Well, I’ll be buggered, said Jim, delighted to hear from the caller. Long time, mate…Second cousins, don’t get bloody familiar. Catchin a few bucketheads up there, are ya?
Georgie kept stirring her rice which had finally gone creamy from all that rolling around the pan and while it absorbed the last of the stock she thought of the surviving chives she might use on it.
He said what? What’d he look like?…Yeah? Well, that’s interesting…. Yeah, too right. Glad you told me.
Georgie turned off the gas and folded the risotto round the skillet a while longer. Jim turned slightly away from her where he stood at the counter.
Maybe I will, he said. Yeah, I’ve got a pretty good idea…Okay, it’ll be my shout. See ya.
He hung up with a delighted but baffled look on his face. He looked boyish and handsome like that. It made her smile.
Good news? she asked.
The far-flung family.
Georgie pursed her lips. His parents were dead and he had no siblings.
Didn’t know you had any.
All over the state. Geez, some of the clan are major breeders. Look at that risotto, he said brightly.
Georgie turned back to the heavy pan. It was indeed a picture. She felt him lift her bikini strap and plant a kiss on her sweaty shoulder. He smelled of soap and, very faintly, of diesel.
I’ll get the boys, he purred.
GEORGIE STARED at Jude’s email. Men are killing us, sis.
Well, it made more sense than yesterday’s. As she dumped the message and began trolling in the soft blue light of the web she made a note to call Jude tonight. Out beyond the plate glass and the airconditioning, it was a hot, clear midsummer day. Jim had given the boys a dinghy to use over the holidays and they were rowing it up and down the lagoon to set crabnets on the seagrass, each suspended from an empty milk container which bobbed on the surface. Daylight hovered like a headache at the edge of consciousness while Georgie tried to work her way free into that other milder world. She keyed in the word medicine.
A British woman desperate to be a mother. The miracle of fertility drugs. She is blessed with IVF triplets. And puts two children out for adoption…Australian authorities deport a pregnant Chinese refugee knowing that her child will be killed by a grisly, enforced late-term abortion upon her return…Keanu Reeves’s spleen is listed for sale on eBay…South Africa’s new president declares that HIV does not cause AIDS.
Georgie shut the machine down. She needed to get outside.
By the time the boys figured out who it was swimming toward them from the shore, their puzzlement had given way to alarm, as though her being abroad in daylight and encroaching upon their territory were cause for concern. Georgie sculled right up to the dinghy. Josh was shoving fish heads onto a baitpin and Brad rested at his oars. She saluted. She requested permission to come aboard.
There was a rapid exchange of fraternal glances. Permission was granted. Soberly and with unspoken reservations.
We’re crabbing, said Josh.
Excellent. I’ll be deckie. The three of them worked their way up the line of floats, pulling traps and rebaiting them quietly until the boys’ wary politeness wore off. They let her row for a while. Not so long ago they’d been proud and voluble about Georgie’s boating skills and her prowess with rod and reel. She couldn’t think when she’d last stood at the point with them to cast for flathead and whiting. She’d become so disembodied, so abstracted in the last six months. She decided to view it as a digression. It was not indicative of the rest of her life; she wouldn’t let it be.
All the crabs that came aboard were dun-coloured females. They were small and none of them were keepers. At midday she suggested they drift for squid, and their immediate success bound the three of them in a comradely warmth. They dangled bright jigs across the weedbanks and brought squid splashing and squirting to the surface. Soon they were giggling and teasing and stained with ink. They filled a bucket. They smeared each other’s faces. When the breeze came in they lay back and drifted in a happy, cavorting uproar, and in the end they came so far down the bay that it was useless to try to row back against the wind, so they came ashore to walk the boat back up through the shallows. When they drew abreast of the house they ran the dinghy ashore.
Georgie was helping to turn it keel up on the sand when she felt her back go out. She fell to the sand with a cry. The pain was so sudden and intense; it was like having a piece bitten from the small of your back. The boys assumed she was still capering away in the spirit of the afternoon, but when Brad knelt down beside her, Georgie’s tears surprised him. Immediately he assumed the calm authority of his father. He shaded her face, slipped his hat beneath her cheek to protect it from the hot sand, and when he thought her ready he supervised the wrangling of her twisted frame up the sand track to the house.
For a day and a night she lay in bed. Anti-inflammatories had little effect and the codeine phosphate brought on the sort of constipation that a few prunes will not remedy. It was misery.
While their father fished the long, trying days of the deepwater phase of the season the boys did their best to look out for her. From Beaver’s they brought back the sorts of videos they imagined to be suitable for someone of her vintage. All she craved was Cary Grant or Hepburn and Tracy but she had to settle for Jessica Tandy, Michael Douglas, Kevin Costner. She was grateful they drew the line at Meg Ryan. The first day they did their best to watch companionably from the end of her bed, but they soon settled for looking in on her now and then. Before long, though, the outdoor world was too much to resist and they forgot her entirely.
After the best part of a week, with no improvement in sight, Jim suggested he drive her to the city for treatment. But she wouldn’t hear of it. She told him she couldn’t be responsible for keeping him ashore another day this season, especially not during the deepwater run, but in truth she just couldn’t come at the agony of four or five hours wedged into a car. In the end she consented to being driven over to Rachel’s. Word was that Rachel Nilsam knew a bit of massage.
When she came to the door that evening Rachel looked surprised. Stunned even. She recovered quickly enough and asked them in, but Jim demurred and left them at the threshold. The kids, he said.
Rachel took her through the modest house to a high bench with a batik slipcover. Georgie needed help to undress. It was awful. She felt like a child, like some frail old lady. She hadn’t realized she would have to be naked. As she lay on the bench her face was hot. She turned her head to the wall. Rachel ran her fingertips down Georgie’s spine. Elsewhere in the house there was music. All Georgie could think was that someone might come in.
Nice old spasm you’ve got there, Georgie. How long’ve you been like this?
I dunno. Days.
You should have called.
I didn’t think to. Tell you the truth I was a bit stunned at first and then I just kept thinking it would sort itself out if I left it alone. How’s that for a problem-solving action? Christ, what a summer.
Yeah, I was sorry to hear about your mum. Listen, I’m gonna put a poultice on this tonight. It’s too inflamed to do anything with yet. In the morning I’ll try and straighten you out.
I wish somebody would. What’s in the poultice?
Oh, you know. Crab mustard, the testicles of a blowfish, the ring finger of a Portuguese deckhand and the sweat from Shover McDougall’s brow.
The New Age finds its way to White Point.
Couple of old Croats in Fremantle showed me. Linseed oil, mostly.
I thought you did relaxation massage, said Georgie.
And go into competition with the Swan Brewery? Are you mad, woman?
Georgie laughed. I heard you were a social worker.
And I heard you were a nurse. Here. Push up. Keep your pelvis on the table.
Jesus!
Again.
You’re kidding me.
I spose it hurts.
Georgie collapsed face-down with a fit of the giggles.
/> Something chimed nearby.
The microwave, said Rachel as she moved away. Then: Here, hold still. That too hot?
The poultice laid a steady suffusing warmth over the knot in her lower back and it was strangely comforting to feel Rachel binding it to her skin with sticking plaster. Georgie let herself be helped into her clothes. The strapping reminded her of girdles, and she thought of her mother—again.
I’ll take it off in the morning, said Rachel. Just lie flat tonight and don’t bend for anything. You’ll need to be careful.
Oh, I’m the careful type, said Georgie full of self-mockery.
Yes, Rachel said, unable to suppress a grin. That’s what I hear. Bugger—I can’t believe I just said that.
So what else have you heard? asked Georgie trying to seem unfazed.
And to think I have a degree in the social sciences.
The sociable sciences?
I’ll stick to the back, Georgie. Your life’s your own.
You might as well tell me, she said feeling jangly now and apprehensive.
Oh, it’s just gossip.
In which case it’s bound to be true.
Come on. I’ll drive you home.
Next morning Rachel drove over to collect her. The Land Rover with its rigid suspension was purgatory. Rachel drove barefoot, her high forehead shining. Her hair was pulled back into a ponytail that still dripped from her swim.
You know, said Georgie, I’ve always wondered what it is that Jerra does.
Apart from basking in my love, you mean? Rachel said with a grin. He’s a muso. A songwriter.
No!
Yes.
In White Point?
There’s no law against it. Yet.
I see him down the beach with his surfboard, said Georgie. And I always—
Thought he was the local dope dealer.
Georgie laughed. She couldn’t deny it.
Everybody does, said Rachel. What a laugh. Dope wrecked every band he was ever in. Drugs are his pet hate. Fancies himself a bit of a wine buff these days. That’s success for you.
He does okay, then?
Georgie, you’d be surprised.
Well? Don’t leave me hanging.
Okay. You’re looking at a girl who’s spoken to Van Morrison.
Jesus. What’d he say?
That’s the thing, said Rachel steering them into her yard. I have no idea.
Georgie let Rachel help her down from the vehicle. They went inside slowly, like two old ladies. Rachel stripped her again and put her up on the bench. She ripped the sticking plaster off in two brisk swipes. Georgie was finding the patient-role something of a trial.
Jerra played with the Foxes a couple of times, said Rachel. Just for fun.
I never heard them, Georgie said flatly.
There was a sober pause between them now.
I’ve always wondered about you, said Rachel quietly. I’ve always wondered why you came here.
Georgie lay there.
And now I can’t figure out why you stay. You know. After the dog.
Things aren’t always what they seem, said Georgie. As you should know.
Okay. Sure.
But?
Sometimes they’re worse than how they seem.
Meaning what, Rachel?
Well, he’s been a scary person in the past.
Oh, it’s all talk.
Rachel sighed.
Anyway, said Georgie. People have a right to leave their past behind.
I agree. Absolutely.
So what’s the problem?
That everybody else remembers. Here, stand up.
Georgie let herself be stood at right-angles to the wall, one hip barely touching it, while Rachel leant into her. She felt her spine creak as the other woman pressed that hip against the wall and a blast of pain went right through her. Georgie began to sweat, thought she would faint or throw up, but the moment passed and the pain subsided, and within ten minutes there was just the mildest, residual ache. Most surprising of all, her back was straight.
How’d you learn that?
Like everything I know, said Rachel making them chamomile tea. I learnt it when I was supposed to be doing something else.
Jim didn’t shoot the dog, Rachel.
So he says.
That’s the word. Even Beaver says.
The word. The bloody word. Sometimes I hate this town.
So why do you stay?
I dunno. It’s out of the way. And Jerra likes the quiet—well, actually so do I. It saved our bacon in a way. There are a few nice people about, despite the odds. And it’s so damn beautiful—the beaches, the dunes, the island. Not even the…savages…can ruin it completely.
It was Shover who shot the dog, said Georgie. You have to believe me.
Oh, I’d believe it. Have you seen the flag he’s flying in his yard these days?
Yeah. I don’t get it. He’s not a war vet or anything, is he?
Oh, you can’t be that naïve, Georgie. It’s about Lois.
What—the Australian flag?
Patriots. That’s what these people call themselves now. Wrap themselves in the flag. Have you noticed the bumper stickers in this town? Notice many dark faces? Avis has opinions about immigration.
Oh, God.
What an irony, huh? Without Asia this town’d close down inside a week.
Georgie thought of Shover McDougall. So that’s how he saw himself, as a patriot, a standard-bearer for the good ole days.
Through the kitchen window they watched Rachel’s son Sam while they drank their tea. Sun-bronzed and shirtless, he knelt solemnly in his long floral baggies to wax his surfboard. His hair fell in his face.
Sixteen, Rachel said.
He’s beautiful.
Some days I can’t believe he’s mine. Come on, I’ll drive you home.
On their way back, while Georgie enjoyed her deliverance from the worst of the pain, Rachel swung by the jetty and drove the Land Rover down onto the shore beside it so they could stare a little while at the lagoon which still lay flat before the fierce morning easterly. Georgie sensed that the other woman wanted to keep talking.
You know I only met Lu Fox a couple of times, said Rachel.
Yeah? murmured Georgie neutrally.
Jerra said his brother was kind of sly, said he had the junkie look, whatever that is. Didn’t care for him. And he thought the woman, his wife, was a bit dim. Seemed an odd pair to me. But they could play. Like they were naturals. And they didn’t actually play that often, not as much as you’d have thought, given how good they were. Wouldn’t travel more than an hour in any direction. Could have recorded, you know—they were good enough.
And Lu?
Talked to him in the pub carpark. It was cold. Spring, I spose. He had the two kids under a tarp on the back of that ute. Those poor kids. I remember him leaning in, singing to them. Later I saw him with the little girl. She adored him, I think. He was rocking her to sleep with this look on his face, that look you see on breast-feeding women. You know, that dreamy, satisfied, slightly defiant look.
Quite an impression.
Well, said Rachel sheepishly. I’d had a few drinks. I spose I expected something else. From all the stories, the way people talked about the family. I thought he’d be a bit of a dill. But he was funny and smart. He asked me if I knew the words to ‘Amazing Grace’. I flunked, of course. We talked about growing asparagus. And some book he was reading. I forget the book…He’s nice, Georgie.
Well, he’s gone, said Georgie retrieving herself from this. And you’re married.
Rachel squawked with laughter. Yeah, to a bloody drug baron!
WITHIN A FEW WEEKS, thanks to Rachel, Georgie’s back had returned to normal. The school year began and she had the house to herself again. In fact, in many ways she felt restored to herself. As a gesture of gratitude and a stab at friendship she invited Rachel over for morning tea. She made madeleines and found some chamomile at the local store. She couldn’t wait
to give Rachel the latest installment in the Jutland family saga. Himself QC, recipient of a cruising yacht left to him by his devoted ex-wife, had decided to give it to faithless daughter Georgie for old times’ sake. Georgie really didn’t understand her father. But she read the family uproar clearly enough. She was, of course, refusing the gift. He was asking her twice a week by snail mail to come down and see the boat but she was holding out against him. She was, she had to admit, beginning to enjoy it.
When Rachel arrived in leather sandals and a sleeveless summer dress of pale green cotton, Georgie brought out her little spread with a flourish but Rachel, who seemed edgy and preoccupied, didn’t seem to notice. Georgie wondered if it was because Jerra was in Los Angeles for the week. She realized that this was the first time in three years that she’d done anything as simply social as this—invite a friend over for a cup of tea. God, how isolated, how uncertain she’d become.
Have you seen Beaver lately? Rachel asked, smoothing down her frock with the palms of her hands.
Georgie shook her head with a pang of guilt and poured the tea.
Last night, said Rachel, I went over to rent a movie from him and there was a four-wheel-drive tour-bus pulled in at the pump. You know the ones. Full of carsick Japs. You know the deal. A day of bashing through the dunes thinking it’s the almighty outback.
Poor buggers, said Georgie. All they want is the live rock lobster promised in the brochure.
Anyway, I’m on my bike. And the driver’s putting air in the tyres and I see these three kids, locals, about twelve, on their bikes in Beaver’s driveway. And they’re doing these big doughnuts. You know, circling the bus. And I get closer and I see these faces in the window, up in the vehicle, these wide eyes. And there’s gobs of slag on the glass and nobody’s getting out of the bus and the driver’s just hanging the airhose up like nothing’s going on. They see me, these kids, two girls and a boy, and they just look at me. Defiant. And there’s Beaver and Lois in the office. Looking out. The kids ride off. And I get to the door and Beaver just says that they’re closed. That’s it. Won’t even talk to me.