Wife on the Run

by Fiona Higgins

  ‘Hello?’ she called.

  There was no response, bar a Billy Joel tune warbling out of a radio somewhere. Now those were the days of quality music, Paula thought. Musicians with real instruments—baby grand pianos, brass sections and woodwinds—singing heartfelt tunes about human emotion. Not misogynist garbage made with the help of song-making software.

  ‘Well,’ she said, joining the others, ‘nobody’s here. But there’s plenty of room to park.’ She gestured to a large turning circle further down the driveway, bordered by bushland. ‘How about I make us some lunch, then we can push on later this afternoon?’

  ‘I don’t want any lunch,’ groaned Caitlin, clutching her stomach.

  ‘That’s because you and Gramps stuffed yourselves silly with Chicos,’ said Paula. ‘Honestly, you two.’

  ‘No it’s not,’ Caitlin objected. ‘It’s because your cooking sucks, Mum. You can’t even make a sandwich properly.’

  ‘Yeah, Mum.’ Lachie sneered.

  Paula had heard it so many times, it didn’t really wound her anymore.

  ‘That’s enough.’ Her father looked hard at the children, before turning back to Paula. ‘Do we really have to push on, love? I mean, look where we are.’ He opened his arms wide and gestured at the bay, sparkling like a turquoise gem in a white arc of sand. ‘Not every caravan park has a view like this. We’re bang on the Great Ocean Road. Why don’t we just camp here tonight and have a lazy afternoon in Lorne? I mean, where else do we have to be?’

  Paula was so used to scheduling her family’s activities: meal time, study time, homework time, work time, exercise time, sleep time. Rarely ever free time. She was shocked to realise there was nowhere else they had to be.

  ‘Okay, let’s make camp.’

  ‘Right you are.’ Sid sauntered over to the administration cabin and rang the counter bell three times, until a female voice hailed him.

  Several minutes later, he emerged carrying two keys attached to oversized plastic key rings: one pink, one blue. A round-faced woman in a purple terry-towelling tracksuit trotted after him.

  ‘Paula, this is Brenda.’ Sid grinned at the woman. ‘She’s the most important lady in Lorne. Any question you’ve got, she’ll answer it for you. And she’s got the keys to the loo, too.’

  The woman giggled. ‘Your dad’s a funny one, isn’t he?’

  ‘And she’s given us the best caravan site in the park, site 1A, in exchange for a beer later tonight. Right, Brenda?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t want to impose.’ Brenda looked embarrassed.

  ‘A rose can never impose,’ said Sid, plucking a flower from a garden bed and presenting it to Brenda.

  ‘Oh.’ The woman’s face turned a shade of red.

  Paula saw that her father was flirting. And he was good at it.

  ‘How about I drive the caravan down to the site?’ Paula said. ‘Come on, kids. You can help me.’

  ‘Help with what?’ Caitlin said.

  ‘Just come.’

  Site 1A lived up to its promise. A flat green expanse sloping gently down to the beach, in the shade of sprawling eucalyptus trees.

  ‘Direct beach access,’ said Paula, pulling into the site. ‘How about that, kids?’

  Caitlin pushed open the door. ‘I’m going in.’

  ‘Not yet,’ said Paula, climbing out of the ute. ‘Rule number three of the trip: make camp while the sun shines. First thing we do when we arrive anywhere is set up, okay?’

  ‘Come on, Mum,’ grumbled Lachie, flopping down onto the grass. ‘I’m tired.’

  ‘We’ve only been on the road three hours. The sooner we pitch camp, the quicker you’ll get down to the beach.’

  Paula helped her son to his feet.

  ‘You unpack the ute, Lachie, and I’ll let Aunty Jamie know we’ve arrived safely.’ She bent into the car, found her telephone in the glove box, then typed a brief message to her sister.

  She turned to her daughter. ‘Okay, Catie, come and help me with this tent, please.’

  Erecting the tent was harder than Paula remembered; there were more stakes and poles and guy ropes than she could intuit a use for. After almost thirty minutes of fumbling, they finally got it up. It was larger than Paula recalled, too—a three-man tent at least—more than sufficient for her father.

  ‘Thanks, Catie.’ Paula laughed, admiring the khaki dome. ‘Girl power, hey?’

  Much to her relief, Catie smiled back. Paula had been monitoring her daughter’s mood since the Facebook incident, but Catie had remained even-tempered. She was handling it with remarkable maturity, in fact. It’s not the end of the world, Mum, she’d even said, more than once. It was Paula who continued to ruminate about the repulsive image.

  Caitlin scooped up two extra pickets and tossed them into the tent bag, lingering over it a moment.

  ‘Uh, Mum . . . what’s this?’ Catie pulled out a folded square of green plastic.

  Paula studied it for a moment.

  ‘The groundsheet,’ called Lachie, as he climbed out of the caravan.

  ‘Oh, shit.’ Paula slapped a hand against her forehead. ‘Bloody, bloody shit.’

  ‘That’s another two hundred metres, Mum.’ Lachie grinned. ‘Three hundred in total.’

  Paula paid no attention. ‘We’re going to have to take this thing down again and put the groundsheet under it. Can you help, please Lachie?’

  He set down an inflatable mattress and walked over.

  They managed to deconstruct and reconstruct the tent in just under fifteen minutes.

  ‘Well, at least we’re getting faster at it,’ said Paula.

  ‘Now can we go for a swim?’ Caitlin asked, pushing in a final picket.

  ‘Sure, get your bathers on.’ Paula wiped her forehead with the back of her sleeve. ‘It’ll be chilly in there, though.’

  The children disappeared into the caravan with their bags, then Caitlin emerged carrying her bathers and a towel. Holding the oversized pink key Brenda had given them earlier, she jogged off in the direction of the ladies’ change rooms.

  The kids had packed remarkably lightly, Paula thought, as had her father. It was she who’d been unable to resist the temptation of packing things she might need. Like a poncho for cool nights in the desert, gumboots for wet season in the north, and travel hair curlers just in case they went to dinner somewhere swanky.

  Travel hair curlers? What was I thinking?

  She walked to the ute and heaved her large canvas suitcase out of the rear tray.

  ‘You right with that, Mum?’ Lachie asked, strolling past her in a pair of navy blue board shorts.

  ‘Yes, hon,’ she answered. ‘You go for a swim.’

  As she zipped open the suitcase, Caitlin streaked past in a pair of pink Speedos, racing after Lachie. She looked leonine, white-blonde hair billowing as she ran across the sand. She slapped Lachie’s bottom as she passed and he gave chase immediately, his white skin and gangly legs so different from his sister’s sporty flawlessness. Caitlin turned and pulled a face at him, before plunging into the ocean. Then Lachie was in too, and they were splashing and whooping and pushing each other.

  Paula smiled. It had been a while since they’d had such unselfconscious fun, behaving like little kids again. Hamish would’ve loved seeing it, she thought.

  She chewed the inside of her lip, imagining Hamish lying alone and injured in his hospital bed.

  Enough, she muttered to herself, you don’t have to feel sorry for him.

  She seized a garbage bag from the rear of the ute, then returned to her suitcase and began riffling through its contents.

  Enough of all this stuff.

  Her red woollen jumper with pilling around the neckline. Some shapeless grey tracksuit pants. An ugly pair of orange women’s board shorts—a Christmas gift from Hamish last year—that hugged her in all the wrong places. Three sets of thongs—in-the-shower, casual and dressy. How many pairs does one woman need? A maroon skivvy that emphasised her small breasts, a flowing skirt better s
uited to a taller woman, several ill-fitting booster bras. Two pairs of too-tight jeans, still waiting for her to lose weight. The lime-green wedge heels she’d never really loved, despite what the fashion magazines declared. Several old t-shirts that made her feel like a desperate housewife, not of the television variety.

  Enough of feeling like this.

  From now on, I’m only going to wear clothes that make me feel good. Or at least, not so bad.

  The pile of clothes on the ground amounted to more than half the contents of her suitcase.

  And there’s something else I’m throwing out, too.

  She hurried into the caravan. The children’s bunks were positioned on either side, adjacent to her double bed at the rear. Each had a storage area underneath and could function as seats when not being slept in.

  Paula immediately spotted Caitlin’s bag under her bunk.

  She rummaged around inside it until she found the item: the Playboy nightie.

  I should have done this months ago. Why didn’t I stand up to Hamish? Or to my daughter, even?

  She took the nightie outside and stuffed it into the garbage bag with the rest of her own clothes, ready for deposit in the next charity clothing bin along their route.

  Suddenly she spied the box of travel curlers, tucked in a side pocket of her suitcase. She pulled them out, took aim at a nearby rubbish bin and lobbed them in.

  ‘Good throw!’ Her father appeared at her side. ‘Something wrong with them?’

  ‘Something wrong with me, I think, Dad.’

  Her father put a comforting arm around her shoulders. She noticed the warmth of his tanned skin, how his arms were covered in wiry grey hairs. They stood like that for several minutes, Paula leaning into his chest, watching the children cavorting at the water’s edge.

  Eventually, her father broke the silence. ‘There’s nothing wrong with you, Paula,’ he said. ‘Just remember that.’ He nudged her in the ribs with his elbow. ‘Nothing a few beers won’t fix tonight, anyway. How about I go get some stubbies in town and a bag of ice for the esky?’ He waved his wallet at her.

  She pulled a face. ‘Sounds like enlightened self-interest to me. Since you’ve got a hot date with Belinda later tonight.’

  ‘Her name is Brenda.’ He poked his tongue out at her. ‘Just fraternising with the locals, love. It pays to do that, you know.’

  Paula laughed and waved him off.

  They sat on an ancient log at the edge of the beach, eating fish and chips and watching the sky turn fiery red in the west. Her father plied her with beers, accompanied by endless cheery salutations to her health, to the road, to Hillary and Clinton. The children drank soda water from cans, trying to do the loudest burp, everyone laughing hysterically at their outlandish belches.

  When Brenda arrived in a cloud of perfume and hairspray, Sid rigged up the caravan’s stereo system so that its speakers faced out the window, sending his music floating over the sand. Paula found herself accepting more beers than she needed or even wanted, because Simon and Garfunkel’s ‘Homeward Bound’ reminded her of everything she’d ever lost or missed. Definitely Hamish, and especially her mother.

  As the moon rose over Louttit Bay, Paula left the children playing cards in the caravan and her father dancing with Brenda, the pair of them swirling and dipping around each other like birds in a mating ritual. She picked her way down to the ocean’s edge, where the corridor of silvery moonlight stretched from the horizon to the shore. Remembering how she used to tell a younger Caitlin and Lachie, that’s where the mermaids dance. Remembering, too, the moonlit nights of her honeymoon; how Hamish had held her gently, reverently, like a delicate gift he feared might shatter. Imagining what Hamish had done with a teenage girl online, while Paula had lain in their bed alone.

  She craved Jamie’s comforting voice, but Paula’s phone was still in the glove box, relegated there for emergency use.

  Stuff my own rules.

  Paula walked forward until the waves lapped her knees, scooping up the salty water and splashing her face. Then she took several more steps, until her shorts clung wet to her thighs. For a moment, she imagined walking further still; wading into the indigo depths until the sand dropped away beneath her feet. Then, suddenly frightened by the thought, she propelled herself back out of the water and up the beach.

  Finding no sign of her father or Brenda where she’d left them, she rapped on the caravan door.

  ‘Little pigs, little pigs, let me come in.’

  Lachie appeared at the flyscreen, a puzzled expression on his face. He opened the door and Paula tripped up the steps past him, falling onto her knees on the yellow lino. Caitlin rushed to help her up.

  ‘Whatcha doing?’ Paula asked, pointing at the maps spread across the small table in the kitchenette.

  ‘Plotting our route,’ Lachie replied.

  ‘Where to?’ she demanded.

  Without waiting for an answer, she staggered to the rear of the van and fell onto her double bed. The children followed her.

  ‘Are you alright, Mum?’ said Catie.

  ‘Yeshhh,’ she slurred. ‘I’m just off my nut.’

  Paula laughed. The decorative pink bunting suspended over her bed looked like a giant sparkling sea anemone.

  ‘Ooh, flashy,’ she said. ‘Careful it doesn’t sting you, kids.’

  Their faces floated above hers, anxious and exquisite, before she closed her eyes.

  Birdsong.

  Clear, crisp notes, rising and falling in the silence. Pristine, like a piccolo on the wind.

  Paula opened her eyes. Voluminous pink fabric hung overhead, buffeted by a breeze.

  Where am I?

  She sat up, confused by the proximity of her pillow to a window.

  Oh yes, she remembered suddenly. Yesterday I turned my life upside down.

  She rolled off the bed. The garish yellow tessellations on the caravan’s floor made her feel a little queasy; she held a hand over her mouth.

  She burped quietly, and smelled beer on her breath.

  Oh God, that’s right. The night before came flooding back to her.

  Her eyelids felt sticky now, caked with sea salt and sleep. Paula shuffled to the sink and poured herself a glass of water, gulping it down with two ibuprofen tablets from the first-aid kit. She’d forgotten how bad it felt to be hung-over: how it was almost never worth it.

  The children’s bunks were empty. She checked her watch and saw to her surprise that it was almost eight o’clock. At home she was always up by six-thirty, making breakfast and the school lunches.

  She pushed open the caravan door.

  There it was, the new day, in all its beauty and possibility. Seagulls drifted above the ocean, tiny white dots hovering against an endless blue. Her children were romping on the sun-drenched shore, throwing sand bombs at each other from behind stinking seaweed barricades. The breeze rustled through the fragrant gum leaves, high above the camp site. And then she heard a contented, off-key whistle, a sound that had framed all the other elemental noises of her childhood. The Sunday-morning mower, the buzzing of the kitchen timer, the Barbara Streisand albums, her mother’s incessant nattering, the metallic swishing of butcher’s knives being sharpened out the back; her father’s whistle had accompanied them all.

  Paula stepped out of the caravan and looked around.

  He rounded the van wearing blue-striped boxer shorts and thongs, a threadbare green bath towel draped around his neck. He carried his toothbrush, a disposable razor and a bottle of Aramis, his signature cologne. A soap-on-a-rope dangled from his wrist. She didn’t think those things existed anymore.

  ‘Good morning, m’girl. Had a sleep-in, then?’ He was perkiness personified.

  She grimaced. ‘You could call it that.’

  ‘Bit hair of the dog, are we? Have some Tabasco in tomato juice, it works a treat.’

  ‘I’ve taken something for it.’ She looked at the tent. ‘How did you sleep last night?’

  ‘Well, I didn’t—’ her
father coughed—‘sleep in the tent.’

  ‘Where did you . . . ?’ Then it registered. Brenda.

  ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘You were fraternising with the locals.’

  Her father looked sheepish.

  ‘I’m a bit rusty.’ He laughed. ‘It’s been a long time.’

  Paula wanted to ask him how long it had been. Whether he’d romanced her mother like that, with sunset drinks and dancing and laughter. Whether they’d been happy together right to the end, or whether the gloss had worn off decades earlier. Whether either of them had ever been ‘indiscreet’, like Hamish, and what it had meant for their relationship.

  Caitlin and Lachie raced up the beach towards them, all smiles and sandy limbs.

  ‘Hello, beach monsters,’ Paula said. ‘Want some Weet-bix?’

  ‘I bet you don’t,’ said Caitlin, almost crowing.

  ‘Alright, alright,’ said Paula, trying to salvage some skerrick of parental authority. ‘I drank too much last night. But it was our first night on the road, I don’t do it all the time.’

  ‘It was my bad influence, kids,’ said Sid. ‘I kept giving beers to your mum. She couldn’t refuse.’

  Lachie smirked. ‘Neither could Brenda.’ He spun around on one heel, hacking at an imaginary guitar. ‘You busted some smooth moves last night, Gramps.’

  Paula stifled a laugh. ‘Okay, kids, go wash off first, then come and have some breakfast.’

  Caitlin and Lachie bolted towards the outdoor showers attached to the toilet block.

  ‘Good to see them looking so chipper,’ her father said, watching them go. ‘All that Facebook hoopla doesn’t seem to be bothering them much anymore.’

  ‘Doesn’t look like it,’ Paula agreed. ‘And we’re not arguing about screen time either, which is nice for a change.’

  ‘Nothing like good old-fashioned fresh air and exercise.’ Her father smiled with satisfaction. ‘Want me to cook some bacon and eggs? They’ll be hungry.’

  ‘No thanks.’ Paula climbed back into the caravan and opened the pantry door. She found the Weet-bix, a can of two-fruits and a carton of long-life milk. ‘I’ve got to keep something normal on this trip.’