The Missing Pieces of Us Read online

  Fleur McDonald has lived and worked on farms for much of her life. After growing up in the small town of Orroroo in South Australia, she went jillarooing, eventually co-owning an 8000-acre property in regional Western Australia. Fleur likes to write about strong women overcoming adversity, drawing inspiration from her own experiences in rural Australia. She is the bestselling author of Red Dust, Blue Skies, Purple Roads, Silver Clouds, Crimson Dawn, Emerald Springs, Indigo Storm and Sapphire Falls. She lives in Esperance with her partner Garry, her two children, a Jack Russell terrier and a Red Heeler.

  Also by Fleur McDonald

  Red Dust

  Blue Skies

  Purple Roads

  Silver Clouds

  Crimson Dawn

  Emerald Springs

  Indigo Storm

  Sapphire Falls

  For the people I love, who believe in me

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  First published in 2017

  Copyright © Fleur McDonald 2017

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or 10 per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to the Copyright Agency (Australia) under the Act.

  Allen & Unwin

  83 Alexander Street

  Crows Nest NSW 2065

  Australia

  Phone: (61 2) 8425 0100

  Email: [email protected]

  Web: www.allenandunwin.com

  Cataloguing-in-Publication details are available from the National Library of Australia

  www.trove.nla.gov.au

  ISBN 9781760293949

  eISBN 9781925576535

  Set by Post Pre-press Group

  Cover design: Romina Panetta

  Cover photography: Jill Ferry

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Author’s note

  Acknowledgements

  Dear Diary,

  Australia? I’d never heard of it until the day Mummy told me we were going to live there. It sounded as foreign as it was far away.

  Our life in London wasn’t especially hard, with Daddy having a secure job in the factory. Mummy looked after the house and I had friends at school. We went to church on Sundays, and for a while I attended Sunday school, but now that I’m nearly sixteen, I don’t have to. I’m even allowed to take communion with the adults.

  My brother and sister, Eddie and Anne, were settled in school and had friends too—it seems strange to take them out of the life that they know. I suppose they’ll adjust more quickly than me, being so much younger.

  Our life was so nice. I don’t understand why we had to change it.

  I liked that I could walk to Granny’s for tea and cake. I liked that I could walk to the shop and spend a twopence on some sticky sweets, and I liked that my family would take a picnic to the park every Saturday afternoon when Daddy wasn’t working. Eddie and Anne loved feeding the ducks at the pond, and I loved watching the people. So many of the men are trying to dress like The Beatles; I don’t know if Australia has even heard of The Beatles.

  One afternoon I came home from school and Mummy was sitting at the kitchen table with Granny. Eddie and Anne were sitting there too, eating biscuits and drinking milk. Mummy’s eyes were red and it looked as though she’d been crying, but she seemed happy. It was an odd combination.

  When she saw me, Mummy gave me a big smile and asked me to sit down. She said there was important and exciting news. Then she told me we were moving to Australia in two weeks’ time. I’d heard about the Ten Pound Pom scheme—I’d seen adverts but never thought we would be the ones to leave.

  That night, Daddy talked about sunny blue skies and jobs galore. They wanted strong, fit and healthy men down in Australia.

  As we were getting ready to leave, Mummy and Daddy laughed together so much. He’d swing her around and dance with her. From my bedroom I’d hear them talking, full of plans and ideas. A house with a backyard and maybe even a puppy. I like puppies. I’m sure Daddy said that just so I would stop crying.

  I didn’t want to go. I didn’t want to leave Granny and all my friends. I didn’t want to leave my life.

  There wasn’t a choice.

  Mummy and Daddy packed up our belongings and sold our furniture, leaving the house cold and empty. When we walked out of our home for the last time and the door slammed shut, I heard it echo around inside. It gave me the shivers.

  On the docks, Mummy cried when she hugged Granny. When we walked on board, I heard her say to Daddy that she was frightened she’d never see her mother again. He hugged her and promised we would. That made me weepy too. I couldn’t imagine not seeing Granny ever again. Or not seeing my friends, my teachers, even the postman! I’d taken for granted that these people would always be there. I’m nearly a woman, but I cried like a child for all the people I may never see again.

  When the ship’s horn sounded for the first time, the crew ran around like ants scurrying for crumbs. They wound in the ropes, cranked handles and yelled instructions to one another. Then we were cast away. Out to sea. Our old lives disappearing with the smooth glide of the ship.

  That night, many of us went to the top deck to watch the lights of Hastings fade into the distance. Daddy stood with his arm around Mummy. Eddie and Anne were sleeping in the cabin, so it was only me standing with my parents. They were busy making friends with the other passengers, so they didn’t see me cry again.

  All I wanted to do was jump overboard and swim home.

  We’ve been on board for more than a week now. The mood is one of excitement, hope and expectation. Everyone is enthusiastic and can’t wait for their new lives to start. I think it’s only me who’s been sad. I’m still homesick. I’ve already written letters to Granny and all my friends back home, which I can’t post until we get to Australia.

  Fortunately there’s a lot of fun to be had on the boat, with swimming pools and games and new friends. And I’ve met a boy, and even though I still don’t want to go to Australia, he will make the journey very nice.

  Chapter 1

  Lauren jolted awake, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps. Sweat drenched her body. Her heart was beating so fast, she felt as though it was going to escape from her chest. She fo
rced herself to take deeper breaths. It had just been a dream. A nightmare. The one she’d been having her whole life.

  She was always somewhere shadowy. Great walls rose around her, keeping her prisoner. In the claustrophobic darkness, her shallow breaths took in the moist, icy air that constricted her throat, making her struggle for oxygen.

  Rough hands held her down. When she pulled away, other hands kept reaching for her, clawing at her flimsy nightdress, her hair, her arms. She tried to flick them from her, to duck around every outstretched arm and run towards a sliver of light in the distance. Stumbling onto some stairs, she somehow knew that she was only moments from safety.

  Then she felt the hands again.

  Just as terror threatened to overtake her, she woke up.

  Lauren hated the dark, empty feeling that the dream always left her with. As if she’d been visited by a spirit who had sucked the soul from her, leaving her as just a body. A shell.

  Rolling over, she looked at the clock. 3.39 am. Damn! Why couldn’t it be later? She knew that although she was exhausted, she wouldn’t be able to get back to sleep.

  Beside her, Dean snored gently, oblivious to her turmoil. She snuggled closer to her husband, putting her arm over his waist, trying to absorb some of his warmth. His snoring stopped, and he sleepily pulled her arm to his chest and muttered something unintelligible, then started to snore again.

  Before Lauren could stop them, tears pricked her eyes. Waking from the dream always left her needing Dean’s comforting and steady presence, as well as a cry. She didn’t just feel scared of the reaching hands; she was terrified by the absence of love within the bubble of the dream. Dean had suggested that she dreamed like this because lack of love was her greatest fear—quite possibly, he was right. Her friend Holly, who worked as a psychologist at the same school, had suggested the same thing.

  Lauren wasn’t looking for the heated, passionate type of love; she was content with the reliable, unconditional, never-ending type. Perhaps that was why the dream persisted: to make sure she never forgot that love was to be given, and it was her job to love as much as she could. Like her adoptive parents loved her. Like Dean loved her and their two children.

  For a long time, as a selfish teenager, she’d assumed that her birth mother hadn’t loved her enough—which perhaps was why she’d developed this fear. But as she’d grown older and read more about the history of adoptions in Australia, she’d realised that lack of love may have had nothing to do with it. Her birth mother might have been forced to give her up.

  Lauren brushed away her tears, slid out of bed and stood still for a moment, gazing fondly at her husband. The same warm feeling she had when she’d watched her babies sleep rose inside her. She’d once tried to describe how it felt to Dean: ‘It’s like my chest becomes mush and my whole body glows.’ She had averted her eyes at the last minute in case she’d said too much.

  All he’d answered was, ‘It’s just love, honey,’ and hugged her tightly.

  Watching the rise and fall of Dean’s chest calmed her. It was a longstanding family joke that he could sleep through an earthquake—which he’d actually done once, though only a small one.

  She padded across the carpet to the window and watched moths swarm around the streetlight that stood in front of their two-storey brick house. Their suburb in the Perth Hills was always quiet at night: no noisy cars, horns or kids out too late. She and Dean had bought here because they wanted to raise their children in a community-based suburb, where they knew their neighbours and looked out for one another. Somehow in the busyness of life, that hadn’t happened—they only knew their neighbours to wave to. The house was very old, built in a time when one bathroom and one toilet was all that was needed: a constant source of annoyance now. But it had been cheap, and they’d all come to love their home.

  Lauren turned from the window and decided not to worry about sleep—it definitely wouldn’t happen again tonight. She made her way down the stairs, avoiding the creaky step, third from the top. At the bottom, she ran her gaze over the family photographs lining the hallway. They documented Dean’s and her life from their wedding day, to the births of their kids, to last Christmas when their whole family—Dean’s mum and dad, her parents and all the grandies—were together. These photos made her smile; they gave her a sense of belonging.

  She walked down the hall, passed the doorway into the lounge and opened the door to the study. Relief washed through her as the dazzling fluorescent lights lit up the room, chasing away the fragment of the dream. After she sat down in the chair, she turned on the computer, opened the browser and clicked her shortcut to Ancestry.com, the website she’d been using to investigate her family history. Well, the history of Dean’s and her adoptive parents’ families.

  For as long as Lauren could remember, she had known she was adopted. ‘We wanted a child very badly,’ she remembered her mother saying, ‘and then we were able to choose you. You’ve made us very happy!’ So, as a small child, Lauren had told everyone with pride that her parents had chosen her, not really understanding the implications and significance of what she was saying.

  Nineteen years ago, when she’d found out she was pregnant with her first child, Lauren had been hit for the first time by a longing to find her birth mother. And as the nurse had placed Stuart in her arms, an overwhelming instinct to protect him had settled in her chest and never gone away. Lying in the labour ward—her own squirming baby, with a good set of lungs, in her arms—Lauren had wondered if her birth mother had felt similar emotions; and if she’d experienced a deep sense of loss as a nameless nurse snatched Lauren away before she’d even held her. These same feelings and questions had arisen when Lauren’s daughter, Skye, was born five years later after four heartbreaking miscarriages.

  But as Lauren had become a busy and tired mum for the second time, the longing to find her birth mother had faded quickly; the rigmarole of dealing with bureaucracy wasn’t a high priority. At times she’d still thought about giving it a go, but either life had got in the way or she’d worried that it would upset her parents.

  Lately, now that the kids were a bit older and weren’t so dependent on her, she’d been thinking about it again almost every day.

  Online, while her family slept, Lauren traced their ancestors back generations so her kids would have a record. She felt a thrill of anticipation as she saw all the little green leaves scattered on the family tree. The hints behind each leaf led her closer to knowing all there was to know about their families.

  ‘Come on, Skye!’ called Lauren, standing at the foot of the stairs. ‘You’ve only got half an hour before the bus!’

  Silence from upstairs, as usual.

  ‘Gotta run, honey!’ called Dean, rushing out of the study, briefcase in hand, dropping a kiss on her mouth. He had a high-pressure job in IT. ‘I’ve got an early meeting—one of our clients was hacked last night.’ He was through the front door before he’d finished speaking.

  ‘Don’t forget it’s your turn to cook tonight!’ Lauren called after him, her eyes on his bum. He has the cutest arse, she thought. Even in suit pants.

  With his muscly physique that he honed at the gym, dark brown hair and chocolate-coloured eyes, Dean was getting more good-looking as he got older. Not all men were that lucky—at a school reunion two years ago, Lauren had been shocked by the way some men had aged. Protruding bellies, bald heads and deep wrinkles had been the order of the day. But her husband was just like fine wine, she thought proudly.

  She and Dean made a striking couple—his darkness against her fairness and stunning red hair. There had never been anyone else for either of them since they’d met when she was twenty-two. She and her teacher friends had gone to a gig at the Cottesloe pub, and Dean had chatted her up while she’d been ordering a round at the bar. The music had been heavy on the guitar and drums, but she and Dean had managed to have a yelled conversation. During a set break, he’d suggested they head outside to keep talking, and they’d spent an hour walking
along the beach together.

  Funny, she thought now, how they’d managed to find each other given the number of people who’d been there that night. And now she was forty-seven and loved him just as much as ever.

  She heard the Commodore’s engine starting, which set off the neighbour’s dog.

  She waited a few seconds and . . . right on cue, raised voices came from upstairs.

  ‘Get out! I’m in here,’ Skye whined before a door slammed.

  ‘Could you hurry up?’ said Stu. ‘I’m busting for the loo.’

  Rolling her eyes, Lauren took the steps two at a time and knocked on the bathroom door. ‘Skye! Come on, sweetie, we do this every morning. You’re pushing the boundaries again.’ She turned to Stu, who was still looking bleary from sleep. ‘What I wouldn’t do for a separate toilet.’ It was the same discussion every morning.

  The bathroom door opened and her tall, lanky daughter came out. Skye’s long red hair was wrapped in a towel and another was draped around her body. ‘Sorry, Stu,’ she said, not sounding apologetic at all.

  ‘No, you’re not!’ Stu answered, walking into the bathroom. ‘Skye, you’re a feral!’ he called out. ‘Could you at least pick up the bathmat?’

  With her hand on her bedroom door handle, Skye stopped and looked back as the bathroom door banged shut. ‘What?’ she asked Lauren in complete innocence. ‘I only did it to annoy him.’

  Exasperated, Lauren tried to stop herself from smiling at the look on her daughter’s face. ‘I know, but why do you feel the need?’

  ‘Coz it gets up his nose.’ Skye grinned cheekily.

  Lauren shook her head and thought she’d better reinforce the rules that everyone knew but didn’t always follow. ‘You’re unbelievable. Now, here’s an idea . . . if you want more time in the bathroom, get out of bed a little earlier.’

  Skye screwed up her nose and said, ‘Ew!’

  ‘I know,’ Lauren said with a sigh, ‘God forbid a teenager ever wakes up on time. Okay, I offer you a challenge for tomorrow: in and out of the bathroom within ten minutes, and no trace you were ever there.’