Saltwater

by Cathy McLennan

  There are general murmurs of assent. ‘Mmm-hmm.’ ‘Oh, yes.’ ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Uh-huh,’ I murmur.

  The man keeps talking and when they say, ‘Oh, no,’ I say, ‘Oh, dear, that’s dreadful.’

  With a solemn look I shake my head as if it’s the worst news ever.

  And it kind of is. Because whatever he’s blathering on about, that gap isn’t getting any wider.

  I take another sip of wine and glance around the room. There’s an opening in the group behind me, someone’s gone to the bar. I turn quickly before it closes. I’m almost in the circle this time. They’re laughing at something. I laugh too, my voice high-pitched. It’s hilarious, whatever the joke is. My facial muscles feel strained. But the good thing is, the laughing moves the people in the group slightly, and every time there’s a movement I edge a little closer until I’m totally in the circle.

  Wahoo!

  When the laughing dies down, there I am, sitting pretty, smack bang amongst a group of people I don’t really know, smiling and nodding.

  They keep talking. Mr Red Vest brings another tray of wine. Yes, please.

  I’m halfway through the fresh glass when a barrister I do know arrives.

  ‘Cathy,’ he smiles. ‘Do you know everyone here?’

  Do I know everyone here? ‘Um …’

  ‘Dinner is served!’ a distant waiter calls. This is fast becoming my lucky day.

  The scent of roast meat grows stronger as we walk through. There are place cards on the tables and I sit, back to the wall. The District Court judge on my left talks busily to the barrister on my right as I lean as far back in my chair as possible to keep out of their way.

  We are served beef and vegetable soup and white rolls with yellow butter so cold it tears the bread. I sip my wine and try to think of something clever to say.

  ‘I hear they’re predicting rain on the weekend,’ I venture, during a momentary gap in conversation.

  ‘Really?’ says the District Court judge.

  I’ve got no idea.

  ‘Yes. In fact, there could be a cyclone.’

  ‘Oh, that’s strange. A cyclone in winter,’ says the judge.

  ‘Well, you know these weather forecasters,’ I say. ‘They have been known to get it wrong.’

  Suddenly I’m thinking of all these clever things to say, about politics and stuff, and the judge sitting next to me and a few others at my table are actually listening and making eye contact and we’re all smiling and laughing.

  Dessert is heavy sultana cake with custard.

  Then my name is called: ‘Ms Cathy McLennan. For the Mr Junior Speech.’

  My spoon clatters to the plate.

  I stand and smile. There is applause. The judge to my left nods encouragingly. This is my moment. As the newest barrister here I’m ‘Mr Junior’, and I get to make a speech. I’m not sure what it’s supposed to be about. I’ve just prepared a few notes about how fantastic they all are and how much I admire them. Which is true. I can’t even believe I’m really here.

  As I take my place at the table afterwards, the judge leans in to tell me the speech was good.

  ‘Really?’ The warmth rises to my face again. ‘Do you really think so?’

  My chest rises. I’ve looked up to these lawyers for so long. Now it’s finally happened – tonight I’m one of them at last.

  ‘Oh, yes. You are one smart cookie. I can tell that about you. You’ll go far.’

  The judge pats my shoulder.

  The barristers nearby lean forward and we resume our conversation, talking animatedly. I continue to smile at everyone. It wasn’t easy, but I’ve done it – I’m part of the gang.

  Then I feel it.

  A warm thing creeping onto my lap.

  I freeze.

  Under the tablecloth my left thigh is being squeezed.

  I lift the tablecloth. There’s a hand above my knee. I follow the hand, up the arm, to the face of the District Court judge.

  My skin crawls. What do I do? This is something else they didn’t teach me at Law School.

  The judge winks. There is another sharp squeeze on my thigh. The fingers creep higher, pressing into my skin. His eyes glaze over and fix on the far corner of the room.

  I reach over and slide his wine glass with the back of my hand to the edge of the table. With a flick of the wrist I send it flying. Dark maroon liquid bleeds into his stiff, white shirt.

  Splatters hit the tablecloth, wine pools in his lap. The judge jumps up. Waiters rush over and thrust white napkins at him. He shoots an angry look at me, his bushy, fair eyebrows drawn tight.

  I stand so abruptly my chair hits the floor.

  The room goes quiet. People are staring.

  Under a rising swell of humiliation, I head for the door.

  16

  The next morning, beside the steady hrrush of the ocean, Michael and I walk along The Strand, towels slung over our shoulders. Shouts and splashes echo from the rock pool. Freestyling arms churn up a miniature storm.

  Slipping off our thongs, we slide into the lukewarm pool. I dive down, hitting cold saltwater in the depths beneath, feeling the currents gently drift my hair to and fro. Bubbles rise as I sink lower until the rough surface of the bottom brushes against my toes. I press my feet and shove as hard as I can for the surface.

  We swim by the outdoor café. Plates and glasses clink and there is a rich smell of frying bacon.

  ‘Did you bring any money?’

  Michael grins and pats the pocket of his boardshorts.

  ‘My faithful hunter and gatherer,’ I say, smiling.

  Wrapped in towels, we sip from ice cold glasses of orange juice. Shaded by the large beach umbrella, I tell him what happened at the Bar Dinner.

  Michael frowns. ‘Going the grope was he? Bastard. Who was it?’

  ‘Someone with a big dry-cleaning bill,’ I sigh. ‘But I didn’t have to make it into a big drama. I could have moved his hand. Or maybe just silently stabbed it with a fork.’

  ‘Ahh, well, you’ll know next time.’

  The food comes. A plate full of greasy bacon, eggs, hash browns, a tiny sprig of parsley at the edge of the plate giving the impression of healthy food.

  ‘What have you got on today?’ I ask Michael.

  He rubs his hands. ‘Big political scoop. You know how much I love those!’

  ‘Really? What is it?’

  He leans in, whispers: ‘You didn’t hear it from me. But I’m told the prime minister is going to call an election in March.’

  As we eat, it occurs to me that after I’d drunk several glasses of wine last night, I didn’t once think of little Olivia, with foetal alcohol syndrome and bruises down her back. I didn’t think about ‘crazy’ Charlie Kent, either. As the alcohol buzzed through my brain, I didn’t think about Dillon, and the other kids charged with murder. What a blessed relief it was to have had the burden lifted, if only just for a moment.

  But now, the knot of anxiety that had taken residence at the pit of my stomach returns.

  Little Olivia Farrell is back in Townsville Children’s Court today. She is in and out of strangers’ homes like a little mouse stealing crumbs from the floor. This time, as a housewife went outside to do some gardening, Olivia snuck in the unlocked door and stole a purse lying on the hall table. The housewife caught a glimpse of her sneaking away and police nabbed Olivia soon after.

  ‘We will be offering Miss Farrell support, Your Honour,’ says the Family Services officer. ‘We are currently working on programs to put in place.’

  ‘Heard that one before,’ I mutter with a sense of deja vu.

  ‘Did you have something to say, Ms McLennan?’ the magistrate asks.

  ‘Yes, Your Honour. We would really like to see adequate support for Miss Farrell. Not “working on prog
rams”, but having one ready and actually put in place.’

  ‘I agree,’ he says. ‘So, I’m going to sentence you to probation, Miss Farrell. Twelve months. Hopefully Family Services can help you. But if I see you here again, I am seriously going to consider locking you up. I hope you understand that? Stop offending or you will go to jail.’

  The magistrate clears his throat. ‘Anything further, Ms McLennan?’

  ‘No, Your Honour.’ I gather my papers together. ‘Liv, stay outta trouble!’

  ‘Fanks Caffey!’ Olivia smiles.

  The cases come thick and fast until Duty Court empties and there is only the press reporter and a middle-aged conservative couple seated at the rear of the courtroom.

  ‘Next case, Ms McLennan?’

  A lock clicks and a short, very dark woman in her mid-twenties is led from the cells. Her eyes are puffy, face streaked with tears.

  The magistrate lifts a finger and points to the conservative couple. ‘Who are those people seated in the back of the courtroom, Ms McLennan?’

  The prosecutor turns and eyes the couple quizzically.

  My cheeks burn. ‘My parents, Your Honour.’

  Dad smiles at the magistrate.

  ‘Er, well, yes,’ says the magistrate. He turns to Dad. ‘You should be proud.’

  Dad beams. ‘Oh, yes, we are. She’s very clever.’

  ‘Dad!’ I wonder whether to slide under the bar table and never come out.

  The prosecutor waves at my parents, smirks at me, then picks up his papers and stands. ‘Your Honour. Ms Sunflower is charged with one count of stealing.’

  ‘How does your client plead?’

  ‘Guilty.’

  The prosecutor continues: ‘The facts are that this defendant walked into the supermarket, filled a carry bag with seventy-five dollars’ worth of food and left without any attempt to pay. She has an extensive criminal history and at the time of the offence she was on a suspended sentence for dishonesty offences.’

  I stand. ‘Your Honour. Carina Sunflower was just trying to feed her homeless friends in the park. She’s had one night in the Watch House and is terrified at the thought of prison. She does have a lengthy criminal history, but she is an alcoholic and is willing to go to rehab. In the circumstances, I ask you, please, give her one more chance.’

  The magistrate shakes his head. ‘Ms Sunflower, stand up. This offence occurred while you were on a suspended sentence. I do not accept your explanation for the offence. You have a history of dishonesty and a fine is out of the question. I sentence you to six months imprisonment, three months for the stealing plus three months cumulative for the suspended sentence.’

  I open my mouth, then close it. Carina sobs freely, howling as saltwater drips from her cheeks.

  ‘Any more cases?’ the magistrate asks.

  ‘Just one, Your Honour. Old Mrs Zander. She’s scheduled for committal mention today.’ I turn towards the glass door. The waiting area outside is deserted. ‘She’s probably just running a bit late.’

  The prosecutor stands. ‘This is a serious matter, Your Honour. Mrs Zander is charged with attempted murder. Her grandson is one of the four children charged with the cemetery murder. We ask that a warrant be issued for her arrest.’

  ‘Your Honour. Mrs Zander is not alleged to have been involved in the cemetery murder. She’s a very old lady.’

  Mr Egbert sighs. ‘I’ll stand the matter over until this afternoon. If she’s not here after lunch, I’ll issue a warrant for her arrest.’

  ‘All rise,’ says the clerk. The magistrate walks out of the courtroom, black robes billowing. ‘Court adjourned.’

  Mum and Dad arrive at the bar table as Carina Sunflower is led away in handcuffs.

  ‘That poor woman,’ says Mum, watching her go. ‘Is there anything we can do?’

  I’m gathering up my papers. ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like, well, I don’t know,’ says Dad. ‘We just want to help. Maybe we could speak to the magistrate?’

  ‘Da-ad!’

  ‘Let’s go then,’ says Mum. ‘We have lunch planned.’

  ‘I’ve got jobs to do,’ says Dad. ‘Well done.’ He leans forward to kiss me on the cheek. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the prosecutor smirk again.

  Mum and I order quiche and salad at the café across the road. Red-and-white gingham curtains flutter at the windows. The coffee machine sends up clouds of steam.

  ‘Well done,’ says Mum. We clink water glasses. ‘It was great to see you up there.’ She takes a forkful of quiche. ‘Carina Sunflower. I feel so sorry for her. Could I bring her something, do you think?’

  ‘I guess so. As long as it’s not a file baked into a chocolate cake. Or drugs. Or a machine gun.’

  ‘What about a bar of chocolate?’

  ‘No plastic explosives squashed inside?’

  ‘No.’ She laughs. ‘I’ll buy the chocolate after this.’

  ‘Mum, don’t be too sorry for her. She did steal.’

  ‘It just makes me sad, that’s all.’ She sighs. ‘Her life. The alcohol … the rest.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  Mum looks at me for a moment. ‘Now I understand what you’re doing here.’

  I clear my throat and nod. Not trusting the words to come.

  That afternoon, Mrs Zander, grandmother of Kevie Zander, youngest of the boys charged with murder, makes her way across the court foyer. Last time I saw her she was in custody for the attempted murder of her neighbour. She leans heavily on her brown, knobbed walking stick, her back curved, hair white-grey.

  I’ve always thought of Mrs Zander as old, but the court documents I’ve seen today show her age as forty-nine.

  Roslyn hobbles over in neon-pink stiletto shoes. She takes Mrs Zander’s arm and they rock toward me like a ship on cyclonic seas. I pull out chairs for them in the witness room.

  Mrs Zander’s eyes have a bluish film. ‘How’s Kevie? ’ave you seen ’im?’

  I glance at Roslyn. ‘He’ll be okay, Alison,’ she says, in her gravelly tone. ‘I ’eard ’e bin practisin’ the guitar.’

  ‘That’s good, ’e likes the guitar.’ Mrs Zander sighs. ‘Sorry I was a bit late this mornin’. I was waitin’ for the bus, but it never come, so I start walkin’.’

  ‘Mrs Zander,’ I say. ‘We’re here because you’re charged with trying to murder your neighbour.’

  She pulls out a wadded tissue and dabs her eyes.

  Roslyn elbows me in the ribs. ‘You let me ’andle this. Gotta be gentle, eh.’ She turns to Mrs Zander. ‘Alison! Them coppers say you was tryin’ to kill that bitch next door?’

  ‘I never tried to kill ’er.’ She coughs. ‘I was just upset, that’s all. She kept yellin’ at me, nigglin’ ’bout them kids. I bin lookin’ after all me grandkids. They got no one else.’

  ‘Mmm-hmm.’ I nod, making notes.

  ‘I got three kids livin’ with me, Kevie and two others. They get inta bit of mischief, but they just playin’, like other kids. She don’ like it. She sayin’ they make trouble.’

  ‘So what happened with the attempted murder?’ I ask.

  Roslyn glares at me. ‘Ya gotta be gentle, Caffey!’ She turns to Mrs Zander. ‘So did ya try ta knock ’er orf or what?’

  ‘Nah. It’s all a big mistake. Them kids were at ’ome all week, playin’. They bin a bit noisy and she starts yellin’ at ’em. Complainin’ and all that. Then the next day, them p’lice come round an’ charge my Kevie wif murder.’

  She wipes away another tear. ‘She keep complainin’. I tried to talk to ’er when she collectin’ the mail, but she ignore me. So I got a knife from the kitchen and start waving it about, tryin’ to get ’er to listen. Yeah, a bit silly, but I never tried to kill ’er.’

  ‘Did you threaten her? With words I mean?’ I ask.

  Roslyn rolls h
er eyes at me. ‘What you say to ’er, Alison?’

  ‘Nuffin. I jus’ say. “Now, you listen to me. You listen to me!” But she ain’t gonna listen.’

  ‘Hang on a sec,’ I say. ‘Did you say that the boys were home all week?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘And does that include Kevie? Was Kevie home all week?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘On Wednesday? Was Kevie home on Wednesday night?’

  ‘Yeah. My neighbour were really yellin’ on Weds’day. Say they kept ’er awake playin’ loud music. I can’t ’ear it.’ She leans over to Roslyn. ‘I’m a bit deaf, see.’

  ‘Oh, my gosh!’ I say. My heart feels like it’s leapt into my throat.

  ‘What?’ Roslyn’s eyes are wide.

  ‘Wednesday was the night of the murder. Don’t you see? The neighbour can give Kevie an alibi!’

  17

  The next morning is Saturday. The ferry bumps and rocks on the rough ocean from Townsville to Magnetic Island. The sky is silver streaked with dark grey storm clouds. When the ferry moors, it rolls on the muddy green ocean, straining against the ropes that tether it like a wild animal. Low groans shiver through the old wooden poles as the ferry crashes repeatedly into the jetty. I clasp my bag tightly in one hand as I steady myself at the exit. Judging the gangplank between the boat and the weathered wooden steps with an experienced eye, I pick my moment and step off the ferry.

  Michael and I walk down the jetty, hand in hand. It is about a hundred metres to the shoreline.

  ‘I can’t believe you took your mum into the Watch House,’ he says, grinning.

  ‘It was a quiet afternoon and she was determined. They even let her give Carina the chocolate.’

  Michael laughs.

  I’m thinking about Kevie. He has an alibi. I’ll ask Roslyn on Monday to take a statement from the neighbour.

  We pass fishermen bracing against the wind and the swell. Lines crisscross the water like gossamer spider webs – the tourists’ expensive fishing poles next to the locals’ ancient hand reels.