Saltskin

by Louise Moulin

  Orchid tentatively put one knee on the bed and then the other, until she knelt like a nun in rapture, and she watched Angie, knowing that a glass wall divided her from what she craved most: the simplicity of love. For love, she had long known, was as elusive as a miracle.

  Angie prepared carefully for the evening like a spider spinning a web. She intended to trap Angelo, by fair means or foul.

  She had her governess collect bucket after bucket of water, carried by yoke up the bank from the river to fill a rusty tin tub washed ashore, heated underneath with river stones and fire. She lay in the bath up to her neck, surrounded by the lush ferns and the star-lit sky. Hot steam plumed to meet the cool air.

  Orchid soaped and scrubbed the younger woman’s body and her hands shook. The effort rattled her bones and stole her breath as her lathered cloth sluiced every inch of Angie, from the nape of her cleverly arched neck to the planes of her shoulderblades, every angle draped with soft flesh, Angie’s spine bumps like pebbles leading home. Each of the girl’s limbs she scrubbed meticulously, the way a man polishes a hard-won prestigious trophy.

  Like all people yearning for love, Orchid was tortured by hope. She thought of her destiny, bewildered by its path but resigned, for better for worse, for there was no other course. Angie sensed that her governess was not focusing so she pinched the woman, hard.

  Narcissism, that peculiar trait of selfishness, was most of Angie’s charm. She was spiteful and witty, adamant and flirtatious, baleful and petulant. It gave her hips a certain swing, her head a beguiling angle, and her voice a lilt that held both challenge and victory, dark and spicy like cinnamon.

  While her governess, pathetic with lovesickness, washed her figure, Angie’s mind was already anticipating the moment she would hold Angelo Page viced between her thighs. She was not a traditional woman who harked after marriage and children. No, she wanted to conquer, to have, and to squander. For her the loot would be the wasteful misuse of power and the thrill of domination.

  She wanted Angelo because she knew he had resisted her, and this fact fired her degenerate passions the way nothing ever had. Upon first feeling his eyes on her while she danced, she had known a magnetism that could loosely be classed as love at first sight. It gave her more pleasure than art or music or trinkets or gold. And Angie always got what she wanted, no matter who was killed in the process. Yet she was still naïve, still young enough that she had not yet learnt she would be the cause of her own suffering.

  She did not consider that it might be she who was killed.

  Angie stepped from the bath wrapped in a linen sheet; the frost nip in the air made her alert. Her body was bath pink and her face set with resolve. Orchid patted her dry and fragranced her with vanilla heated in oil.

  Angie refused underwear but allowed herself to be bound into an out-of-date corset that pressed her breasts up and her buttocks out. Her calf boots were laced to the ankle and overlaying this was a crinoline gown of the deepest yellow, which brought out the sugar and honey tones of her brunette hair. She wore this loose over her shoulders, and in her lobes she wore drop earrings of onyx, screwed on by Orchid.

  Mrs Faullen wore grey and a mourning band.

  They ate a light supper of pickled eel.

  Captain Angus wanted to tell Angelo his mermaid story — to vomit it out like the tapeworms of a ridden gut. He felt compelled to confess, for he hoped the speaking of his sin would cleanse him, and yet, because he could not help the way God made him, he also hoped with a fever that Angelo knew where to find the mermaid.

  Angelo most certainly did. After forcing himself to sleep so as to be fresh, and after eating only an apple for he was too excited to swallow much else, Angelo set about bathing himself with a feverish radiance on the deck of the Unicorn. The storm-cleansed sun suffused him in a hazy glow and the blue sky had the scent of spring.

  In among the snakes of rope and giant sails he stood in a tin washbasin filled with a foot of fresh water. With lard soap that did not lather he rubbed down his body, naked and unabashed, his chest and pubic hair as orange as an orange. He opened his legs to get to the nitty gritty of his rectum, and used handfuls of sand to scour away lice and mites. He sang while he washed: a tuneless, toneless, wordless warble, unattractive yet sung with such gusto it lifted the spirits of those around him.

  Angelo’s manic thoughts whizzed in his mind. The mermaid would meet him on this eve! He had found her! He flung his arms wide like the crucifixion and howled out over the sea to his one true love: somewhere, somewhere, beneath the waters. In his heart he swore himself to secrecy. He would tell no one, lest the speaking of it cussed it. He was vindicated. His love was real; the mermaid was real. He was not a lunatic after all! Angelo was ecstatic.

  Half a dozen other men also cleaned themselves in begged and borrowed vessels and buckets on deck, including Davy, who stood dripping in his basin, his potato-shaped body all gorged and at odds with itself. Three rolls of fat sat wedged and red at the back of his neck. His pelvis seemed to be concertinaed with his ribcage, a flap of belly skin fell over his genitals, his legs were the shape of chicken drumsticks and his spine curved over, sinking his chest. Each knobbly vertebra stuck out as if the strain of holding the body upright was too much. He stole a peep at Angelo, who was bellowing at the world.

  Davy grimaced because he was feeling bad. Shamed at betraying a secret, sick with jealousy, and guilty that he hadn’t even noticed Angelo was missing until he returned — hadn’t looked out for his mate, who was only in the Antipodes on his request; his mate who probably couldn’t swim, who could have perished on the high seas in a matchstick of a dinghy. Davy resolved that come hell or high water he would do his friend a good turn, make it up to him the only way he knew, and that was to organise for Angelo to be bedded that very night, once and for all.

  Davy scrubbed himself a little brutally, a little petulantly. Out of it all, it was the secret revealed that weighed most heavily. He had told a secret, and done so on purpose, like Judas, set up from birth to betray. And he had sensed from the way Captain Angus froze, had known with a horrible certainty, that he had done more wrong than he intended. Or maybe he had known exactly what to say. Why or what it meant he could not put words to. All he knew was that peevishness had come upon him. He wished Angelo had never been found. He wished he were dead. It was useless pretending otherwise: his friend was now his enemy.

  Davy sluiced his genitals, his cock abnormally large and therefore practically useless for the thing could never fully stiffen. He looked Angelo up and down through the eyes of envy and saw long courtly limbs, a svelte physique that held unleashed power, and he recalled, like a knife to the stomach, the way Angie had looked at Angelo: as though Angelo were food, a platter of delicious morsels, a feast upon which she longed to gorge. And, the way a man who kills once can kill more easily the next time, Davy let his plan form.

  It was simple and, overall, harmless enough. Get Angelo out of the way by way of the bed of a whore or the poison of booze, and Davy knew with a crude pride, with a zap of will, that he would go even further to get what he wanted.

  Who was Angelo Page anyway but a belligerent bellyache of a bore? Angelo didn’t even like Angie Swan — he was so rude to her! reasoned Davy indignantly. No one liked the demon-haired git; no one cared about him. He was as good for company as a dead cat and far less funny. Well, no, Davy told himself, he didn’t really mean that — no, Angelo was his mate. Wasn’t he? For a short, sharp moment he questioned himself. Then, just as swiftly, he countered it.

  Why couldn’t Davy Mills have what he wanted in life? He pushed his shoulders back, tufted out his chest. Why always put his wishes last? Why couldn’t he be a real contender for the favours of Miss Angie Swan?

  When pussy fever strikes, a man can be as cunning as a shithouse rat.

  19.

  The Photograph

  The warm weather had been a precursor for snow. It fell fast in fluttery drifts, unusual at sea level, making the silence from
inside the kitchen strangely muffled.

  Martha leant against the sink and watched her cousin. She wondered what had happened with the rock star because Gilda looked different, like a fifteen-year-old, as she sat at the kitchen table eating a sandwich.

  Aunt Maggie swept in from outside, wearing her mechanic’s overalls, and washed her hands in the sink before turning to face the younger women, triumphant. ‘I’ve finished the lily. We’re going to move it up the hill to the new place.’

  Martha put her hand on Maggie’s shoulder in congratulation, but it had the note of warning about it.

  ‘What new place?’ Gilda asked, alert to the undercurrents.

  ‘You dippy Dora. On the pink cliffs overlooking the lagoon. They also want a set of fleur-de-lis tiles for the hearth, which I am yet to even start. Gilda, I can’t believe you haven’t noticed the construction site — do you never look out your window? It’s practically under your nose!’

  Her aunt was talking too fast, all in a flap, the way she always did when she was nervous, telling people off irrationally. Maggie glanced at Gilda and what she saw stopped her still. ‘My God, you look radiant today.’

  ‘I went for a run.’

  ‘You went for a run in that dress?’

  ‘I reckon children’s teeth must be a good omen,’ Gilda said, changing the subject, pushing her plate from her and making a show of dusting off crumbs. She wasn’t ready for interrogation yet. Mention of the teeth reminded her of the attic, and the attic reminded her of the shell box waiting for her. She stretched an arm over her head in an agitated way.

  ‘You may as well see things in the positive,’ said Maggie. ‘Aussie women used to grind milk teeth up and drink the powder to give them strength. Like the elixir of youth. Right. I’m back out in the snow. I … ah … want to have a word with you, Gilda, but it can wait until later.’

  ‘Tell me now,’ Gilda said, but Maggie pretended not to hear and bolted out the door, letting in a draught of snow and cold air.

  Gilda turned to Martha. ‘Will you please tell me about this mysterious man? What is going on?’

  ‘The only man I want to know about is the rock star,’ Martha side-stepped.

  ‘Oh yeah, Ben. Purely platonic.’ She shrugged, glad Martha wouldn’t tell her, relieved to the point of exhaustion. Maybe she was afraid, Gilda thought.

  ‘Greek platonic? I saw him wandering the streets like a lost cowboy — I reckon he was looking for you. Did you love him and leave him?’

  ‘Don’t worry, I didn’t do anything — not to my heart at least.’ Gilda reclined in the chair and put her feet on the worn table.

  Joel’s words had set off a new line of thought. ‘Martha, do you think we’ve forgotten the peace that can be found in love? Like a lost ritual or way of being? I mean, think about all those soldiers in wartime. They returned and settled with their sweethearts, made the best of what they had, built a home and raised children and were happy and tolerant of each other. They found peace — in love.’

  Martha narrowed her eyes. ‘That sounds sad, but it’s a different world now.’

  ‘Where’s the love?’ Gilda said theatrically and they laughed.

  Martha touched Gilda’s shoulder as she passed to slouch in the chair opposite. She thought for a bit, chewing the inside of her cheek. ‘Sometimes I feel like a second-class citizen. I had an argument with a young boy who visits his nana in the rest home. He was trying to tell me boys are better than girls, and talked about having the vote first and finished with his trump card that God and Jesus were both men.’

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I was flabbergasted, and I lost the argument because there was so much wrong with his statement. Then he told me he preferred blondes!’

  ‘Well, yeah. We’re raising a world of baby pimps and sexpots. Everyone is so lost.’

  ‘Men need to be the men, and women need to be the women.’ Martha nodded to herself as she spoke. ‘Maybe there is balance in that. Harmony? You know, the right way up. It’s yin and yang, isn’t it? All things have an opposite.’

  ‘Where did you get that?’

  Martha shrugged. ‘Me really. I was talking with Joel —’

  ‘Joel? So was I. What is with that guy?’

  ‘Val was there too, and you know, he’s not bad.’ Martha looked almost smug.

  ‘Who’s not bad, Val or Joel?’ Gilda glared at her cousin grumpily.

  ‘What? I’m just saying maybe we need to help each other — save each other.’

  ‘God, Martha. Like we are ever going to get the opportunity to throw a lifeline, like any sailors are going to wash up on our shores. You know our track record.’

  Martha considered her cousin as if she were weighing up evidence. ‘I think we need to get out of our own way. Gilda, just because the past has been one way, that doesn’t mean the future has to be identical. It’s in constant motion, isn’t it — the future?’

  ‘So is the past.’

  ‘So it’s easier to just avoid it,’ Martha said flatly.

  ‘Avoid what?’

  ‘Your dreams, these memories of yours — you won’t talk about them but we all see you churning in it.’

  Gilda looked up at the ceiling. ‘I don’t have all the pieces to the puzzle.’

  ‘You need to find them and then you can have peace. Then you can let someone love you before it’s too late. Like with your war couples.’

  ‘Adam and Eve,’ Gilda said, barely above a whisper.

  ‘Well, it’s not Adam and Steve, is it, or Eve and a good book?’ And when Gilda smiled weakly Martha made her face where one eye goes cross-eyed and the other looks dead ahead, and Gilda laughed and it petered away.

  They were silent for a bit. The tap dripped in the sink. ‘I think you deliberately scare them off. I think they are afraid of you and your pitchfork,’ Martha said, and slapped the table.

  ‘Oh, right, the fear theory. We are all just afraid.’ Gilda rolled her eyes.

  ‘So simple it might just be true. We could package fear and sell it to the masses. But if I had all the answers I’d be in New York on my lecture tour.’ Martha trailed off. Suddenly it all seemed like theories that had no relevance to them.

  Simplicity. Gilda rolled the word around her mouth. Her cousin was right about one thing: the dreams had everything to do with the present. She wondered why Martha was pushing her. Gilda had always carried the weight that she was dreaming for the whole family. Like a conduit. She had never known her cousin to fall for any man, and it was Martha who had learnt alongside her how to keep a heart out of reach while flashing your knickers. Martha was as flippant about boys as she was; it was Martha from whom she had learnt half of it, following her lead. Their eyes locked.

  Martha gave her cousin a futile grimace and shrugged. Then her face went mischievous and she said, ‘Hey, come with me. I want to show you something.’

  She took Gilda up to her bedroom. On the candlewick bedspread was an open suitcase full of old photos. ‘I found it in the attic. I’ve been sorting them into strangers, lovers, family. The stranger pile is high, probably because they’re someone’s lover.’ She gave a snort. ‘The number of photos of handsome men — it’s like a roll-call for a modelling agency,’ she said drolly.

  ‘They can’t all be handsome,’ said Gilda, sitting on the bed.

  ‘Well, maybe it’s the unfulfilled potential of them, of manhood en masse.’ Martha picked up a photo and held several more fanned in her hand like playing cards. Or perhaps like Tarot cards, as if she were trying to divine her own future from the images.

  Gilda noticed her cousin’s wistful expression and knew instantly that Martha was stewing in her own juices. If only she could decipher what the dreams were trying to say, then all of them could move forward. And yet she had no idea how, only that she was the one who had to roll back the stone covering the ancient tomb. It was time to face the ghosts. Yet the way was as murky and debris-strewn as a city in flood.

  ‘What about you
?’ she asked. ‘It’s not just me. How are you getting on with this “no love in life” business?’ Gilda stretched her back to make the question seem more casual. She watched the undercurrents of Martha’s emotions as she answered.

  ‘The family curse? Oh well, I think: I’m nice, I’m sweet, I’m funny, not completely thick and quite good in bed so why won’t anyone stay? Then again, maybe a string of lovers makes for an adventurous life.’ Martha smiled and her eyes said, as they always did: Don’t worry about me; let me worry about you.

  ‘Does it, though?’

  ‘The women at the rest home are past the peril of men and happier for it. Maybe we shouldn’t take it all so seriously.’ Martha shifted uncomfortably.

  ‘But it’s about all of us. Why have none of us Page women found love? What’s the curse all about? How did it even start? It’s not just us; it’s the whole female line.’

  ‘Maybe it is just fate, luck of the draw. Maybe we need to try harder.’ Martha was distracted, digging in the case and obviously looking for one photo in particular.

  Gilda studied her. There was definitely something going on. ‘Maybe we should stop trying.’ Gilda flicked through the photographs Martha had discarded and then laughed. ‘Why don’t we just wear T-shirts that say: “If you like me there must be something wrong with you”?’

  ‘I actually would wear a T-shirt that said that — that’s funny. Hey, Gilda, look at this one.’

  Gilda moved closer to see. Her cousin smelt of vanilla. The photo was on stiff paper. A picture of a woman walking naked out of the sea, her waist-length hair wrapped about her in wet ringlets and festooned with shells and seahorses. Over her body were draped strings of cockles and mussels and crayfish; sea pods hung around her neck and partially covered her breasts. Fishes were linked by their gills through her fingers and seemed to twitch and pulse. Squid sucked onto her abdomen and thighs. Her arms were bent at the elbow and raised at her sides, her head tilted as if she were giving a benediction. Her expression was regal yet sad, and she was smiling just a little. In the bottom corner was a child’s sand-salted foot, the rest of her out of shot — just the foot and a drift of white lace. The picture heart-shocked Gilda.