by Kylie Ladd
Morag smirked. She’d noticed Fiona’s disparaging glance when she’d pulled on the vest before their dip, but it hadn’t bothered her. If Fiona thought her rashie was daggy, so be it. Morag would be wearing it regardless—and she wouldn’t be the one miserably dealing with first-degree burns. She gently put the back of one hand to her friend’s scapula. Fiona winced.
‘This looks really sore,’ Morag said.
‘You’re telling me,’ moaned Fiona. ‘It goes with my head.’
‘Spread out your towel and lie down on the bed. I’ve got a spray in the fridge that always helps when I get burnt. It’s even better when it’s cold.’
Fiona hesitated. ‘I haven’t got anything on,’ she said.
Morag laughed. ‘You, going all coy? Is this the same woman who was flashing her breasts to half of Broome last night?’
Fiona coloured, but only from the neck up, where she had applied sunscreen.
‘I just don’t want to subject you to the sight of my great big arse. Do you think you can cope?’
‘I’ll try not to ravage you,’ Morag said, moving across to the wardrobe in the corner of the room. She shed her own towel and pulled on a singlet top and undies. Though the light was fading, it was still too hot for anything else. Next she opened the small bar fridge beside the handbasin, glad she had filled the jug in there earlier. She poured two large glasses of water, grabbed the burn spray and returned to the bed.
Fiona was lying face down, her back appearing even redder in contrast to those areas of her body that had been covered by her swimsuit. Morag put the glasses of water on the bedside table next to her.
‘Drink up,’ she said. ‘Both of them. You’re bound to be dehydrated.’
Fiona obediently reached for a glass, drained it, coughed a bit and lay back down.
‘I’ll have the other one when you’ve finished. Otherwise I’ll need to piss straight away, and you probably don’t want that on your bed.’
Morag smiled. ‘You’re all class,’ she said, spraying Fiona’s shoulders.
Fiona moaned, but in gratitude this time.
‘Fuck, that feels better. It’s so lovely and cool. What’s in it?’
‘Papaya,’ Morag replied, working her way down Fiona’s torso. Just below her burn line, at the top of her right buttock, was a small faded tattoo. She bent down to inspect it.
‘You never told us about this,’ she said.
Fiona peered over her shoulder to see what she was talking about, then slumped back onto the bed.
‘You never asked,’ she said, then sighed. ‘God, it’s ancient. I had it done when I was still in my twenties, before I was married. I’d almost forgotten about it.’ She paused. ‘Don’t laugh, but Todd has one too, just the same. It’s our initials. It was his idea. I went along with it because I was drunk.’ Another pause. ‘Among other reasons.’
Morag studied the blurry lines, trying to make sense of them. Eventually it came to her.
‘Oh, I can see it now . . . There’s the T, and the F.’ She traced the blue swirls lightly with her finger. They were like runes, she thought, all that was left of another time, another language. ‘They make something, don’t they? Is it a flower?’
‘A rose,’ Fiona confirmed. ‘Last of the original thinkers, weren’t we?’ She moved her arms up beneath her head and turned her face so that she was staring at the wall. ‘I haven’t looked at it in years. They’re supposed to be capitals, but I bet they’re lower case now. Everything drops. I hate this ageing shit.’
Morag straightened up.
‘You’re doing OK. Your arse hasn’t sent me screaming from the room yet.’
‘Huh,’ Fiona grunted. ‘It’s not what it was though. Neither’s my stomach, or my legs, or even my brain. At work, when a patient comes in I used to be able to say “Hello, Mrs Kerfoops” straight away. Now I need a good few minutes to dredge up their name, or I have to go and look at the appointment schedule.’
‘Yeah, but you deal with a lot of patients. Yours has to be the busiest practice for miles around. They’re lucky you remember them at all.’
Fiona closed her eyes as Morag sprayed more of the liquid along the length of her spine.
‘So what about you, then? Doesn’t it bother you, getting older?’
‘I’d massage this in, but you’re so burnt I might hurt you. Just lie still while it dries.’ Some of the spray had ended up on her own hands. Morag crossed back to the basin and washed them before answering. She glanced in the mirror, at the fine lines around her eyes and mouth. Were they deepening? But she was fair, she chided herself. Of course there were lines. ‘Yes, it bothers me,’ she replied eventually. ‘I work in aged care. I know what’s coming. We have a joke in our department, that if any of us sees one of our colleagues collecting plastic bags or hoarding empty cans, they are to apply the Tontine treatment immediately.’
‘Tontine treatment?’ asked Fiona.
‘Put a pillow over their face. End it all.’ Morag smiled ruefully. ‘It’s a bit grim, but that’s how you manage it, the things you see every day.’ She picked her towel up off the floor and slowly dried her hands, thinking. ‘I’m not all that fussed about my appearance, you know that. That part of ageing doesn’t bother me—when my bum goes, it goes. What I do worry about is ending up like some of my patients. I never want to get to the stage where the most meaningful thing I can do with my days is to organise all my bits of string by length.’
She opened the fridge to put away the spray and brightened. ‘Hey, this will cheer you up. Look what I got. Want some?’ She held out a chilled bottle of vodka.
Fiona groaned. ‘Urgh. Not now.’ She frowned. ‘But you don’t even like vodka.’
‘I know,’ Morag said, putting it back in the fridge. ‘I got it for you when we stopped at the supermarket. I knew you’d regret not having something later.’
‘Thank you,’ said Fiona, surprised. She sat up, pulling the towel around her. ‘What do I owe you?’
‘Oh, it’s on the house. Come and grab it when you feel up to it. Now let’s get dressed. Amira said to come over about seven, and it’s almost that.’ Morag took a sarong out of her beach bag and tied it around her waist. ‘And don’t worry about your arse,’ she added ‘Your boobs are still bigger.’
Fiona laughed. ‘Thanks again,’ she said. ‘Maybe I could manage a drink.’
‘Don’t tell anyone,’ Janey said, ‘but I’m thinking of going on the pill.’
The bedroom was dark, so she couldn’t see Tess’s or Bronte’s face, but she listened to their gasps with satisfaction.
‘Wow, Janey. Really? That’s amazing. How?’
God, had Tess become that much of a hick? ‘Easy, you idiot. You just go to the doctors and ask for it.’ Janey lay back, hands behind her head. The mattress was a bit lumpy, she thought. Tomorrow night she was going to sleep in her own room in a proper bed, or maybe she’d talk Tess into giving her hers and Tess could sleep on the floor. That was only fair, after all. Janey was the guest.
‘But don’t you need your parents’ permission if you’re under sixteen?’
Janey sighed. ‘Mum’ll give it to me,’ she said, speaking with far more confidence than she felt. ‘Anyway, I can easily pass for sixteen. You know Ro, from the year above us? She got into Chasers on the Saturday night before we left. I heard her group talking about it in the dunnies at school. She used her sister’s ID, but still—I look heaps older than she does, especially if I wear make-up.’
‘Who’s the lucky guy?’ Tess asked. ‘Anyone I know? Someone in year eight?’
Janey sniffed. ‘As if—those babies. All they know how to do with their dicks is tug them.’ She paused, letting the suspense build, then admitted, ‘No one in particular. I just want to be prepared. I’ll be fifteen next year.’
‘Not until July,’ Tess said, then quickly added, ‘But that’s still incredible. Mum’s pretty cool, but I don’t think she’d let me do it.’
Bronte spoke up out of the dark
ness, surprising them. It was so easy to forget she was there. ‘I’ve heard that some girls get the pill by saying that they need it for their skin, or to control their periods.’
‘Yeah, well, clearly I don’t need it for my skin, do I? And my periods have been fine ever since I got them, apart from the first few months. Still, I was only eleven then, remember?’ Janey smirked at the memory. Eleven, and the first in grade six. She’d acted horrified, but secretly she’d been thrilled. Beat you all.
‘You could say you needed it for swimming. The pill, I mean. To skip your period when you have a big meet. You can do that, you know.’
‘Duh, Bronte,’ Janey said, rolling her eyes even though no one could see her. But she hadn’t known. Could you really? she wondered. That would be so convenient. She hated racing at that time of the month. She felt so crampy, and she was always worried that the string would slip out of her bathers and hang down her leg like it had that time for one of the older girls, Jo. She’d been bent over on the blocks for the start of a practice relay and half the team were pointing at it and laughing, or at least that’s what it felt like. Janey shuddered.
‘Bloody hell, Bronte,’ Tess said, sounding impressed. ‘How do you know so much? Anything you’d like to share with us?’
‘We learned it in sex ed. It’s part of biology. We just did it this year.’ Bronte’s voice was low and Janey knew she was blushing. She was so uptight. Sex ed at year eight, though. That was impressive. At Janey’s school they didn’t get it till year ten. Too late for some by then.
‘So is it your stroke coach?’ Tess went on, unwilling to let the subject drop. ‘The one you told me about last year. What was his name—Alan?’
‘Adam,’ Janey replied automatically. She rolled over onto her stomach. ‘I can’t believe you remember that.’
‘I can’t believe you think I’d forget.’ Tess giggled. ‘Janey had this coach,’ she explained to Bronte, ‘not her main one, a younger guy who helped out, and one day when he was teaching her butterfly he made her get out of the pool and he put his arms around her to show her what to do.’
‘Breaststroke,’ Janey corrected. ‘And he wasn’t teaching me, he was helping to refine my technique.’
Tess continued unfazed, her voice rising with excitement. ‘Anyway, to get his arms all the way around he had to press right up against her, and Janey could feel his . . . his . . . you know, his erection!’ she exploded, delighted at her own daring in using the term.
‘Shh!’ said Bronte. ‘You’ll wake Amira.’
‘Fat chance of that,’ said Tess, falling back on her pillow, breathless with laughter. The mothers had all gone to bed early, worn out by the sun or the drive or because they were getting old.
Had it been his erection? Janey wondered. Maybe it was his belt, or his notebook. It could have been, though. Adam had certainly looked at her often enough, was always pulling her aside to impart this or that piece of wisdom, staring earnestly into her eyes until he thought she understood. Then again, maybe it was just because she was good. He wasn’t the first coach to single her out. Whatever the case, she remembered now that she’d told Tess she’d given Adam a blowjob one night after training. She hadn’t, duh, but it made Tess squeal and gasp and ask for all the details. That had been a bit trickier, but Janey had read Cleo for years so it was easy enough to make something up. There wasn’t much to it, surely. How hard could it be?
‘He left the club earlier this year,’ Janey said. ‘Went to AquaPower. Traitor.’
‘What’s his replacement like?’ asked Tess.
‘God, you’re a pervert. His replacement’s a woman. She’s nice, but no way I’m turning lez.’
Tess laughed. Janey shifted onto her side, trying to get comfortable. As if she’d have gone on the pill for Adam, with his skinny legs and his try-hard goatee. She’d liked the extra attention he’d given her, liked that the other squad swimmers had noticed it too, but the idea of fucking him? Eww. Plus he’d probably want to time her. Janey pictured it, her lying on her back with her legs apart, and Adam standing there naked, clicking his stopwatch before he dived between them. Yuck. She was ready to fuck someone though, she was sure of it. Boys were all she could think about . . . the gaggle at the bus stop who whistled when she walked past on her way home; the older guys on the swim team, the way that line of hair curled from their navel to their Speedos; Bryce Jennings in year eleven who had invited her to the school formal—a rare honour for a year eight girl—and pushed his hands beneath her taffeta bodice when they were kissing at the after party. She’d liked it and pushed back, but the host’s mum had walked in on them and made them go back to the others. Janey sighed. Adults were always interfering. If her mum had had her way, Janey would be going to that stupid school that Bronte went to, where boys weren’t allowed. No boys! The idea made her shudder.
‘Bronte’s gone to sleep,’ Tess whispered.
‘Figures,’ Janey said, not bothering to lower her voice. ‘So what about you? Any talent up here?’
‘Nah, not really. There’s a few guys, and they’re nice, but they’re more like friends, you know?’ Tess was quiet for a while, and Janey couldn’t tell if she was thinking or drifting off too. ‘I got . . .’ Tess said at last, then seemed to change her mind. ‘My friend Tia has a boyfriend,’ she murmured instead. ‘He has a car. Last week he took a day off work and drove us down to Middle Lagoon. You’d love it there.’
That boy in the pool last night, Janey thought. Was he a local? Did Tess know him? But that was ridiculous. Broome wasn’t that small. She pressed her thighs together underneath the cotton sheet, enjoying the warmth that spread through her. He’d been nice—handsome, funny . . . He’d called her a mermaid, she thought, squeezing harder. The idea aroused her. She hoped Tess had fallen asleep too.
Tuesday
Five thirty. Surely that couldn’t be right? It was already so light, the sun well up in the sky. Morag checked her watch again. Maybe she hadn’t adjusted it correctly when they’d arrived in Broome, but wouldn’t she have noticed that before now? She finished her stretches and pushed off along the track leading into the bush, still confused but determined to put it out of her mind. She was awake now. She might as well run.
For the first fifteen minutes the track was narrow and winding and Morag had to concentrate so that she didn’t roll an ankle. Just as she was getting fed up, the path suddenly opened onto a wide sandy beach, empty apart from a lone dark figure casting a net at the shoreline. She slowed to a walk, then impulsively dropped to one knee and pulled off her shoes. Running barefoot was best for your body, but there were so few opportunities for it in the city. Morag took one step and then another, testing the grip of her feet on the powdery grains, gradually gaining pace, accelerating away from the fisherman and her own relentless thoughts.
Within a kilometre she’d found her zone. Her legs sailed across the sand, strong and flexible; her shoulders dropped and relaxed; her mind shut down. This was why she ran: not because she was some sort of fitness fanatic, as Fiona seemed to assume, nor because she was worried about her weight. She ran for her health, yes, but her mental health. She ran to clear a space in her day. She ran so that for an hour every morning she ceased being a wife and a mother and an OT, and became simply bone and sinew and cool, clear air.
Only the air wasn’t so cool, Morag thought, slowing to a trot. Each breath she drew felt as if it was expanding inside her lungs, singeing her windpipe. The sun bit at her calves and the back of her neck; the glare from the white sand and the sparkling sea made her squint. She should have worn a hat and sunglasses, but who’d have dreamed she’d need either at six am? Morag peered along the coast. By her calculations she was west of the cove where they’d swum yesterday. She’d been gone about half an hour . . . if she turned around and ran to the cove she’d probably get back to her room quicker than if she returned the same way she’d come, but then she’d be under the full blaze of the sun the whole way, not sheltered by the bush.
&
nbsp; Damn, she thought. Damn damn damn. She was always so careful with her skin, yet here she was getting sunburnt before breakfast. When would she ever understand Australia? Ten years she’d lived here now, and it still had the power to fool her. It was the size of the country, she supposed. It was too damn big. She had a handle on Melbourne, but Melbourne was nothing like Broome, and they were both light years away from Edinburgh. Edinburgh. Feeling her eyes grow moist, she swiped at them angrily. It was just the glare, she told herself. She really did need her sunglasses.
Morag gave up trying to run and moved down the beach to trudge along the waterline towards the cove, ankles sinking into the wet sand. It was the softness she missed. The Edinburgh light had a hazy quality, as if filtered through stained glass . . . it took the edge off the city somehow, made it glow and shimmer. It blunted the corners and lit the sandstone of the New Town, it made the castle appear to hover in the misty air above the Princes Street Gardens. Fiona would say it only looked like that because it was always raining, but Morag knew that wasn’t the real reason. It was the age of the place, the patina of history. It was the high grey skies and the blanketing haar, a sea fog that rolled in now and then from the Firth of Forth. Australia, in contrast, was too new, too bright. The colours were still fresh, and they hurt her eyes.
Morag smiled to herself. There’d been a haar on the day she’d first met Andrew. It was May, almost summer, and late in the season for such an event, but as her mother always said, The weather doesn’t check the calendar. Morag had been working behind the bar at the Cafe Royal, a pub just off Princes Street, and he’d come in and ordered a pint, a guidebook clutched in one hand and drops of condensed fog still caught in his hair. They’d looked beautiful, like jewels or beads of mercury, and it had been all she could do not to reach out and touch them. Later, when she cleared the empty glass from the booth where he was sitting, she noticed him frowning over a map and on a whim had sat down beside him and asked if she could help.
