by Laura Elliot
‘Stop it, Seb, or I’ll start crying.’ She is determined not to ruin her extravagantly curling eyelashes. ‘Tell me about yourself. At least, you’re still playing guitar. Paul hasn’t played the drums since we married.’
‘Well, I play for bread but I’m still hoping to make it as a song-writer.’
They laugh and reminisce until the fiddle player emerges from the pub, a bottle of beer in his hand.
‘Hey, Seb, I wondered where you’d gone.’ He stares quizzingly at Julie. ‘How about an introduction?’
‘Certainly.’ Seb flaps his hand from one to the other. ‘Jake Vale, allow me to introduce Julie Lambert, the famous Irish diva.’
‘I am not,’ Julie giggles, and instantly wants to murder the sound.
‘Why don’t you sing a number with us?’ Jake asks.
‘No way…It’s years since…I couldn’t…absolutely no way.’
‘I’ll try and change her mind.’ Seb kisses her forehead and follows Jake back to the bar. ‘See you inside.’
Julie returns to the table. The bikers are back at the bar but have sent over another round of drinks. ‘You’ll never guess who the guitarist is?’ she shouts above the music. ‘Seb Morris.’
Rebecca looks puzzled for an instant before nodding. ‘I remember Sebastian Morris. Didn’t his family have a red setter called Briar Rose?’
‘That’s right,’ says Julie. ‘Remember the time Nero tried to jump her bones and Seb’s mother had to throw a bucket of water over them?’
‘Please, Julie.’ Lauren shudders. ‘If you must discuss the sexual predilections of the canine population, do so when I’m not around.’
Julie sips a vodka and watches the dancers take to the floor again.
‘Hey, folks, listen up.’ The fiddle player smiles over at her. ‘We’re honoured tonight to have a guest singer in our midst. She’s come all the way from Ireland! Give a big Kiwi welcome, folks, to Julie Lambert!’
Horrified, Julie’s gaze flickers from the musicians to her sisters. ‘I can’t…I can’t!’
‘Yes, you can.’ Rebecca begins to clap. ‘You’re a brilliant singer.’
‘No…no…’
The dancers form a passage towards the stage as Lauren, ignoring her sister’s protests, pulls her to her feet. The singer hands over the microphone with the jaded air of one who has performed the same concession to amateurs once too often.
Julie stares out at the packed floor and wonders how long it will take before her legs collapse.
‘Sing “Dancing Queen”,’ Lauren stands on a chair and yells through cupped hands.
‘“Dancing Queen”…“Dancing Queen”’, chant the bikers and raise their glasses. The musicians gather around her. Jake raises his fiddle. Seb pops a fresh stick of gum into his mouth. They begin to play. Julie’s voice shakes then scoops the notes, carries them on the arch of music towards the dancers. Terror gives way to elation when she notices the polite expressions on the musicians’ faces change to ones of surprise. Their playing becomes more purposeful.
She encores with ‘Rainy Night in Georgia’, relaxed now, her body swaying, Paul’s favourite song, and the dancers pause, cease moving, the loneliness of the melody dropping like tears over their upturned faces. Julie knows she has them then, such a sweet, glorious feeling. An instant of silence follows the last note before the applause starts. The sensation, once familiar, is bittersweet. She ignores Seb’s entreaties that she sing again and returns to her seat, the applause ringing in her ears. She wants to sing all night but it is important to quit while she is still ahead.
‘You old sly puss cat.’ Lauren hugs her. ‘I didn’t think you still had it in you.’
‘Excellent.’ Rebecca pats her hand. ‘Sneaking out the window behind my back served some purpose after all.’
A tray of drinks, courtesy of the owner, is placed on their table. Seb jumps down from the stage and rushes over to Julie to hug her.
‘Fantastic! You sure as hell never lost it and never will.’ He shakes hands with her sisters, then waves at the barman to bring another round of drinks. ‘I live in Kaikoura. Why don’t you drive there tomorrow and stay a few days at my place? You can park practically beside the ocean.’
‘We’ll be in Kaikoura towards the end of our journey but, unfortunately, we’re heading in the opposite direction tomorrow,’ says Rebecca. ‘Our itinerary’s really tight—’
‘I’ve gotta get back to the band.’ Seb pulls Julie to her feet and hugs her again. ‘Try and change her mind. God!’ He sighs and holds her tighter. ‘A taste of home and old times. You’ve made my night.’
‘Why can’t we go to his place?’ Julie demands. ‘We’re not booked in anywhere.’
She studies her glass, surprised that the level had dropped so fast. ‘What’s the big deal about keeping to your itinerary? You’d swear it was carved on tablets of stone the way you keep going on about it.’
‘We’ve planned a long journey,’ Rebecca replies. ‘What’s the sense in having an itinerary if you keep demanding that I change it?’
‘I’m not demanding. I just asked—’
‘And I’m just telling you, it’s out of the question.’
Seb grins over at her, ruefully lifts his eyebrows. Sebastian, Sebby, Seb, the abbreviated man. A Rory Gallagher fan who now plays easy-listening songs in a New Zealand pub. Julie shudders as more vodka burns its way down her throat. The band plays ‘Lucille’. Loose wheel…loose wheel. They mocked that song once, the great Maximum Volume, arrogant in their youth, confident that they would send a seismic shock through the music industry. She lifts another glass, studies the colourless liquid before tossing it back. The earlier buzzing has returned, only now it sounds as if bees are entangled in her hair.
‘Go easy,’ advises Rebecca. ‘Just because someone buys you a drink doesn’t mean you have to swallow it in one gulp.’
Lauren sinks into a chair and dabs her forehead. ‘Those Kiwis run up and down too many mountains. I can’t keep up with them.’ She glances at her sisters. ‘What’s going on here?’
‘Julie’s drinking too much.’ Rebecca stands up and slings a cardigan over her arm. ‘I’m settling the tab and then we’re leaving.’
Julie directs a Nazi salute at her back.
‘How dare Becks accuse me of been shrunk?’ She leans confidingly towards Lauren. ‘She’s a boil on the arshe of humanity.’ She takes a deep breath. ‘I could’ve been a sharr. Why you laughin’, Lauren? Don’t you think I coulda been a sharr?’
‘You are a star, babe. That was some performance you gave up there tonight.’
Lauren’s face blurs before her, then comes into focus again. ‘I wanna sleep with Shebby…Sheb…’
‘Not a good idea, Julie.’
‘I shont love him ’ny more.’
‘That was a short-lived affair.’
‘No. My hushband. I shont love him ’ny more.’
‘Of course you do. You’re just tired and emotional. And way over your limit.’
Rebecca returns to the table and stares resignedly at Lauren. ‘What’s she going on about now?’
‘I’m shrunk, Becks. Shrunk as a skunk.’
Julie takes a step forward before realising that the floor has moved with her. ‘I coulda been a sharr.’ Holding on to a chair for support, she slumps down and starts to weep.
‘She’s turned on the waterworks again,’ Lauren groans. ‘We’d better get some strong coffee into her before we all drown.’
Julie has no idea whether she is laughing or crying. Do tear ducts know the difference? Is there a special spigot that decides which tears should be released for the appropriate occasion?
‘Try and get a grip, Julie,’ says Rebecca. ‘You’re making a show of yourself.’
Julie hiccups, giggles, weeps. ‘’Scuse me.’ She presses her fingers to her lips and hiccups again. ‘I wanna talk about Cathee…Cathee…likkle Cathee…Becks…do you know…?’ She stops and places her hand over her mouth. Rebecca’s fac
e swims before her. Such a stern, familiar expression. Don’t touch, don’t reach, don’t break. Julie’s head is clear. She could talk all night. Talk for Ireland. She giggles, unable to stop, and the words disappear.
‘Let’s get her into the ladies.’ Rebecca puts her arms under Julie’s shoulders and helps her to her feet. ‘She’s going to throw up. Hold her arm, Lauren.’
‘I’m not shick…’ Julie struggles to her feet. ‘I’m a sharr…a shining sharr…’
Seb waves and plays a sympathetic riff to accompany their departure.
Julie is still unsure whether she is laughing or crying when her sisters lay her down in her bunk and switch off the light.
Nemesis arrives in the morning when she awakes to the thud of horses’ hoofs drumming across her forehead. Rebecca orders her to vacate her bunk. It is after ten o’clock. Ample time has been allowed for the recovery of a self-induced hangover.
‘I warned you about the dangers of binge drinking, but you wouldn’t listen.’
‘Fuck…off.’
‘No need to take that attitude. We can’t possibly leave until you’re strapped into the passenger seat.’ Rebecca bullies her down from her bunk, then holds her upright under the cold shower–an act of sadism that will, Julie vows, create eternal enmity between them. Unaware that an impending death threat has been issued against her, Rebecca towels her dry and dresses her with as much compassion as she would show to a vivisectionist.
Strapped into her seat, Julie hangs her head out the window and breathes deeply into the fresh air.
‘Make everything ready for departure,’ Lauren shouts.
Julie quivers as Rebecca slams the press doors closed and does a final check to ensure that the safety catches are on.
‘Roger. Over and out,’ she shouts.
Lauren switches on the engine. ‘Cabin crew, take your seats.’ She glances across at Julie. ‘Everything OK in the sick bay?’
‘I want to die,’ Julie whines.
‘I take that as an affirmative.’
Julie bends her face into the bowl that Rebecca places beside her and utters a silent prayer that when the time comes, her sisters will bury her with dignity and full honours in the glacial depths of Lake Wanaka.
Chapter Forty-one
Cardrona Valley
Rebecca shields her eyes against the sun’s glare. Is it her imagination or is there a line of bras fluttering along the length of a high wire fence? Julie, drifting in and out of recovery, shows slight signs of animation.
‘Looks like the Sisterhood have abandoned their bras again,’ she says. ‘Let’s take a look at their vital statistics.’
Lauren indicates and crosses the road. A small converted van with psychedelic flowers and butterflies painted along the sides is already parked by the fence. The women descend from the camper and inspect the collections of bras that are tied to the fence and range from serious foundation designs to frivolous scraps of satin. The various colours add a rainbow gaiety to the collection. Two Australian women, picnicking on the steps of their van, have already added their contributions from Brisbane, if the shapes under their skimpy belly tops are any indication. The fence began as a joke, they tell the sisters, and has now become a tourist attraction. Regularly, women passing by add to the display.
‘Don’t forget, the jet boat’s booked for two o’clock.’ Rebecca returns to the camper, but for all the attention her sisters pay she might as well whistle into the wind.
‘This is the United Nations Bra Fence!’ declares Julie. The sight of the Bra Fence appears to have completed her recovery. ‘I’ll send a photo to Paul. Brighten his day, if possible.’
‘We should make our own contribution.’ Lauren flings her T-shirt over her head and reveals a cream splash of lace across her tanned breasts. ‘In Rome…as they say.’
‘Rome?’ Rebecca had settled into the driver’s seat. She blasts the horn and leans out the window. ‘Check it out, Lauren. No centurions or chariots. We’re in Kiwi territory here. Put your clothes back on, you shameless hussy.’
‘Who’s next?’ Lauren ignores her sister and grabs Julie around her waist. ‘Come on, Mamma Mia, fly the tricolour for your country.’
Julie, giggling, takes off her shirt and waves it like a matador’s cape. Her bust, she often complains, drags her down from a great height when all she wants from life is a perky uplift. She unbuttons her bra and swings it over her head.
‘Oh, my God! I can’t believe I’m doing this!’ she shrieks as she ties her bra to the fence. ‘I’ve just surrendered my greatest support. Drivers passing by will think it’s a parachute.’
Her eyes have a dangerous sparkle as she approaches the camper. ‘Come on, Rebecca. One for all and all for one. Pretend you’re Lady Godiva.’
‘Get dressed this instant and let’s get moving.’ Rebecca’s voice rises authoritatively. ‘This nonsense has gone on long enough.’
‘Shame on you,’ yells Lauren. ‘What kind of an ambassador are you for your country?’
‘Silly me,’ Rebecca shouts back. ‘I planned for all eventualities but forgot to include a dance pole. If you two want to behave like a pair of slappers, that’s your problem but if you’re not dressed and in this camper within the next two minutes I’m driving off without you.’
‘Ready, steady, go!’ Julie shouts, and charges the camper. ‘Let’s go get her.’
Her sisters grab Rebecca before she has time to lock the door. Ignoring her protests, they hold one arm each and pull her down the steps.
‘This is sexual harassment,’ Rebecca yells.
‘No, Rebecca,’ Julie yells back. ‘It’s sibling harassment.’
The door slams behind them. Accompanied by cheers from the Australians, Rebecca surrenders to her fate and ties her bra on the fence. Her breasts swing freely as she moves backwards. The sudden liberating sensation of sun on her bare skin is sensual, exciting, liberating. Did the bra burners of the sixties experience the same kind of giddy hysteria as the pyre burned higher, she wonders.
‘Enough of this frivolity.’ Julie claps her hands and demands silence. ‘It’s time to salute our Republic.’
She sings a chorus of ‘The Soldier’s Song’. The Australians stand to attention throughout the Irish National Anthem, then follow with a verse of ‘Advance Australia Fair’. All five gravely salute the United Nations Bra Fence. They shake hands, exchange addresses, promise to look each other up if the opportunity ever arises. The Australians drive off, flapping their arms in farewell from the open windows. The bras flutter lightly in the breeze.
‘Oh-my-God! The Ringwraiths are back.’ Julie’s laughter turns to a shriek as the distant roar of motorbikes penetrates the horizon. With one accord the sisters dash towards the camper, only to discover that the door is locked from inside.
‘Now look what you’ve done,’ Rebecca wails as she tries in vain to turn the handle. ‘Have you got the spare key, Julie?’
‘Hardly.’ Julie scurries behind the camper and shields her breasts as the bikers draw nearer. Lauren flings herself to her knees beside her. Rebecca is the last to sink out of sight. The bikes pass in a rush of noise and speed.
‘We could try breaking the window,’ suggests Julie.
‘We could begin by putting our bras back on.’ Rebecca moves from cover and heads towards the fence.
To her horror, she hears the bikes returning.
‘Oh God…oh God…oh God.’ Julie moans into her hands.
Rebecca grabs the bra closest to her and skids back behind the camper. It barely covers her breasts and is a hideous shade of pink with nipple tassels. So many bras and she has to pick the one left behind by a pole dancer. She stretches out her hand to pick up her T-shirt but it is just out of reach.
The bikers brake and approach the fence. They guffaw loudly as they inspect the collection.
‘Tell them to go away, Becks,’ whispers Lauren. ‘You’re the only respectable one among us.’
Rebecca, hitching the boned and wire
d cups into place, hisses back. ‘You call this respectable?’
‘It’s a lovely bra,’ Julie whispers encouragingly. ‘Red always looks brilliant on you.’
‘It’s cerise,’ says Lauren.
‘Looks like red to me.’
‘Shut up!’ Rebecca allows Julie to hook the fasteners into place. ‘I swear, I’ll swing for the pair of you before this trip is over.’
‘Go on, Becks,’ Julie nudges her furiously. ‘They’ll see us naked if they come any nearer.’
‘Anyone at home?’ A biker knocks on the camper door.
‘Yes, I’m home.’ Rebecca emerges from hiding. Walk tall, her father always advised her. No matter what the circumstances, hold your head high.
‘Some display.’ His eyes sweep boldly over her tassels. ‘We thought we were hallucinating and came back for a closer look.’ He grins and points to the fluttering fence. ‘If that’s a hallucination I hope they never find a cure.’
‘I’ve a slight problem.’ Rebecca primly folds her arms over her breasts. ‘I’ve locked myself out of my motor home. Are you any good at picking locks?’
‘I’m an accountant. Not much opportunity to pick too many locks in my profession.’
Rebecca bends down and reclaims her T-shirt. She shoots a warning glance at Julie, who looks as if she is suffering from a convulsion, and Lauren, crouching beside her, is equally helpless with laughter. She has a fleeting thought about Steve Moran. What would he think if he could see them now?
‘I need to get inside.’ Rebecca returns her attention to the current problem. ‘Can any of your friends help?’
‘Dave’s a repo agent.’ The accountant, who introduces himself as Kenny, gestures towards the tallest biker. ‘He’s picked a few locks in his day.’
Dave reluctantly leaves the Bra Fence and saunters across to the camper. He has the pugnacious expression of someone totally at home repossessing homes and cars.