‘You can come over mine, too,’ she said. ‘Once my new stereo’s set up.’
‘Um. Sure.’
‘I have a housemate. But he’s deaf, so we can be as loud as we want.’
‘Um.’ He’d gone all breathless. ‘Sure. Yeah. My housemate’s not deaf … but he’s out surfing a lot. I have the place to myself a lot.’
Paulina moistened her lips. ‘Jesse-Camel? Do you have any beer? I’m thirsty!’
‘Um. I’ll check.’
He got up very quickly. While he was gone, she abandoned her sorting, undid a button of her blouse, and snooped inside a nearby toolbox.
‘Sorry.’ He really did look sorry, too. ‘My housemate must’ve finished them.’
‘What’s this box with the needles and stuff? Are you a junkie?’
‘I’m a tattoo artist.’
Paulina’s jaw dropped. ‘No way.’
‘Yeah, um. There’s not much money in it here. Mostly I work with my dad; he owns the butcher’s, Camilleri’s? But tattoos are my—’
‘I want a tattoo!’ Paulina lifted her blouse. ‘Right here, above my butt. Please, please, please, can you?’
‘Now?’
‘Not now, obviously. I want a custom design. Something specially for me.’
‘I can do that. I can show you my portfolio. I can do some sketches tonight, even.’
‘Tonight!’ She clapped. ‘I’m still thirsty, though, Jesse-Camel.’
‘I’ll get more beer.’
‘You get the beer; I’ll get the music.’ Ecstatic, Paulina picked up It’ll End in Tears. ‘Jess!’
‘Play it,’ he said earnestly. ‘Play whatever you want.’
Then he whisked up his car keys, headed for the door, and smiled at her in a way that told her she had him — hook, line, and sinker.
‘You’re beautiful, Jess!’ she called. ‘Beautiful!’
And she meant it, she really did. Just, in the few minutes it took Jesse to go to the shops for beer, an even more beautiful guy walked through the door — shirtless and all drippy-wet from the surf.
‘Guess what?’ Paulina phoned her mum that night. ‘Today I dressed like a nice girl, and I got a job and some CDs, and met the father of your grandkids! They’re gonna be soooo good-looking.’
‘Oh!’ Judy was delighted. ‘See what happens when you dress like a nice girl instead of a bogan?’
‘Mum, he’s gorgeous.’
‘Tell me about him.’
‘Tall. Dark. Cheekbones to heaven. Hot bod. Um, he surfs.’
‘A surfer! Oh, that takes me back!’ Judy sighed. ‘You know, I probably would’ve married a surfer if your dad hadn’t come along.’
‘Yeah, yeah. Big yawn. Let me tell you about his body.’
‘… Okay.’
‘You know those abs when they’re shaped like a V? Those abs that go down in a V-shape and it’s like a sign saying “my dick’s right here”? He has those.’
‘Well, good for you. I don’t think abs are relevant to my grandchildren, though.’
‘They’re relevant to me making your grandchildren!’ Paulina giggled. ‘Normally he’d be way outta my league, but Fairfolk’s so inbred, I’m beautiful here. Watch out: I’m gonna marry him and have his babies before he knows what hit him.’
‘Have you … yet?’
‘Not yet! I’m a nice girl now, remember?’ Paulina laughed uproariously. ‘Anyways, I don’t want Rita firing me for turning up at Foodfolk tomorrow morning in today’s clothes. Patience, mother. Patience.’
‘Yes, child. Patience,’ Judy cautioned. ‘May I know my son-in-law’s name?’
‘Pellet!’
‘Pellet?’
‘It’s French-Canadian! He comes from French Canadia!’ Paulina swooned. ‘All his mates call him “Pellet” but it’s short for “Laurent Pellet”. You’re right, though. I should call him “Laurent” instead. I wanna be more than his mate.’
‘Darling … it’s French Canada, not Canadia. Or better still, say Quebec. And those T’s are definitely silent.’
Judy demonstrated how she thought ‘Laurent Pellet’ was pronounced.
‘Pfft! You’re just a receptionist, what do you know,’ Paulina jeered. ‘Anyways, I like it with the T’s. It’s nice and hard … like his dick’s gonna be when we make all your grandkids.’
‘Oh, Jesus Christ, Paulina!’ Judy cried. ‘You’re really not nice !’
PRECIOUS CARGO
‘Everyone’s staring,’ Judy complained as they sat in the sun, waiting to board their flight out of Fairfolk. Paulina was already onboard, in the cargo hold. It was a terrible thing to be aware of on a bright Tuesday morning, drinking overpriced coffee and watching strangers in hi-vis vests loading up the baggage.
‘It’s because of your reverse-panda eyes.’ Caro reached across the table to blend in the concealer Judy had hastily smeared under her eyes that morning. Judy slapped Caro’s tobacco-scented hand away. Rummaged in her handbag.
‘I lost my sunnies,’ she lamented. ‘Where did I lose them?’
‘Somewhere in that awful woman’s house, probably.’ Caro offered her horrific gold aviator sunglasses to Judy. ‘Take mine.’
‘I want my sunglasses.’ Judy put her face in her hands. ‘I want my Valium.’
‘On the plane. I don’t want you falling on the tarmac.’
Judy closed her eyes, but couldn’t blot out the sun’s glare, the sense of being stared at.
‘It’s like that boy yesterday. The way they’re staring. It’s like I’ve got three heads.’
‘That boy was something else.’ Caro sipped her coffee. ‘He really must’ve been obsessed with Paulina.’
Judy shifted in her plastic chair, tried to ignore the anxious sting of her bladder. She looked at her sister despairingly.
‘Again?’ Caro griped — then censored herself. ‘No, it’s fine. Really. We should go before we board.’
The bathroom was like an office bathroom, small and gloomy beige. Judy took the cubicle furthest from the door. Only a few droplets came out. She sat a long time, head-in-hands, crotch burning. Alone time.
‘You should see a doctor,’ Caro advised her, at the sink. ‘It should’ve cleared by now.’
‘It’s just menopause. I’ve had UTIs before.’
‘Stress makes everything worse. You could end up with sepsis, if you’re not careful.”
Judy rubbed her under-eyes, but it was useless. Her skin was so crêpey-thin, the concealer stubborn as super-glue. Besides, that boy was right. She did look like Paulina. A feeble, watered-down Paulina who didn’t deserve to live while the real one lay cold.
‘I wish I had sepsis,’ she mumbled. ‘It would hurt less.’
‘Here.’ Caro pressed her ugly sunglasses upon her again. ‘Wear these.’
‘They’re ugly.’
‘They’re Roberto Cavalli.’
Sighing, Judy nudged the aviators up her nose. They headed for the door, just as a pair of fashionable older ladies in colourful scarves and boots hobbled in.
‘Oh!’ One of them clutched her chest like she’d seen a ghost. ‘Excuse me: we’re so sorry for your loss! We were staying at Mutineers’ Lodge. Your daughter—’
‘Excuse me,’ Caro cut in forcefully. ‘We have a flight to catch.’
But Judy’s heart was racing. ‘You met my daughter?’
‘Beautiful girl. She served us breakfast the morning of — Talked about you, too.’
‘About me?’
‘All about how you were here for a visit. We asked, “and is Dad here too?”, and she told us it’d just been the two of you for a long time. I’m so sorry.’
‘I’m sorry.’ Caro grabbed Judy’s shoulders. ‘But mind your own fucking business.’
As Caro steered her out of the ladies�
� room, Judy’s mind clung to the image of Paulina in her Mutineers’ Lodge uniform, smiling and chatting with strangers like there was nobody in the world she couldn’t trust.
Outside, Caro lit another ciggie.
‘This could be my last one.’ She squinted at the sun like a cowboy. ‘Tim’ll give me hell when he smells the smoke.’
‘I wish Marko was here,’ Judy said. It’d been years since she’d said that.
MUTINY DAY
‘Would you eat this?’ Flick showed Paulina a recipe in the latest Women’s Weekly.
‘Fuck no! Looks like roadkill.’
‘It’s chicken.’ Flick peered at the glossy page. ‘“Butterflied chicken.”’
‘Why would you want chicken to look like a butterfly?’
‘Girls!’ Rita huffed, hugging a big cardboard box to her chest. ‘I thought I told you to set up that book display?’
‘We did.’ Paulina waved at the rack of Fayrf’k dictionaries and songbooks. ‘Now we’re doing the magazines.’
‘Would you eat this chicken, Rita?’ Flick asked.
‘Felicity: put those away and get back to the till.’ Rita pushed the box into Paulina’s arms. ‘Paulina: help me with these Mutiny Day decorations.’
‘Geez, that’s a shitload of bunting,’ Paulina marvelled, looking inside the box. ‘All this to celebrate your ancestors killing Captain William Lyme?’
‘It’s “Walter Lyme”, not “William”.’ Rita led her to a stepladder. ‘And the mutineers weren’t murderers. They set that tyrant and his loyalists adrift, that’s all.’
‘Yeah, alright.’
‘Mutiny Day is a celebration of our independence.’ Rita climbed the ladder. ‘Since the arrival of HMS Fortuna, we’ve been completely self-governing, self-sufficient—’
An old bloke in bike gear wandered over with a shopping basket. ‘Alright there, Rita?’
‘Oh!’ Rita went as red as she’d been when she was lugging that box. ‘Actually, we’re just putting up this bunting, but I’m afraid … I can’t quite reach. Would you mind, Rabbit?’
Paulina giggled. ‘Rabbit!’
‘Paulina.’ Rita glared. ‘Go help Flick.’
Paulina skipped to the tills, where Flick was once again preoccupied with the magazine. ‘Check it out: Rita’s on the prowl.’
Flick looked where she was pointing. ‘Gross.’
‘Check her checking out his tackle in that lycra. She’s frothing.’
‘Would you eat these carrots?’ Flick flashed another recipe.
‘I bet Rita would eat his carrot.’ Paulina flicked a glance at the glossy page. ‘Honey-glazed? Blergh, too many calories.’
They were still scoffing at recipes when the old guy sidled up with his basket, shadowed by Rita.
‘Girls, what did I say? No one’s going to buy that after you’ve put your grubby hands all over it.’
‘Aw, Rita.’ Paulina turned up her palms. ‘My hands are clean, promise.’
‘Mine too.’ Flick copied her. ‘Promise.’
Rita turned to the old bloke. ‘I’m sorry. Service isn’t what it used to be.’
Just to prove her wrong, Paulina smiled and swept up his shopping basket. ‘Sorry, sir. We just got distracted by the recipes. Do you cook?’
‘Uh, yes. I do.’ He blushed. ‘Indeed, I do.’
‘Good on ya. There’s some good ones in here, if you wanna try something new?’
He hesitated. ‘Women’s Weekly?’
‘It’s a new millennium.’ Paulina scanned his cereal and skinny milk. ‘Chicks love a man who’s in touch with his feminine side.’
‘Well …’ he stammered. ‘Alright.’
‘We’ve got some Fayrf’k songbooks, too? New edition?’ She swished her ponytail. ‘Everybody’s selling them, but ours are the best, just so you know.’
‘Alright,’ he said quickly. ‘Count me in.’
Paulina gleefully bagged his stuff, took his cash. ‘Enjoy!’ she sing-songed, fingers brushing his as she gave him his change.
As soon as he’d scurried off in his lycra, she cracked up.
‘Talk about easy money! Aren’t you glad you hired me, Rita?’
Next morning, as Paulina was power walking to King’s Lookout before work, Merlinda honked the horn of her van and shouted, ‘I’ve got a job for you!’
‘Geez, Merlinda!’ Paulina clutched her heart.
‘Get your skinny little bum in here.’ Merlinda patted the passenger seat. ‘C’mon.’
Paulina slipped off her headphones and hopped in. ‘Can’t help you, mate. My shift starts at nine.’
‘Oh, I don’t need you today. I mean Mutiny Day.’ Merlinda grinned like a wolf in grandma’s clothing. ‘What do you know about Mutiny Day?’
‘It’s a celebration of Fairfolk independence,’ Paulina recited diligently. ‘Youse honour the arrival of your ancestors on the island by setting fires and getting pissed.’
‘Yes, yes, excellent.’ Merlinda poked around for some brochures. ‘But more importantly … tourists!’
Paulina studied the brochure: old-timey costumes, burning ships, picnic tables laden with flowers and fatty food.
‘Fairfolk Tours holds this picnic every year, so the mainies can feel like they’re part of it. Now: I’m afraid we can’t pay an hourly rate, but these retirees tip very well, and you’ll get a cut of any souvenir sales, plus free lunch, drinks, and entertainment.’
‘Tony Tunes?’ Paulina grimaced. ‘No offence, but I’d pay not to listen to him.’
Sighing, Merlinda dug out her wallet.
‘Tell you what: if you can recruit those boys of yours, I’ll include a bonus.’
She counted out two twenties. Paulina crossed her arms. ‘Merlinda. I’ve seen those boys shirtless. I reckon they’re worth fifty each, at least.’
With a huff, Merlinda counted out another sixty.
‘Nice doing business with ya!’ Paulina slipped the cash inside her sports bra. ‘Oi, will I get to wear a costume? I love dress-ups.’
‘Costumes are for descendants, only.’ Merlinda’s face turned to stone. ‘You’ll get a Fairfolk Tours shirt and a name tag.’
‘Oh … Okay.’
Paulina reached for the doorhandle. But before she could get out, Merlinda grabbed her arm and gasped; pointed as the old guy from the day before zipped past on his bicycle.
‘Rabbit White! It’s my lucky day!’
‘Him?’ Paulina looked out the window dubiously. ‘Didn’t know you had the same taste in men as Rita.’
‘Darling.’ Merlinda fanned herself with the brochure. ‘He’s worth more than those boys you live with, shirt or no shirt.’
Leaning against the parked Fairfolk Tours bus, shivering in the brisk sea-breeze, Jesse lit a Camel and told her, ‘Fuck, I hate Mutiny Day.’
‘Oi, whip off your shirt.’ Paulina brandished her disposable camera. ‘I want a photo of you with the bonfire.’
‘Yeah, nay.’
‘Aw, c’mon!’
‘Get your boyfriend to do it.’
‘You look more exotic!’
‘Yeah, nay. Racist.’
Dismayed, Paulina turned her back. ‘Oi, Loh-rent!’
‘Eh?’ He stirred from his vantage point further downhill.
‘Photo time! Take your shirt off, babe?’
‘Cold.’
‘But, babe. You’ll look so sexy with the fire behind you.’
Laurent’s vanity got the better of him. Peeling off his Fairfolk Tours shirt, he posed on the hillside while Paulina giggled, and the costumed throng below sang hymns around the bonfire.
‘Soooo sexy, babe.’ Paulina passed the camera to Jesse. ‘Take one of me and my boyfriend?’
Just as Jesse was about to click, a bit of ash flew onto her Fairfolk To
urs shirt, making her frown.
‘You’re not gonna cry again, are you?’ Jesse cracked a smile. ‘Crying won’t get you a pretty costume.’
‘Please, don’t cry.’ Laurent put his arm around her. ‘Not again.’
She had cried earlier, when she saw Kymba and her little girl in their long white dresses and garlands, carrying baskets full of seashells and flowers. This time, she snuggled up to Laurent, smouldered for the camera. When it was done, Laurent put his shirt back on and wandered downhill again.
‘What a beautiful design!’ A crone in lime-green resort-wear wandered up to Jesse and placed a hand on his camel tattoo. ‘Is that HMS Fortuna?’
‘Uh, no, ma’am.’ Jesse blinked his thick eyelashes. ‘It’s not a ship, it’s a camel.’
‘A camel ?’
‘Yeah, um. My surname’s “Camilleri”. It meant “camel driver”, back in the day.’
‘“Camilleri”’? Is that … Italian?’
‘Maltese, ma’am.’
‘Maltese and Fairfolk! How exotic.’ Admiringly, she patted his brown skin. ‘But why aren’t you down there burning little wooden ships with the rest of them?’
‘I made him help me.’ Paulina winked. ‘Didn’t wanna be the only direct descendant of Gideon King missing out on the festivities.’
‘You’re both direct descendants?’
‘Yep!’ Paulina smiled heroically. ‘It’s a shame not to dress up this year, but sharing our culture with youse is really special, hey. Did ya get a copy of the Fayrf’k Songbook?’
Stubbing out his ciggie, Jesse muttered, ‘Fuck this,’ and went to nap on the bus till the fire died down.
In the Fairfolk Tours marquee, Paulina drank so many plastic flutes of champers, she had trouble walking straight. Also, keeping her hands to herself.
‘Loh-rent!’ She came up behind him at the buffet table as he filled his paper plate with roast pork and banana dumplings. ‘Let’s get out of here?’
‘I’m eating, bébé.’
She stood on her tippy toes, nibbled his earlobe. ‘Eat me.’
‘Bébé.’ He unpeeled her arms from his waist. ‘There are all these people.’
‘What, you’re embarrassed of me?’
Laurent shrugged, placed some pork crackling onto his plate.
The Newcomer Page 8