by Kylie Ladd
It wasn’t the Gold Coast, Amira was right about that. It wasn’t even The Mangrove, and that had hardly been the last word in luxury. Caro looked around the room that she and Janey had been assigned, one of four side by side in a drab concrete block marked Visitors. Threadbare curtains, worn carpet, an ancient ceiling fan slowly rotating overhead, as if unable to work up any more effort. Everything was scrupulously clean, thank God, but it was so small. She’d stayed in youth hostels with more space than this. Where the hell was she going to put all her stuff? Caro sank down on the bed to take stock. The springs squeaked, so she got up and tested the other one, which was against the opposite wall. May as well have her choice before Janey arrived from wherever she was, though neither appealed. Single beds! She hated single beds. One of the benefits to Caro of Alex’s never-ending travel—and heaven knows there weren’t many—was spreading out across their king-size mattress, making herself as comfortable as she could, compromising for no one. She hadn’t slept in a single bed since the youth hostels, well before they met. She’d thought those days were behind her.
Caro sighed and opened the first of her bags. She needed to hang up her clothes before they got any more creased. There didn’t seem much chance of finding an iron here. The bedroom situation could have been worse, she told herself. At least she didn’t have to share with Fiona again, who’d snored and moaned throughout the previous night, and it would be nice for her and Janey to be roommates. She needed to make more of an effort with Janey, Caro thought, maybe actually stay at training and watch her swim, so they had something to talk about in the car on the way home afterwards, instead of Janey jamming in her earbuds and Caro returning the calls she hadn’t got to during the day. The trouble was that there was never any time, with the business to run and the house to look after, April always needing help with her homework . . .
She shook out a pair of capri pants. In her walk-in robe at home they’d seemed perfect, just the sort of thing for afternoon drinks and evenings out, but now she threw them back in her case. She’d had her evening out. There weren’t going to be any more, and everything she’d packed was far too dressy for Kalangalla. It was all wrong, all of it, the structured sundresses and the white linen shirts, the wedges and the silk wrap. She’d look like an idiot parading around in that stuff. Caro felt a tightness across her chest. What she needed were plain shorts and singlets like Amira was wearing. She’d brought some, hadn’t she? She was sure she had, positive . . . She tipped the bag upside down on the bed, ferreting through its contents, then did the same with the next. Her breath came in gasps as she searched. Just two casual t-shirts, a singlet and three pairs of shorts. That wasn’t enough. Were there washing facilities here? Could she buy powder? Maybe she could get Amira to take her back into Broome so she could go to the shops there and buy the right sort of clothes.
Caro forced herself to leave the mess on the bed and walk over to the small handbasin in the corner of the room. She splashed her face with water and stood there, dripping, holding tightly to the sink and taking deep breaths until she could face her reflection in the mirror that hung above it. You’re OK, she told herself. Everything’s OK. It’ll be fine. There was a faded blue hand towel hanging next to the basin and she patted her face dry with it, then brushed her hair and reapplied her lipstick.
Caro believed in surfaces. Feeling in control began with looking in control. It was why she did what she did, why her interior design business was so successful; not just because she made things look nice, but because she understood that imposing order—a colour scheme, a design—relaxed the eye, and from there the heart. She had no idea how Alex managed to work at his desk in their study, obscured as it was by a litter of papers and catalogues, drawers half open and spilling their contents onto the floor. She couldn’t walk into a room without wanting to line up the cushions on the couch or straighten the curtains. It wasn’t neurotic, no matter what Fiona said; it was practical. Chaos screamed. Order soothed, and it was much easier to get things done when you were calm.
She turned back to the clothes on the bed and began to go through them methodically, folding the garments she didn’t intend to wear and placing them back in her bag; hanging those she did. She would take these into the bathroom later when she had a shower, and the hot steam would remove the wrinkles. She wouldn’t need an iron. Her mother used to do the same thing. Caro’s hands fell to her sides, momentarily stilled. Her mother. How stupid that she could remember that—her mother carrying a white dress patterned with tiny blue flowers into her ensuite, hanging it on the shower rail, then turning on the hot tap—but she couldn’t remember her mother’s face. Not stupid: awful. If she closed her eyes and tried to remember, all she saw was a rictus grin, her mother’s mouth hanging open as if in surprise, cheek flattened against the kitchen lino, the back of her head bloody from where she’d hit the corner of the oven as she fell. Yet she couldn’t recall her mother’s smile, or her eyes as she leaned in to kiss her goodnight every evening. Caro clenched her fists, swallowed the pain, made herself return to unpacking. She’d only been eight when her mother had the aneurysm. No wonder she didn’t remember. April was nine and she still forgot her lunchbox most days. It made Caro wonder though . . . would she have been the same sort of person if her mother had lived? If she’d been there to talk to as Caro grew up, to argue with, to push against? Not that Caro had turned out so terribly. She had her anxious moments, sure, but she also had a successful business, a loving husband, two beautiful daughters . . .
Janey banged through the door.
‘Shit, this is tiny,’ she said, looking around. ‘Have you got my bag? I need my bikini. Tess said to get ready for the beach.’
‘Janey, don’t swear,’ Caro said automatically, then noticed that her daughter was holding a packet of chips. ‘And don’t eat that rubbish! Come on, Janey, you’ve got the state meet in two months. I know we’re not at home, but officially you’re still in training.’
Janey dipped her fingers into the bag, licked them, then screwed it up. ‘I’ve finished anyway. And I kept them from lunch at Cable Beach, so you don’t have to fret. It’s all part of my recommended daily allowance.’ She tossed the empty packet at a wastepaper basket under the handbasin. It hit the edge and bounced off onto the floor.
‘Chips still aren’t a great idea,’ Caro persisted. ‘If you’re hungry I’ll find you some fruit.’ That meet was important, she wanted to add. Secretly she was hoping that good results would win Janey a sports scholarship to the private school that Bronte attended. They offered them at year nine; she’d checked the website and then rung the bursar, just to be sure. Not that she’d mentioned that to Janey or, indeed, Alex. Janey was happy where she was, he would say to Caro, so why move her? And that was all very well, but Caro was sure that Janey could be happy at St Anne’s too, and benefit from everything it offered. Caro had wanted her to go there from the start, after primary school. They could certainly afford it, but Alex had overruled her. ‘Janey chooses,’ he’d said. ‘If she works hard and keeps her marks up she can stay. If she mucks around we move her. Deal?’
‘Deal!’ Janey had agreed delightedly, but Caro had been less than ecstatic. Where was her say in this? She’d always dreamed of seeing Janey in that navy-blue blazer with the white edging and the embroidered crest, not the hideous striped rugby jumper of the local high school. And her school didn’t even have a swim team! It was crazy. At St Anne’s she could be training at lunchtime.
‘Chill out, Mum,’ said Janey. ‘It’s not the Olympics, though you’ve probably got a plan for those too.’ She spied her pack lying on the bed and tugged at the zip. ‘Oh, and Tess wants me to sleep there tonight, at her place. I said it would be OK.’
‘Do you have to?’ asked Caro. ‘I thought we could be together. It’s our first day here. Maybe tomorrow.’
‘Mum! I haven’t seen her in ages. You’re the one always going on about how lovely it would be for us to’—Janey turned and drew quotation marks in the air�
��‘“reconnect”. So I wanna reconnect, OK?’
Caro gave in. ‘Oh, I suppose so. Is Bronte going too?’
‘Yes. Unfortunately. She’s sooooo boring. She’s brought her homework with her! What a dork.’ Janey yanked her t-shirt over her head and undid her bra, which was pink with small cherries on the cups. She shrugged it off and reached for her bikini top, lifting her hair away from her neck and presenting her bare back to Caro so she could tie the strings. God, she was lovely, Caro thought. Her hair like a sheaf of wheat, her skin silky and olive, inherited from her Mediterranean-born father, her strong, supple shoulders . . . hideous, Janey had said when she gave up butterfly, fearing they were becoming too broad.
Impulsively, Caro dropped her lips onto the girl’s right shoulder blade, kissed her, then drew back.
‘You look fabulous, Janey. Enjoy it while you can.’
‘Thanks,’ Janey muttered, grabbed her towel and banged back out the door. Caro bent and retrieved the chip packet.
Fifteen minutes later, when she’d unpacked Janey’s things and changed into her own bathers, Caro ventured outside. Now to the beach—but where was it? All she could see were some grey-green trees, a yellow sheet flapping on a clothesline, ochre tracks meandering off into the scrub. She began to follow one, moving in the opposite direction from the way they’d come in. It couldn’t be too far, surely. She hoped not. The sun was already beating through her hat, prising sweat from her brow.
‘You right? Are you lookin’ for something?’
Caro jumped. She hadn’t noticed the man standing in the shade of the boab tree next to the path. He was clad only in shorts, a bandana tied around his neck, the red fabric standing out against his dark skin.
‘The beach,’ she said, breathing quickly. ‘Sorry, you startled me. I’m here with Amira. She’s a teacher at the school.’
The man smiled, revealing the pink flesh of his lips. ‘I know who Amira is. We all do, and we knew she had friends coming. Nothin’ much that’s a secret around here.’ He pointed back over his shoulder. ‘You’re goin’ the right way. The beach is down there, about five minutes.’
Caro watched his chest rise and fall, a lone drop of sweat or seawater snaking down his stomach.
‘Do you want to come too?’ she asked, then coloured. What a stupid thing to say.
The man just smiled again.
‘Already been.’ He gestured to a bucket containing some silver fish, one still twitching and opening its mouth. ‘Promised the missus I’d get her some boab nuts on the way back. She carves them. They’re in the gallery.’
‘Oh. I’ll have to go see them then,’ Caro said, shifting her straw bag from one shoulder to the other.
‘Enjoy the beach.’ The man turned back to the tree and crouched down, foraging at its base. Caro stood there for a second, watching the play of shadows on the muscles of his back, then continued down the track. She felt quite light-headed.
Dear Tess,
Thanks for your postcard. I put it on the shelf next to my bed, but Finn teased me so much that I took it down and put it in my homework diary instead. The only time I ever look in there is to read it again. I think Finn’s jealous. Maybe you better send him one too!
I didn’t know your address, so I had to send this with my mum, but she’s pretty cool. I don’t think she’ll open it, and if she does SHAME ON YOU MUM! I put masking tape on the envelope as a test. If it’s gone, she’s read it and you should make sure you put a spider in her bed, or hide her running shoes. That will kill her.
How are you enjoying it up there? It must be so different to Melbourne. Do you go to the beach all the time? Is there any surf? And what about the food? I bet you miss Subway. I remember how you always went there on a Friday after school with Janey and the rest of your gang. Stevie and Finn and I always acted like we bumped into you by accident, but we actually went there just to see you all. You probably worked that out. It was fun though.
School is OK. There’s more homework than last year, and my form teacher isn’t as nice. I got a detention at the start of the term because I did a book report on Kelly Slater’s autobiography. I thought that was a bit rough. They said we could pick any book! Mr Birmingham said it should have been a novel, or at least something with a few less pictures, but I reckon he’s just jealous because he doesn’t look like Kelly. I mean, they’re both bald, but that’s about it.
That’s pretty much all the news. Nothing has really changed here, I just wanted to check how you are and to say that I still think about the year seven disco and that you’re pretty cool. I won’t say anymore in case Mum is reading this (STOP IT MUM!). I hope you can write back sometime, but put it in an envelope because Finn’s a snoop, and he tells Torran everything.
Have fun,
Callum
Tess folded up the letter, heart racing, and shoved it back in its envelope. She pulled her legs up to her chest and hugged herself, at the same time pushing back against the door. Her mum was getting into her bathers, and she’d never barge in on her without knocking anyway, but somehow it had felt important not just to shut the door while she read the letter, but to sit against it too.
She went to stand up, then changed her mind and pulled out the single sheet of paper again, unable to resist reading it once more. It looked as if it had been torn from an exercise book, the foolscap sort they’d started using once they’d moved to high school. Had Callum written it in class? She could picture him hunched over one of the old wooden benches in the science lab, arm curled protectively around the page while Stevie farted or did something dangerous with a Bunsen burner nearby . . . He wouldn’t have written it at home, she was sure of that. Not in the bedroom he had to share with Finn.
Tess smoothed out the blue-lined paper, noticing that her hands were damp. I put it on the shelf next to my bed. So he’d kept her postcard, valued it, even . . . The only time I ever look in there is to read it again.
It had felt so daring sending it to him. She’d wanted to write to him almost since the first day she and her mother had arrived in Kalangalla, but she’d waited two months to carry it out. It wasn’t good to look too eager. She’d learned that at Subway. Lack of interest interested them every time. Eventually she’d chosen a few postcards from the general store—scenes of the beach, turquoise and white. Anyone who hadn’t been here would assume that the colours must have been adjusted, tarted up to impress the recipient and encourage tourism, but they hadn’t; it really did look like that. She’d written as much on the back of each of the cards—to Callum, to Janey, to a few other kids at school. If Callum mentioned that he’d heard from her he’d learn that others had too. That was good. That protected her.
I put masking tape on the envelope as a test. The tape had been untouched when her mother gave her the letter. Morag wasn’t a snoop, and neither was her own mother, who had handed it to her without a word once she’d got back from showing Fiona, Caro and Morag to their rooms, and Janey and Bronte had left to find them. Nonetheless, Tess hadn’t trusted her with the postcards, instead handing them directly to the postman when he called into the office on one of his twice-weekly stops. It wasn’t that there was anything on them that she didn’t want her mum to see—everything she had written was as bland and cheery as a holiday brochure—it was just that she didn’t need to see them, either. That was part of growing up, wasn’t it? Taking care of your own business.
How are you enjoying it up there? Tess tipped back her head, staring at the ceiling as she framed an answer in her mind. I really love it, she would write back. When we first arrived it was so humid and hot that I could barely move. I needed a sleep every afternoon like a toddler! And I missed everyone too—Janey and Bron and the school and you. I even missed French! Well, not really, but I missed how we used to pass each other notes, and sometimes you’d write yours in ‘French’ except it wasn’t really French, you just put ‘le’ in front of everything. Was that too much, she wondered, admitting she’d missed him? Maybe she wouldn’t mention t
hat. After a couple of months I got used to it though. By April it wasn’t so humid, and I loved that once I’d done my lessons I could do what I liked—read or nap or go to the beach. There are three or four other kids here that are also too old for the school and do their work by correspondence like me. Sometimes we sit together in the community hall and help each other out. No one supervises us so we get to muck around a lot, though Mum checks every night that I’m up to date and she goes off if I’m not. My best friend is called Tia. She’s Aboriginal, with a bit of Japanese in her too. You should see how deep she can dive to get abalone! I still don’t like eating it, but she gives me the shells and they’re really pretty. Tess paused and reconsidered. My best friend here, she amended in her mind. Janey was her real best friend, though it annoyed her that Janey hadn’t made the effort to write her a letter like Callum had. Maybe it was because she was coming up to see her anyway? Still, it had been a long time . . .
I just wanted to see how you are and to say that I still think about the year seven disco and that you’re pretty cool. That was it. That was the sentence she had been reading for. Tess took a deep breath and went over the words again, committing them to memory. She still thought about it too, usually at night when she was drifting off to sleep. The year seven disco had been held not long before they’d left for Kalangalla, as an end-of-year celebration. The principal had insisted it take place during the day, so that no one could sneak off into the darkness and teachers didn’t have to be bribed or forced to return out of hours to supervise the students, and at first Tess had thought it was a bit of a joke. The multipurpose room still looked like a multipurpose room, even with cellophane on the windows and a glitter ball hanging from the ceiling. The boys that were so keen to flirt at Subway or in PE had suddenly gone aloof and reserved, clumping together at the far end of the room like adolescent algae. The girls bitched about what everyone was wearing or stood around similarly feigning boredom and indifference. Tess’s eye was throbbing where Janey had accidentally jabbed her with a mascara wand while they were getting ready, and she was thinking about going home, when someone put on ‘Dancing Queen’ by ABBA. Her mother loved that song. From as far back as Tess could remember, as soon as her mum had heard the distinctive opening piano flourish and Benny’s breathy Ah Ah Ahhhs she would drop what she was doing and shimmy around the room, or, if she was waiting at traffic lights, throw her head back and shake her shoulders until the car behind them honked to indicate that the lights had changed. Without thinking about it, unaware of the stares of the boys and Janey’s tight frown, Tess moved out into the centre of the floor, lured by the music, and began to dance. For the first verse she was all alone, but then someone appeared beside her. Callum. ‘You look pretty good,’ he’d said, leaning in as she dipped and swirled, and matching his own movements to hers. ‘Mind if I join you?’