Under the Southern Cross

by Claire McNab

  I reminded the group that because of low tide it would be possible to walk out onto the reef itself, that there were glass-bottomed boats available and we would meet for lunch at twelve.

  Lee took a last look at a school of tiny luminous fish zig-zagging in accurate formation, each member apparently preprogrammed in a series of intricate moves. Then she said briskly, "I want to check out the island."

  She was as good as her word. This was no leisurely stroll and I certainly had no time to stand and admire the contrast between the white coral sand, the twisted gray-white shapes of driftwood and the depthless azure of the sky. Wearing sand-shoes to protect our feet from the sharp cutting edges, we walked out onto the extensive area of exposed reef. Lee was interested in everything, quizzing with implacable persistence and charm a resident naturalist about the breeding habits of coral polyps, the gourmet food possibilities of the beche-de-mer or sea cucumber, the destructive capabilities of the crown-of-thorns starfish, the likelihood of standing on a deadly stonefish, and whether the open jaws of giant clams could close and trap a swimmer by an unwary foot. He laughed at her last question, saying, "Great story — pity about the facts..."

  It was the same routine with the glass-bottomed boats. Lee peppered our guide with questions while we floated over coral that glowed in vibrant colors. The massive solid growths were in shades of purple, mauve, yellow and brown. The delicate branching corals were bright in pink, green and yellow. This underwater world was teeming with life: red and white spotted reef crabs, brilliant blue starfish, orange and black brittle stars, shoals of luminous fish, red and pink anemones with their little companion fish lurking, unharmed, amongst the poisonous tentacles; frilled sea slugs, slate-pencil sea urchins, blue spotted rays. And shells — tiger cowries, cloth-of-gold cones and spider shells, helmet shells, bailer shells and, most fascinating to me, the giant clams, lying with their valves apart to show their beautiful velvet mantles in shades of dark green through to peacock blue.

  Lee was still asking questions during the sumptuous smorgasbord lunch aboard the catamaran. While the rest of us ate with keen appetites, she queried the staff about catering arrangements.

  "You could relax for a few minutes," I suggested, lulled into unguarded mildness by a glass of wine.

  "I could — but I'm not here to enjoy myself. This is business."

  I felt a flash of dislike for this intense, brusque woman. Acknowledging her with a cool nod, I turned away, promising myself that in future I'd be careful not to overstep the invisible line. I'll think of myself as a paid companion, I thought savagely.

  The sun was brilliant on the water, but some of the delight had gone from the day, and I felt remote from the loveliness of the little lonely cays. Our destination on the edge of the Great Barrier Reef was one of the myriad of individual reefs that together made the longest living entity in the world — two thousand kilometers of tiny coral polyps, a thin veneer of life building upon foundations created by the countless skeletons of their forerunners.

  As we moored at the outer reef, Hilary exclaimed, "Is that a turtle?"

  She was pointing at a half-submerged greenish dome which, as we watched, sank below the surface. So clear was the water, however, that we could see the turtle's outstretched head and the beat of its powerful flippers as it pursued a school of fish. One of the two marine biologists who had joined our party at Green Island was obviously pleased at the opportunity to get to know Hilary better. Although he raised his voice so we all could hear, his smiling attention was directed at her attractive face. "It's a green turtle, and fully grown. Its carapace is about a meter long — a bit over three feet — and it weighs around a hundred and twenty kilos, or three hundred pounds. They spend their lives in the water, and only the females ever have to drag that weight onto the sand, and that's to lay their eggs."

  "Typical!" said Hilary. "It's always the women who have to do the hard work."

  Lee grinned at me. "Ain't that the truth?"

  I returned her smile, feeling more comfortable with her. Perhaps I was becoming accustomed to the abrasive surface of her personality.

  There was a choice of activities at the reef — snorkeling, scuba diving and viewing from semi-submersibles. Those who'd be swimming went to the changing cabins to get into bathing costumes — I was already wearing my bikini under my clothes — and we then assembled to be given instructions and equipment. The group split up into twos and threes and I was not surprised to see the darkly handsome Argentine make sure he accompanied Hilary Ferguson.

  With amused irritation I learned that Lee was a certified scuba diver. It would be a relief to find there was something she didn't do well.

  I said mildly, "I'll just be snorkeling, Lee — scuba diving isn't one of my skills."

  "Then I'll snorkel with you."

  Her statement warmed me, but I swiftly doused this with cold common sense. No way was this woman making a line for me. She didn't mix business with pleasure; I hadn't indicated the slightest interest; it was unlikely I was her type, anyway.

  And, Alex, you don't want a repeat of last time...

  The cold deep blue of the open ocean broke its swells against the thickness of the reef structure, but inside that fortress the water was green and tepid. Fitting on our flippers, masks and snorkels, we slipped into the water — a far less heroic entrance than the resounding splashes the scuba divers made.

  I was soon lost in the discoveries of the underwater world and the profusion of marine plants and animals who made these porous ramparts their home. Through the forests of coral — delicate staghorn, honeycomb, round-head — the bright bodies of tropical fish flashed and darted.

  We swam along with Blue Tang fish, admired the elaborately frilled Butterfly Cod, watched exquisite little blue-green Demoiselles hover then dash away, avoided the sinister slow-flapping progress of a Stingaree ray, swooped over the waving tentacles of anemones and at one point I touched Lee's shoulder to point out a banded coral shrimp picking parasites and fungus from the body of a yellow striped reef fish who remained still while this extraordinary cleaning was going on.

  Even after several hours, Lee was reluctant to leave, although we were the last in the water. Clinging to the metal ladder on the side of the catamaran, she stripped off her mask to say, "I haven't seen enough. It's like a huge underwater garden. I could stay in it much longer."

  I began to clamber up the ladder. "Careful, you might fall behind in your schedule," I said.

  Lee laughed up at me. "I'm sure I deserved that, Alex. My staff often say I'm impossible."

  She swung herself onto the deck, accepting a glass of fruit juice and a towel from a crew member who smiled appreciatively as he gave her the once-over. I went to get changed as she joined Hilary on the outside front deck for a last view of the outer reef.

  As I toweled my hair dry I felt a familiar emptiness. So often, when the main activity of a day was over, my essential solitariness would overwhelm me, and I'd have to resist sinking into the self-indulgence of a melancholy mood.

  The main area of the catamaran held a central bar with tables and upholstered bench seats set along the expanse of windows on both sides. Reef exploration was thirsty work — those who weren't clustered around the bar had taken their drinks to convenient tables. I'd done one obligatory circuit, smiling dutifully, when Lee appeared fully dressed. "Join me, Alex?"

  I had white wine; she settled for bourbon. She'd obviously put her investigative side on hold, and was prepared to relax. Lounging with drink in hand, she contemplated me over the rim of her glass. "What is it you like best about your job?"

  I usually consider a question before I give an answer, but this time I responded immediately. "I love my country — it's beautiful. I love showing it off to other people. Frankly, I love my job." I stopped, embarrassed. "Sorry. That sounded a bit schmaltzy, didn't it?"

  Lee's smile had a warmth I hadn't seen before. "No, it didn't."

  "How about you? What do you like best about what yo
u do?"

  "Being the boss. Running my own business. Living with my successes — and my mistakes."

  I wanted to keep her like this, open and unguarded. "You sound like you really get a charge out of it."

  She sat forward, alive with enthusiasm. "I sure do. I started as a little one-person travel agency then I extended, borrowed money, took chances, started running my own tours to South America. Those first few years, I could have folded any minute. Luck and ignorance kept me going. It was so exciting, knowing decisions I made would make or break me — I couldn't blame anyone else if things went bad."

  Looking at her animated face, I felt a pang of envy. To care so much about something, to relish the rewards with such ardor. "Is it still so exciting?"

  "Yes, but it's different. It's not just me against the world, now. The business has grown, and I wholesale my tours to other operators. I've got a lot of people working for me, so if I sink, so do they."

  "You don't have a partner?"

  Lee raised her eyebrows. "A partner? Oh, I see, you mean in the business..."

  I could feel myself blushing at the misunderstanding. Angry because I felt at a disadvantage, I said sharply, "Of course I mean a business partner. Why would you think I'd be asking you a question about your personal life?"

  "Because you're curious."

  There was a silence I had to fill. I said, "Can I get you another drink?"

  Lee kept eye contact as she handed me her glass. "Thank you."

  Aware that she was watching me, I walked to the catamaran's central bar with as much nonchalance as possible. What did I feel? A sort of angry excitement. The anger I understood; the excitement alarmed me.

  That night I dreamed of my dead brother. Bobby had drowned when he was ten. In my dream I was six again and we were on the beach that hot, sunny, terrible day. I saw everything as if I were hovering above the action. Curling white lines of surf rolled forcefully onto the shore, the water was crowded with bobbing heads, and my brother waded out to meet the waves, my father behind him. My mother sat reading under the shade of a beach umbrella and I could see myself playing at the edge of the surf, resisting the receding water as it tried to pull me out of my depth. Then, at the place where the body surfers caught the waves — the collapse of the sandbank, the rip sweeping dozens of swimmers out to sea, the screams for help...

  My six-year-old self, crying in uncomprehending terror, as my brother's body was carried up the beach by lifeguards... The frantic attempts to revive him... My father crouched in the sand covering his face with his hands... My mother saying over and over, "Bobby, Bobby — why you? Why you?"

  I woke, shivering and crying, as I had shivered and cried that summer day. No one had comforted me then; no one was here to comfort me now. I turned on the light, got out of bed, walked aimlessly around the room — anything to dispel the dark weight of memories. As an adult, I could see that Bobby's death had soured and then destroyed my mother's delight in life. She had adored him, and when he died the center of her seemed to fade and wither.

  My parents never put it into words, but I grew to suspect, and finally to accept, that if I had died the loss to the family — to my mother — would have been less.

  To be fair, my childhood had not been unhappy. In their own way my parents had loved me and they had never stinted me anything. It was just that no matter how hard I tried, I knew that for them I was second best.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The next morning I stood with Sir Frederick on the pier discussing possibilities for the additional mini-tours Lee had requested. My white slacks and tangerine shirt seemed too informal next to his impeccable yachting outfit, which included a dark blue blazer with an exclusive private club's insignia on the pocket. But he said, "You look particularly charming this morning, Alexandra."

  I murmured a thank you, aware that this was an unusually personal remark. Rather more disturbingly, he hadn't commented on the fact that I'd forgotten my name badge. Steve's dire warnings and Tony's dry comments suddenly seemed to have some currency.

  Members of a select group chosen to spend an overnight cruise with Sir Frederick on a converted pearling schooner were arriving. The boat had been extensively refitted to provide leisurely luxury tours of the Barrier Reef and coastal islands. Gleaming white, its previous life as a hard-working commercial craft obliterated, the Ocean Dream, complete with chef, marine biologist and the accoutrements of opulent living, rocked gently as Tony Englert assisted guests aboard.

  Sir Frederick frowned over the list of hard-soft adventures I'd drawn up at Lee's request. "The Flinders Ranges and the Warrumbungles are both good choices. In Western Australia I'd include Wittenoom Gorge and the Pinnacles, as well as Broome and the Kiberley region. Contact Sydney office and tell them exactly what you want. This has got to be a fast, professional job. By tomorrow afternoon when we return I want Lee to have detailed itineraries, brochures, comparative costs of different operators — and I want it all presented in a complete, professional package. As always, appearance is important." He took my elbow. "I've told Jackie you'll be using my office." His fingers tightened. "I'm relying on you, Alexandra."

  Lee walked onto the pier, deep in conversation with Hilary Ferguson. Sir Frederick followed my gaze and smiled broadly as he released me. "Good morning!" He deftly passed Hilary to me, concentrating upon Lee. "We've just been discussing your adventure tours. While we're cruising, Alexandra will be teeing up the information, so you'll have comprehensive details tomorrow."

  Hilary smiled at me sympathetically. "I say, it doesn't seem fair to have you inside working while we're out enjoying this beautiful weather. I'd rather hoped you'd be on the cruise with us."

  "Someone has to do the work," said Sir Frederick heartily as he clapped me on the shoulder. I gave the required smile, somewhat alarmed that he'd touched me again. I was resisting the idea that it was personal, not only because it would create a complication I didn't need, but because I didn't want to face Steve's I-told-you-so glee.

  Sir Frederick beamed. "You're in good hands, Lee. Alexandra's explored some of the most remote and inhospitable parts of Australia."

  Under the circumstances, I couldn't see this was much of a recommendation. "Yes," I said cheerfully, "and I only got lost some of the time."

  The weather was perfect, the moon would be full this night, and the Ocean Dream was cruising one of the most beautiful seascapes in the world. My errant imagination could picture me standing on the deck in the moonlight, talking softly to Lee Paynter as we passed silvered islands in a silver sea.

  This attractive but far-fetched vision was broken by Jackie Luff's penetrating voice. Managing the difficult task of sounding all at once challenging, rude and badly-done-by, she said, "Alex? Sydney office's calling you again. Extension two."

  As I picked up the receiver I thanked her, refusing to acknowledge her dislike by showing a corresponding rudeness. Jackie had a profile so composed of angle it might have been cut with tin-snips. Her elbows, her fingers, even the line of her shoulders, seemed sharp. I had noticed that she spoke to Sir Frederick and others in authority with a keen, brisk tone; however, her voice to those she considered inferior, and this included me, was much more belligerent.

  I spent a large part of the day on the telephone or at the fax, and by mid-afternoon had lined up most of the information on flights, accommodation and details of not-to-be-missed sights. Now it was up to Sydney office to turn out the finished product and express it up to Tern Island.

  Tired, I relaxed in Sir Frederick's plush desk chair, chin in hands, gazing idly at a print of that engagingly named seabird, the masked booby. My thoughts circled around Lee Paynter — but not too close. I had the uneasy conviction that if I allowed myself any further latitude, my treacherous imagination would entice me into pointless fantasies. Of course, this was all to do with Lee's calm acceptance of her lesbianism... I could never see myself being so open, so unthreatened by public disclosure.

  Images I always tried to repres
s bubbled into my consciousness. My mother, her usually quiet voice caustic, saying, "So we're to understand that Zoe's your special friend, are we?" My father sucking in his cheeks, pursing his lips, contemptuously speculating that Zoe was the real reason I'd divorced Carl.

  At the time I was twenty-four. Yet my parents' censure still reduced me to a child desperate not to be rejected. "I didn't meet Zoe until after the divorce. And no matter what you've been told, we're just friends..."

  The first statement was true. The second a lie.

  After Carl, I'd wanted a fresh start. I used the money from the property settlements as down payment on a shabby little house and spent my spare time renovating it. Then, when Frank Harp, an acquaintance of my father's, offered me a job as agent in his rapidly growing company, I'd taken it with alacrity because I'd gone as far as I could at the small tourist agency where I'd gained my first taste for the industry. Frank's company gave me the opportunity to extend my education in tourism, and besides, it was fun working there.

  Aussie Affairs had a staff of fifteen and we provided what our publicity called "genuine Aussie experiences." Small tourist groups roughed it in a civilized way at selected sheep or cattle stations, where they learned how to muster cattle, shear sheep, make billy tea, cook a damper in a campfire, sing "Waltzing Matilda" and in general gain some concept of Australian country life.

  Zoe was the first person I met when I joined the company. She was older than I, a popular, vivid personality with a loud laugh and extravagant gestures. We became friends. Then one night she asked me back to her flat for dinner. We shared a bottle of wine... a kiss... her bed. It was an expert, pleasurable seduction and I was astonished by the magnitude of my response — I'd had no idea passion could consume me with such licentious force. In the following months Zoe taught me both the physical techniques of sex and the rules for subterfuge.