Miracle on Kaimotu Island

She found herself remembering the day of James’s funeral. It had been the end of a truly appalling time, when she’d fought with every ounce of her medical knowledge to keep him and yet nothing could hold him. He’d been angry for his entire illness, angry at his body for betraying him, at the medical profession that couldn’t save him, but mostly at Ginny, who was healthy when he wasn’t.

‘—you, Florence Nightingale.’ The crude swearing was the last thing he’d said to her, and she’d stood at his graveside and felt sick and cold and empty.

And then she’d grown aware of Veronica. Veronica was the wife of James’s boss. She’d walked up to Ginny, ostensibly to hug her, but as she’d hugged, she’d whispered.

‘You didn’t lose him. You never had him in the first place. You and my husband were just the stage props for our life. What we had was fun, fantasy, everything life should be.’

And then Veronica’s assumed face was back on, her wife-of-James’s-boss mantle, and Ginny thought maybe she’d imagined it.

But then she’d read James’s will.

‘To my daughter, Barbara, to be held in trust by my wife, Guinevere, to be used at her discretion if Barbara’s true parentage is ever discovered.’

She remembered a late-night conversation the week before James had died. She’d thought he was rambling.

‘The kid. He thinks it’s his. If he finds out…I’ll do the right thing. Bloody kid should be in a home anyway. Do the right thing for me, babe. I know you will—you always do the right thing. Stupid cow.’

Was this just more? she thought, pouring a second glass for the obviously thirsty little girl. Guinevere doing the right thing. Guinevere being a stupid cow?

‘I’m not Guinevere, I’m Ginny,’ she said aloud, and her voice startled her, but she knew she was right.

Taking Button wasn’t doing something for James or for Veronica or for anyone, she told herself. This was purely between her and Button.

They’d move on, together.

‘Ginny,’ Button said now, trying the name out for size, and Ginny sat at the table beside this tiny girl and tried to figure it out.

Ginny and Button.

Two of a kind? Two people thrown out of their worlds?

Only she hadn’t been thrown. She’d walked away from medicine and she’d walked away from Sydney.

Her father had left her the vineyard. It had been a no-brainer to come here.

And Ben…

Was Ben the reason she’d come back here?

So many thoughts…

Ben’s huge family. Twelve kids. She remembered the day her mother had dropped her off, aged all of eight. ‘This woman’s looking after you today, Guinevere,’ she’d told her. ‘Your father and I are playing golf. Be good.’

She’d got a hug from Ben’s mother, a huge welcoming beam. ‘Come on in, sweetheart, welcome to our muddle.’

She’d walked into the crowded jumble that had been their home and Ben had been at the stove, lifting the lid on popcorn just as it popped.

Kernels were going everywhere, there were shouts of laughter and derision, the dogs were going nuts, the place was chaos. And eight-year-old Ben was smiling at her.

‘Ever made popcorn? Want to give it a go? Reckon the dog’s got this lot. And then I’ll take you taddying.’

‘Taddying?’

‘Looking for tadpoles,’ he’d said, and his eight-year-old eyes had gleamed with mischief. ‘You’re a real city slicker, aren’t you?’

And despite what happened next—or maybe because of it—they’d been pretty much best friends from that moment.

She hadn’t come back for Ben; she knew she hadn’t, but maybe that was part of the pull that had brought her back to the island. Uncomplicated acceptance. Here she could lick her wounds in private. Figure out where she’d go from here.

Grow grapes?

With Button.

‘We need to make you a bedroom,’ she told Button, and the little girl’s face grew suddenly grave.

‘I want Monkey in my bedroom,’ she said.

Monkey? Uh-oh.

She flipped open the little girl’s suitcase. It was neatly packed—dresses, pyjamas, knickers, socks, shoes, coats. There was a file containing medical records and a small box labelled ‘Medications’. She flipped this open and was relieved to find nothing more sinister than asthma medication.

But no monkey.

She remembered her mother’s scorn from years ago as she’d belligerently packed her beloved Barny Bear to bring to the island.

‘Leave that grubby thing at home, Guinevere. You have far nicer toys.’

‘I want Monkey,’ Button whispered again, and Ginny looked at her desolate little face and thought Button couldn’t have fought as she had. Despite her mother’s disgust, Ginny had brought Barny, and she’d loved him until he’d finally, tragically been chewed to bits by one of Ben’s family’s puppies.

But fighting for a soft toy wouldn’t be in Button’s skill range, she thought, and then she realised that’s what she’d taken on from this moment. Fighting on Button’s behalf.

She tried to remember now the sensations she’d felt when she’d received the lawyer’s initial documents laying out why Button was being deserted by the people who’d cared for her. Rage? Disgust? Empathy?

This was a child no one wanted.

Taking her in had seemed like a good idea, even noble. Veronica and James had acted without morality. She’d make up for it, somehow.

Alone?

She was glad Ben had been here when Button had arrived. She sort of wanted him here now. He’d know how to cope with a missing Monkey.

Or not. Don’t be a wimp, she told herself. You can do this. And then she thought, You don’t have a choice.

But…he had offered to help.

‘I guess you left Monkey at home,’ she told Button, because there was no other explanation but the truth. ‘I might be able to find someone who’ll send him to us, but for now…let’s have lunch and then we’ll go down to Dr Ben’s clinic. I don’t have any monkeys here, but Dr Ben might know someone who does.’

Ben had told her the clinic would be busy but she’d had no concept of just how busy. There were people queued up through the waiting room and into the corridor beyond.