons and taking advantage of opportunities that arise.

‘I’m Olivia, by the way.’

‘Jayden.’

‘I think I’ll find a vet. At least if the poor thing should be put down, a vet would do it humanely,’ I say.

But back at the beachside car park, my phone rings and it’s the wildlife carer, Sally, who says she can be there in five minutes. While I wait, I check on the tortoise. Its neck seems to be functioning, craning to examine the confined space in the bucket. I realise its neck is almost as long as its shell and I cannot resist slipping into art competition mode, appraising the creative potential of the tortoise: the marching hexagons, the tiny black beads for eyes, the fanned feet. Or possibly a darker portrayal. Wounded. Bloodied. An environmental statement.

Sally lurches into the car park in an old Land Rover. She clambers out, gangly limbs in canvas clothes. Devoid of make-up, no artificial colours or textures. After the introductions, she stares into the bucket and says, ‘Definitely an eastern long-neck.’

‘I found it over there, scrabbling around in the grass,’ I point to the reserve.

‘Technically it’s a side-necked turtle,’ she continues, in instructional mode. ‘See the way it retracts its neck beneath the shell by folding it to one side, rather than drawing the head backwards as most species of turtles do.’

‘So it’s not a tortoise?’ I ask.

‘No. Tortoises are exclusively land animals. This is a freshwater turtle, which lives in ponds and creeks. That’s why it has webbed feet, whereas tortoises have stumpier feet with toenails.’

Inwardly I cringe. Some naturalist I’ve turned out to be.

Sally angles her head, assessing the fractured shell. ‘Nasty crack. Doesn’t look like the sort of damage a dog or fox would do. Perhaps a car or motorbike ran over it. Surfers and fishermen drive here in the early hours when it’s barely light.’

‘I suppose the shell would blend in with the gravel,’ I say, trying to contribute something relevant. ‘And there are drain outlets too,’ I nod at the rectangular holes in the concrete border around the car spaces.

She follows my line of sight before returning her focus to the turtle. ‘The real issue is whether there are internal injuries. A cracked carapace isn’t so bad, it can be fixed.’

Guessing that the ‘carapace’ is the shell, I ask, ‘How does a broken shell get fixed?’

‘They used to put fibreglass over the crack but it peels off. So the strategy now is open-wound healing, where the turtle is given antibiotics and the ends of a clip are superglued on either side of the crack to stabilise it.’

‘Sounds like it heals itself, with a bit of help.’

Lowering her face, Sally inhales deeply. ‘Get a whiff of that,’ she says, aiming the bucket at me. ‘When the turtle feels threatened, it emits a stinky fluid from its musk glands. It’s a defence mechanism.’

I’m in awe of her knowledge. She’s about my age, fortyish, and the more we chat, the more I recognise the combination of the sporty, straw-coloured hair and the heavy crow’s feet that belong on an older face.

‘You look familiar, but I’ve never called WIRES before. I think I’ve seen you somewhere else,’ I say.

‘Could be the Stargaze Cinema. I help out at busy times. School holidays, weekends, bargain days.’

‘That’s probably it. I usually go on bargain day.’

Like I said, many people in these beachside towns have multiple roles. Stitching together a patchwork life.

Sally confirms she will take the turtle to a vet for an examination. ‘They can do an X-ray to assess internal damage. The shell really needs to be repaired within twenty four hours to maximise the chances of survival.’

Her phone buzzes and she checks the incoming text. ‘Just my son, wanting to be picked up.’

‘Can I give you a hand with anything?’ I offer.

She pats the air reassuringly. ‘That’s okay, I’ll be fine.’

*          *          *

I keep dwelling on the injured turtle. That night I do internet research on turtles in general and find out that the upper shell is the carapace, the lower shell is the plastron, the shapes on the shell are called scutes. I read in particular about eastern long-necked turtles. The females tend to be larger than the males, and the average measurements make me think the one I found is a male or perhaps a juvenile.

The textures and patterns keep playing in my mind, printing on my vision. There really isn’t time to replace the ‘nest’ project for the Icarus Art Prize, but the spirit of the injured turtle is nagging me to try. Something to simulate being trapped in a drain, using unexpected materials like mesh or perspex. I can investigate what unusual products are available from the plumbing supplies centre. Cylinders, grates, grilles. And how to recreate the carapace? Maybe limpet shells or shards of glazed pottery resembling scutes, strung together with wire, or stuck to a metal bowl as a base. A scratched, worn bowl, scouted from an op shop or army disposals store.

A client emails me some draft wedding vows, for a medieval-inspired wedding at the golf club next month. I don’t mind themed weddings if they are done tastefully, but these vows are comical, addressing the bride and groom as ‘My Lord’ and ‘My Lady’. They must be having doubts or they wouldn’t be checking if the vows are appropriate. I diplomatically suggest they ask themselves what their potential children and grandchildren would think if they read the program decades from now. Instead of vowing to slay dragons, I recommend something more lasting such as ‘eternal respect’.

Having never married, I might be considered underqualified to be a marriage celebrant. My high school boyfriend and I were engaged, which at least gave me practice at planning a wedding. But he went away to a different university and returned home less eagerly each holiday break, until he confessed he’d met someone else and we cancelled our engagement.

Years after I settled here, a marriage celebrant who was a classmate at the arts centre told me she was getting too old for the running around and was looking for someone to pass her contacts onto. She guided me through the process of doing the certificate course and obtaining registration.

At first I thought the work would be more orderly and financially reliable than artistic activities. But I discovered there are parallels between designing sculptures and marriage ceremonies: both allow for creativity within limitations and they combine emotion, instinct, reasoning and entertainment.

I’ve also stopped dreaming that I might get married someday, realising that I prefer to vicariously experience other people’s marriages, helping them prepare for their big day while privately placing bets with myself on whether the marriage will last.

In the morning, I ring Sally’s number to see how she fared with the turtle but there is no answer. Dropping into the golf club again, I speak to Jayden who says the wounded turtle has not been returned and the second one remains missing.

Sally mentioned taking the turtle to a vet, without being specific, so I check the clinic in the centre of town. Its large, glass front windows reveal a couple of figures in the waiting room. When I enter I see they are a middle-aged woman and teenage boy, presumably mother and son, with a pet carrier between them, its small wire panels not affording a view of the occupant. The fresh-faced, very young receptionist on the counter has braces on her teeth. No, she hasn’t heard of Sally McNiece or an injured turtle.

There is another place, calling itself an animal hospital, on the outskirts of town, a former bottle shop with compact front windows which still have bars on them.

I go through the door and into the empty waiting area, past a gallery of posters about worming and ticks. Nobody is on reception. At that moment, loud but muffled voices rumble from an inner room.

I push open a swing door to a surgery area. A couple of feet in front of me is the broad back of a man, overshadowing a smaller, dark-haired female, his arm bent high as if he might be holding her neck. My eyes sweep around the room in a second, registering an empty examination table that juts out unevenly, an older man in light blue scrubs crouching next to it, an extendable spotlight, some kind of monitoring machine, a sink and tap, storage cupboards below, and shelves of medical supplies above. Antiseptic fumes taint the air, possibly from something knocked over.

At the sound of my approach, the younger man swivels his head, wild-eyed, holding a scalpel at the throat of the dark-haired woman, her blue shirt appliqued with the business logo. A receptionist or vet nurse.

‘Who’s this, someone else in the network?’ he accuses.

I say the first thing that springs to mind: ‘No. I’m here to help.’

‘I don’t think so. Everyone’s here to gang up on me. Turn her against me. Taking more and more of her time and money. Soon our house will be a zoo and I’ll be turfed out.’ He draws short, sharp breaths between the words.

Her. Sally?

‘That’s not true,’ says the older man, who I figure is the veterinary surgeon, rising to stand with hands upturned in an attempt to pacify the disturbed man.

‘You,’ he proclaims. ‘Dr Frankenstein. Bringing creatures back to life that are supposed to be dead.’

The vet surgeon is more like a wizard, his long narrow face framed by wispy grey collar-length hair. ‘Didn’t you have a pet you cared about as a boy?’

‘No, just wild animals. Not allowed to play with them. Scared and injured. They didn’t like me. Only she had the touch.’

‘Please don’t hurt anyone,’ says the vet. ‘Pranee is a good person.’

The dark-haired woman whimpers.

A bundle of soft blue near the floor shifts, a honey-coloured ponytail swinging, and I realise a vet nurse is huddled under the examination table. I can visualise what happened: the disturbed man refused to stop at reception and burst into the inner sanctum where the surgeon and nurse were conferring; Pranee the receptionist followed after him to alert the surgeon and was grabbed in retaliation or as a bargaining chip.

‘Do you know where they’re hiding the patient?’ he demands of me. ‘They won’t tell me.’

‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand, who’s the patient?’

‘The latest wounded animal that took my mother away.’

He’s university-aged, with darting brown eyes, a small mouth and babylike face. His bulbous forehead is accentuated by prematurely receding hair.

I’m clutching at a calm reply, something reassuring, but I suspect we’re looking for the same creature and my desire to preserve the turtle from harm would only implicate me as a conspirator in a plot against him.

‘It’s not my fault,’ he adds, jerkily shaking his head as though disagreeing with a taunting inner voice.

‘Of course not,’ I say, stalling while I wonder what he’s referring to: the present stand-off in the surgery, or something else?

The vet is a step ahead of me. ‘What’s not your fault, Dane? Is your Mum okay?’

But the young man’s rolling eyes, keeping all of us in the frame at once, spot movement near the floor.

The nurse has a phone in her hand, twisted from a pocket. Trying to make a call.

Dane yells at her: ‘Drop the phone. Come out where I can see you.’

Pranee slumps with the weight of her dread and Dane hauls her up, holding the blade tighter to her throat.

There’s no way I can lunge at him without risking Pranee’s neck. I take the cowardly option and slink out the door, turning to flee.

The world has warped into surreal mode and I want to steer it back on track. Digging my phone out of a pocket in my hoodie, I stand at my car, about to make an emergency call with trembling fingers. I’ve never rung Triple 0 before. Will it go to a call centre in the city? I know where the local police station is, just around the corner. Jumping in my car, I don’t bother with the seat belt to drive two blocks.

The police station is a modern two-storey brick box in biscuit brown, with rows of sealed windows, blinds all tight-lipped. I run up the concrete path and burst through the door, surprising a female uniformed officer on the front desk.

‘There’s a hostage situation at the vet’s on Crowley Road,’ I blurt. ‘A young man is holding a scalpel at the throat of a receptionist. I managed to get away.’

I think I’ve spoken clearly and concisely, made the message absolutely plain. But the officer double-blinks and appears confused, her plucked eyebrows bouncing. ‘Calm down. I didn’t get all of that.’

So apparently I’m babbling.

‘Let’s start again. Slowly. What’s your name?’ she asks.

I swallow a butterfly rising from my stomach. ‘Olivia Marchand. Please hurry. He might have slit her throat by now.’ I make urgent, circular motions with my hands.

‘How do you spell your surname? And whereabouts on Crowley Road?’

The officer turns to a computer, as I recite the information, and taps at the keyboard with a sagging ‘seen-it-all-before’ expression. Her name badge says Constable Amy Krasner. ‘Okay, the job’s logged and a crew will be deployed a.s.a.p. Now I need your contact details for an incident report and a description of exactly what happened. If you could take a deep breath and start from the beginning.’

I feel protected by a shield of purpose and logic. ‘Another woman might be in danger, the man’s mother, Sally McNiece. She’s a wildlife carer. There was no answer on her phone when I tried it.’

Time is moving too slowly. The air on Constable Krasner’s side of the counter has turned to treacle.

‘Can’t you look up people using computer records, through their car registrations?’ I urge.

‘Not without authorisation.’

How can I get through to this officer that it’s a matter of life and death? I repeat: ‘Sally’s son has gone berserk at the vet surgery. She is not responding to calls.’

‘I can alert the crew heading to the vet’s to check on her afterwards,’ says Constable Krasner, reaching for the keyboard again with fuchsia painted nails. ‘We’re a bit stretched today. Three-way collision on the turnoff to the highway. Do you know her address?’

‘No, but how many McNieces can there be around here?’ I whip out my phone and bring up the electronic White Pages. Tapping my foot, I mutter encouragement as the search page loads. The result is a McNiece in Abalone Street, but the initials are “A.S.” Could it be a relative, or is Sally her middle name? Or maybe it’s not her at all. The phone number is a landline which rings out.

I turn my phone’s screen to Constable Krasner and she copies the address into the computer. ‘First name Sally,’ I confirm.

‘Done,’ nods Constable Krasner.

‘Thanks, got to dash,’ I say, before she resurrects the incident report. I’ve decided to head to the address myself, in case the police get delayed. As I rush to my car I try Sally’s mobile again but she’s not picking up.

*          *          *

On the bend in Abalone Street is a tree with a huge gaping scar on its trunk, painted white. I figure it must be intended to glow at night, as a potential hazard in the headlights of cars, and even in the daytime it seems to pulsate ominously.

I hammer my knuckles on the front door of the weatherboard beach cottage. No answer. There’s a side gate of timber slats which opens with some jiggling of the latch and I go through. Strung across a paved courtyard are washing lines where cot-sized bedding is drying – quilted comforters and bunny rugs and knitted pouches that I suspect are used by recuperating animals rather than human infants. Some milk crates and portable mesh cages are stacked by the rear glass double doors. It definitely looks like the residence of a wildlife carer.

Cupping my hand against the glass to shut out the reflection, I peer inside and can see an empty kitchen straight ahead and a laundry off to one side, where an animal carrier sits on a pile of hessian sacks. Calico tote bags and padded papooses are slung over the door handle, and the shelves are cluttered with medical supplies and feeding bottles.

I tap on the glass and call half-heartedly, ‘Sally, are you in there?’

But the place is closed up. I’m wasting time, she’s not here. She could even be out on another call, with no idea of what her son’s doing.

As I turn to go, a sound seeps from the passage on the opposite side of the house to the way I came in. Squinting into the mottled light, I hear the sound once more, a sighing sort of groan. I trample on weeds and crunchy leaves and find Sally slumped against a narrow water tank. I tread cautiously, not wanting to frighten her. She is breathing raspily, blood dribbling from under her fringe, as though she’s been struck on the head. ‘Sally, can you hear me? It’s Olivia Marchand, the woman with the turtle. I’m getting help.’

She moans. I brush her arm, hoping to reassure her. ‘Hang in there, you’ll be okay.’

Sally gives a grunt of acknowledgment. I reverse out of the passage to call an ambulance. Leaving her alone eats into my nerves and I envisage her in distress – having a seizure, or choking, or straining to whisper an urgent piece of information – so I return to wait with her.

To keep her from lapsing into unconsciousness, I think of things to say: ‘It shouldn’t be long…Let me know if I can get you some water…Can you tell me who did this to you?’

Sally’s murmured responses do not translate into words.

At the sound of a siren, I realise that access forward is too limited and would involve squeezing between the tank and the paling fence. Cobwebs and splinters. ‘Be right back,’ I say in an upbeat tone, pretending to be calm, and reverse again to jog across the courtyard and through the side gate. Out the front, I wave the paramedics in the right direction, dashing ahead of them to prop the gate open with a brick.

When Sally is removed on a stretcher, I get a clearer view of her dishevelled appearance and a graze on her shin, but besides the head wound there are no other obvious marks on her body, which I hope indicates that she has not suffered damage to any vital organs.

I drive to the vet surgery, worried about the staff. No police vehicles are in sight. The front desk is unattended and I find the vet alone, dazed and tidying the surgery in slow motion.

‘Thank goodness you’re okay. How are the others? Did the police come?’ I say in a stream.

He peers at me in his foggy state and a light of recognition flicks on.

‘I’m sorry I disappeared,’ I continue, ‘but I thought it was better if I ran for help.’

‘You did the right thing, the police came to the rescue.’ He lets out a sigh. ‘I suppose I made a mistake trying to get Dane to give me the scalpel. Luckily Pranee broke away and he only cut her chin.’

‘What’s wrong with Dane, does he have a mental health condition?’ I ask.

‘I haven’t heard of a specific diagnosis. Sally mentioned he has difficulty getting on with people and holding down a job, but I don’t think anyone saw this coming.’

‘I’ve been wondering why Dane came here, to the surgery,’ I say.

The vet rubs his forehead. ‘He knows this is where Sally brings injured animals because we have an arrangement. As for turning up here today, my best guess is he had a meltdown over Sally being preoccupied with the turtle yesterday, and he shifted the blame onto us by accusing us of some kind of plot.’

In the drama, I’ve temporarily forgotten about the fate of the turtle. The vet confirms it is safe and recuperating. ‘The X-rays showed the plastron was fractured in two places, luckily no soft tissue damage, plus the big crack in the carapace. I figured something more than the usual fixes might be required so I contacted a vet who specialises in reptiles and she recommended a trip to the dentist to fill the cracks with dental cement.’

‘Where’s the turtle now?’

‘Still at Wavecrest Dental. The staff are happy to keep their unusual patient under observation for a little longer.’

When I ring the hospital to check on Sally’s condition, I tell them I’m the woman who called the ambulance. The friendly nurse says, ‘She’s stable. The scans showed a fractured skull.’

‘Oh no, that’s awful,’ I exclaim.

The nurse reassures me, ‘It’s only minor. It’ll heal itself with time.’

A couple of days later, I return to the golf club to see the recovering turtle settled back in the pond. I talk to Jayden about Dane, who is in the mental health unit of Sapphire Regional Hospital, the same establishment from which his mother has been discharged.

Jayden says he’s known Dane since they were kids, playing football in the junior ranks of the local club. He believes something changed in their teens when Dane’s father was killed in a fishing accident.

‘He went very quiet after that, kept to himself,’ says Jayden.

‘Does he have a good relationship with his Mum?’

‘I don’t know if anything’s happened lately, but I thought they were close. Just the usual rebellious teenage stuff years ago.’

A single parent and an only child. Possibly too intense, if Dane had become possessive and dependent on her and resented the time she spent with animals. I could understand if Sally had discovered that caring for animals was more rewarding than dealing with a disgruntled adolescent.

‘When he played football, did he get on with his team mates?’ I ask.

‘He already knew a lot of us from school and I think he enjoyed being in a team,’ Jayden recalls. ‘Maybe it helped him forget the outside world and whatever was bugging him.’

‘Do you have any idea what that was?’

‘Not really. I just reckon he was messed up. He’d say these weird things, like he was doomed, it was in the stars.’

I take a parting look at the repaired turtle, sunbaking on a rock, the pale dental cement stark against the rich brown shell, and silently wish it good luck. In a few weeks when I conduct the ceremony for the medieval wedding, launching the hopeful couple into an unknown future, I shall remember to check the pond.

And when Sally is back on duty, rescuing animals, I’ll offer to volunteer with her. This time I won’t be so easily persuaded that she’s fine. Even healers need healing.

© Rowena Helston 2018