Saltskin

by Louise Moulin

  The band took a break but the sound system beat out ‘Come On, Eileen’ and the dancers kept dancing. Soft furls of cigarette smoke had settled over the crowd and Gilda thought it could have been the 1980s. She sighed with nostalgia.

  ‘Hey, darling,’ said a soft crooner’s voice, and Gilda turned to see Ben from the band perched on a stool at the bar. ‘Ain’t she gorgeous?’ he said to his mate, a tall afrohaired man with merry eyes.

  ‘Whatever you say, Ben,’ he said drolly, and smiled openly at Gilda. ‘Way too good for the likes of you.’

  ‘Too true, Mr Ted Smith.’ Ben sighed and raised his eyebrows.

  ‘Besides, any more barmaids and you’ll explode,’ teased Ted.

  ‘There’s always room for one more,’ laughed Ben, his eye shifting to Gilda’s beauty spot, and she laughed too. ‘I have bar ladies to thank for my enduring career. They’re one of my favourite subjects.’ He raised his glass of red wine.

  Gilda wiped the counter and moved away to take an order. She felt Ben’s eyes on her hips and gave them an extra shimmy just because she could.

  She had met enough musicians to know the drill — love ‘em and leave ‘em — and yet it was the musicians who, in the end, seemed so unhappy, so love worn. Allan had played the piano … The odd shock of him in her head after so much peace made her smile. Oh, the absence of pain. She glanced over at Ben and thought: If you can’t hurt the one you love, hurt the one you’re with. She giggled to herself.

  As she was serving she glanced up and saw Aunt Maggie enter and seek out Martha. Maggie excitedly pointed outside and the two of them pushed their way to the window, cupping their eyes and peering out.

  Sophia came up behind Gilda and said she was doing an ashtray run. Gilda nodded and passed her the ice bucket they used for ashes and butts.

  ‘Darling, do you have children?’ called Ben.

  ‘No. You?’ She glanced back to the window but Martha and Maggie were gone. She saw Sophia nip outside.

  ‘I’ve got plenty; just need to find womb for them,’ Ben quipped. Gilda took the teatowel off her shoulder and flapped it at him, and Ted gave him a shove.

  ‘What?’

  Then, as of one mind, the crowd swelled like a wave in a sports stadium and suddenly Gilda was overwhelmed with orders. The band got up again and played all of the favourites and everyone was happy. After some time, during which Gilda made gin and tonics with one hand and poured pints with the other, money in her teeth and till wide open at the end of the bar, Sophia finally returned, looking guilty. Gilda saw that the ice bucket had no butts in it and she raised her eyebrows.

  ‘I’m the boss,’ said Sophia grumpily, shoving the ice bucket away. Then she said more pleasantly, ‘I can handle this lot. Go and have a break.’

  Gilda shrugged, took off the half apron with the Qualm’s logo and made her way out the back, past the rubbish bins and empty crates. She breathed in the sea air and listened to the waves crashing on the beach.

  Joel, the chef, was outside smoking a cigarette, his skinny arms shaking a little as he held the fag to his lips. He was down from Auckland, recovering from a drug addiction, but Gilda could see it was still uppermost in his mind. He had a lovely face, with a dimple in his chin and dyed black hair. Apparently he used to sing in a heavy metal band.

  ‘Good band, eh,’ said Gilda, leaning against the wall.

  ‘Girls seem to like him,’ said Joel, making smoke rings.

  ‘Is that sour grapes on your breath?’ teased Gilda.

  ‘He’s a bit flat, isn’t he?’

  ‘I think he always sings a little off — it’s part of his charm, his jazzy style.’

  Joel made a guffaw and flicked his cigarette.

  They were silent. Gilda let her hair down and ran her fingers through it.

  ‘You should wear your hair out,’ said Joel, a little intoxicated by her presence.

  ‘Should I,’ she said flatly.

  Joel raised his hands in defence. ‘Just trying to be friendly,’ he said. Gilda made a face and Joel lounged back on the steps as if he were on a leather couch in a cool nightclub. ‘Been down to the beach much?’

  Gilda felt a twinge on her scalp and suddenly she felt hot. Joel saw her response and passed his glass to her. ‘Sorry. I forgot about your mum. Sophia filled me in. I just poked her with my finger and she never stopped talking. Go on — only water.’

  Gilda sipped from the glass and shook her head, but said nothing. It should bother her that Sophia was so free with her personal information, but she could never be truly mad at Sophia. Besides, she wasn’t even sure that was why the mention of the beach had given her a shock. She gave him back the glass and wiped her mouth, looking at him from beneath her lashes. Not coy but wary.

  ‘My mum died a few years ago too. I got this tattoo to commemorate her.’ Joel pulled up his white chef’s uniform sleeve and showed her an exquisite portrait of the Madonna, artistically drawn, her face serene, Byzantine beautiful.

  ‘She’s gorgeous,’ whispered Gilda, pushing the sleeve up a bit more to see the top of her head. Joel’s arm twitched. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean …’ She let go of his arm and Joel started to laugh; it was a nice friendly laugh, and Gilda smiled.

  ‘We can’t keep apologising for dead mothers,’ he said. ‘Let’s not be tiptoeing around each other. Let’s always be frank with each other, and if not that then at least glib. I like you, Gilda, and I promise not to try to kiss you.’ His big soulful eyes looked up at her.

  We’ll see about that, she thought. She thrust out her hand and he shook it.

  ‘I do need to go to the beach,’ she said. ‘I haven’t since I’ve been back. But I will.’

  ‘I’ve got myself a freehold strip of paradise up the hill, where the soil is rich for planting. From there you can see the whole bay.’

  Gilda smiled but was a little galled to find he had that kind of money. It didn’t fit him. But then she was a hopeless reader of people. The mention of property, of one of her peers making a go of it, highlighted to her how far behind everyone else she was. A tiny bit of panic, clock ticking, stirred in her stomach.

  ‘Don’t worry about the waves of sadness. They pass,’ said Joel, and went back inside. As he passed her, she noticed he smelt of rosemary.

  Gilda walked, stretching her legs, to the edge of the property, where only a dirt road stood between her and the beach. The full moon shone with abundance on the sea. The night was still and almost warm; the storm had cleared the air.

  She gathered up her hair, went to put on a hair-tie, then with a shrug let it fall loose again. She turned to make her way back inside and as she moved she saw a figure walking along the beach, tall and bent forward. Her stomach flipped, the way it does in a car going over a dip in the road. The figure, a man, opened his arms wide and shouted at the sea, his words lost in the darkness, and Gilda thought, I know you.

  Joel popped his head out the door. ‘Mayday, mayday!’ he crowed. Gilda ran inside behind him.

  It looked as if a busload of people had arrived. The atmosphere had turned a little nasty, with not enough space to move.

  Sophia looked over at Joel, who was behind the bar serving beer in his whites. ‘Kitchen’s closed; more ice!’ Gilda ran out the back again and filled up the ice bucket. She could not resist one more look at the beach. But the man had gone.

  Like a wordless dance the three of them worked, weaving in and out of each other, dipping and diving, each intuiting the space of the other, reaching over and under. Val had done a glass run for them and was stationed at the dishwasher, processing the endless glasses. ‘Thanks,’ Gilda said as she squeezed past him with an armload of beer to restock the fridge. His body felt nice against her own and she realised she was feeling frisky.

  Come midnight, the party was in full swing and the bar under control again.

  Tom ordered eight glasses of raspberry and Coke and eight packets of chips. Gilda raised her eyebrows in question and he nodded towards the door. Gil
da understood and nodded, filled the order and carried the tray out the front herself.

  Eight young children sat swinging on the post that was used to tie up horses in the olden days, a raggedy bunch of local children, grubby-faced and overtired. When they saw Gilda they all started yapping at once: ‘Can you tell Mum to come out’; ‘I’m allowed beer’; ‘Can you get one for my brother’; ‘Blanche has gone off with a boy.’

  The hands grabbed the drinks from the tray and Gilda had to use all her balancing skills to keep the ever-decreasing load steady until the last one came off. The relief of the weight was a treat and she leant her bum against the railing. She glanced out towards the sea, vaguely looking for the man she had seen earlier, but he was nowhere to be seen.

  So Blanche had gone off with a boy, eh? Blanche was Tom’s daughter. Gilda peered into the darkness, worried for the girl. She had given away her own virginity pre-puberty. Blanche was only twelve, a skinny, mousy child with quite a big chest for her age.

  Gilda caught a glimpse of two shadowy figures on the sand. She put the tray on the ground and snuck over to the beach, crouched low and stealthy, commando style. She hid in the flax bushes trying to decide what to do. If she pounced and Blanche really was doing something carnal all three would be embarrassed. And if she wasn’t? What the hell. Gilda scrunched up her energy and leapt out roaring onto the sand. She felt delight at it shifting beneath her as she yelled and whooped her way into the darkness. Out of the corner of her eye she saw a boy and a girl struggle to their feet. The boy took off; the girl stayed put.

  Gilda stopped shouting, feeling foolish and prudish and old. She went up to Blanche, who stood with her hands on her hips.

  ‘Good one, Gilda. Way to scare him off. I almost had him drinking the beer. Want some?’ She held out a jam jar of brown liquid, foaming and slightly sulphurous. ‘It’s beer.’

  Gilda bent and sniffed it, and reeled backwards at the pong. ‘Not beer —it’s pretend beer you’ve made out of a chemical set. I know because I used to make it too. Did you pee in it?’

  ‘Naturally,’ said Blanche.

  ‘You can make people sick with that.’

  ‘Well, you can make a girl pretty sick by sticking your tongue in her throat and then telling everyone she’s a skank.’

  ‘Oh, Blanche. I’m sorry. Did you really like him?’

  Blanche shook her head and glared, but her face went pink.

  ‘Oh dear. Did he drink any?’

  ‘He almost did, until you arrived all loony-bin,’ Blanche said sullenly.

  ‘Sorry, honey. Try sardines in his schoolbag.’ Gilda gave the girl a friendly nudge and Blanche brightened. They walked together back to the Qualm’s. Just before Gilda went inside she glanced back at the beach and her senses picked up the rush of the waves.

  Inside the clammy noise of the bar there was a gust of wild wind. The band announced the last song, the crowd groaned, and Gilda knew they’d play another.

  ‘This is a new one I wrote back in LA,’ said Ben. ‘Ted did the bridge, and it goes out to Gilda.’ He raised his glass and staggered.

  ‘Charmed, I’m sure,’ Sophia said under her breath.

  Ben played solo on the piano and sang sweetly: ‘I will write to you to fill my days, to be near you, to relish having you on my mind, but most of all to cast a spell on you — hey, hey and I’ll be dancing, dancing with you by the breath of the cool moon, enraptured and captured — just us in our swoon.’

  Behind the bar Sophia rolled her eyes and Gilda rolled her eyes back and Joel rolled his eyes and Val rolled his eyes and they all laughed.

  ‘God loves a trier,’ said Joel, raising his glass and winking at Gilda.

  ‘You can finish if you like, Gilda,’ said Sophia. ‘Take a seat by the harmless Joel and let me pour you a drink.’

  Gilda looked doubtfully at Joel, who opened his mouth wide and let his tongue hang out, very black maiden. She could see what he must have looked like screaming on stage, sweat flying, wearing a skull and crossbones T-shirt like the one he was wearing now. She slipped onto the bar stool and turned to the band. It was a lovely song with a fine melody.

  Sophia dipped the lights a little and the dancers, with bodies pressed, swayed drunkenly. The song reached its crescendo and the crowd cheered and whistled and clapped.

  ‘Encore!’ yelled a voice, and then another, and soon the room was stomping. ‘Encore! Encore!’

  Ben looked at Ted, who shrugged, and they started the intro of their number one hit. The crowd went crazy, including Gilda, who let out her own rock chick whistle, which got a nod and grin from the band.

  ‘Keep your pants on,’ said Joel into his beer, and Gilda gave him a dig in the ribs.

  ‘Oi,’ said Martha in Gilda’s ear.

  ‘Hey, where have you been? Where did you and Maggie go?’

  ‘To see a man about a dog,’ said Martha levelly. Too levelly.

  Gilda was in tune with every nuance in her cousin’s voice — a year of mute listening sharpens the ear. She opened her mouth to say something but intercepted a glance between Martha to Sophia. Bloody hell, will they just spit out whatever it is! she thought. She spun around to Sophia, who was in the act of waving her arms and shaking her head at Martha.

  Gilda eyed her cousin.

  Martha pretended not to notice but her voice wavered as she ordered a drink. Her eyes flickered, settled on the other side of Joel. Meanwhile, Sophia busied herself collecting glasses.

  ‘So who is he? The man I heard you talking about. What are you lot up to?’ Gilda yelled over at Martha, who shook her head and made out she couldn’t hear by cupping her ear and squinting.

  A wave of fury washed over Gilda — the kind of rage that drove her to say things she shouldn’t. Her head rushed with blood. In this town her reputation had too many layers for her ever to pull away, ever to shed it. She felt the heights of indignation. She felt like smashing a glass, or yelling in someone’s face. It engulfed her. Fine. They could have their secrets. What did she care, really? She could always take off to London again.

  But she couldn’t talk herself out of it. She felt her anger swell inside, making her stronger, righteous.

  ‘What’s going on? Where did you and Maggie go earlier? Where did Sophia go before, instead of emptying ashtrays?’ she shouted plaintively.

  Martha was laughing and frowning at once. ‘What’s the matter?’

  Gilda realised she couldn’t hear Martha, so Martha probably couldn’t hear her. She made a flourish with her hand to say it doesn’t matter and Martha slid her a shot. Gilda sculled it, realising she was already a bit drunk.

  Why was there this undercurrent of mystery? What were they withholding and why? This town was a hellhole. She started calculating how soon she could save enough to get out.

  The band finished and the crowd groaned. Sophia turned the lights up full. No negotiating.

  Ben swaggered over and threw his arm about Gilda’s shoulders. ‘Darling …’ he crooned, one eyebrow arched lasciviously, his mouth in a pout, obviously designed to be devastating. Gilda turned her face to him, deciding to channel her anger into sexual desire.

  Ben’s pupils dilated. He stammered incoherently and postured in an awkward way.

  Gilda reached her arm around his neck, took his ear in her mouth and breathed hotly. ‘Let’s go,’ she said to him, her eyes grave.

  Gilda tossed her mane wantonly, adjusting her gait to Ben’s swagger. She caught Martha’s eye and understood that she would have done the same thing. Martha winked.

  ‘No!’ Val cried in mock anguish.

  Tom watched her walk out with that same confidence Mary had had. The same prowess. Somehow they both made sluttishness look like victory.

  Gilda had always found that a sexual adventure helped when she wanted to get out of her own life. Once outside, she kissed Ben on the mouth, let her tongue be pliant. Men and their hungers were a tonic for Gilda, her drug, and the men were always so grateful. Let tomorrow take care of
itself. If she kissed him hard enough ground against him hard enough loved him hard enough he just might stay around, and if she willed it with all her might, he might be the one. For a while, at least, she didn’t have to be alone.

  And yet, even as she received his return kiss, even as she lifted the underwire of her bra for his fingers, she knew she was going through the motions of a habit that no longer served her. But she went anyway. Ben thrust his pelvis at her and she felt his hardness as he pressed her against the railing of the fire escape. She looked teasingly into his eyes and he stroked her lip, pushed his finger into her mouth.

  And then a pain like a bitten tongue jarred her head and weakened her spine. She felt herself fall, struggled to remember something that was once important, but sleepiness, passive and quick, clouded in, and her consciousness drifted away from her like a helium balloon. She slumped.

  Martha knew what Gilda was doing, had done it plenty herself. And who could tell the good guys from the bad in the end? She twirled her barstool back to the bar with finality.

  ‘We have to tell her — she’s on to us. She’s getting pissed off,’ Martha said.

  ‘Nonsense, pet. Maggie and I know what we’re doing.’

  ‘But what if we’re wrong? What if our meddling causes more harm than good?’ Martha wondered if Gilda would have gone with Ben if they’d told her the truth instead of fobbing her off. She didn’t see how dragging up the past was going to help. No one is perfect; everyone’s got something. Why do we have to fix everything and mould people to a uniform plastic? She drummed her fingers on the counter.

  ‘Look, sweetheart, she’ll work out her tension in the bedroom tonight — it’ll take the edge off. And tomorrow it’ll be fine. We only need a few more days anyhow, and, like I say, what is for you won’t go by you. Honey, everything is perfect: you just can’t see it yet.’ Sophia raised her arms like a saint and poured Martha a shot of tequila.

  Joel was staring at the door as if he might follow Gilda and Ben. But instead he slowly turned back to the bar.